He's quiet for a long time. The water laps against the sides of the tub as he works.
"Different," he says finally. "We had our own world. Our own ways. Then the Rift opened and suddenly we were here, in a place that didn't want us. Couldn't even speak the language at first. Had to learn everything—how humans live, how they think, what they fear." A pause. "Mostly they feared us."
"Not everyone."
"No." His hand stills. "Not everyone."
My fingers drift to his arm, tracing the edge of a scar I hadn't noticed before. Raised, mottled. Not a cut or a bullet wound. A burn.
He flinches. Just barely, but I feel it.
"How did you get this?"
For a long moment, he doesn't answer. His jaw works. I watch him decide whether to shut me out.
He doesn't.
"There was a fire." His voice is flat. Careful. "A long time ago. A man named Red—he took care of me after the camps. Fed me, taught me, gave me a home when no one else would." He swallows. "The neighbors didn't like that an orc was living with him. So they burned his house down. With him inside."
My heart stops.
"I tried to get to him." He's staring at the water now, not at me. "Ran into the fire like a fucking idiot. Couldn't save him. Just got these." He touches the burn scars. "Reminders."
"Diesel—"
"He died because he loved me." The words are quiet. Final. "That's what happens to people who get close to me. That's why I tried to keep my distance from you."
I don't argue. Don't tell him it wasn't his fault, even though it wasn't. He's heard that before. It hasn't helped.
Instead, I take his hand—the one that's been so gently washing me—and lift it from the water. Press my lips to his scarred knuckles. Hold it there.
He freezes.
"I'm not going anywhere," I say against his skin. "And I'm not afraid."
"You should be."
"Probably." I kiss his hand again. "I'm not."
He stares at me for a long moment. His face shifts—not quite belief, but the first crack in the wall. The possibility that maybe, this time, it could be different.
"You're leaving the day after tomorrow," he says.
"For the trial. Not forever." I press his palm to my cheek. "Unless you want me to go."
"No." The word comes out fierce. "No, I don't want you to go."
"Then stop talking."
He doesn't need to be told twice. Just leans forward and kisses me—soft, slow, his wet hand cradling my face.
When he pulls back, he reaches for a towel.
"Water's getting cold," he says. "Come on. Let's get you dry."
He lifts me out of the tub like I weigh nothing, wraps me in the towel, and carries me back to bed. This time when he lies down beside me, he doesn't try to leave.
I fall asleep with my head on his chest and his heartbeat in my ear.
