Page 95 of That’s My Orc, Tusk Off

“What are we making?” she whispered.

“I don’t know.”

Her eyes went wide. We were supposed to have cooked together many times. We were supposed to know each other’s favorite meals.

“We’ve never made dinner together,” I said, keeping my voice low.

“Lunch. We made lunch.”

“Once.”

The scribe’s chair creaked in the other room.

“Stew,” I said, louder. “We’ll make the stew you like.”

“Right. The stew.”

I pulled out my big pot. Willa found the cutting board. We moved around each other, bumping elbows, reaching past each other for ingredients.

She chopped vegetables. I prepared the meat and took the broth out of the cupboard. Spices. The pot went on the heat with oil and herbs.

The scribe appeared in the doorway, watching.

Willa glanced at me, and our eyes met.

I picked up a piece of carrot she’d just cut and held it to her mouth.

Her lips parted in surprise.

I fed it to her. Her tongue touched my finger. My hand dropped to my side, but I could still feel it.

She chewed slowly, her eyes locked on mine.

Then she picked up a piece of celery and lifted it to my mouth.

I bit it from her fingers, the gesture more intimate than I’d expected. She tasted like the vegetables she’d been cutting. Her fingertips lingered on my lower lip.

The stew simmered. The cottage filled with warmth and the smell of food.

Willa added salt. I stirred and got out the loaf of bread Krem had made. He often shared after he baked, though he didn’t make sweets.

Our hands bumped reaching for the same spoon.

“Sorry,” she said.

“Don’t be.”

The scribe watched it all.

After I’d borrowed a third chair from Krem’s cottage, the three of us sat at the table, and I served. Willa passed bread and butter around, and we ate in near silence, the scrape of spoons against bowls loud.

“This is good,” the scribe said.

“Thank you,” Willa and I said at the same time.

After dinner, we cleared the table together. She washed the dishes while I dried and put things away. We formed a rhythm that made my chest ache. She’d hand me a bowl, I’d dry it and reach for another. Her arm would brush mine. My arm would bump her shoulder.

Small touches that felt too big for my heart.