Page 68 of The Orc's Protection
He’s near the central structure, sleeves rolled to his forearms, listening while two males debate the placement of a boundary marker for a new build. Interrupting isn’t his habit. Instead, he waits, lets them talk themselves into the right answer, and only then adds a quiet observation that reframes the whole problem.
I don’t hear what he says, but I see the result: both males nod, satisfied.
When he turns, his gaze finds me immediately.
There’s a look he gives me now—not surprise, not vigilance, but recognition. As though his body registers me before his mind does. His shoulders ease as he crosses toward me, closing the distance without hurry.
At the long worktable near the central structure, my clipboard waits where I left it, pages weighted neatly with a flat iron tool. Pages of drafts about StoneWatch Security are clipped beneath it—layouts I’ve refined over weeks, language we’ve shaped together until it sounds like him.
I skim the top page again: Prevention. Assessment. Presence. Response.
Behind me, his voice drops close to my ear. “You moved ‘presence.’”
“I did,” I say, smiling. “It needs to come before response. Humans read that as reassurance.”
A pause. Then a quiet huff of amusement. “You are very good at this.”
“I know,” I tease lightly.
He steps closer, close enough that his warmth is undeniable. His thumb finds the edge of the silver band at my wrist, resting there without thought, right at my pulse. The contact is absentminded, intimate… a habit now.
From where I’m standing I can feel the low vibration in his chest—not directed at anything, not a response to anything I’ve done. Just present. Just him, at rest, with his thumb at my wrist and his attention elsewhere. He doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.
I used to think the purr meant I’d gotten past his guard. I understand now that with me, there’s nothing left to guard against.
I lean back into him, and his arm slides around my waist as if it’s always been meant to go there.
Across the space, Korgath watches with mild interest. When our gazes meet, she inclines her head.
“You fit easily here,” she observes.
“I do,” I agree, because there’s no reason not to.
That seems to satisfy her. She turns back to the food without another word.
The meal gathers slowly, organically. Long tables are dragged closer together. Dishes are passed from hand to hand. There’s no ceremony to it, no announcement, just people settling where they want, making room as needed.
Vraag and I end up near the middle, knees brushing beneath the table. He doesn’t pull away. Instead, he lets his thigh press more firmly against mine, grounding, proprietary, warm.
Conversation flows around us. I listen, laugh, and add the occasional comment. No one pauses when I speak. No one redirects the conversation. I’m not being accommodated.
I’m just… included.
At the edge of the firelight, one orc sits apart, playing guitar.
Not a ceremonial instrument. A regular acoustic guitar, worn at the edges, held like something he’s carried a long time. He’s playing quietly enough that the music doesn’t compete with the surrounding conversation, just runs underneath it, a thread of melody that surfaces and submerges depending on how much attention you give it.
Grulk drops into the seat beside me and follows my gaze.
“Kragen. StillWater,” he says, at a volume that does not match the confidential register he’s clearly going for. “Runs a bar in town. Walt’s place, on Elm.” He pauses. “Very good with strings. Less good at standing still.”
Kragen doesn’t look up. Just plays.
As the evening stretches, the light softens. Someone tells a story that dissolves halfway through into laughter. I rest my wrist on the table without thinking, the silver of the connection band catching the retreating sun. No one comments.
This isn’t new.
This is just my life now.
