She nods, and the movement makes her throat flex beneath my palm. I’m acutely aware of every point where we’re almost touching—my knee a breath away from hers, my chest close enough that if she leaned forward even slightly, we’d be pressed together.
“Now try,” I whisper.
“Gath mor,” she attempts, and this time the sound is deeper, richer. Still not quite Orcish, but beautiful in its own way.
“Better,” I say, but I don’t move my hand. She doesn’t move away.
The moment stretches between us, charged with something that has nothing to do with language lessons and everything to do with the way she’s looking at me. Like maybe she’s letting herself feel it too—this pull between us that grows stronger every day.
A loud snort from the floor breaks the spell, and we spring apart to find Hamlet standing next to our work area, somehow tangled in six feet of popcorn garland.
“Hamlet!” Laney laughs, but there’s a breathless quality to her voice. “How did you even manage that?”
The pig looks supremely pleased with himself, wearing the garland like some kind of festive collar. When he moves, morepopcorn scatters across the floor, which immediately attracts Duchess’s attention.
“I think we’ve lost our first garland to the cause,” I observe, trying not to laugh as the mama cat pounces on a piece of escaped popcorn and bats it under the couch.
“I guess it’s a good thing the kittens are still blind, or we’d have a free-for-all.”
“Loser!” Peanut squawks, apparently delighted by the chaos.
“Traitor,” Laney scolds the parrot, but she’s grinning as she carefully untangles Hamlet from our handiwork. “Whose side are you on, anyway?”
“Pretty side!”
It takes ten minutes to extract Hamlet from the garland and collect all the scattered popcorn, but by then we’re both laughing too hard to be frustrated. There’s something liberating about the interruption, like it’s given us permission to enjoy this without overthinking it.
“Attempt number two,” Laney declares, settling back into our workspace. “This time, Hamlet gets his own project.”
She gives the pig a pinecone and some ribbon. “Pig decoration duty. You’re in charge of quality control.”
Hamlet snorts and immediately begins destroying the pinecone.
“That’s… one approach,” I say.
“He’s helping in his own way.”
Another hour passes—this one marked by the kind of easy companionship that feels like we’ve been doing this for years instead of days. We create garlands and berry strings, arrange pinecones, and somehow manage to keep most of the decorations away from animal interference.
When she steps back to admire our handiwork, satisfaction glows in her eyes, and something in my chest clenches tight.
Watching her like this—happy, unguarded, surrounded by something we made together—makes it hard to believe that even for a minute I thought staying detached was possible.
But in three days—four at most—the roads will clear, and even though I got two weeks’ leave, the fire department can call me back if everything is squared away here. I’ll return to my apartment in the Zone, and Laney will stay here on her mountain, with her schooling and her dreams.
The Integration Zone isn’t set up for long commutes. The restrictions on Others living outside designated areas mean I can’t just move up here, even if she wanted that. I’ve watched friends try to make relationships work across that divide. Watched them crumble under the weight of restrictions and limitations, and the constant question: who gives up more?
But imagining mornings without her laugh or evenings without her presence feels like losing something irreplaceable before I’ve even had a chance to fully claim it.
My mother would tell me to be practical. To remember that temporary attraction isn’t worth upending your entire life.
But looking at Laney now, with bits of popcorn still in her hair and that smile lighting up her whole face, I’m starting to suspect this isn’t temporary at all.
What I feel for her isn’t going to fade when the roads clear. The question is whether I’m brave enough to fight for it when reality comes crashing back in.
“It feels like Christmas now,” she says softly, looking around at our handiwork. “Like the kind of Christmas my grandmother used to talk about. Made with love instead of bought with money.”
“The best kind,” I agree.
