8. Serah #2
His eyes light up with that enthusiasm I've come to recognize. "Oh, that's useful. Zurkar's teaching you the good stuff then."
"The menial stuff," I correct. "Grunt work that keeps me busy."
"Grunt work that keeps you learning," he counters. "That's not nothing, Serah. That's investment. Zurkar doesn't waste time teaching people he doesn't think are worth teaching."
The casual validation does something strange to my chest. I look away, focusing on the water instead of the way his words make me feel seen in ways I'm not prepared for.
"Tell me something," I say, changing the subject before this gets too heavy. "Why do you come here every night?"
"Why do you?"
"I asked first."
He considers for a moment, that thoughtful expression that makes him look older than his years. "Because it's quiet. Because the river sounds better than settlement noise. Because..." He trails off, then grins. "Because the company's not terrible."
"Not terrible," I echo dryly. "Such high praise."
"The company is exceptional," he amends. "Exceptional and surprisingly tolerable of my excessive charm."
"Your excessive something," I mutter, but I'm fighting a smile.
"Charm," he insists. "Wit. Incredible conversational skills."
"Incredible ego."
"That too." He shifts slightly, angling toward me. "But seriously. It's nice. This." He gestures vaguely between us. "Talking without expectations. Just... existing."
The honesty catches me off guard. I don't know what to do with sincerity from someone who should want something from me, who should be angling for advantage or payment or access.
But Rakk never pushes. Never demands. Just shows up and talks and makes me laugh and then leaves when the night gets too late, respecting boundaries I didn't even have to articulate.
It's confusing. Disorienting. Makes me want things I have no business wanting.
"Yeah," I finally agree quietly. "It's nice."
The pattern deepens over the following weeks.
Rakk brings food sometimes—bread and cheese and dried meat from the mess hall that he claims he "happened to have extra of" even though we both know he's deliberately bringing it for me.
I accept it without comment, eating while we talk about nothing and everything.
He tells me stories about training mishaps, about Kaelen's ridiculous devotion to Lola, about growing up as the Chieftain's son with expectations he never asked for.
I tell him less. Can't quite open those doors fully, can't risk the vulnerability that comes with real honesty. But I offer small pieces—mentions of places I've been, vague references to life before the canyon, careful observations about settlement dynamics.
He never presses for more. Just accepts what I give and fills the silence with his own stories when mine run dry.
Sometimes we don't talk at all. Just sit together watching the water, existing in shared space that feels safer than it should.
And sometimes—increasingly often—there's physical contact.
Nothing dramatic. Nothing I didn't initiate. But small touches that accumulate into something more significant.
Like when he makes some ridiculous comment about his superior warrior instincts and I shove his shoulder in response. His skin is warm under my palm, muscles solid, and he rocks back with exaggerated injury.
"Violence," he declares. "Unprovoked assault against an innocent orc."
"Innocent," I scoff, but my hand is still pressed against his arm.
His eyes drop to where we're touching, something shifting in his expression. Not predatory—never predatory. Just... aware. Intensely, overwhelmingly aware.
I pull back quickly, heart hammering against my ribs.
"You know," he says after a moment, voice carefully light, "if you wanted to work on your upper body strength, I could help. Show you some training techniques."
"My arms are fine."
"Your arms are twigs." He flexes dramatically, making the muscles in his biceps bunch. "These are arms. Yours are... decorative."
"Decorative," I repeat flatly.
"Aesthetically pleasing but functionally limited."
I grab a pebble and throw it at him. He catches it easily, grinning.
"See? If you had proper arm strength, that might have actually hit me."
"I wasn't aiming for you, I was aiming near you to express my displeasure."
"Well that's just inefficient." He sets the pebble aside, still grinning. "Come on, feel this." He flexes again, presenting his arm like it's some kind of prize. "That's what proper training develops."
Against every instinct screaming that this is dangerous, that touching him more is a terrible idea, I reach out. Press my fingers against his bicep, feeling the hard muscle beneath warm skin.
It's... impressive. Undeniably impressive in ways I'm not prepared to process.
"Show-off," I mutter, pulling back.
"Educator," he corrects. "I'm providing valuable anatomical reference."
"You're providing evidence that your ego is larger than your brain."
"My brain is also very large," he insists. "Massive, even. Possibly the largest brain in the clan."
"Definitely the largest something."
His laugh rumbles through the space between us, warm and genuine. And I'm smiling, actually smiling, my face doing things it hasn't done in years.
When did this become normal? When did sitting beside an orc warrior, trading insults and casual touches, become something I look forward to instead of endure?
The tension builds slowly. Gradually. Like water wearing down stone until the erosion becomes undeniable.
I start noticing things I shouldn't notice.
The way his eyes crinkle when he's genuinely amused.
The careful way he moves around me, always maintaining that respectful distance unless I close it first. The sound of his voice, deep and rumbling and somehow soothing even when he's saying something ridiculous.
The fact that he's... attractive.
I don't know what to do with that realization. Don't know how to process the fact that when he flexes and jokes about his superior physique, I'm not just tolerating it—I'm looking. Noticing the breadth of his shoulders, the corded strength in his arms, the way his tusks flash white when he grins.
It's wrong. It's dangerous. It's completely unprecedented in my entire existence.
I've never been allowed to want someone. Never had the luxury of attraction that wasn't immediately followed by violation. Never experienced desire that felt safe or reciprocal or like something I controlled instead of something inflicted on me.
But with Rakk, there's no threat. No expectation. Just... presence. Steady and reliable and utterly non-demanding.
He makes it clear without words that he'd never push. That whatever this is between us exists entirely at my pace, on my terms. That I could walk away right now and he'd let me go without complaint or consequence.
That certainty should make this easier. Instead it makes it harder. Because knowing he won't push means I have to decide what I want. Have to choose instead of just react. Have to acknowledge feelings I've spent years pretending don't exist.
One night, about five weeks after that first river conversation, we're sitting closer than usual. Not touching, but near enough that I can feel his body heat, can smell that distinctive scent of leather and training grounds and something fundamentally him underneath it all.
He's telling some story about Kaelen falling into a livestock pen, voice animated, hands gesturing wildly. And I'm watching his face instead of listening to the words, cataloging the way his expression shifts, the enthusiasm in his eyes, the genuine joy he takes in making me laugh.
He's beautiful. Not in any conventional sense—orcs aren't human-beautiful, aren't delicate or refined. But there's something compelling about him anyway. Something that pulls at me like gravity.
The story ends. He looks at me expectantly, waiting for my reaction.
I don't have words. Can't articulate what I'm feeling because I've never felt it before, never had vocabulary for want that doesn't come wrapped in terror.
So I just hold his gaze, amber-hazel meeting dark brown, and something passes between us. Some acknowledgment of whatever this is becoming, this dangerous intimacy built from restraint and respect and thousands of small moments accumulated into something undeniable.
His expression shifts. Softens. Becomes something intense and careful and overwhelmingly present.
"Serah," he says quietly.
My name in his voice does things to my chest I'm not ready to examine.
"Yeah?"
He opens his mouth. Closes it. Whatever he was going to say gets swallowed, replaced by something safer. "It's getting late. We should probably head back."
Disappointment cuts through me, sharp and immediate. Which is stupid—I don't even know what I wanted him to say. Don't know what I'm feeling beyond the certainty that something between us is shifting, growing, becoming more than I know how to handle.
"Yeah," I agree, standing before I do something catastrophically stupid like close the distance between us. "Probably should."
We walk back together in silence, that tension stretching between us like wire pulled taut. His hand brushes mine once—accidental contact that sends electricity up my arm—and I nearly jump out of my skin.
He notices. Of course he notices. Pulls back immediately, that careful distance reasserting itself even though I can see the effort it costs him.
At the women's quarters, he stops. "Sleep well, Serah."
"You too."
I watch him walk away, his massive frame disappearing into the settlement darkness. Then I slip inside, lean against the closed door, and try to understand what the fuck is happening to me.
Because I'm starting to trust him. Starting to want him. Starting to feel things I swore I'd never let myself feel again.
And I have absolutely no idea what to do about any of it.