"I wasn't aiming for you, I was aiming near you to express my displeasure."
"Well that's just inefficient." He sets the pebble aside, still grinning. "Come on, feel this." He flexes again, presenting his arm like it's some kind of prize. "That's what proper training develops."
Against every instinct screaming that this is dangerous, that touching him more is a terrible idea, I reach out. Press my fingers against his bicep, feeling the hard muscle beneath warm skin.
It's... impressive. Undeniably impressive in ways I'm not prepared to process.
"Show-off," I mutter, pulling back.
"Educator," he corrects. "I'm providing valuable anatomical reference."
"You're providing evidence that your ego is larger than your brain."
"My brain is also very large," he insists. "Massive, even. Possibly the largest brain in the clan."
"Definitely the largest something."
His laugh rumbles through the space between us, warm and genuine. And I'm smiling, actually smiling, my face doing things it hasn't done in years.
When did this become normal? When did sitting beside an orc warrior, trading insults and casual touches, become something I look forward to instead of endure?
The tension builds slowly.Gradually. Like water wearing down stone until the erosion becomes undeniable.
I start noticing things I shouldn't notice. The way his eyes crinkle when he's genuinely amused. The careful way he moves around me, always maintaining that respectful distance unless I close it first. The sound of his voice, deep and rumbling and somehow soothing even when he's saying something ridiculous.
The fact that he's... attractive.
I don't know what to do with that realization. Don't know how to process the fact that when he flexes and jokes about his superior physique, I'm not just tolerating it—I'm looking. Noticing the breadth of his shoulders, the corded strength in his arms, the way his tusks flash white when he grins.
It's wrong. It's dangerous. It's completely unprecedented in my entire existence.
I've never been allowed to want someone. Never had the luxury of attraction that wasn't immediately followed by violation. Never experienced desire that felt safe or reciprocal or like something I controlled instead of something inflicted on me.
But with Rakk, there's no threat. No expectation. Just... presence. Steady and reliable and utterly non-demanding.
He makes it clear without words that he'd never push. That whatever this is between us exists entirely at my pace, on my terms. That I could walk away right now and he'd let me go without complaint or consequence.
That certainty should make this easier. Instead it makes it harder. Because knowing he won't push means I have to decidewhat I want. Have to choose instead of just react. Have to acknowledge feelings I've spent years pretending don't exist.
One night, about five weeks after that first river conversation, we're sitting closer than usual. Not touching, but near enough that I can feel his body heat, can smell that distinctive scent of leather and training grounds and something fundamentally him underneath it all.
He's telling some story about Kaelen falling into a livestock pen, voice animated, hands gesturing wildly. And I'm watching his face instead of listening to the words, cataloging the way his expression shifts, the enthusiasm in his eyes, the genuine joy he takes in making me laugh.
He's beautiful. Not in any conventional sense—orcs aren't human-beautiful, aren't delicate or refined. But there's something compelling about him anyway. Something that pulls at me like gravity.
The story ends. He looks at me expectantly, waiting for my reaction.
I don't have words. Can't articulate what I'm feeling because I've never felt it before, never had vocabulary for want that doesn't come wrapped in terror.
So I just hold his gaze, amber-hazel meeting dark brown, and something passes between us. Some acknowledgment of whatever this is becoming, this dangerous intimacy built from restraint and respect and thousands of small moments accumulated into something undeniable.
His expression shifts. Softens. Becomes something intense and careful and overwhelmingly present.
"Serah," he says quietly.
My name in his voice does things to my chest I'm not ready to examine.
"Yeah?"
