Page 78 of That’s My Orc, Tusk Off

“Like what?”

“Like letting go.” His voice dropped. “Like trusting someone rather than holding onto control.”

My throat ached.

“I want to tell them you’re mine,” he said. “That I chose you. That every coffee and every label and every time I didn’t argue when you moved something was me choosing you.” He dragged a hand through his hair. “But I can’t ask you to be my solution, Willa. I can’t ask you to save me when what I actually need is to choose you because I want to, not because I have to.”

The air left me.

“And I don’t know how to prove I’m choosing you when everything about this situation makes it look like I need you only for this instead.”

I left my chair and walked around the counter, stopping in front of him.

His hands were still wrapped around his tablet, holding it against his chest like a shield. I reached up and took it from him, setting it on the counter.

“Willa—”

I tugged him down and kissed him.

His hands came up to frame my face, his palms warm against my cheeks before he slid them into my hair.

He made a sound low in his throat that went straight through me.

I grabbed his shirt and held on.

His mouth moved over mine with an intensity that made my knees forget how to function. One of his hands moved from my hair to the back of my neck, holding me in place. I pressed closer, wanting more of this, more of him, more of whatever this was becoming⁠—

Fred’s grumble cut through the haze.

We broke apart.

Traig’s forehead dropped to mine.

“I’m afraid,” he whispered. “Of many things. But I’m no longer afraid to admit it.”

We stood there, breathing the same air, close enough that I could count his heartbeat against my chest.

“Willa—”

“I need to think,” I said.

His hands dropped to his sides.

“Not about—” I pulled back enough to meet his eyes. “Not about this. About tomorrow. About what it means. I just need to think.”

His face shuttered.

“Of course,” he said.

I grabbed my bag before I could change my mind and tell him things I wasn’t ready to say. Things that felt too big for this moment, with the scribe arriving in less than twenty-four hours and everything hanging on what happened next.

“Goodnight, Traig,” I said.

“Goodnight.”

Inside my Jeep, I sat with my hands on the steering wheel, staring at the building. Through the window, I could see Traig’s silhouette. Still standing at the reception desk. Still alone.

Fred floated into view, bumping against the side window.