“It’s fine,” I manage, though my heart is doing something wildly athletic in my chest.
For a moment, we’re just looking at each other. I notice tiny flecks of green in his amber eyes, the way his tusks don’t make him look frightening up close but rather… distinguished. Unique.
“Ten minutes remaining!” someone calls out, breaking the spell.
We spring apart, pretending to be very invested in bacon and cream cheese. The next few minutes are a blur of bacon-wrapping, toothpick piercing, oven-loading, and frantic cleanup. When the timer finally goes off, we’re both sweating and covered in various food particles.
“Well,” I say, surveying our final product. “They’re not pretty, but they’re… edible?”
“I think we did okay.” Forge sounds cautiously optimistic.
Around us, other teams are presenting their creations with varying degrees of success. The minotaur-human team has produced what can only be described as abstract art—if abstract art involved charred bacon and cream cheese lava flows frozen mid-eruption.
Chief Brokka and two other firefighters make their way around the room, tasting and judging. When they reach our station, I hold my breath, surprised by how invested I am in this ridiculous exercise.
Brokka picks up one of our dates, examines it critically, and takes a bite. His expression is unreadable as he chews thoughtfully.
“Interesting technique,” he says finally. “Rustic presentation, but the flavors work well together. The bacon isn’t overcooked, and the cream-cheese-to-date ratio is solid.”
I feel a ridiculous surge of pride at his assessment.
After they’ve tasted everyone’s efforts, the judges huddle for a dramatic consultation. The room falls silent except for the distant sound of someone still scraping burned bacon off their pan.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Brokka announces, “we have our winners!”
“For most creative presentation, Team Price–Morrag for their… interpretive approach to bacon architecture.”
“For best overall execution, Team Johnson–Mag for their perfectly uniform and delicious bacon-wrapped perfection.”
My stomach clenches with unexpected nervousness. I don’t need this to matter. It matters.
“And finally, for most improved and best teamwork under pressure… Team O’Brien–Ironwood!”
The words hang in the air for a breath before they click into place.We won.
I turn to Forge, wide-eyed. “Wait—did we just—?”
“We did.” His grin breaks slow and sure, and the whole room seems to brighten around it.
Kam claps him on the back as he passes. “Deal’s a deal, Ironwood. Hazing days are officially over.”
I don’t know what that means, but from the look on Forge’s face—relief mixed with quiet triumph—it’s something hard-earned.
The prize turns out to be a gift certificate to Nonna’s Coffee and the honor of not having to help with cleanup. As we watch other teams scrubbing their stations, I feel a ridiculous swell of satisfaction.
“Not bad for Team Mayhem,” I say.
“Speak for yourself.” His tone is soft but certain. “I thought we worked well together.”
Something in the way he says it makes me glance at him more carefully. The shy, cautious orc from earlier is gone. What’s left is warm, steady confidence—and eyes that seem to see right through my defenses.
“We did, didn’t we?” The admission slips out before I can stop it. “I can’t remember the last time I workedwithsomeone instead ofagainstthem.”
“Maybe that’s because you found the right partner.”
The words hang between us, thick with possibility. My pulse trips, and for one impossible moment, I want to lean in and test how much more heat that smile is hiding.
Before I can decide what to do, Riley materializes at my elbow, eyes wide with excitement.
