Page 101 of That’s My Orc, Tusk Off

Traig emerged twenty minutes later, his hair tied back, the ends still damp. He’d dressed in clean clothes, but his shirt wasn’t buttoned right. The third button had gone through the fourth hole, throwing everything off.

He moved to the stove.

I reached out to him.

“Hold still,” I said.

I unbuttoned his shirt from the bottom up, working quickly. His warm skin grazed my knuckles, and his pulse jumped at the hollow of his throat.

We’d touched before. Hands brushing during meetings. His arm around my waist for the scribe’s benefit. Last night for sure. But this felt intimate. Like I was seeing him in a way nobody else did, rumpled and imperfect and trusting me to fix it.

“You missed one,” I said, rebuttoning correctly.

“Thank you.”

I smoothed the fabric across his chest and stepped back. I’d touched his bare skin under the scribe’s watchful eye, and my hands hadn’t shaken then. Now they were trembling.

When I looked up, his eyes were on my face.

The scribe’s pen moved faster.

Cooking breakfast together felt like breathing. I reached for the coffeepot. Traig was already handing me a mug. He started to fill the kettle again. I had his cup out before he turned around.

“Toast?” I asked.

“Please.”

I dropped bread into the toaster while he cracked eggs in the pan.

The butter sat on the counter. I grabbed it, knowing he’d want it before he asked.

When the toast popped up, I buttered the slices generously and set them on his plate.

He stared at them.

“You remembered I love butter,” he said quietly.

“How could I forget anything about you?”

The scribe was writing so fast his pen barely lifted from the page. This was good, right? I was going to believe it was good.

Scratching came from the front door.

I went to answer, but Traig’s hand shot out, catching me around the waist.

“I’ll get it,” he said. “Watch the eggs?”

“Of course.”

He went to the door and opened it.

Fred exploded into the cottage in a flurry of wings, Amanda riding on his back, our tiny crowned warrior. Her crown flared bright orange the second she saw us. Fred grumbled so loud the walls vibrated with it. He flew straight at me.

I caught him, stumbling back a step.

Fred grumbled against my chest, the vibration rattling through my ribs. Amanda’s crown cycled through orange, yellow, pink, and back to pink in rapid bursts.

“Someone’s happy,” I said.