Chapter 15 #2
His hand stills. Then resumes its gentle exploration. "I love you too. Even though you are chaos incarnate and cannot keep a coffee stain off your shirt for more than five minutes."
I laugh. Can't help it.
"We should probably talk about what happens next," I say once I've gotten myself under control. "Like. Logistics. Do you move in with me? Do I move in with you? Do we get a place together and subject some poor landlord to the inevitable property damage?"
Kruk considers this with the same focused intensity he brings to everything else.
I can practically hear the gears turning behind those dark eyes, his tactical mind methodically assessing variables and calculating outcomes like he's planning a military operation instead of deciding where we're going to live.
"I think," he says slowly, each word measured and deliberate, "we should get tacos first."
I blink. Once. Twice. Then crane my neck to look up at him, certain I've misheard. "Tacos."
"Yes." He nods, completely serious. "I have decided I enjoy human rituals.
Wedding cake was acceptable. The strawberries were excellent.
Tacos are next on the list of experiences worth investigating.
" He says this like he's documenting field research, cataloging cultural phenomena for some imaginary report.
"You want to get tacos," I repeat slowly, making sure I've understood correctly. "Right now. Immediately. Post-sex tacos."
"Is there a better time for tacos?" He sounds genuinely confused, his brow furrowing slightly as he studies my face. Like the concept of delayed taco consumption is a strategic flaw he can't quite comprehend. "You expended significant energy. Nutritional replenishment is logical."
I start laughing again. Can't stop this time. It rolls out in waves, hysterical and relieved and so full of affection I think my ribs might crack from the pressure. Kruk watches me like I've lost my mind. Which, fair. I probably have.
"Okay," I manage between giggles. "Okay. Post-sex tacos. That's a thing we're doing now."
"Good." He drops a kiss on my head. "Then we will discuss logistics. Moving arrangements. Whether you require assistance organizing your belongings into a system that does not resemble a natural disaster."
"My organization system is perfectly fine, thank you very much," I protest, attempting to sound dignified despite still being stark naked and thoroughly debauched.
"You have seventeen coffee mugs in the bathroom," he counters, his tone absolutely flat, factual. Like he's presenting evidence in a military tribunal. "I counted them. Three on the toilet tank. Five along the bathtub. Nine clustered around the sink in what appeared to be a defensive formation."
"I was running an experiment," I say, lifting my chin with as much authority as I can muster while pinned beneath two hundred and fifty pounds of satisfied Orc.
"On what, exactly?" His eyes narrow slightly, that analytical expression sliding into place.
"The structural load-bearing capacity of your sink?
The tensile strength of porcelain under sustained caffeinated beverage exposure?
Because if so, the experiment is nearing critical failure. I observed stress fractures."
I swatted his chest. He catches my hand and brings it to his mouth, pressing a kiss against my knuckles. The gesture is so tender it makes my throat tighten.
"I'm keeping you," I tell him. "Just so you know. You're stuck with me now. No returns, no exchanges, no refunds."
"Good," he says simply. "That was always the plan."
Three Months Later
The dive bar is everything a dive bar should be. Sticky floors, questionable lighting, a jukebox that only plays songs from 1987, and a bartender who looks like he's seen some things and decided they weren't worth discussing.
I love it.
Kruk, currently stationed at the door in full bouncer mode, tolerates it. Which is basically the same thing as love in Orc.
I'm on my second margarita, the good kind made with actual lime juice instead of that neon green syrup abomination.
My laptop sits open in front of me, work emails glowing against the dim ambiance, but I'm not really reading them.
Mostly I'm people-watching. Cataloging the regulars, inventing elaborate backstories for the newcomers, occasionally making eye contact with Kruk across the room and watching him try not to smile.
He's good at his job. Scary enough that most trouble takes one look at him and decides to happen somewhere else. The gold caps on his tusks catch the light when he turns his head, scanning the crowd with that tactical assessment he applies to literally everything.
A guy slides onto the barstool next to mine. Mid-thirties, polo shirt, craft beer in hand. The aggressive average that screams "I have opinions about Joe Rogan."
"Hey there," he says, leaning far too close into my personal space, bringing with him a cloud of cologne that smells like a department store exploded. "Are you here all by yourself?"
I don't bother looking up from my laptop screen, keeping my eyes fixed on an email about quarterly projections that I have zero intention of actually reading. "Nope."
"Oh yeah?" He shifts closer, elbow now dangerously near my margarita glass. The confidence in his voice suggests he thinks he's being charming. "So where's your boyfriend then? Bathroom break?"
I take a deliberate, almost theatrical sip of my drink, letting the tart lime flavor linger on my tongue while I consider exactly how little energy I want to expend on this interaction. When I finally answer, my tone is so flat it could be used as a level in construction work. "Working."
"So you are alone." He grins like he's just solved a particularly challenging riddle, like he's cracked some code instead of stating the embarrassingly obvious.
His teeth are very white. Probably whitening strips.
Definitely the guy who practices his smile in the mirror.
"Let me buy you a drink. That margarita looks like it needs a friend. "
I resist the urge to inform him that my margarita has plenty of friends—they're called tequila, Cointreau, and lime juice, and they're much better company than he's likely to be. "I'm good, thanks."
He doesn't take the hint. They never do.
It's like there's a specific subsection of men who interpret "no thanks" as "please try harder, I'm playing hard to get.
" He leans in even closer, and I can smell the craft IPA on his breath mixing with that aggressive cologne. "Come on. One drink. I'm a nice guy."
The nice guy declaration. The death knell of any remaining possibility that this could end without incident.
I sigh. Close my laptop with a decisive click. Make eye contact with Kruk across the room and raise one eyebrow in a silent question: Should I handle this or do you want to?
Kruk steps away from the wall. Moves through the crowd with the economy of movement that suggests violence is always an option, just not the first one. Stops directly behind Polo Shirt Guy, arms crossed, seven feet of solid muscle and absolute done-with-your-nonsense energy.
The lighting shifts. Suddenly Kruk is fully illuminated, tribal tattoos stark against green skin, gold tusks gleaming, expression set to "dangerous and unimpressed."
Polo Shirt Guy's face goes through a fascinating spectrum of colors—starting at normal human pale, progressing rapidly to ash gray, and finally settling somewhere in the vicinity of "I've just seen my own mortality and it has gold tusks.
" He scrambles backward so fast he nearly upends the barstool entirely, catching himself at the last second with a graceless flail that sends his craft IPA sloshing onto the bar.
He doesn't even pause to finish it, or to close out his tab, or to maintain any shred of dignity.
Just pivots and runs, weaving through the crowd like a man fleeing an active crime scene.
Kruk watches the retreat with the patient intensity of a predator observing prey that's no longer worth the chase.
His expression doesn't change, still set to that particular brand of Orcish disapproval that suggests deep personal offense at the mere concept of someone bothering me.
When Polo Shirt Guy finally disappears through the front door, stumbling slightly on the threshold in his haste, Kruk's gaze shifts.
Slides directly to me.
I wink. Can't help it. The nervous giggle bubbles up too, because apparently my brain thinks this is hilarious, my boyfriend scaring off handsy strangers with nothing more than his physical presence and a truly impressive resting murder-face.
He shakes his head, fighting a smile, and returns to his post. But not before brushing his fingers across my shoulder as he passes, a brief touch that says mine louder than words ever could.
I go back to my margarita. My emails. My perfectly chaotic life with an Orc who treats social interactions like tactical operations and looks at me like I'm the most valuable thing he's ever been assigned to protect.
Best fake fiancé I ever hired.
Even better, a real boyfriend.
The bartender slides a fresh margarita in front of me, the salt rim perfectly crusted, the lime wedge perched at exactly the right angle. "From the gentleman at the door."
I glance over, heart doing that stupid little flutter it's been doing for months now whenever I catch sight of him.
Kruk inclines his head slightly, the barest hint of acknowledgment, his expression maintaining that professional neutrality that shouldn't be as attractive as it is.
The light from the neon beer signs catches on his gold-capped tusks, making them gleam.
"Tell him his tip is going to be excellent," I say, unable to keep the grin off my face.
The bartender snorts, wiping down the bar with practiced efficiency. "I think he's already planning on collecting it later."
Yeah. He probably is. Heat crawls up my neck at the thought, at the very specific way Kruk tends to "collect" things he considers owed to him. The man is nothing if not thorough.
I raise my glass in Kruk's direction, a silent toast to fake engagements turned real relationships, to security details that became something infinitely more complicated and infinitely better.
He mirrors the gesture with his water bottle—because of course he's still on duty in his head, still maintaining peak operational readiness, solemn as a treaty signing, as if we're negotiating terms of surrender rather than flirting across a half-empty bar.
This. This is happiness. Sticky floors, cheap tequila, a possessive Orc who scares away creeps and brings me tacos at 2 a.m. when I'm working late.
Who learned to fold my laundry without complaining about the chaos.
Who keeps a battle axe in the closet "just in case" and kisses me like the world might end if he stops.
Who chose me? Who keeps choosing me, again and again.
Every single day, in a hundred tiny ways—in the way he organizes my chaos without complaining, in the way he stands guard over my sleep on nights when my anxiety won't let me rest, in the way he looks at me like I'm the entire mission objective and nothing else matters.
I chose him right back. Stone-cold sober now and still choosing him, will keep choosing him tomorrow and the day after that.
Choosing this bizarre, beautiful, completely ridiculous life we've built together, where tactical assessments meet my disaster energy and somehow create something that actually works.
Best decision I ever made, hands down. No contest. Better than my college major, better than my car, better than that impulse haircut I got last year that actually turned out pretty decent.
Even if I was three margaritas deep at the time I made it. Especially because I was three margaritas deep. Drunk me apparently has better judgment than sober me ever did, and I'm not too proud to admit it.
THE END