Page 90 of That’s My Orc, Tusk Off

“Yes.”

“You’re not being honest.”

“I’m—” He shook his head. “This is different.”

“In what way?”

“It’s odd seeing someone else’s things in my space.”

I set down a bottle of shampoo. “I can put it back. We can find another way⁠—”

“No.” He stepped into the bathroom, picked up one of my bottles, and moved it three inches to the left. Then frowned and moved it back. “This is good. This is right.” Another pause. “It just feels strange.”

“Strange bad or strange new?”

His gaze met mine. “New.”

He picked up my body wash and uncapped it. Breathed in. His eyes closed.

“This is what you smell like,” he said. “I’ve been trying to figure it out for weeks.”

He set it down beside his body wash inside the shower, the bottles touching.

We moved to the bedroom next.

I opened the door and stopped. “Traig.”

“Yes?”

“There’s only one bed.”

He came up behind me, close enough that I felt the heat of him through my shirt. “You’re correct.”

“One bed for both of us. Tonight.”

The bed was large, clearly built for two orcs. We’d both fit. But there’d be no way to avoid each other in the night. I’d be aware of him beside me. His warmth. His breathing. The weight of him on the other side of the mattress.

We’d kissed twice. I’d baked him cookies. We’d disagreed about filing systems.

And tonight we’d share a bed.

What had occurred to me finally occurred to him.

“The couch is big enough,” he said. “I can sleep there.”

“The scribe is assessing whether we’re bonded. Bonded mates share a bed.”

“You’re saying⁠—”

“I’m saying if you’re on the couch, we’ve failed the assessment before it starts.”

“I can build a pillow barrier,” he offered. “I’ll place it down the center. We’ll have separate sides.”

Despite the impossibility of what we were attempting, I almost laughed. “A pillow barrier.”

“To maintain appropriate boundaries.”

“Right. Appropriate.”