Page 21 of Orc Me, Maybe

“Only a little.”

She turns to go, then pauses. Looks over her shoulder.

“Hey, Torack?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re doing a good job.”

The words land hard.

For the first time all morning, I feel my jaw relax.

Even with tusks.

CHAPTER 9

JULIE

The storm rolls in like a beast that’s been waiting to strike. One second I’m sorting inventory for tomorrow’s supply check, and the next, I’m jumping at the sound of thunder so loud it rattles the windows.

I don’t scare easy.

But this one? This one’s got bite.

Wind howls outside like it's trying to rip the mountains in half, and the rain slams against the admin cabin in thick, chaotic bursts. The lights flicker once—twice—then everything goes black with a sharppopthat makes me let out a definitely-undignified yelp.

“Fantastic,” I mutter. “Just perfect.”

I fumble for my phone. No bars. Zero. Even the “SOS” signal gives up. I’m mid-eye-roll when the cabin door opens, wind blasting through, and a flashlight beam blinds me.

“You good?” comes Torack’s voice, rough and steady.

“Define good,” I say, shielding my eyes. “Because if it includes functioning power, dry socks, and basic human dignity, then I’m solidly failing.”

The door shuts with a solid thud behind him. Torack’s silhouette is big in the dark, shoulders tense, flashlight tucked inone hand. “Generator’s out. Backup battery’s probably fried. It’s too rough out to fix anything until the morning.”

“Well, that’s great,” I say, flopping back onto a folded-up sleeping bag on top of a crate. “I always dreamed of being stranded in a power outage with an orc who scowls at thunderstorms.”

He huffs. “I don’t scowl.”

“You glared at the lightning like it owed you money.”

“It interrupted my comms check.”

“Still. Very personal vendetta vibes.”

Torack sets the flashlight on a table, angling it upward. The beam throws shadows across the low-beamed ceiling and wooden walls, casting everything in moody flickering light. Cozy, if you ignore the wind screaming like banshees outside.

He glances around. “At least we’ve got supplies.”

“Mm-hmm. Romantic glow sticks and granola bars. Peak ambiance.”

He raises a brow. “Are you cold?”

“Nope,” I lie, tugging the sleeves of my hoodie down. The air’s damp and sharp, but I’m not about to admit weakness. Not while sitting across from a man who looks like he could arm-wrestle a bear and win with emotional repression alone.

He reaches into the bin and tosses me a blanket. “Take it.”

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