Chapter 22 Epilogue
Chapter Twenty-Two: Epilogue
Forge
I wake before dawn on our second Christmas together—but the first in the home we bought in the heart of the Zone last spring.
Our home. The words still make something warm and possessive flood my chest. Last Christmas we were still in my apartment, planning this future. Now we’re living it.
Before I met Jordan, she was a workaholic lawyer who ate takeout for Thanksgiving.
Now she’s curled against my side in the king-sized sleigh bed I built for us, her dark hair spread across the pillow, one hand resting on my pec and her leg slung over my thigh as though she’d crawl under my skin if she could.
Through our soulbond, I can feel her contentment even in sleep—deep, settled happiness that mirrors my own. No anxiety about work deadlines, no restless energy driving her to check emails at five AM. Just peace.
I slip carefully out of bed, pulling on sweatpants and padding barefoot through the house we’ve made together.
Every room holds evidence of our merged lives: her law books sharing shelf space with my woodworking manuals, her sleek modern furniture paired with pieces I’ve crafted specifically for our space.
The kitchen table where she spreads case files and I sketch furniture designs.
The reading nook by the front window where she curls up with legal briefs while I sand cabinet doors in my workshop.
It’s not perfect—we’re still learning to navigate her demanding schedule and my shift work, still figuring out whose turn it is to cook dinner and how to split chores fairly. But it’s our life, built on compromise and communication and the kind of love that grows stronger when tested.
In the living room, our tree glows with warm white lights, surrounded by wrapped packages we placed there last night before falling into bed, exhausted from hosting our friends for Christmas Eve dinner.
We had most of the firehouse crew and their families, Riley and her boyfriend (a development that still makes me grin), even Jordan’s parents, who drove down from San Francisco and spent the evening enjoying the blended human and Other traditions—and food.
But this morning is just for us.
I make coffee using the Ethiopian beans Jordan discovered at the farmer’s market, then settle in my workshop—the space I built in our garage after we moved in—to put the finishing touches on her gift.
I’ve been working on it for weeks, stealing hours between shifts and after she falls asleep, sanding and polishing until every surface is perfect.
The jewelry box is made of cherry wood, warm and rich, with hidden compartments that reveal themselves only to patient exploration. Just like my life with her.
The main compartment is sized for the earrings and necklaces she wears most often, but there are smaller spaces for special pieces—including the orc marriage stones I hope to give her someday soon—a tradition my clan brought all the way from An’Wa.
The lid is carved with a pattern that matches the soulbond tattoos we received in the An’Wa tradition, and when you open it, a tiny wooden mechanism plays a melody I learned from Grandfather—an orc lullaby about finding your other half.
“Forge?” Jordan’s voice calls from the bedroom, sleep-roughened.
“In the workshop,” I call back, quickly closing the box and hiding it behind my current cabinet project.
She appears in the doorway wearing my old department t-shirt and nothing else, hair tousled and eyes still soft with sleep. Even after a year of waking up together, the sight of her in my space, comfortable and unguarded, makes my heart race.
“Merry Christmas,” she says, padding over to wrap her arms around my waist.
“Merry Christmas, sweetheart.” I embrace her, gathering her close. “Sleep well?”
“Mmm. Sharing a bed with you is like sleeping with a cuddly furnace.” She tilts her head back to look at me, and her smile is radiant. “Sometimes I still can’t believe this is real. That I get to have this.”
“Have what?”
“You. Us. This life we’re building.” Her fingers trace the edge of the tattoo at my throat—not the soulbond tattoos we got together, but the older ink that speaks of my heritage.
“A year ago, I was convinced I had to choose between being successful and being happy. Now I wake up every morning with both.”
Through our bond, I feel the depth of her gratitude, her wonder at how much her life has changed. But also her confidence—she’s not waiting for the other shoe to drop anymore. She believes in us.
“The Janklow custody case went our way yesterday,” she says, her smile widening. “Final order signed at four PM on Christmas Eve. Three kids get to stay with their paternal grandmother instead of going back to their abusive mother.”
“That’s incredible. How do you feel?”
“Proud. Satisfied. Ready to take on the next family that needs fighting for.” She pauses, then adds quietly, “And grateful that now I have someone to share the victories with.”
The simple statement moves me deeply. This woman, who spent years celebrating alone, who thought professional success was the only kind that mattered, now understands that shared joy is infinitely sweeter than solitary achievement.
“Coffee’s ready,” I tell her, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “And I may have gotten started on Christmas breakfast.”
“May have?”
“Pancake batter is in a bowl, bacon strips are in the pan waiting for someone to turn on the burner, and there’s fresh orange juice in the fridge.” I grin at her impressed expression. “I wanted this morning to be perfect.”
“It already is.” She goes up on her toes to kiss me, soft and sweet and full of promise. “But pancakes wouldn’t hurt.”
We make breakfast together, moving around each other in the kitchen with the easy choreography of people who’ve learned each other’s rhythms. She flips pancakes while I handle the bacon.
It hits me that not so long ago, she wouldn’t even stand near the pan—back when everything between us still sizzled with uncertainty.
Now she’s fearless. Now she’s home. Both of us steal bites and share coffee from the same mug.
When she laughs at my terrible joke about syrup, the sound fills our kitchen like music.
“Time for presents?” she asks as we finish eating, fidgeting in her chair with excitement that makes her look ten years younger.
“Yes, it’s present time,” I agree.
We settle on the couch in front of the tree, Jordan curled against my side with her legs tucked under her. She hands me a small, wrapped box first, watching my face with nervous anticipation.
Inside is a watch—not expensive or flashy, but clearly chosen with care. The face is simple and clean, the band genuine leather, and engraved on the back are an odd set of numbers.
“Those are the coordinates of the restaurant where we hashed out the most serious of our differences,” she explains softly. “That night means a lot to me, and I hope it does to you, too.”
The thoughtfulness of it, the way she’s taken something meaningful from our relationship and made it permanent, makes my throat tight. “It’s perfect. Thank you.”
I press a kiss to the top of her head before slipping free and retrieving the jewelry box from its hiding place, my hands suddenly unsteady. Over a year together, and she still makes my pulse spike at times like this.
“I made this for you,” I say, settling the box in her hands. “It’s not much, but—”
“You made this?” She runs her fingers over the smooth cherry wood, tracing the intricate carved pattern on the lid. “Forge, it’s beautiful.”
“Open it.”
The tiny mechanism activates as the lid lifts, filling our living room with the gentle melody of the orc lullaby. Jordan’s eyes go wide, then bright with unshed tears.
“It plays music,” she whispers, like I’ve performed actual magic.
“An old song my grandfather taught me. About finding your other half.” I watch her explore the hidden compartments, her face lighting up as she discovers each secret space. “I thought… I thought you might like having somewhere special to keep the things that matter.”
“The things that matter,” she repeats softly, then looks at me with an expression so full of love it takes my breath away. “Like this.”
She removes her necklace—a simple chain with the small pendant I gave her last Christmas—and places it carefully in the main compartment. Then she closes the lid, and the music plays again.
“I love it,” she says simply. “I love you. I love this life we’re building, one handmade piece at a time.”
The metaphor resonates perfectly—we have been building this relationship like I build furniture, carefully selecting each piece, testing the joints, making sure everything fits before moving to the next step. Patient craftsmanship instead of rushed construction.
“Speaking of building,” I say, pulling her closer. “I have something else to tell you.”
“More gifts?”
“More like an opportunity. The department has asked me to participate in an integration pilot program.” I pause, stroking her hair. “I’d be assigned to Station 23 across town—working with a human crew to test cross-cultural cooperation outside the Zone.”
“Why?” Her confusion is genuine. “You love your crew here.”
“Because it could open doors for other orcs. Because representation matters, and someone has to be first.” I tip her chin up so I can see her face. “But I haven’t agreed to it because I don’t make major life decisions without my partner.”
The smile that spreads across her face is radiant. “I think you should do it. You’d be an incredible ambassador.”
“Even if it means longer commutes and navigating human politics?”
“Especially then. You can help change minds, show them who orcs really are.” She pauses, then adds with a grin, “Plus, it would put you closer to downtown. I could actually meet you for lunch sometimes.”
“What a diabolical part of you. It’s a shame you want to spend more time with the orc who loves you.”
“Yes, and I’m proud of you, Forge. Proud of us and how naturally you fit into every part of my life.”
The certainty in her voice, the complete absence of fear or reservation, fills me with wonder. This woman, who was convinced she couldn’t have both career and love, who ran from feelings because they scared her, is now planning future decades with absolute confidence.
“You make it easy to believe in forever,” I tell her, meaning it with my whole heart.
We spend the rest of Christmas morning wrapped in each other and the quiet contentment of being exactly where we belong. No frantic gift exchanges or elaborate meals—just us, our tree, and the sure knowledge that we’ve built something real and lasting.
Around noon, we’ll head to the firehouse for the community Christmas celebration, where our found family will gather to share food and stories and the kind of love that chooses itself.
Riley will show up with her male, still in the honeymoon phase of their relationship and looking at him like he hung the stars.
Our friends will welcome us with the easy affection of people who’ve watched our love story unfold.
Tonight, we’ll come home to our house, our bed, and our life together.
Jordan will probably work on case files for an hour—some things never change—while I finish the cabinet I’m building for our bedroom.
We’ll fall asleep wrapped around each other, secure in the knowledge that tomorrow will bring new challenges we’ll face together.
But right now, on this perfect Christmas morning moment, it’s just us and the life we’ve built with patience and love and the kind of deep trust that only comes from choosing each other every single day.
“What are you thinking about?” Jordan asks, nestling closer against my chest.
“Forever,” I tell her honestly. “And how it’s not nearly long enough.”
Her laugh is warm and happy and full of promise. “Then it’s a good thing orcs are stubborn. You’ll just have to convince the universe to give us extra time.”
“I’ll work on that,” I say, and mean it completely.
After all, I convinced the most beautiful, brilliant, complicated woman in Los Angeles to fall in love with a furniture-making orc firefighter. Negotiating with the universe should be easy by comparison.
Outside our windows, Los Angeles sparkles in the winter sunlight, full of millions of people living their own love stories. But inside our home, surrounded by the evidence of our merged lives and the promise of all our tomorrows, I know with absolute certainty that none of them have anything on us.
This is our happily ever after—not perfect, but perfectly ours. Built to last, just like everything else I’ve ever made with love.