"If we can swing one vote, Blair's majority collapses. The program continues, maybe with minor modifications but intact." He put down his fork. "But it depends on tomorrow. How we come across. Whether we look like a success story or a cautionary tale."
I think about Evan's offer. The easy path. Apologize, retreat, survive.
Then I think about Stone's hands rebuilding bookshelves. His voice booming through children's storytime. The way helooks at me like I'm both fierce and precious, worth protecting and worth following.
"We'll be fine," I say.
"You can't know that."
"No. But I can choose to believe it." I lean against his shoulder. "We tell the truth. We don't apologize for loving each other. And we trust that matters to someone in that room."
His arm comes around me, solid and warm. "When did you get so brave?"
"When I had something worth being brave for."
We finish dinner. Tess eventually leaves, armed with final prep notes and promises to meet us at the council building early. The bookstore empties, goes quiet.
Stone and I lock up together. Stand on the walkway in cooling evening air, looking at the space we've built and defended and refused to apologize for.
"Tomorrow's going to be hard," he says.
"I know."
"We might lose."
"I know that too."
He turns to me, cupping my face in his hands. Green skin, rough palms, eyes that hold so much tenderness it hurts.
"I love you. Whatever happens, that doesn't change."
I kiss him there on the street, not caring who sees. Let them look. Let them judge. This is real, and worth it, and mine.
"Come on," I say when we part. "Let's go home."
We walk through the city together, hand in hand, heading toward whatever tomorrow brings.
9
STONE
The enclave sits in the industrial quarter, three converted warehouses and a courtyard where someone's always cooking something that smells like home. I cross the threshold just after nine, breathing easier the moment I step inside.
Firelight. Voices layered over each other in comfortable chaos. The scent of roasting meat and fermented grain. My shoulders drop an inch.
"Stone!" Mara waves from the communal fire pit, stirring something massive in a cast-iron pot. "You look like death. Sit."
I drop onto one of the benches circling the flames. Around me, two dozen orcs in various states of evening relaxation. Some working leather, others playing dice, a few locked in heated debate about proper spice ratios. Normal. Beautifully, achingly normal.
Darius appears with two bowls of Mara's stew. Hands me one without comment.
I eat. The food grounds me, thick and rich and familiar. No measuring cups, no careful plating. Just flavor and heat and substance.
"Bad day?" Mara asks.
"Bad week."
"The hearing's tomorrow." She doesn't make it a question.
