Forge:Would you want to have dinner first? In the Zone. Let me show you my world before we head to the workshop?
My thumbs hover over the keyboard. He’s offering something more than dinner—he’s inviting me deeper into his life, into the community that shaped him. Not just where he lives, but where he belongs.
Me:I’d like that. I want to understand your world.
Forge:Then it’s a date. I’ll pick you up at 5.
Three days later, I’m standing in front of my closet, trying to figure out what one wears to dinner in the Integration Zone followed by a woodworking lesson. My usual court attire feels too formal, but I don’t want to look like I’m slumming either.
I settle on dark jeans, a soft cashmere sweater in deep burgundy, and boots that can handle sawdust. Casual but put-together. The kind of outfit that says I’m taking this seriously without overthinking it. But, yeah, as my best friend would tell me, I can’t do anything without overthinking it.
Saturday evening arrives, and I’m checking my reflection one last time when my phone buzzes.
Forge:Outside when you’re ready.
A few minutes later, I’m sitting in the passenger seat of Forge’s truck as we drive through the streets near the Zone.I’ve been here before—for the speed dating, the warehouse fire, that incredible night that started everything—but tonight feels different. Tonight, I’m not here by accident or obligation. I’m here because I want to understand his world.
The security guard—a bored-looking National Guardsman in his fifties—barely glances at our IDs before waving us through. “Have a nice evening,” he says in the tone of someone who’s said those words ten thousand times before.
And then we’re inside.
The streets look different at dusk, softer somehow. Golden light spills from apartment windows, and the murals I noticed on my first visit now seem less like decoration and more like declarations—this community refusing to be defined by the fence around it.
“You’re seeing it differently,” Forge observes, watching my face as we drive deeper into the Zone.
“I am,” I admit. “The first time I came here, I was terrified. The second time, I was too worried about you to notice anything else. But now…” I gesture at a family walking past, a mother with small horns holding the hands of two children. “Now I’m actually seeing it. Your home.”
“And what do you see?”
“People living their lives. Building something real.” I meet his eyes. “Something worth being proud of.”
The smile that spreads across his face is radiant. “Come on. Let me show you something special.”
The restaurant—if you can call it that—is hidden down an alley so narrow I wouldn’t have found it without a guide. There’s no sign, just a worn wooden door set into what looks like the back entrance to a warehouse. Forge pushes it open, and warm air scented with spices and woodsmoke wafts out.
“Certainly smells good,” I say before we even cross the threshold.
The interior takes my breath away. It’s like stepping into a hidden world—rough brick walls softened by candlelight, long wooden tables that look handmade, mismatched chairs that somehow work perfectly together. Every surface seems to tell a story, from the hand-woven tablecloths in earth tones to the collection of what must be Other musical instruments hanging on one wall.
The space is maybe a quarter full, and for the first time, I’m seeing the Integration Zone’s true diversity. A family of minotaurs sits at a large table, the children—impossibly cute with their small horns—giggling over something on their plates. Two naga females are deep in conversation at a corner booth, their lower bodies coiled gracefully beneath the table. Near the window, an elderly wolven male plays cards with three orcs, their laughter carrying across the room.
“This is incredible,” I breathe.
As we’re shown to our table, I notice several orcs glancing our way. One older female orc meets Forge’s eyes and gives him anapproving nod that makes him duck his head shyly. After we sit, I lean across and whisper, “What was that about?”
“They can tell we’re together,” he says, the tips of his handsome, pointed ears darkening slightly. “Orcs have enhanced senses. When two people spend time together—touching, being close—scents mingle. It tells other orcs there’s a connection forming.”
“So they know we’re dating?”
“They know you’re important to me.” The quiet claim in his voice sends warmth through me.
A server approaches—a naga woman with kind eyes and intricate braids woven with small shells. “Forge! It’s been too long.” Her voice carries an accent, musical and warm. “And you brought a friend.”
“Sarai, this is Jordan. Jordan, Sarai makes the best Unity Bowl this side of An’Wa.”
Sarai’s smile is radiant. “Tonight’s special is exactly what you need—Unity Bowl with fresh bread and root vegetables from our community garden. It’s comfort food that tells our story.”
“That sounds perfect,” I say, meaning it.
