Page 48 of Thankful for My Orc
He selects a plane from the wall display, explaining how it works as he demonstrates on a scrap piece. The motion is fluid, graceful, sending thin curls of wood spiraling to the floor.
“The key is working with the grain, not against it,” he says, positioning my hands on the tool. “Feel how the wood wants to give way in one direction?”
He steps behind me, his chest warm against my back as he guides my hands. The plane glides across the surface, and I feel the satisfaction of watching the wood become smoother with each pass.
“Like this?” I ask, aware of his proximity, of the way his breath stirs the hair at my temple.
“Perfect.” His voice has gone rougher. “You’re a natural.”
We fall into a rhythm—push, glide, lift—his hands covering mine, his body bracketing me as we work. At some point, I stop thinking about the technique and start focusing on his heat behind me, the controlled strength in his movements, the way his scent wraps around me until thinking becomes optional.
“This is addictive,” I admit when we finally step back to examine our progress. The board still has some rough edges, and it’s wavy where I pressed too hard, but it’s undeniably real, shaped by our combined effort.
“That’s what I love about it,” he says, leaning against the workbench. “Firefighting is all about emergencies—fast, intense, over in minutes or hours. But this? This lasts. This becomes part of someone’s life.”
My phone buzzes against my hip. Once, then twice. Riley’s name lights the screen with “Henley—URGENT.”
Six months ago, I would have answered immediately, would have been halfway to the office before the second ring. Now, I glance at Forge—who’s watching me with patient amber eyes, no pressure, no expectation—and I make a choice.
“Riley? What’s the emergency?”
“Jordan, thank God. We’ve got movement on the Henley case. Opposing counsel filed an emergency motion, and the judge wants responses by Monday noon. I can meet you at the office—”
“Email me the motion,” I interrupt calmly. “I’ll review it tomorrow morning and have a response plan to you by ten AM.”
Silence. “You’re… not coming in?”
“Not tonight. This can wait.” I meet Forge’s eyes as I speak, seeing approval and pride in his expression. “Handle anything that truly can’t wait until Monday, and send me everything else.”
“Okay. I’ll… I’ll send you the files.”
“Thanks, Riley.”
I end the call and set the phone face down on the workbench.
“That felt different,” Forge observes.
“Itwasdifferent. Two months ago, I would have been in my car before she finished explaining.” I pick up the cutting board we made together, running my fingers along the smooth edge. “I’m learning that calling something an emergency doesn’t always make it so.”
“And how does it feel?”
“Liberating.” I look around his workshop, at the evidence of his patience and skill, at the life he’s built with his own hands. “You know what else feels liberating?”
“What’s that?”
“The idea of introducing you to my colleagues as my boyfriend, not just as my date.”
His stillness tells me the words hit exactly as I intended them to.
“Boyfriend?” he repeats, something like wonder in his voice.
“My firm’s anniversary gala is next Friday,” I say, stepping closer to him. “Black tie, all the senior partners, biggest clients. Very public, very professional.” I take a breath. “I want you there. Not as a random plus-one, but as the male I’m building something with.”
The smile that spreads across his face is brilliant. “That’s a big step.”
“It is. And I’m not scared anymore.” The honesty surprises even me. “I want my colleagues to meet the male who thinks my dedication is something to admire, not something to compete with.”
“Are you sure? These are the people you work with every day—”
