Chapter 6 Garrik
GARRIK
I’ve fought war beasts the size of small buildings.
I’ve stared down enthralled Skoll warlords, outrun firestorms, and once—on one of the worst days of my life—I carried an entire field pack of human texts across a collapsing bridge while Iris read poetry over comms like it was her last act on Earth.
None of that prepared me for this dinner.
Not with her. Not here.
Not like this.
She’s sitting at my family’s oversized dinner table, feet swinging a good foot off the ground, nestled between Davrin and Pan like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
The table is too tall for her, the cups too big, and the seat cushions still don’t bring her quite high enough—but none of that seems to matter.
She looks like she belongs.
And that’s what undoes me.
Not the way she looks tonight, though that alone could knock me flat—her cheeks still pink from the warmth of the meal, the soft afterglow of mead tinting her smile loose and unguarded, curls bouncing every time she throws her head back to laugh.
Not even the way she made it through Davrin’s entire story—about the bee that got into his boot and refused to leave for two whole days—without once pretending she had somewhere better to be.
It’s the way she’s at ease here.
Like she’s been coming to this table for years. Like she knows the rhythm of our family already, the rise and fall of our jokes, the beat of silence after Ivarr offers an unsolicited farming fact, the moment Flora always breaks in to stir the energy again.
It’s the way she hums in appreciation after every bite of Flora’s honey-glazed roast, tearing off a hunk of bread and dunking it into the sauce with reverence. Like she’s tasting something sacred.
Like she sees all of this—my home, my people—as something precious.
My throat is tight. My brain hasn’t recovered from the apiary, where she took my finger into her mouth and licked the honey clean like it was nothing. Like I’m not still shaking from it.
I dig my fingers into my knees beneath the table, hard enough to leave divots.
Pan elbows me, voice pitched in a stage whisper that echoes far too clearly down the table. “Uncle Garrik, can Iris come live with us?”
I choke.
Iris snorts so hard that honeyed broth comes out her nose, and Davrin lets out a gleeful cackle, slapping the table like it’s the best moment of his entire week.
“No!” I say, louder than I mean to. “I mean—it’s not—that’s not—”
“She’s cool,” Pan continues matter-of-factly. “She brought me books. Mom says that’s a sign of good character. And she smells nice. And she helped me with my dragon drawing, even though she didn’t know what a skytalon’s bone structure looked like.”
“I’m not moving in,” Iris manages, coughing with laughter. “But thank you, Pan. That’s…that’s very sweet.”
“You’d get used to the beds eventually,” he says, nodding like this is a logical point of negotiation. “We could build you a step stool. Or give you more pillows.”
Flora, never one to miss a cue, leans in with a smirk. “Or maybe she wouldn’t need pillows if someone offered to keep her warm.”
I nearly flip the table.
“I can sleep just fine,” Iris says quickly, clearly flustered, her voice going a little high. “On…you know. Surfaces.”
That earns a round of genuine laughter from everyone—even Ivarr, who normally only cracks a smile if someone mentions root rotation strategies or the finer points of tree-sap filtration.
I should be panicking.
I probably am.
But underneath the heat crawling up my neck, beneath the low burn of barely-repressed arousal and the chaos of my family, I’m also—gods help me—happy.
This moment. This table. Her, here.
It feels like something I never thought I’d have.
Something I never thought I deserved.
And yet—watching her laugh, her eyes soft with wine and warmth, her whole body leaning into this family like she’s already claimed a seat for herself—
I want it.
I want this.
I want her.
“So, Iris,” Flora says, in the casual tone of someone who is absolutely up to something, “are you seeing anyone in Mythara?”
I drop my fork with a clang.
Iris blinks. “What?”
“Just curious,” Flora says, all sweetness and wide-eyed innocence. “You’re a smart, charming, beautiful woman living in one of the most vibrant cities on M’mir—someone must be trying to sweep you off your feet.”
I cough. Loudly.
Davrin slaps my back like I’m choking. “You alright there, big guy?”
I glare at him.
Iris, bless her, blushes and waves a hand. “Oh—uh, no, no one special. Mythara’s beautiful, but it’s mostly scholars and old librarians. Most of them think ‘flirting’ means complimenting my organizational system.”
Flora gasps. “Tragic.”
“It is,” Iris agrees, dunking another piece of bread into her sauce like she needs it to survive this conversation. “The last person to flirt with me told me my cataloging logic was ‘exquisite.’”
Davrin leans in, grinning. “Kinky.”
I groan.
Ivarr, from the end of the table, chuckles deeply. “Sounds like competition’s slim out there, Garrik.”
“Oh my gods,” I mutter under my breath.
Iris laughs. “Honestly, I’m not really…looking.” She glances at me—quick, uncertain. “I mean, not seriously. I’ve been focusing on work. Trying to settle in. The Grand Library’s a lot.”
Flora rests her chin on her palm, smiling like a cat with cream. “So what I’m hearing is: available.”
Davrin lets out a low whistle.
Pan, utterly oblivious to the tension, pipes up with, “What’s ‘available’ mean?”
“It means Iris is probably staying the night,” Flora says smoothly.
“What?!” I say.
“Hmm?” Flora bats her lashes at me. “You didn’t think we were going to send her back to Mythara this late, did you?
The trains will be half shut down by the time we’re done with dessert.
Besides…” She raises an eyebrow. “You do have a guest room. Unless you’ve turned that into a shrine to your bees. ”
I scowl. “No, that’s Davrin’s room.”
“Hey!” Davrin protests.
“I don’t mind taking the train,” Iris says quickly, but there’s hesitation in her voice. “Really, I didn’t mean to impose.”
“You’re not,” Flora says firmly. “You’re family now. You’re staying.”
“Exactly!” Pan chirps. “We can make pancakes tomorrow!”
“I make pancakes,” I mutter.
Davrin snorts. “You make chaos. The pancakes are just a byproduct.”
Iris is trying very hard not to laugh. Her eyes flick to mine—soft, uncertain, and a little bit nervous like she’s checking to see if I’m okay with this.
I am not okay.
But I also don’t want her to leave.
I clear my throat. “You’re welcome to stay,” I say, trying to keep my voice neutral, casual, absolutely unaffected by the idea of Iris sleeping under my roof again. “If you want.”
She smiles at me, small and warm. “I’d like that.”
Ivarr raises his glass. “Then it’s settled.”
Davrin raises his too. “To our new housemate.”
“I’m not—” I start.
“To Iris,” Flora says, toasting right over me.
I hate everyone at this table.
Iris clinks her oversized mug against mine. “To dinner,” she says quietly.
And for once, I don’t argue.
Because despite everything—despite the teasing, the flushed cheeks, the aching want that still simmers low and steady beneath my ribs—this feels good.
It feels like the beginning of something dangerous.
And I’m not sure I’ll survive it.