I unlock the door, flip on lights. The shelves we built stand ready, empty and expectant. The coffee counter gleams. Stone's display kitchen waits behind glass, industrial and clean.
"Okay." I set down my first box. "Let's build a bookstore."
We work fast, practiced from the pop-up week. Books onto shelves organized by genre and theme. Stone's chapbook in the poetry corner, a small hand-painted sign crediting him as author. The fantasy section gets prime real estate by the window, because I'm done pretending I don't love dragons and impossible quests.
Tess arrives at eight with the publicity team, two college interns excited about "authentic cross-cultural retail experiences." They set up social media stations and start filming behind-the-scenes content.
Stone works in the kitchen, prepping for the first Orc Hour menu. I gaze at him through the glass partition, his movements efficient and sure as he chops vegetables and sets up his spice station. He catches me staring and grins, exaggerated and goofy.
My phone won't stop buzzing. Pre-orders for pickup, questions about parking, people asking if we're really opening today or if it's just social media hype. Tess handles most of it while I finish shelving and Maya hangs the last of the signage.
At nine-thirty, Darius arrives with a delegation from the orc enclave. Six artisans carrying their work: pottery, woven baskets, carved wooden puzzles, embroidered textiles in colors that hurt to look at they're so vivid. We set up a dedicated section near the register, each piece tagged with the maker's name and a brief story.
"This is incredible," I tell the weaver, an older orc woman named Moth who barely speaks human common. Darius translates while she explains the pattern represents water and memory.
"She wants to know if humans will understand," Darius says.
"They don't need to understand everything to appreciate beauty."
Moth smiles, tusks gleaming, and pats my hand with surprising gentleness.
Ten o'clock. Opening time.
I stand at the door with Stone beside me, watching the street outside. A line's formed, maybe twenty people waiting in the spring sunshine. I recognize faces from the pop-ups, the council hearing, random supporters who followed our story online.
"Ready?" Stone asks.
"No. But let's do it anyway."
I unlock the door, prop it open. "Welcome to Ellis Books and Brews. Come on in."
They flood inside with that specific energy of people genuinely excited to be somewhere. The first customer buys three poetry chapbooks and a set of ceramic mugs. The second wants information about Stone's cooking classes. The third is a reporter from the community paper asking for a quote.
Tess intercepts the reporter while I ring up sales and Stone starts the first Orc Hour service. He's making his grandmother's breakfast grain bowl, the one with roasted vegetables and spiced yogurt that smells like comfort and foreign kitchens both.
The morning blurs into controlled chaos. I sell books, answer questions, direct people to the craft section and the bathroom and the event calendar. Stone serves food to a steady stream of curious humans who've never tasted orc cuisine, his patient explanations turning every plate into a small cultural exchange.
At noon, the elementary school group arrives. Twenty third-graders with two frazzled teachers, here for the scheduled story hour and mural painting kickoff. We've cleared space along the back wall, set up tarps and paint stations, sketched out a design that the kids will fill in over the next month.
I read to them first, a picture book about a dragon who collects stories instead of gold. They sit cross-legged and wide-eyed, asking questions about whether dragons are real and if orcs ever met any.
Stone answers, sitting on the floor with them, spinning elaborate tales about his cousin who swears she saw a dragon once but it might have been a very large bird. The kids eat it up.
Then we paint. Chaos, beautiful and messy. Kids with brushes arguing over color choices, teachers trying to prevent paint warfare, parents taking photos of their children working alongside orc artisans who showed up specifically to help.
The mural takes shape slowly: a tree with branches reaching across the wall, each branch holding a different scene. Human city on one side, orc settlement on the other, and where they meet, figures of all sizes and shades sharing food and books and laughter.
A girl with paint in her hair tugs my sleeve. "Is that you and Mr. Stone?"
She points to two figures under the tree's center branches, one tall and green, one smaller with dark hair. The resemblance is unmistakable.
"Yeah. That's us."
"My mom says you're dating an orc. Is that weird?"
Her teacher starts to intervene but I wave her off. "Sometimes. But good things are often a little weird."
The girl considers this seriously, then nods and goes back to painting flowers along the bottom edge.
