Page 42 of Thankful for My Orc
As we make our way toward the Skee-Ball machines, I catch myself smiling. There’s something liberating about being with someone who appreciates my competitive streak instead of finding it threatening, who sees my intensity as an asset rather than a flaw.
After I’ve thoroughly destroyed him at Skee-Ball (100-point pocket three times in a row), we end up near the exit where a claw machine sits in the corner. Forge studies it with the same intensity he probably uses to assess burning buildings.
“Want me to win you something?” he asks, already fishing quarters from his pocket.
“Only if you can get that ridiculous turkey plushie.” I point to an orange and brown monstrosity with googly eyes tucked in the back corner.
“The turkey? Really?”
“It’s almost Thanksgiving. Where else am I going to get a turkey that ugly?”
He laughs, feeding coins into the machine with careful deliberation. The claw descends, misses. He tries again. “Speaking of Thanksgiving…” Another miss. “I know this wasn’t on any of our twenty slips of paper, so feel free to say no.”
My stomach does a small flip. “Okay…”
“The firehouse does a big dinner every year. Everyone brings someone—family, friends, whoever matters to them.” The claw finally snags the turkey, and he maneuvers it toward the chute with impressive precision. “I thought… maybe you’d want to come. But only if you’re comfortable with that. I’m not trying to rush anything.”
The turkey drops into the prize slot with a muffled thump. He retrieves it and hands it to me; the shy look on his face makes him look ten years younger… and adorable. I clutch the ridiculous bird to my chest, buying myself a moment to think.
Meet his firehouse family. The crew he talks about with such obvious affection. Be introduced as someone who matters to him—because that’s clearly what this invitation means. It’s only our second date, and he’s already asking me to step into his world in a significant way.
My instinct is to panic, to make an excuse about needing to check my calendar. But looking at Forge’s now carefully neutral expression—the way he’s giving me space to decide, not pushing—I realize he meant what he said about taking this slow. He’s offering, not demanding. Asking, not assuming.
“When is it?”
“Two in the afternoon on Thanksgiving Day.” He adds quickly, “But seriously, no pressure. If it’s too soon, or if you have family plans—”
“I’d like to come,” I hear myself say. Then, more honestly: “I’m terrified, but I’d like to come.”
The relief that flashes across his face is immediate and genuine. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. But I can’t promise I won’t embarrass you. I’ll probably say something awkward, and I definitely can’t cook, so I’ll bring store-bought pie.”
“You could bring saltines on a paper plate and they’d be thrilled you’re there… and so will I.” He shifts his weight, and I can see him fighting the urge to pull me close. Respecting our boundaries even now. “Thank you. For being brave enough to say yes.”
“Thank you for not making it feel like I had to.”
His smile is soft and genuine. “One date at a time, remember? Even when those dates terrify us both.”
I nod, feeling the truth of it settle somewhere deep. “Then you should keep this,” I say, handing him the Ziploc of folded slips. “Next date’s yours to choose.”
His fingers brush mine as he takes it, and something warm sparks between us—quiet, steady, real.
Maybe that’s what courage looks like. Not grand gestures, just showing up, even when you’re scared. Because some things are worth the fear. And Forge Ironwood might be one of them.
Chapter Sixteen
Jordan
The text from Forge arrives Wednesday afternoon, just as I’m wrapping up a particularly tedious deposition.
Forge:Drew “woodworking lesson” for our next date. My workshop, Saturday at six? Fair warning: sawdust is involved.
Warmth spreads through my chest. We’ve checked off five dates from the Ziploc over the past two weeks—mini golf, trivia night, even a hiking plan that got postponed for work—each one teaching us something new about each other. But this one feels different—more personal. His workshop. The place where he creates beautiful things with his hands.
Me:Perfect. I won’t wear anything fancy.
Three dots appear, vanish, then return.
