Page 107 of That’s My Orc, Tusk Off

Fred and Amanda followed us to Traig’s truck.

I’d told him how his reading the notebook made me feel. He’d apologized without making excuses. We’d named the hurt and moved through it instead of around it. Maybe that was what real looked like. Not perfect or without mistakes. Just honest enough to face them together.

The drive to the main building took less than five minutes. Traig’s cottage sat on the property, close enough that we could have walked if not for the scribe’s vehicle trailing behind us like a dark shadow.

Fred had settled between us on the bench seat, Amanda still on his back. Her crown flickered between all sorts of colors, never settling on one.

I laid my notebook on my lap and turned to a blank page, writing quickly.

Traig read my notebook. He knows what I’ve written.

I paused.

I’m… alright with that because instead of destroying something between us, it built a bridge we can both cross when we’re ready.

I was worried he’d say this was a mistake, that pretending to be mated was easier than actually wanting someone who listed good things and wrote his name down in a notebook.

Now I know the truth.

He wants me as much as I do him.

It’s a start, and I suspect it will one day be wonderful.

No, it’s wonderful now.

I closed the notebook and tucked my pen into my pocket.

Traig’s hand found mine between us, his thumb tracing circles on my palm. This gesture wasn’t for the scribe. He couldn’t see us here. This was just Traig, choosing to touch me, to offer comfort when everything was uncertain.

When we arrived at the facility, we went inside.

The day stretched ahead like taffy.

The scribe observed how we moved around the reception desk. Who brought whose coffee or tea. The way Traig’s hand found my lower back when we walked through the building together.

Brovish caught my eye across the break room at lunch, his expression asking a question I couldn’t answer.

Laina squeezed my shoulder on her way past.

Drogar grinned like he knew something we didn’t.

By the time the scribe finally left, the sun was sinking toward the tree line, and my shoulders ached from holding myself together.

We left Fred and Amanda in the entryway and drove back to the cottage in silence.

Inside, Traig locked the door behind us. The cottage felt different after our talk. More open and clear.

“He’s gone,” I said, dropping my tote bag by the door, hanging up my jacket on the peg beside his.

“Yes.”

“We don’t have to keep pretending.”

His hands tightened at his sides. “Is that what we’ve been doing, or have we been testing to see if this could be real?”

I studied him, finding him holding himself carefully, stiff and with a touch of the stoicism I’d seen when we first met. His tusks kept scraping his upper lip.

He was guarding himself for…rejection.