Page 100 of That’s My Orc, Tusk Off

“I suppose we should.”

His hand stayed on my back. My fingers still lay on his chest. We were breathing the same air, close enough that I could count the darker flecks of green in his skin.

A door opened down the hall. Water ran in the kitchen.

Reality crashed in.

I eased away and sat up, immediately missing his warmth.

Traig rose as well, his hair falling loose around his shoulders. He’d lost the tie sometime in the night. The strands caught the morning light filtering through the window, softening his brawny appearance.

“Bathroom?” I asked.

“You first.”

I slipped out of bed, grabbed clothes from the drawer we’d filled yesterday, and went to the bathroom. The door clicked shut behind me. I leaned against it, my heart leaping around in my chest.

I’d woken up wrapped around Traig like a vine. And he’d been awake. Watching me. Not moving because I looked comfortable.

The water in the kitchen shut off.

I pushed away from the door and turned on the shower, letting the steam fill the space.

By the time I’d finished and dried off, I could hear Traig moving around the cottage. His footsteps in the kitchen. The clink of mugs. The kettle starting to heat.

I dressed quickly, twisting my hair up and pinning it in place.

When I opened the bathroom door, Traig stood in the hallway, waiting.

We did an awkward shuffle-step, him moving one way while I moved the other, both of us trying to get past each other in the narrow space.

Left. Right. Left again. His chest bumped my shoulder. My hip grazed his thigh. We were doing a weird dance that would’ve been funny if my entire body wasn’t on fire from where we’d been tangled together.

His hand caught my hip to steady me.

I looked up.

He looked down.

We were close enough that I could see the exact place where his jaw met his neck.

“Sorry,” I said.

“Not a problem.” He released me and slipped past, the bathroom door closing behind him a moment later.

I made it to the kitchen before my knees remembered how to work properly.

The scribe sat at the table, his ledger open, his pen ready. He was watching me like I was a species he couldn’t quite describe.

“Good morning,” I said, aiming for bright.

“Yes, it is,” he said, making a note.

The shower turned on down the hall.

I moved to the coffeemaker and started measuring grounds.

The scribe’s pen scratched across paper.