16. Permissions Granted
PERMISSIONS GRANTED
GREG
Friday night, after another day of playing polite at work, I stand outside Sean’s door, balancing bags and a box like some kind of geek-inspired domestic delivery service. My heart’s pounding harder than it ever did facing a final boss.
Okay, Greg. You’ve wrestled trolls, negotiated with middle managers, and rewired a router blindfolded—you can handle one adorable IT-disaster admin. Your mate.
Us orcs are known for our persistence, for working painstakingly—and patiently—to win our mate’s affection. It’s in our nature to build, to steady, to stay, even when that mate’s running scared. I just hope he’ll let me in.
I take a breath that feels way too dramatic for a hallway and knock.
The door opens a crack. Sean blinks at me, that blond swoop swooping a little harder than usual, shirt half-tucked. His beautiful blue eyes flick from bags to box. “Are you… starting a side hustle?”
“Kind of.” I hold up a bag like evidence. “Dinner delivery. Tech support. Minor repairs. Emotional persistence.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Greg.”
“Sean.” I smile, trying for confidence and landing somewhere around terrified golden retriever. “You don’t get to push me away. You’re stuck with me now. I know I’m not subtle or smooth, but I’m sure about this—about you. So, too bad. You’re mine now. Deal with it.”
There’s a pause long enough for my brain to start buffering. Then he sighs, leaning against the doorframe. “You don’t play fair.”
“Correct.”
He folds his arms. “What’s in the bags?”
“Groceries. For dinner.”
“And the box?”
“A laptop I rescued from the recycle pile. Figured Ashley could use it once I wiped and rebuilt it.”
Sean blinks again. “After how horrible I was, you… brought me groceries and a gift for my sister?”
“Technically, yes.”
He stares at me like he’s trying not to smile. “You’re ridiculous.”
“True.” I set the bag down carefully. “But I’m also hungry, and I’d really like to make you dinner. Preferably before the ice cream melts.”
That earns a small laugh, the kind that loosens the tension in my chest. He steps back. “Fine. Come in. But if you short-circuit something, I’m docking your dessert.”
“Noted.”
Inside, his apartment smells faintly of coffee and stress. I drop my things on the counter, roll up my sleeves, and start unpacking produce.
“You’re really doing this?” he asks, hovering near the doorway like I might explode. “In my tiny kitchen?”
“I’m really doing this.” I glance at the crooked cabinet hinge I noticed last time I was here. “Also, that’s driving me crazy.” I grab a screwdriver from my bag.
He watches me tighten the screws. “You came here to fix my cabinet?”
“I came here because you looked like you needed someone who doesn’t scare easily.” I straighten my back and push my glasses up. “And because I wanted to cook for you again.”
The air shifts. His shoulders drop a little. “You’re… something else, you know that?”
“I’ve been told,” I say lightly, though my heart’s doing parkour.
Cooking with Sean feels weirdly domestic—like we’ve done it a hundred times. He chops vegetables with the precision of a man still trying to pretend he’s not falling for me. I stir soup like it’s a form of meditation.
When he brushes past me to grab the salt, our arms touch, and the air sizzles along with the vegetables in the pot.
“Greg,” he murmurs, voice low.
“Yes?”
“This is… nice.”
“Nice?” I tease. “That’s your review?”
“Shut up.”
But he’s smiling.
Dinner ends up being a simple vegetable soup, bread, and a salad that somehow tastes better because we kept bumping into each other while making it. We sit next to each other on his small loveseat, knees touching.
He twirls his spoon, pretending to study the soup. “So. After I was so rotten, you really decided to show up and play domestic hero?”
“Pretty much.”
“Why?”
I lean forward, resting my elbow on the end of the sofa. “Because you looked ready to ghost me for good, and I don’t do that. I don’t give up on things. Wi-Fi. Broken hinges. People I care about.”
He swallows hard. “You care about me?”
I nod once. “A lot.”
I put my bowl down and place my hand over his.
Sean exhales, something soft breaking loose in his expression. “Greg…”
I cut him off gently with a kiss—quick, careful, just enough to taste the broth on his lips and the tremor in his breath.
When I pull back, he’s staring at me, eyes wide. “That wasn’t fair.”
“Didn’t promise to play fair.”
He laughs quietly, the kind that sounds like relief. “You win. Stay for dessert.”
I grin. “That’s good, because I brought it.”
“Sean.” I smile, trying for confidence and landing somewhere around terrified.
“I know you’re scared. That’s what love is about.
Putting yourself out there. You’ve been working so hard to take care of your sister.
To make ends meet. To stay afloat.” I poke his chest gently, right over his heart. “Let me in.”
He exhales, that sound halfway between a laugh and a sigh. “Greg, I can’t—”
“Yes, you can.”
“No, I really can’t.” He runs a hand through his hair.
“You don’t get it. I—” He stops and swallows hard.
“I like you. Way more than I should. And that scares the hell out of me. Because you make me forget to be careful. I’ve spent years keeping things steady—making sure my sister’s okay, making sure I don’t screw up at work, keeping everything balanced.
But when I’m with you, it’s like all of that slips.
You make me want things I shouldn’t, and if I let myself fall, I don’t know if I could stop.
And I don’t know what happens to my life if I can’t. ”
His voice breaks, and something in my chest does too.
“Hey,” I say softly, pulling him onto my lap. “You’re not gonna lose anything. Not your job. Not me. You’ve been holding everything together so long, you forgot it’s okay to let someone hold you for once.”
He looks up, eyes glassy and uncertain. “And you’d do that?”
I wrap my arm around him, pulling him close. “Already am.”
“I like this,” he says softly. “You, here. Us.”
I squeeze his fingers. “Then let’s keep doing it.”
He nods, cheeks pink. “You make me want to.”
I lift his hand and plant a soft kiss on the top. “I’ll take it.”
When our bowls are empty and the wine’s nearly gone, I lean back and look around the apartment. The hinge is fixed, and Sean’s smiling.
Mission accomplished.
“Next time,” I say, “you’re picking the menu.”
“Next time?” He arches a brow.
“There’s always a next time,” I tell him. “You’re stuck with me, remember?”
He laughs, that quiet, beautiful sound that makes my chest ache in the best way. “Yeah,” he says. “I remember.”
And just like that, dinner feels like the start of something solid.
After cleaning up, we return to the couch, sharing from the ice cream container, our spoons clinking now and then. After a while, Sean leans into me, just a little at first, then all the way—his head resting on my shoulder like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
I tilt my head until it brushes his hair, breathing him in. The city churns outside, quiet and distant, and for the first time in longer than I can remember, everything feels right where it belongs.
Yeah. This is it.
“I keep thinking,” he says softly, “that if I let you in, I’ll lose control of everything. My job, my time, my…me.”
I nod, waiting.
“But then you show up with dinner and a laptop for my sister, and I’m wondering if maybe losing control isn’t the worst thing.”
My throat tightens. “Don’t forget the broken cabinet.”
“Yeah. That too.” He gives me a small, crooked smile. “You make it feel like it’s okay to exhale.”
I wrap my free arm around him, pulling him into my lap. “Then I’ll remind you every day, if I have to.”
He nuzzles into the crook of my neck then lets out a laugh—half nerves, half relief—as he grabs another spoonful. “You really don’t give up, do you?”
“Not on you.”
He snorts, shakes his head, and looks up at me. His mouth is full of pralines and cream, but he’s smiling—not the guarded, uncertain smile from before, but the real one. The one that says maybe, just maybe, he’s letting himself believe this could work.