I observe him. Process this information while the bass note continues its assault on my nervous system.
"You're telling me you've been giving me full-body bass massages every morning and evening for three weeks, and you didn't know I could feel it?"
Something flickers across his face. Too quick to identify, but it makes his ears twitch.
"I was unaware the acoustic phenomena carried beyond my flat's walls."
"Acoustic phenomena." I set my coffee mug down on his perfect desk, deliberately off-center. "Right. Because that's a normal thing people say about their voices."
"I am not people, Ms. Ruiz. I am an orc."
The way he says it, flat, matter-of-fact, like he's correcting my pronunciation of his name, causes my heart to thump wildly. Like he's used to explaining this difference, used to being the odd one out.
Which doesn't excuse three weeks of inadvertent torture.
"Well, congratulations on your special vocal cords. They're ruining my life."
"That was never my intention."
"Your intention doesn't matter when I can't sleep, can't work, can't function because your voice is literally shaking my apartment apart."
He shifts his weight, and I notice how carefully he moves. Like he's constantly aware of taking up space, of potentially causing disruption.
"I require vocal practice to maintain my linguistic proficiency. My visa status depends upon academic performance."
"And I require sleep to maintain my sanity. My career depends upon functional brain cells."
We stare at each other across his obsessively organized living room. The bass note has stopped, leaving behind a silence that feels almost oppressive. Like the calm before a storm, except I'm not sure which of us is the storm.
"What do you suggest?" he asks finally.
"Soundproofing. Voice coaching. A different apartment building. I don't care, as long as it stops."
"Soundproofing is expensive. Voice coaching for orcish vocal patterns is... rare. And relocating would require lease termination fees I cannot afford."
Of course. Because simple solutions are apparently not allowed in my life.
"Then what? We just continue this arrangement where you torture me twice daily and I slowly lose my mind?"
"Perhaps we could establish a schedule. Designated hours for vocal practice that accommodate your work routine."
"I work from home. I don't have a routine. That's the point."
Something shifts in his expression again. Interest, maybe? Like I've revealed something unexpected.
"Freelance writing," he says. Not a question.
"How did you—" I stop. The note. I mentioned deadlines in my complaint. "Yes. Freelance writing. Which means irregularhours, last-minute assignments, and the desperate need for quiet when inspiration strikes."
"What type of writing?"
"Does it matter?"
"Curiosity."
The single word hangs between us, and I find myself studying his face more carefully. High cheekbones, strong jaw, eyes that are surprisingly expressive for someone who speaks like he's reading from a dictionary.
"Blog posts mostly. City living advice, restaurant reviews, the occasional travel piece when I can afford to actually travel."
