Chapter Orla
ORLA
One year later, the office looks different.
The dress code relaxed six months ago after Thraka argued that ties were "warrior restraints designed to weaken the spirit." Now people wear jeans on Fridays. Some wear jeans every day. The world didn't end.
I'm wearing a blazer over a silk shell instead of a full suit. My heels are two inches instead of four. Small changes that would have horrified me a year ago.
Thraka's office is next to mine now, the Aggressive Negotiations Department having expanded to include three additional team members. His door is open and I can see him through the glass wall, gesturing wildly while explaining something to a new hire who looks appropriately terrified.
On his desk sits a mug that says "#1 Dad" in garish letters. Inside is a small succulent that he talks to every morning, encouraging it to "grow strong like warrior plant."
I'm not sure if the plant counts as a practice baby or if we're actively trying for an actual baby. We haven't discussed it formally. We just stopped being careful about three months ago and both pretended it was an accident.
My five-year plan has been revised. It now includes bullet points like "maintain work-life balance" and "remember to laugh" and "let Thraka cook dinner even though he thinks everything should be grilled over open flame."
The ten-year plan exists but I only look at it once a month instead of once a day.
The apocalypse contingency plan remains unchanged. Some habits die hard.
Thraka catches me watching him and grins, that same wild, unrestrained grin that made my heart flip the first time I saw it. He says something to the new hire, then crosses the space between our offices in three long strides.
"Little Manager," he says, leaning against my doorframe. "You have that look."
"What look?"
"The one that means you're planning something strategic."
I stand and close my door, watching his grin widen as I turn the lock with a decisive click.
"Just practicing aggressive negotiations," I say, already loosening his collar. "Quality control. Very important for departmental efficiency."
He lifts me onto my desk, scattering papers I'll reorganize later.
Or maybe tomorrow.
Or maybe never.
"I love you," I tell him, the words easier now than they were the first time. "Sharp edges and all."
"I love you too," he rumbles, his hands finding all the places he's mapped a hundred times before. "Bean water breath and warrior spirit."
Outside my office, the world continues spinning. Emails pile up. Meetings happen. Quarterly reports demand attention.
But right now, locked in my office with my impossible orc, none of that matters.
I've learned to be late.
And it turns out the sky didn't fall after all.