Page 9 of Till Orc Do Us Part
“He is.”
I halt mid-step. “Jamie—how do you know that?”
He looks up, face open and guileless. “He looked lonely.”
The breath catches in my throat. “That doesn’t mean?—”
“He let me talk. He listened. He smiled.”
I close my eyes a beat, steadying myself.He smiled, did he? Great. Wonderful. Just what I need—my son humanizing a corporate juggernaut.
I crouch to Jamie’s level, voice low. “Listen to me, okay? I’m proud you’re kind. And brave. But some grownups? They’re not what they seem. Even if they smile.”
Jamie frowns. “Mr. Drokhaz isn’t like the ones from your stories.”
I blink. “What?”
“You said villains wear masks. He didn’t wear a mask. He asked about my map.”
I swallow hard. Words tangle behind my teeth. How do you explain systemic gentrification and profit-driven destruction to a five-year-old who sees the world in bright, eager lines?
“Next time,” I say finally, “you come straight to me first. Deal?”
Jamie hesitates, then nods. “Deal.”
“Good.” I ruffle his curls, heart thudding a new, different rhythm. “Now let’s get home.”
We walk the familiar boards in silence. The wind’s picked up—salt and old stories riding each gust. My boots echo on the planks. Jamie hums softly, notebook hugged tight.
But my mind? My mind’s still back in that sterile trailer.
Drokhaz Vellum.
Calm. Imposing. And somehow… not cold. Not to Jamie. Not tonight.
That’s what scares me most.
Later, after dinner and bath time and one very stubborn argument about whether sea monsters need toothbrushes, Jamie’s finally tucked in under his pirate blanket.
He’s quieter than usual. No humming, no babbling about fish facts. Just tracing the edges of that damn notebook with small fingers, the corners already soft from love.
“Sweetheart,” I say gently, sitting on the edge of his bed. “Time to put that away. We don’t sleep with pens, remember?”
He hugs the notebook tighter. “Just for tonight?”
I sigh. “Okay. Just tonight.”
His eyes flutter closed, lashes dark against freckled cheeks. Within minutes, his breaths even out—soft, deep, the kind only small children and old dogs seem to master.
And there it is.
The notebook.
Half-tucked beneath his arm like a secret.
I brush a stray curl off his forehead, throat tight.I should take it. I should erase today before it roots too deep.
But I don’t move.
