By breakfast, Tess calls with the damage report. Grant officials requesting a meeting to "reassess risk factors." Three donors pulling support from the bookstore's festival bid. Local news picking up the clip with breathless concern-troll headlines about safety and appropriate boundaries.
"Evan called me," Lacy says quietly, stirring her coffee without drinking, the spoon clinking against ceramic in a rhythm that sets my teeth on edge. "Offered to do damage control. Said if I issued a statement clarifying we're 'just colleagues in a professional capacity,' he could get his PR firm to bury this."
The jealousy hits swift and sharp, but beneath it runs something colder. Fear. Because part of me wonders if she should take that out, if I'm poison to everything she's built.
"You could," I manage. "Wouldn't blame you."
She looks up, eyes blazing. "Don't you dare. Don't you dare make that choice for me."
"I'm not. I'm just saying practical is practical. Your bookstore trumps my feelings."
"My bookstore exists because of people like you." She grabs my hand, her grip fierce despite the size difference, her pulse beating quick against my palm. "People who don't fit thecomfortable mold. If I cave now, I'm saying they were right to be afraid."
I want to believe her. Want to swallow that conviction whole and let it feed something stronger than the shame eating at my gut.
But the clip keeps spreading.
Darius shows up at noon with news from the enclave. Some of the younger orcs are talking about leaving the program entirely, scared the backlash will get worse. The elders are divided, half wanting to prove we're peaceful, half furious at having to prove anything at all.
"You started this," Darius says, not unkindly. "You and your human girl and your insistence we could just cook and recite poetry and they'd accept us. Maybe you were wrong."
"Maybe." I stand at the window, watching humans pass below, wondering how many have seen the clip, how many flinch when they spot an orc now. "But giving up means they win by default."
"So what's your play?"
The idea forms slowly, bits and pieces clicking together like a recipe I'm assembling from sense memory rather than written instruction. "We show them the truth. Not edited, not spun. Just us."
"How?"
"I'm still figuring that part out."
Lacy closes the bookstore early that afternoon, claims a family emergency when customers ask. Really she's in the back office with Tess, running numbers that don't add up anymore, watching support crumble in real time.
I wander the shelves, touching spines, remembering the first day I crashed through that awning like a disaster with good intentions. The pulp fantasy she loves sits front and center still,the one with the ridiculous orc warrior romance that made her laugh when I picked it up with clumsy reverence.
Books everywhere. Stories about belonging and bridges and love conquering comfortable prejudice.
Words matter. Stories matter.
The idea solidifies.
I find Lacy hunched over spreadsheets, her shoulders tight with stress, Tess rubbing her back in useless comfort. "I need to borrow the store for one night."
She looks up, confused. "What?"
"Trust me. Just one night. I'll handle everything."
"Stone, we can't afford another publicity disaster right now."
"This won't be a disaster." I crouch beside her chair, taking her hands, feeling how cold her fingers have gone with anxiety. "This will be the truth. Our story. Orc and human together, exactly like it is, no edits, no spin. Just real."
Tess frowns. "What are you planning?"
"A reading. A gathering. Food and poetry and people actually talking instead of shouting past each other."
"That's incredibly naive," Tess says.
"Probably." I squeeze Lacy's hands. "But naive got me here. Naive got me you. Might as well lean into it."
