Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
Jordan
The text from Forge arrives Wednesday afternoon, just as I’m wrapping up a particularly tedious deposition.
Forge: Drew “woodworking lesson” for our next date. My workshop, Saturday at six? Fair warning: sawdust is involved.
Warmth spreads through my chest. We’ve checked off five dates from the Ziploc over the past two weeks—mini golf, trivia night, even a hiking plan that got postponed for work—each one teaching us something new about each other.
But this one feels different—more personal.
His workshop. The place where he creates beautiful things with his hands.
Me: Perfect. I won’t wear anything fancy.
Three dots appear, vanish, then return.
Forge: Would you want to have dinner first? In the Zone. Let me show you my world before we head to the workshop?
My thumbs hover over the keyboard. He’s offering something more than dinner—he’s inviting me deeper into his life, into the community that shaped him. Not just where he lives, but where he belongs.
Me: I’d like that. I want to understand your world.
Forge: Then it’s a date. I’ll pick you up at 5.
Three days later, I’m standing in front of my closet, trying to figure out what one wears to dinner in the Integration Zone followed by a woodworking lesson. My usual court attire feels too formal, but I don’t want to look like I’m slumming either.
I settle on dark jeans, a soft cashmere sweater in deep burgundy, and boots that can handle sawdust. Casual but put-together. The kind of outfit that says I’m taking this seriously without overthinking it. But, yeah, as my best friend would tell me, I can’t do anything without overthinking it.
Saturday evening arrives, and I’m checking my reflection one last time when my phone buzzes.
Forge: Outside when you’re ready.
A few minutes later, I’m sitting in the passenger seat of Forge’s truck as we drive through the streets near the Zone.
I’ve been here before—for the speed dating, the warehouse fire, that incredible night that started everything—but tonight feels different.
Tonight, I’m not here by accident or obligation.
I’m here because I want to understand his world.
The security guard—a bored-looking National Guardsman in his fifties—barely glances at our IDs before waving us through. “Have a nice evening,” he says in the tone of someone who’s said those words ten thousand times before.
And then we’re inside.
The streets look different at dusk, softer somehow. Golden light spills from apartment windows, and the murals I noticed on my first visit now seem less like decoration and more like declarations—this community refusing to be defined by the fence around it.
“You’re seeing it differently,” Forge observes, watching my face as we drive deeper into the Zone.
“I am,” I admit. “The first time I came here, I was terrified. The second time, I was too worried about you to notice anything else. But now…” I gesture at a family walking past, a mother with small horns holding the hands of two children. “Now I’m actually seeing it. Your home.”
“And what do you see?”
“People living their lives. Building something real.” I meet his eyes. “Something worth being proud of.”
The smile that spreads across his face is radiant. “Come on. Let me show you something special.”
The restaurant—if you can call it that—is hidden down an alley so narrow I wouldn’t have found it without a guide. There’s no sign, just a worn wooden door set into what looks like the back entrance to a warehouse. Forge pushes it open, and warm air scented with spices and woodsmoke wafts out.
“Certainly smells good,” I say before we even cross the threshold.
The interior takes my breath away. It’s like stepping into a hidden world—rough brick walls softened by candlelight, long wooden tables that look handmade, mismatched chairs that somehow work perfectly together.
Every surface seems to tell a story, from the hand-woven tablecloths in earth tones to the collection of what must be Other musical instruments hanging on one wall.
The space is maybe a quarter full, and for the first time, I’m seeing the Integration Zone’s true diversity.
A family of minotaurs sits at a large table, the children—impossibly cute with their small horns—giggling over something on their plates.
Two naga females are deep in conversation at a corner booth, their lower bodies coiled gracefully beneath the table.
Near the window, an elderly wolven male plays cards with three orcs, their laughter carrying across the room.
“This is incredible,” I breathe.
As we’re shown to our table, I notice several orcs glancing our way. One older female orc meets Forge’s eyes and gives him an approving nod that makes him duck his head shyly. After we sit, I lean across and whisper, “What was that about?”
“They can tell we’re together,” he says, the tips of his handsome, pointed ears darkening slightly. “Orcs have enhanced senses. When two people spend time together—touching, being close—scents mingle. It tells other orcs there’s a connection forming.”
“So they know we’re dating?”
“They know you’re important to me.” The quiet claim in his voice sends warmth through me.
A server approaches—a naga woman with kind eyes and intricate braids woven with small shells. “Forge! It’s been too long.” Her voice carries an accent, musical and warm. “And you brought a friend.”
“Sarai, this is Jordan. Jordan, Sarai makes the best Unity Bowl this side of An’Wa.”
Sarai’s smile is radiant. “Tonight’s special is exactly what you need—Unity Bowl with fresh bread and root vegetables from our community garden. It’s comfort food that tells our story.”
“That sounds perfect,” I say, meaning it.
As Sarai glides away to place our order, I look around the restaurant with new eyes. This isn’t just a place to eat—it’s a gathering spot, a piece of home recreated in a new world.
“How often do you come here?” I ask.
“Every few weeks. After tough shifts, when I need to remember who I am beyond the job.” He leans back in his chair, more relaxed than I’ve ever seen him.
“This place… it’s what we’ve built together.
Not just orcs, but all of us. The Unity Bowl recipe combines traditions from every species that came through the Rift.
These tables were made by a minotaur carpenter.
The bread comes from a bakery run by three naga sisters. ”
I can hear the pride in his voice, which warms me from within. “You love it here.”
“I do. It’s not perfect—nothing about our situation is perfect. But it’s ours.” He meets my eyes across the table. “I wanted you to see this part of my life. The part that isn’t about emergencies or protocols or fitting into your world.”
The honesty in his voice draws me in. “Thank you for sharing it with me.”
Sarai returns with two steaming bowls and a basket of bread that smells like heaven.
The stew is unlike anything I’ve ever tasted—rich and complex, with flavors that seem to tell stories of distant places and different worlds.
The meat is tender, the vegetables perfectly seasoned, and there’s something in the spice blend that makes my taste buds sing.
“Oh my God,” I say after my first spoonful. “This is incredible.”
Forge’s smile is brilliant. “Right? I knew you’d love it.”
We eat in comfortable silence for a few minutes, the warmth of the food and the gentle buzz of conversation around us creating a cocoon of intimacy. But there’s something weighing on me, something I’ve been avoiding since our arcade date.
“Forge,” I say, setting down my wooden spoon. “I need to talk about something. Something I’ve been thinking about since we started this.”
His expression grows serious, attentive. “Okay.”
I take a breath, choosing my words carefully. “You know how I am with work. You’ve seen it—I’ve told you about it, Riley’s complained about it, hell, I’ve canceled dates over it.” I meet his eyes. “But what I haven’t told you is why it scares me so much.”
“Why it scares you?”
“David used to say I had a pattern. That I’d choose work over personal time until people gave up on me.
” I tear my bread into small pieces, needing something to do with my hands.
“And yeah, that pattern is real. We both know it. But here’s what I haven’t said out loud to anyone: I don’t actually know if I CAN change it. ”
Forge leans forward slightly, his focus entirely on me. “What do you mean?”
“I mean…” I force myself to look at him. “What if this is just who I am? What if I’m fundamentally wired to put cases before people, emergencies before relationships? Because if that’s true—if I can’t change—then getting close to you is just setting us both up for the same inevitable ending.”
The vulnerability in my voice surprises even me. This isn’t about telling him something he doesn’t know—it’s about admitting my deepest fear: that I’m unfixable.
Forge is quiet for a moment, his amber eyes studying my face with an intensity that makes me want to look away. But I don’t. I hold his gaze because he deserves to know what he’s signing up for.
“Is that what you think will happen with us?” he finally asks. “That inevitable ending?”
“It’s what has always happened before,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper.
He sets down his wineglass and leans forward, elbows on the table. “Walk me through it. What exactly is the pattern? Not what David said, but what actually happens.”
The question catches me off guard because it’s not what I expected him to ask. “What do you mean?”
“Start from the beginning,” he says quietly. “What happens, step by step?”
I consider this, trying to analyze my behavior with the same objectivity I’d bring to a case.
“Someone needs me—a client, usually. There’s a crisis or a deadline.
And I… I drop everything else to handle it.
I tell myself it’s just this once, that I’ll make it up later, but then there’s always another crisis. ”