Page 64 of Thankful for My Orc
“Thank you,” I whisper.
He tilts his head. “For what?”
“For making me brave enough to love you out loud.”
His answering smile is soft and reverent. “You didn’t need me for that, Jordan. You just needed to see what I already knew—you’ve always belonged.”
And for the first time in my adult life, I’m not afraid of what comes next.
Chapter Twenty-Two: Epilogue
The Next Year onDecember 25th
Forge
I wake before dawn on our second Christmas together—but the first in the home we bought in the heart of the Zone last spring.
Our home. The words still make something warm and possessive flood my chest. Last Christmas we were still in my apartment, planning this future. Now we’re living it.
Before I met Jordan, she was a workaholic lawyer who ate takeout for Thanksgiving. Now she’s curled against my side in the king-sized sleigh bed I built for us, her dark hair spread across the pillow, one hand resting on my pec and her leg slung over my thigh as though she’d crawl under my skin if she could.
Through our soulbond, I can feel her contentment even in sleep—deep, settled happiness that mirrors my own. No anxiety about work deadlines, no restless energy driving her to check emails at five AM. Just peace.
I slip carefully out of bed, pulling on sweatpants and padding barefoot through the house we’ve made together. Every room holds evidence of our merged lives: her law books sharing shelf space with my woodworking manuals, her sleek modern furniture paired with pieces I’ve crafted specifically for our space. The kitchen table where she spreads case files and I sketch furniture designs. The reading nook by the front window where she curls up with legal briefs while I sand cabinet doors in my workshop.
It’s not perfect—we’re still learning to navigate her demanding schedule and my shift work, still figuring out whose turn it is to cook dinner and how to split chores fairly. But it’s our life, built on compromise and communication and the kind of love that grows stronger when tested.
In the living room, our tree glows with warm white lights, surrounded by wrapped packages we placed there last night before falling into bed, exhausted from hosting our friends for Christmas Eve dinner. We had most of the firehouse crew and their families, Riley and her boyfriend (a development that still makes me grin), even Jordan’s parents, who drove down from San Francisco and spent the evening enjoying the blended human and Other traditions—and food.
But this morning is just for us.
I make coffee using the Ethiopian beans Jordan discovered at the farmer’s market, then settle in my workshop—the space I built in our garage after we moved in—to put the finishing touches on her gift. I’ve been working on it for weeks, stealing hours between shifts and after she falls asleep, sanding and polishing until every surface is perfect.
The jewelry box is made of cherry wood, warm and rich, with hidden compartments that reveal themselves only to patient exploration. Just like my life with her.
The main compartment is sized for the earrings and necklaces she wears most often, but there are smaller spaces for special pieces—including the orc marriage stones I hope to give her someday soon—a tradition my clan brought all the way from An’Wa. The lid is carved with a pattern that matches the soulbond tattoos we received in the An’Wa tradition, and when you open it, a tiny wooden mechanism plays a melody I learned from Grandfather—an orc lullaby about finding your other half.
“Forge?” Jordan’s voice calls from the bedroom, sleep-roughened.
“In the workshop,” I call back, quickly closing the box and hiding it behind my current cabinet project.
She appears in the doorway wearing my old department t-shirt and nothing else, hair tousled and eyes still soft with sleep. Even after a year of waking up together, the sight of her in my space, comfortable and unguarded, makes my heart race.
“Merry Christmas,” she says, padding over to wrap her arms around my waist.
“Merry Christmas, sweetheart.” I embrace her, gathering her close. “Sleep well?”
“Mmm. Sharing a bed with you is like sleeping with a cuddly furnace.” She tilts her head back to look at me, and her smile is radiant. “Sometimes I still can’t believe this is real. That I get to have this.”
“Have what?”
“You. Us. This life we’re building.” Her fingers trace the edge of the tattoo at my throat—not the soulbond tattoos we got together, but the older ink that speaks of my heritage. “A year ago, I was convinced I had to choose between being successful and being happy. Now I wake up every morning with both.”
Through our bond, I feel the depth of her gratitude, her wonder at how much her life has changed. But also her confidence—she’s not waiting for the other shoe to drop anymore. She believes in us.
“The Janklow custody case went our way yesterday,” she says, her smile widening. “Final order signed at four PM on Christmas Eve. Three kids get to stay with their paternal grandmother instead of going back to their abusive mother.”
“That’s incredible. How do you feel?”
