"With physical examples. Spices. Cooking tools. Photos if you have them. Your terrible poetry."
"My poetry isn't going in a public display."
"Fine. But the concept stands. Show where you came from. Show where you are. Let people draw their own conclusions about the bridge."
He nods. Picks up his notebook. Starts sketching.
I watch his hands move. The same hands that just cradled my face. The same careful attention he gave to kissing me now focused on mapping out display logistics.
My phone dings. Aunt Rene checking in. I text back that I'll be late. Working on festival stuff.
She responds with a smiley face and "don't work too hard."
If she only knew.
"Okay." Stone shows me his sketch. "Three sections. Settlement life. Transition period. City integration. Each one showing the fusion process through food."
"That's perfect."
"We can use the green linen as a backdrop. Hang dried herbs and spices. Create depth."
"And lighting. We need good lighting to highlight the spice colors."
"I have some lanterns. Orc-style. They'd add ambiance."
"Yes. Ambiance is good."
We dive back into the chaos. But now it has structure. Purpose. We sort fabric by section. Arrange spice jars in visual gradients. Stone tells me stories about each ingredient while I take notes for placard text.
"This one is fire-root," he says, holding up a gnarled red spice. "We use it in coming-of-age ceremonies. It's supposed to represent the burn of growth. Painful but necessary."
"That's beautiful."
"It also gives you terrible heartburn if you use too much."
I snort. "Do we include that in the description?"
"Probably not."
The work settles us. Gives us something to do with our hands that isn't touching each other. But the awareness crackles between us anyway. Every time we reach for the same thing. Every time our shoulders brush.
Around eight, Stone orders us food from the Thai place down the street. We eat cross-legged on the floor surrounded by organized chaos. The display is taking shape now. Visible progress.
"Tell me about the settlement," I say between bites of pad thai.
He chews thoughtfully. Swallows.
"It's beautiful in its own way. Harsh, but honest. Everyone knows their role. There's comfort in that. In tradition. In doing things the way they've always been done."
"But?"
"But I wanted more. Not better. Just different. I wanted to see what else was possible. What I could create if I had access to different ingredients. Different ideas. Different everything."
"Did people understand that?"
"Some did. My mother did, I think. She packed me extra spices when I left. Told me to remember where I came from but not to be chained by it." He sets down his container. "Others thought I was rejecting them. Choosing human ways over orc ways."
"Were you?"
