His whole body shifts. The bucket groans. He leans that final inch and his forehead touches mine and every nerve in my skin fires at once. His brow is hot. Fever-warm. The ridge of bone is broader than a human's, heavier, and it settles against my forehead like it was built to fit there. His breath fans across my mouth. My eyes close. His hand rises, bandaged palm hovering at my jaw, not quite touching, the green glow warm against my cheek.
"Junia."
My name in his mouth. A deep rumble that vibrates through the point of contact between our foreheads and travels down my spine and pools at it. His fingers graze my jaw. Rough bandage cloth and calloused skin and gentle, gentle pressure, tilting my chin up.
I rise off the bucket.
His other hand finds my waist through the flannel. Massive. His fingers span from my hip to my ribs. He pulls and I go,closing the gap between us, my hands pressing flat against him where the heartbeat is steady and enormous and warm.
One inch. Half an inch.
The power kicks on.
Every fluorescent tube in the ceiling detonates to life at once. White light. Blinding. Industrial. The kind of light designed for a clean garage with labeled shelving units and a pegboard where every tool hangs on its designated hook.
I jerk backward. My boot catches the overturned bucket. The bucket shoots sideways. My arms pinwheel. Flynn grabs for me but his bandaged hand slips on the flannel and I sit down hard on the concrete floor, legs splayed, his enormous shirt billowing around me like a tent.
He's frozen mid-reach. One hand extended. Amber eyes blown wide. Blinking in the fluorescent assault like a man who's been dragged out of a cave.
I'm on the floor. The concrete is cold. My tailbone hurts. My heart is still going at a rate that suggests I should see a doctor.
Around us, the garage reveals itself in full. Every shelf labeled in his blocky handwriting. Every container sorted. The fertilizer rack, and there it is, alphabetized by nitrogen content, just like he said.
Flynn's jaw works. His tusks catch the overhead light. The green glow in his runes has gone nuclear, blazing through the bandages, pulsing fast.
"The power's back."
"I noticed."
He looks at me on the floor. I look at him on the bucket. The fluorescents buzz and hum and wash everything in their flat, merciless, deeply unsexy glare.
His hand is still extended.
I grab it. He hauls me upright like I weigh nothing. The momentum carries me forward and I slam into him and theflannel falls off one shoulder and his hand is on my waist again, huge and hot.
The electronic garage door whirs. Starts to rise. Cool night air rushes in under the gap.
And standing in the driveway, illuminated by the garage light, is Valerius.
The morning after almost-kissing an Orc in his garage while an Elf tyrant watched from the driveway, I wake up to the sound of a diesel engine revving at six AM.
I drag myself to the window, squinting through the curtain. Flynn stands in the fence line between our properties, wearing his faded tee shirt and cargo shorts and a pair of work gloves that look like they could palm a basketball. He's directing a rented excavator with sharp hand signals. Military precision. Warband habits die hard, apparently.
The front yard fence is already gone. Every post. Every slat. Every perfectly measured, perfectly stained plank of cedar that separated the front halves of our properties. A pile of lumber sits stacked in his driveway, organized by length. Of course it is.
I pull on my floral overalls, stuff my feet into boots, and stumble outside with yesterday's coffee reheated in the microwave.
"You tore down the fence."
Flynn doesn't look up from the trench he's marking with fluorescent orange spray paint. The lines are ruler-straight. "You said yes."
"I said yes to a truce. Not to heavy machinery at dawn."
"Truce requires infrastructure." He pulls a rolled blueprint from his shorts. An actual blueprint. Printed on actual blue paper with white grid lines. He spreads it across the hood of the excavator and anchors the corners with four identical river stones. "I drew this at four AM."
I lean over the blueprint. He's designed a combined property layout. His structural elements. My garden beds. Integrated drainage channels. Load-bearing retaining walls. A winding path that connects my porch to his patio through a series of terraced planters.
It's beautiful.
