Page 77 of That’s My Orc, Tusk Off

Amanda’s crown flared pink. She was responding to emotional energy. My emotional energy.

“He brought me coffee this morning,” I told them. “Before I even got here. Two creams, no sweetener. He’s been doing it for weeks.”

Fred’s grumble went softer, almost questioning.

“I don’t know what it means. Or maybe I do and I’m just—” I glanced down before meeting Fred’s too-knowing gaze again. “Scared I’m reading into it. Or maybe I’m not reading into it enough. The scribe could show up tomorrow and none of it would matter because we can’t prove something that’s still⁠—”

Becoming, I didn’t say. Still forming. Still fragile.

Movement in the hallway caught my eye. Traig stood in the doorway, one hand on the frame.

I couldn’t read his expression or tell if he’d heard what I’d said or if he was just passing by.

Laina appeared behind him, stopping short when she saw him standing there.

She looked between us, her gaze sharp.

“Have you seen the way he looks at you?” she said, her gaze meeting mine.

Traig’s hand tightened on the doorframe, but he turned and walked away. His footsteps echoed down the hall. Not running but definitely retreating.

Laina’s gaze followed him before returning to me.

“He’s terrified of this,” she said quietly, gesturing between where I sat and where Traig had been standing. “Of wanting something he can’t control.”

My throat closed.

“I know the feeling,” I said.

Her smile lifted but only for a second. “I thought you might.”

I was packing up to go home when Traig left his office and stopped near the reception desk, his tablet in both hands. His hair had come loose from its tie, falling forward around his face. He looked like he’d been dragging his hands through it for hours.

“The scribe arrives tomorrow,” he said.

“Yes.”

He pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket, unfolded it, and turned it toward me. Formal Orcish script that I couldn’t read but didn’t need to.

“Midday,” he said.

“What will you tell them?” I asked.

His hands tightened on the tablet. “I don’t know.”

I waited.

“I’ve been trying to document it,” he said. “Build a framework. Create evidence of—” He stopped. “But I can’t document something that doesn’t exist. I can’t prove a bond I haven’t⁠—”

“Traig.”

His eyes met mine.

“What do you want to tell them?” I asked.

The question hung between us.

“The truth,” he said. “That I think about you constantly. That I arrive early to make your coffee. That when you reorganized the intake form, I wanted to change it back and couldn’t because your version was better and that felt like—” He stopped.