Page 17 of Thankful for My Orc
The moment I step inside, I forget every word I was planning to say.
It’s small but transformed from a low-rent apartment into something that belongs in a design magazine. Every piece of furniture is clearly handmade—a dining table with intricately carved legs, chairs that look like they grew from trees, a coffee table inlaid with different woods in a pattern resembling flowing water.
His scent is stronger here, wrapping around me like a physical presence. This is his space, built for someone his size, and I can see how he moves differently here—more confident, more sure of himself.
“Forge,” I breathe, turning in a slow circle. “This is incredible.”
He closes the door behind us, running a hand over his braids. “You really think so? I know it’s not fancy—”
“Not fancy?” I walk over to the dining table, trailing my fingers along the carved edge. The wood is smooth as silk, warm under my touch. Every polished curve makes me think about his hands on my own curves—how careful he’d be, how patient. “This is the most beautiful furniture I’ve ever seen. You made all of this?”
“Most of it. The couch is store-bought,” he admits, as if that’s somehow a failure.
I look at the couch—a simple, comfortable-looking piece in deep brown leather that somehow manages to complement the handmade furniture perfectly. “You have impeccable taste. And incredible skill.” I turn to face him. “How long does something like this table take to make?”
He approaches the piece, pride and modesty warring in his expression. This is his domain and watching him move through it with such quiet confidence makes desire coil through me, arrowing straight between my thighs.
“The table? About three months, working evenings and weekends. The chairs were another month each.”
“Three months.” I shake my head in amazement. “I can barely commit to a TV series for three months, and you spent that long creating something this beautiful.”
“It just takes patience. And practice.”
“It’s art. Can I see more?” I ask.
His face lights up. “There’s a desk in the bedroom. And I’m doing finish work on some things in the spare room…”
He leads me through the apartment, pointing out details I never would have noticed—the way the grain flows through a cabinet door, the tiny carved flowers hidden in the base of a lamp. Everything he touches becomes beautiful under his hands.
“This is where I do the detail work—carving, finishing, small projects. I have a bigger workshop downstairs for the heavymachinery and lumber storage, but this is where a lot of the magic happens,” he says, opening the door to what should probably be a second bedroom.
The room is organized chaos—workbenches covered with tools I can’t begin to identify, wood shavings scattered across the floor, the rich smell of timber and finish. In the center, half-completed, sits what looks like a baby cradle.
“Oh,” I say softly, approaching it carefully. “This is gorgeous.”
“It’s for Chief Brokka and Marissa. Their baby’s due in a few months.” His voice goes gentle when he talks about it, the same tone he used with Thessa during the rescue. “Brokka mentioned that Marissa had been looking at cribs online, but everything was either plastic or particleboard. I thought… I thought they might like something that would last. You know, creating new heirlooms here on Earth.”
I trace the carved railing with one finger. The wood is golden, smooth, and the sides are decorated with tiny carved animals—lions and elephants and what might be baby dragons. “They’re going to love this. Their child is going to sleep in something made with so much care, so much love.”
When I look up, Forge is watching me with an expression I can’t quite read. Something warm and surprised and a little awed.
“What?” I ask.
“You called it love.”
“Isn’t it? Look at this workmanship, the time you’ve put into it, the thought behind every detail. If that’s not love, what is it?”
He steps closer, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. Close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his massive frame, catch his scent more strongly. The size difference between us has never been more apparent, and it sends an unexpected thrill through me.
“I never thought of it that way.”
“You should. This—” I gesture around the workshop, then back to the cradle. “This is what love looks like when it’s made of wood and craftsmanship and countless hours of careful work.”
Something changes in the air between us. The workshop suddenly feels smaller, warmer, charged with an awareness that has nothing to do with furniture but everything to do with his eyes on me.
“I should probably clean up,” he says quietly, suddenly self-conscious. “I’m filthy and still smell of smoke from the fire.”
The wordsclean upspark a vivid image. Heat floods through me as I imagine him under the spray, water coursing down leaf-green, inked muscle.
