Page 69 of Orc Me, Maybe

We’re a family.

We sit in the grass for a while, the three of us, quiet except for the rustle of leaves and Lillian humming some nonsense lullaby as she braids a flower crown from clover and wild mint. Julie leans against me, her head tucked under my chin, her fingers laced in mine like it’s always been this way.

“I didn’t think you’d come,” she says after a while.

“I almost didn’t,” I admit. “Not because I didn’t want to. But because I didn’t think I deserved it.”

She lifts her head to look at me. “You’re allowed to be happy, Torack. You’re allowed to want things.”

“I want you,” I say.

“I know,” she whispers.

We make our way back to camp eventually. Slowly. The sun’s higher now, warming the dew off the grass. We pass Groth, who’s chopping wood and pretending not to watch us, but his grin is as wide as his axe swing.

“About time,” he mutters.

Julie squeezes my hand.

By the time we reach the main clearing, half the camp seems to know. Word travels fast when pixies and goblins are involved. There are cheers. Shouts. Someone’s set off a confetti charm that explodes overhead in a puff of glitter and rose petals.

Julie laughs. I don’t even grumble about the glitter.

Later that night, after the fire’s burned low and Lillian’s finally fallen asleep wrapped in a blanket between us, I press a kiss to Julie’s temple and whisper, “Thank you for saying yes.”

She smiles in the dark. “Thanks for asking.”

And for once, I don’t feel like I’m bracing for the next disaster.

For once, I just feel… whole.

Home.

CHAPTER 28

JULIE

The blueprint for the new arts-and-crafts cabin slips from my hands when Torack’s knuckle brushes the nape of my neck. Graphite smudges his cuff as he plucks the pencil from behind my ear.

“You missed dinner.” His voice vibrates through the pine-paneled office, all gravel and low thunder. The camp map I’ve been annotating for two hours flutters under his exhale.

I press a thumb into the knot between my shoulders. “Counselor applications don’t vet themselves.”

He leans over the drafting table, biceps straining his rolled sleeves. Pine resin and bergamot flood my senses. “You’re chewing your lip again.”

“Am not.”

A green finger taps my chin. My teeth release the abused flesh.

“Liar.” His tusks glint in the lamplight as he nods at the half-empty coffee carafe. “Fourth cup?”

“Fifth. Your daughter’s archery instructor called. Again. Something about replacing hay bales with moving targets?”

He chuckles, the sound warm as the whiskey he pours into my mug. “Told you she takes after her mother.” The usualshadow flits across his face at the mention—there and gone, like a bird against thunderheads.

He stills my jittering knee with a thigh like an oak branch. “Julie.”

The world tilts as he lifts me onto the drafting table. Blueprints crinkle beneath us. My fingers find the scar bisecting his eyebrow—a faded hyphen from some boardroom battle or bedtime story gone rogue.

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