Page 84 of That’s My Orc, Tusk Off

“How about your evenings?” the scribe asked.

“We talk about the creatures,” I said, improvising. “Their progress. Which ones are ready for placement. How the adoptions went. Our lives. Hopes and dreams. That sort of stuff.”

“We cook and eat together,” Traig said. Not quite a lie. We had cooked and eaten together in the break room.

The scribe set his pen down and placed his folded hands on top of the ledger.

“Let me ask something a little more…personal.” His eyes shifted between us. “When did you first share a bed?”

My stomach dropped.

Traig’s hand tightened on mine.

“The night we decided we were mated,” Traig said, his voice steady despite the lie.

“And before that?”

I swallowed hard. “Before that, we were⁠—”

“Colleagues,” the scribe said. “Yes. You said that already.” He leaned forward. “So you’ve worked together for weeks. Alone in this facility. Late hours, I assume. Shared meals. Regular meetings.” His gaze pinned me in place. “And you never shared intimacy until the exact moment you decided you were mates?”

Skepticism dripped from every word.

“That’s correct,” Traig said.

“Orcs know immediately,” the scribe said. “The moment we meet our mate, we know. Yet you both worked here for weeks without acknowledging this bond?” He tilted his head. “Why the delay?”

My pulse throbbed in my throat.

“Because I was afraid,” I said.

Traig turned toward me, his eyes a bit wide.

“Afraid of what?” the scribe asked.

“Of wanting someone this much when I’d just started a new job. This was a new life. I’d moved here to start over and then I met him and—” My voice cracked. “I knew if I let myself want him, I’d never be able to stop.”

“And you?” he asked Traig. “Were you also afraid?”

Traig ground his teeth together. “Yes.”

“Of what?”

“Of needing her.” The words rasped through the room. “I’ve spent my life not needing anyone. I’ve never been comfortable relying on others. Then she walked in and reorganized a file cabinet drawer and I—” He glanced down at the floor before looking right at the other male. “I couldn’t go back to how it was before.”

The scribe’s pen moved across the page. His gaze shifted to me. “You say you feared wanting him. But wanting is not the same as having. What did you fear would happen if you let yourself have him?”

My throat tightened. Traig’s thumb stilled on my knuckles.

The scribe was right. Wanting was safe. Wanting was something I did from a distance, in my notebook, in batches of cookies I could pretend meant nothing.

“I was afraid he’d notice me the way I noticed him,” I said. The words came slowly. “That he’d see all the things I needed and decide I was too much work.”

Traig’s hand tightened around mine, but I couldn’t look at him.

“I’ve spent my life making myself useful,” I said. “Making myself easy to get along with. If I could anticipate what someone needed before they asked, they wouldn’t have to think about what I needed. And if they never thought about what I needed, then I’d never have to find out I wasn’t worth the effort.”

The scribe’s expression didn’t change.