His hand turns under mine. Our fingers tangle. The fabric sample falls forgotten.
"I'm scared," I admit. "That I'll fail. That the festival will be a disaster. That the grant inspector will see through all of this andrealize I have no idea what I'm doing. That I'm just a librarian playing entrepreneur and it's all going to collapse."
"You're not playing."
"How do you know?"
"Because playing doesn't keep you here until nine at night trying to make festival displays work. Playing doesn't mean you memorize your aunt's prescription schedule and customer preferences and which distributor gives the best bulk rates." He squeezes my hand. "Playing is what people do when they don't care about the outcome. You care so much it's terrifying."
No one has said that to me before. Not my ex, who thought my "projects" were distractions. Not my friends, who worry I'm taking on too much. Not even Aunt Rene, who just wants me to be happy.
But Stone sees it. The caring that borders on obsession. The fear wrapped up in trying.
"I feel like an exhibit," he says quietly. "In human eyes. The orc who makes coffee. The cultural exchange novelty. Look at the big green guy trying so hard to fit in. Isn't it charming how earnest he is."
"That's not how I see you."
"How do you see me?"
The question hangs between us. His thumb traces circles on the inside of my wrist. I can feel my pulse jumping against his touch.
"I see someone who writes apology notes with muffin doodles. Who brings hand-drawn shelving plans like they're love letters to organization. Who crushes spices like it's a holy ritual." I lean closer. "Who makes me feel less alone in this whole terrifying mess."
His eyes search my face. Looking for what, I don't know. Permission, maybe. Or confirmation that I mean it.
"Lacy."
Just my name. But the way he says it, low and rough and wondering, it does something to my nervous system.
I close the distance.
Kiss him.
It's not graceful. Our noses bump. I taste cardamom on his lips and coffee on his breath and something else that's just him. He makes a sound like he's been hit. Freezes for half a second.
Then his hand comes up to cup my jaw. Gentle. Careful. Like I'm one of those brittle fantasy novel pages he handled so tenderly.
The kiss deepens.
His mouth is warm. Slightly chapped. He kisses like he does everything else. Earnest and thorough and completely present. No performance. No smooth moves. Just honest want.
I thread my fingers through his hair. It's coarser than I expected. Thick. I pull him closer and he comes willingly. His other hand finds my waist. Spans it. The size difference registers in my body like an electric shock.
He's so big. Not threatening. Just substantial. Real. Warm and solid and here.
We break apart gasping.
"Oh," he breathes.
I laugh. Can't help it. The sound comes out breathy and surprised and maybe a little hysterical.
"Oh?" I repeat.
"I don't have better words right now." He rests his forehead against mine. "My brain stopped working."
"Same."
We stay like that. Breathing the same air. His thumb stroking my cheekbone. My hands still tangled in his hair.
