Page 19 of Thankful for My Orc
His smile is slow and warm. “Come on. You can help me cook. I promise not to let you near anything that can catch fire.”
The kitchen is small but efficient, with the same careful attention to detail as the rest of the apartment. The cutting boards are handmade, the knife block is carved from a single piece of wood, and even the trivets look like they belong in a gallery.
He pours two glasses of red and hands me one. “Quality over quantity,” he says. “I’ve been waiting for a special occasion.” The serious look he gives me makes me think he’s had the wine for a long time. I take a sip—it’s excellent, better than anything I’d ever buy for myself.
As he moves around the small kitchen, his hands fascinate me. The same hands that carved baby furniture with intricate flowers, that carried Darius and supported Thessa down a smoke-filled staircase, that wrapped bacon around dates with infinite patience. Now they’re chopping mushrooms with professional efficiency, and I’m mesmerized by the contradiction of strength and gentleness.
When he reaches past me for the salt, his fingers brush mine, and electricity shoots straight to my core. I’m hyperaware of howhe moves in the small space—careful not to crowd me, but close enough that I catch his scent every time he leans in.
“You can be in charge of the herbs,” he says, setting a bunch of fresh basil on a paper towel in front of me.
“Dangerous assignment.”
“You’ll manage. Just tear them with your fingers—they taste better that way.”
I start tearing basil leaves, and the scent fills the small kitchen—fresh and green and somehow hopeful. “Is this a real cooking thing, or are you just trying to give me something I can’t mess up?”
“Both,” he admits, grinning.
“Honest. I like that.”
“I’m discovering I like a lot of things about you, Jordan.”
The comment hangs between us as we work, adding weight to every accidental brush of fingers, every shared smile.
When the food is ready and plated, we sit at the table across from each other.
“To successful rescues,” I say, raising my glass.
“To taking chances,” he counters.
We clink glasses, and the wine, rich and earthy, blends with the lingering scent of sautéed mushrooms and garlic still hanging in the air.
“Tell me about the other firefighters,” I say, leaning back in my chair with my wineglass in hand. “They seem like family.”
“They are, really. Chief Brokka is like a father to all of us. Kam makes terrible jokes, but he’d run into a burning building for any of us. Thrall acts gruff, but he’s got the biggest heart of anyone I know.” He pauses, twirling spaghetti and sauce onto his fork. “Ryder’s the quiet one. Competent as hell, but he keeps to himself. There are others, but these four are the ones I know the best.”
His voice takes on a note of deep respect. “During wildfire season last year, a family’s horse panicked and ran into a ravine. Rescue equipment couldn’t reach it, and the animal was thrashing hard enough to endanger everyone. Ryder just climbed down empty-handed and spent twenty minutes sitting with that horse, talking to it in this soft, steady voice until it calmed enough for us to rig a harness. He’s probably the gentlest person I’ve ever worked with.”
The image makes my heart squeeze. “That’s incredible.”
Forge nods. “That’s Ryder. He has a way with anything hurt or scared—people, animals, doesn’t matter. He doesn’t think much of himself, but… he should.”
“They all seem very protective of you.”
“We look out for each other. It’s what family does.”
“You know,” I say as we finish the last bites of his excellent mushroom sauce and spaghetti, “when I woke up this morning, if someone had told me I’d be having dinner with an orc firefighter who makes museum-quality furniture, I’d have suggested they seek professional help.”
“And now?”
I look around his apartment—at the beautiful furniture he’s created, the careful way he’s built this life, the evidence of his gentle, artistic soul that permeates every inch of this space. Then I look back at him, this man who rescues people and makes art and somehow sees me as someone worth taking a chance on.
“Now I’m thinking maybe I should have sought professional help a long time ago,” I say softly. “Because I’ve been missing out on a lot.”
His smile dawns slowly, and there’s heat flickering beneath it. “Better late than never.”
“Is it? Better late than never?”
