Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Jordan
After the smoke detector incident, Forge and I work with the careful coordination of bomb disposal experts. He handles all things involving heat and grease, while I focus on the dates and cream cheese with laser-like precision.
“Okay,” I say, surveying our ingredients. “What’s the strategy here? Because I’m getting the distinct impression that bacon-wrapped dates are more complicated than they sound.”
“I’ve never made them before.” He strokes his chin as he stands back, thinking through all the possible negative outcomes. “I’m thinking the trick will be not to overstuff them. Too much cream cheese and they’ll split open. Too little and they’ll be bland.”
I watch him work, noting the way his large fingers handle the delicate dates with surprising finesse. There’s something mesmerizing about his focus, the quiet confidence he brings to this simple task.
“Like this?” I ask, attempting to follow his lead.
He glances over and nods approvingly. “Those look great.”
The quiet comment slips under my skin, warming places I thought were long numb. When was the last time someone praised my ability to learn something new? In my professional life, competence is expected, not celebrated.
“Now comes the tricky part,” he says, moving to wrap bacon around the stuffed dates. “Tight enough to hold everything together, but not so tight it squeezes out the filling.”
“Sounds like… life advice.”
His head lifts, eyes curious, and heat creeps up my neck. “Sorry,” I blurt. “Talking to myself.”
“Maybe,” he says quietly, and something in the way he says it hooks under my skin—steady, intent, unguarded. For a moment, I forget about the food entirely.
“Team O’Brien–Ironwood!” Chief Brokka’s voice booms across the kitchen. “How are you doing over there?”
“No more fires,” I call back. “So far.”
“Progress! Glad I didn’t have to use my fire extinguisher on your dates.” He grins and moves on.
As we work, I keep glancing at Forge—the steady precision in his hands, the faint crease of focus between his brows, the pride that lights his expression when something comes together just right.
“Do you sell your pieces?” I ask.
“No, it’s just something I do in my spare time. I’ve made most of the furniture in my apartment. Sometimes I give things as gifts.”
“That’s incredible. I’ve never made anything more complex than a PowerPoint presentation.”
“I doubt that’s true. Your work requires building cases and constructing arguments. That’s creating something from nothing.”
The observation catches me off guard. Most people see my job as purely destructive—tearing apart marriages, dividing assets. But he’s found the creative element in it.
“No one’s ever put it that way before,” I admit.
“Different materials, same principle. Taking raw components and turning them into something functional.”
Before I can respond, one of our dates splits open, cream cheese launching itself with alarming enthusiasm.
“Structural failure,” I announce like it’s Exhibit A in court.
“We can salvage it,” Forge says, already reaching for paper towels. “Here, hold this together while I—”
Our hands collide as we both reach for the date. His palm is warm and rough. His calluses rasp lightly against my skin, rough in a way that makes me want more contact, not less. This time, instead of jumping apart, we both freeze.
“Sorry,” he says quietly, but he doesn’t move his hand immediately.
“It’s fine,” I manage, though my heart is doing something wildly athletic in my chest.
For a moment, we’re just looking at each other. I notice tiny flecks of green in his amber eyes, the way his tusks don’t make him look frightening up close but rather… distinguished. Unique.
“Ten minutes remaining!” someone calls out, breaking the spell.
We spring apart, pretending to be very invested in bacon and cream cheese. The next few minutes are a blur of bacon-wrapping, toothpick piercing, oven-loading, and frantic cleanup. When the timer finally goes off, we’re both sweating and covered in various food particles.
“Well,” I say, surveying our final product. “They’re not pretty, but they’re… edible?”
“I think we did okay.” Forge sounds cautiously optimistic.
Around us, other teams are presenting their creations with varying degrees of success. The minotaur-human team has produced what can only be described as abstract art—if abstract art involved charred bacon and cream cheese lava flows frozen mid-eruption.
Chief Brokka and two other firefighters make their way around the room, tasting and judging. When they reach our station, I hold my breath, surprised by how invested I am in this ridiculous exercise.
Brokka picks up one of our dates, examines it critically, and takes a bite. His expression is unreadable as he chews thoughtfully.
“Interesting technique,” he says finally. “Rustic presentation, but the flavors work well together. The bacon isn’t overcooked, and the cream-cheese-to-date ratio is solid.”
I feel a ridiculous surge of pride at his assessment.
After they’ve tasted everyone’s efforts, the judges huddle for a dramatic consultation. The room falls silent except for the distant sound of someone still scraping burned bacon off their pan.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Brokka announces, “we have our winners!”
“For most creative presentation, Team Price–Morrag for their… interpretive approach to bacon architecture.”
“For best overall execution, Team Johnson–Mag for their perfectly uniform and delicious bacon-wrapped perfection.”
My stomach clenches with unexpected nervousness. I don’t need this to matter. It matters.
“And finally, for most improved and best teamwork under pressure… Team O’Brien–Ironwood!”
The words hang in the air for a breath before they click into place. We won.
I turn to Forge, wide-eyed. “Wait—did we just—?”
“We did.” His grin breaks slow and sure, and the whole room seems to brighten around it.
Kam claps him on the back as he passes. “Deal’s a deal, Ironwood. Hazing days are officially over.”
I don’t know what that means, but from the look on Forge’s face—relief mixed with quiet triumph—it’s something hard-earned.
The prize turns out to be a gift certificate to Nonna’s Coffee and the honor of not having to help with cleanup. As we watch other teams scrubbing their stations, I feel a ridiculous swell of satisfaction.
“Not bad for Team Mayhem,” I say.
“Speak for yourself.” His tone is soft but certain. “I thought we worked well together.”
Something in the way he says it makes me glance at him more carefully. The shy, cautious orc from earlier is gone. What’s left is warm, steady confidence—and eyes that seem to see right through my defenses.
“We did, didn’t we?” The admission slips out before I can stop it. “I can’t remember the last time I worked with someone instead of against them.”
“Maybe that’s because you found the right partner.”
The words hang between us, thick with possibility. My pulse trips, and for one impossible moment, I want to lean in and test how much more heat that smile is hiding.
Before I can decide what to do, Riley materializes at my elbow, eyes wide with excitement.
“Jordan! You won! That’s amazing!” She beams at Forge. “I’m Riley, Jordan’s best friend—and the one responsible for dragging her here tonight.”
“Forge.” He offers his big, careful hand. “Nice to meet you.”
“The pleasure’s mine. Jordan told me at the break how much fun she’s having.”
I shoot her a warning look, but she sails right past it.
Forge turns back to me, holding up the gift certificate between two fingers. “Looks like fate wants us to get coffee,” he says. “Maybe we should listen.”
The comment hits like a lightning bolt. Not because I don’t want to say yes, but because I do. When did that happen? When did Riley’s “crazy idea” grow tusks, muscles, and a smile that makes me ache in places I thought were frozen solid?
“I’d like that,” I hear myself say, my tone surprisingly genuine.
His smile blooms slow and sure, like sunrise breaking open sky. “Tomorrow morning at ten? Nonna’s Coffee is near the Zone. Best you’ll ever have. We’d better exchange cell numbers in case plans have to change.”
“It’s a date,” I blurt, then flush at my own words. “I mean—”
“I know what you mean.” His perceptive eyes hold mine a moment too long, the heat there unmistakable. “And yes. It is.”