“Popcorn,” she decides. “It’s more forgiving for beginners.”
She demonstrates the technique—pushing the needle through each kernel, creating a chain of white puffs. It looks simple until I try it and immediately split three pieces in a row.
From his cage, Peanut offers helpful commentary: “Oops!”
I glance over at the parrot, who’s watching our decorating efforts with intense interest. “Thanks for the encouragement, Peanut.”
“Pretty! Make it pretty!” he squawks, bobbing his head.
Laney laughs. “At least someone has faith in us.” She scoots closer to guide my hands. “Gentle pressure, like you’re handling Jasper. Firm but not aggressive.”
Her fingers cover mine, warm and sure, and suddenly I’m not thinking about popcorn at all. I’m thinking about yesterday, about trust and gentleness and the way she’d looked at me when I called her Sunshine.
“There,” she says softly. “Good.”
Two hours pass in comfortable silence, broken only by Peanut’s occasional derisive commentary and the crackle of the fire. The garlands grow slowly, our combined efforts creating something imperfect but undeniably charming.
Without thinking, I start humming. It’s an old song from home, something my mother used to sing while she worked. The melody is simple, repetitive, and designed for long winter tasks.
“That’s beautiful,” Laney says, looking up from her garland. “What is it?”
I stop humming. “Just something from An’Wa. A working song.” After returning to the song, I let the familiar melody fill the space between us.
“It sounds… ancient. Like it’s been around forever.”
“It probably has. It’s about winter fires and waiting for spring. The kind of song you sing when you’re making things last through the cold months.”
There’s something in her expression that makes my breath catch. Like she’s seeing something she likes.
“Could you teach it to me?”
The request catches me off guard. “You want to learn an Orcish song?”
“Why not? It’s beautiful, and…” She pauses, threading another piece of popcorn. “It seems important to you.”
Important doesn’t begin to cover it. Music was one of the few things my father never lost, even when everything else about Earth disappointed him. Teaching her feels like sharing something precious.
“It’s called‘Gath Mor Selen,’” I say slowly. “It means ‘fire through the darkness.’”
I sing the first verse softly, letting her hear the rhythm and the way the words flow together. Her eyes never leave my face. She mouths the unfamiliar syllables, catching the melody.
“The words sound so… textured,” she says. “Like they have weight.”
“Orcish is a guttural language. Lots of sounds you don’t have in English.” I demonstrate a few of the harder consonants as she tries to mimic them.
“Gath mor…” she attempts, but the pronunciation is too soft, too human.
“More from your throat,” I suggest. “Like a growl, but musical.”
She tries again, getting closer but still not quite right. The sound needs to come from deeper, from the chest.
“Here,” I say, setting down my needle and moving closer. “May I?”
At her nod, I close the distance between us until we’re close enough that I catch the faint vanilla scent of her hair, close enough to see the way her pupils dilate.
I place my fingers along her throat with deliberate care, feeling for the vocal cords. Her pulse hammers beneath my fingertips—rapid, telling. The contact is innocent, instructional, but my skin hums with awareness.
“The sound starts here,” I say, my voice dropping lower. I apply the lightest pressure. “Feel that?”
