"What is it?"
"Nothing." He pockets the phone.
I know it's not nothing. I know because his shoulders have tightened, because he's not looking at me anymore.
The world outside is still out there, still hunting.
I don't push. I'm not sure I want to know.
When I finish, he takes both plates to the sink.
"I'll clean up. Leave the dishes."
"Diesel—"
But he's already grabbing his jacket from the hook by the door.
"Where are you going?"
"Nowhere far." He shrugs into the leather, still not looking at me. "Just need to take care of some business. I'll be right outside."
The back door opens and closes. He's gone.
I stand in the kitchen, trying to figure out what I did wrong. The food wasn't enough—was that it? Or was it the phone call? Or something I said in the garden, something that's only now catching up to him?
I don't leave my dishes.
I wash them, then keep going. Wipe down the counters, clean the stovetop, put away the pasta. The kitchen is surprisingly neatfor an orc who eats like a wild animal. Everything in its place, surfaces clear, dish towels folded on the oven handle.
The appliances are new—stainless steel, modern. But the cabinets are older, solid wood with brass hardware. He's been working on this place, updating it piece by piece.
An orc of many talents.
Too bad we had to meet like this.
I get ready for bed in the dim lamplight, curtains drawn like he told me the first night. No overhead lights after dark. When I'm done, I stand in the doorway of the bedroom.
I should offer to switch. He's been on that couch since I arrived, and his back has to be screaming.
But this room has one door. One window. If someone came, I'd have time.
The living room has three entry points.
That's what I tell myself.
I hear the back door open, his boots cross the kitchen, then the creak of the couch as he settles in for another night.
I close my door, and my hand hovers over the lock.
I don't turn it.
Through the thin walls, the springs groan. A sound that might be pain.
I should give him his bed back.
Tomorrow.
I close my eyes.
