Chapter Chantel #2
The doorbell buzzes, and I feel a little jolt of excitement mixed with nerves. "Okay," I say, smoothing down the front of my vintage emerald dress, the nicest thing I own that doesn't have paint stains. "Show time."
Faugh releases me and moves toward the door with his characteristic calm, and I follow, bouncing slightly on the balls of my feet.
He opens the door to reveal my best friend Sienna, her girlfriend Maya, and my former coworker turned actual-friend Dev, all of whom are holding bottles of wine and looking slightly awed by the hallway.
"Holy shit," Sienna says immediately, staring up at Faugh. "You weren't kidding about the whole seven-feet-tall thing."
"Sienna!" I hiss, elbowing past Faugh to hug her. "You can't just—"
"It is an accurate assessment," Faugh says mildly, stepping aside to let them in. "I am seven feet and one inch. Please, come inside."
Maya hands him a bottle of red, and she does a visible double-take at the sheer size of his hand as he accepts it. "Thank you for having us," she says politely. "Your home is beautiful."
"Chantel decorated," Faugh says immediately, which is a generous lie considering his organizational influence is visible in every clean line and perfectly placed surface.
Dev, who has been silently staring at Faugh with the kind of fascination usually reserved for natural disasters, finally finds his voice. "Dude," he says. "You're huge."
"Yes," Faugh agrees.
"Dev, stop being weird," I say, grabbing his arm and pulling him toward the living room. "Come on, there's cheese."
Over the next thirty minutes, the rest of my friend group trickles in, including Jordan, who immediately makes a beeline for the charcuterie board and starts asking Faugh extremely detailed questions about meat curing techniques, and Priya, who takes one look at our immaculate apartment and loudly announces that she is moving in.
"Absolutely not," Faugh says calmly. He reaches across the coffee table with one massive hand and refills Priya's wine glass with practiced precision, the bottle looking almost delicate in his grip.
"Chantel has already filled the second bedroom with canvases.
There is barely space to open the door."
"I could sleep on the couch!" Priya protests, gesturing dramatically at the pristine furniture in question. "I'm very flexible. Very low-maintenance."
"The couch is Italian leather and cost more than your car," Faugh says, not unkindly, simply stating this as one might cite a historical fact. "Additionally, it has already been professionally cleaned twice this month."
"Faugh, stop telling people how expensive our furniture is," I laugh, reaching over to swat at his arm—or at least attempt to, given that his bicep is roughly the size of my head.
The gesture is more symbolic than effective, but he gives me that subtle twitch of amusement at the corner of his mouth.
"You're going to give everyone the impression you're a snob. "
"I am simply stating facts," he replies with absolute deadpan sincerity, which somehow makes it even funnier.
The energy shifts slightly when the doorbell buzzes again, and Faugh moves to answer it. I trail after him, curious, and watch as he opens the door to reveal three absolutely massive figures standing in the hallway.
These must be his bouncer friends.
The first one through the door is another Orc, though slightly shorter than Faugh and built like a brick wall, with deep green skin and intricate tattoos running up both arms. "Faugh," he says warmly, clasping Faugh's forearm in what looks like a bone-crushing greeting. "Your building is very clean."
"Thank you, Gralt," Faugh says. "This is Chantel."
Gralt turns to me, and I have to crane my neck back to meet his eyes. "The mate," he says, and his whole face breaks into a huge grin. "Faugh has spoken of nothing else for months. It is good to finally meet you."
"Months?" I ask, glancing at Faugh, who has the decency to look slightly embarrassed.
"He showed us a photograph of your art," the second figure says, stepping forward. This one is a Minotaur, towering and broad, with curved horns and kind brown eyes. "We were very impressed. I am Tovan."
The third member of their group is a Dragonborn woman, sleek and intimidating, with iridescent copper scales and sharp golden eyes. "Kesara," she says, offering me a clawed hand to shake. "Faugh mentioned you enjoy wine. I brought three bottles."
"I like you already," I say, shaking her hand carefully. "Come in, please. There is so much food."
What follows is one of the most surreal and wonderful evenings of my entire life.
My tiny human friends and Faugh's enormous non-human friends mix with surprising ease, fueled by truly excellent wine and the sheer novelty of the situation.
Sienna ends up in an animated conversation with Gralt about tattoo artistry, while Dev and Tovan bond over their shared love of obscure fantasy novels.
Kesara and Maya discover a mutual obsession with competitive cooking shows and spend twenty minutes passionately debating the merits of various celebrity chefs.
I move through the room, refilling glasses and making sure everyone has enough to eat, and I catch Faugh watching me from across the space with an expression of pure contentment.
Jordan corners me by the wine bottles, grinning. "Okay," he says quietly. "I was skeptical when you told me you were dating a seven-foot Orc, but Chantel, he is gone for you. Like, completely obsessed. It's actually kind of adorable."
"He reorganized my entire art studio by color spectrum," I admit, letting out a slightly breathless laugh at the sheer absurdity of it all.
"Like, he literally spent an entire Saturday afternoon sorting through every single tube of paint, every marker, every colored pencil, and arranged them in perfect rainbow order. He even labeled the shelves."
"That's the most romantic thing I've ever heard," Jordan says, his eyes widening with genuine awe.
"Right?" I say, throwing my hands up emphatically.
"Like, most people get flowers or jewelry, and I get my creative chaos organized into a color-coded paradise.
And honestly? It kind of made me want to cry.
In a good way. He remembered how frustrated I always am when I can't find the right shade of cerulean because it's buried under like, seventeen other blues. "
At some point, Priya discovers the golden hair clip and demands the full story, which leads to me tearfully recounting the entire proposal while half-drunk on wine, which leads to Sienna loudly announcing that we need to have an engagement party, which leads to Faugh calmly stating that we are not technically engaged by human standards because he did not provide a ring.
"Rings are outdated and patriarchal!" Sienna declares, slightly unsteadily, gesturing dramatically with her wine glass in a way that makes me genuinely concerned about the upholstery.
"The clip is better! It's practical! You can actually use it to hold your hair up, which is something you cannot do with a diamond!
I'm being completely serious right now!"
"It is extremely practical," Faugh agrees with absolute sincerity, his deep voice cutting through the room like he's delivering a dissertation on clip-based adornment systems. "I selected it specifically for its functionality.
The tensile strength is superior to most conventional hair retention devices, and the weight distribution allows for extended wear without causing discomfort or follicle damage. "
Jordan nearly spits out his drink.
"Can I try it on?" Priya asks eagerly, her eyes gleaming with the kind of mischief that only comes from three glasses of wine and the presence of something shiny and symbolically significant.
"Absolutely not," Faugh and I say simultaneously, our voices overlapping in a way that surprises us both with its synchronization.
The entire room dissolves into delighted, cackling laughter at our unified protectiveness, and I feel my cheeks flush hot as I realize how perfectly in sync we've become, how naturally the refusal sprang from both our lips as though we share a single mind when it comes to that small, precious golden clip.
As the evening winds down and people start to trickle out, I stand by the door with Faugh, hugging everyone goodbye and accepting their warm congratulations and promises to do this again soon.
Gralt is the last to leave, and he pulls Faugh into a brief, back-slapping hug before turning to me. "You have made him very happy," he says quietly. "We have known Faugh for many years, and we have never seen him like this. Thank you."
I feel my throat tighten with emotion. "He makes me happy too," I manage to say. "Really, really happy."
Gralt nods, satisfied, and heads down the hallway.
I close the door and turn to survey the aftermath. The apartment is a disaster zone, plates and glasses scattered across every surface, napkins crumpled on the coffee table, and at least three wine bottles knocked over.
"I will begin cleaning," Faugh says immediately, already moving toward the kitchen.
"Nope," I say firmly, catching his hand and pulling him back. "Absolutely not. We are leaving this until tomorrow."
He looks physically pained. "Chantel, there is brie hardening on the—"
"Tomorrow," I repeat, tugging him toward the couch. "Come here."
He allows himself to be pulled down onto the couch, and I curl up against his side, tucking myself into the warm space between his arm and his ribs. He wraps his arm around me automatically, and I rest my head on his chest, listening to the steady, powerful thrum of his heartbeat.
"That was perfect," I murmur against the solid warmth of his chest, my voice soft and drowsy.
"Tonight was absolutely perfect. Like, genuinely, I didn't think it would go that well, but everyone just clicked, you know?
Your friends, my friends, all the chaos and the noise and the terrible jokes. It was exactly what I needed."
"Your friends are very loud," Faugh observes, his deep voice rumbling through his chest and into my ear. There is a note of amusement there, though, a quiet warmth that softens the statement into something almost affectionate. "They laughed considerably. One of them spilled wine on my carpet."
I lift my head slightly to look up at him, a wry smile tugging at my lips.
"In my defense, that was mostly on you for having a cream-colored carpet when you know exactly what kind of chaos you're inviting into this apartment.
Also, your friends are absolutely terrifying.
Did you see the way Gralt was looking at people?
I'm pretty sure he communicates exclusively through meaningful glances and the implication of violence. "
"They liked you very much," Faugh says simply, his massive hand settling against the small of my back. "Gralt told me you were good for me. The others asked when they could visit again."
"Everyone liked everyone. It was weird and wonderful and I want to do it again." I tilt my head back to look up at him. "Thank you. For everything. For this apartment, for tonight, for the clip, for just, for being you."
He reaches up to touch the golden claw clip, his fingers gentle. "You do not need to thank me for loving you, Chantel. It is the easiest thing I have ever done."
I feel tears prick at my eyes again, because this ridiculous, enormous, obsessively organized Orc somehow always knows exactly what to say to completely undo me.
"I'm going to get paint on all your nice furniture," I warn him, my voice thick with emotion, barely managing the words through the lump forming .
"Like, genuinely, Faugh. The expensive stuff.
There will be acrylic stains. Permanent ones, probably.
I'm not exactly known for my careful application of protective coverings. "
"I know," he says simply, his tone carrying absolute certainty, as though he has already calculated and accepted this particular variable into his life's equation.
"And I'm never going to remember to put my coffee cups in the dishwasher," I continue, my words tumbling out in that rapid, anxious way they do when I'm overwhelmed.
"I'll leave them everywhere. On the nightstand, on the windowsill by my easel, probably balanced on top of some half-finished canvas.
You're going to find them growing mysterious molds in corners of this apartment you didn't even know existed. "
"I am aware," he replies with that infuriating calm, like he has already mentally prepared for this scenario and several others besides.
"And sometimes—like, okay, a lot of times—I'm going to have existential crises at two in the morning about my art," I add, my voice cracking slightly.
"Full-blown, tear-stained, questioning-my-entire-existence kind of crises.
The kind where I wake you up pacing and muttering and probably making no sense whatsoever. "
"I will make you tea and listen to every single one." He leans down to press a kiss to my forehead. "You are chaotic and messy and brilliant, and I love every part of you. Even the parts that leave paint water in the refrigerator."
"That was one time!"
"It was three times."
I laugh, soft and content, and snuggle deeper into his side.
Across the room, the remnants of our dinner party sit in cheerful disarray, physical proof of the life we are building together.
A life that is loud and colorful and sometimes completely disorganized, but also warm and safe and full of people who love us.
I touch the golden clip in my hair one more time, feeling the etched runes under my fingertips.
Protection. Devotion. Forever.
Sometimes, I think, the best thing that can happen to a chaotic life is not finding someone who tries to control it or smooth out all the rough edges. It is finding someone who sees all that chaos, all that beautiful mess, and says, Here. Let me help you hold it together.
And then builds you something strong enough to do exactly that.
"I love you," I whisper into the quiet warmth of our living room.
"I love you too, Chantel," Faugh rumbles back. "Now please go to sleep before you convince yourself you need to start a new painting at midnight."
I grin against his chest.
He knows me so well.