But he's smiling, tucked in a circle of kids asking questions about what rhymes with "kneading" and whether he's written any poems about dragons.
I help clear plates, scraping leftovers into containers and stacking dishes for washing. The kitchen is wrecked, every surface covered in evidence of the meal. Tomorrow's problem. Tonight is for being present.
Tess finds me elbow-deep in soapy water. "You good?"
"Very good. Overwhelmed good."
"You should be. This is exactly what you imagined, isn't it? Community built around shared risk and stubborn hope."
"It's better than I imagined. I didn't know it could feel this solid."
She bumps my shoulder. "You and Stone did something important. Not just the bookstore or the program vote. You proved that visible, complicated love can exist in ordinary spaces. That means more than you realize."
"It still feels fragile sometimes."
"Everything good is fragile. That's why we keep building."
We finish the dishes in comfortable silence. Through the doorway, I watch people linger over coffee and conversation. No one's in a hurry to leave. The evening stretches, elastic and generous.
Around nine, Grandmother Kess asks to speak. Aunt Rene helps her stand, and the room quiets.
"I came tonight because my grandson asked me to. I did not expect to enjoy myself." Her human common is heavily accented but clear. "But I have laughed more tonight than I have in seasons. I have shared food with people who do not look like me or speak like me, and I have felt welcomed." She looks directly atme. "You have built something rare. A place where difference is celebrated, not tolerated. Hold it carefully."
My throat goes tight. "We will. I promise."
She nods, satisfied, and sits back down. Aunt Rene pats her hand and says something that makes both of them laugh.
The evening winds down slowly. Families with young kids leave first, children drowsy and overfed. The food bloggers depart with promises to post coverage. Mr. Harrington and his wife say formal goodbyes, and I notice him slip an envelope into the donation box by the register.
By ten, it's down to the core group. Me, Stone, Aunt Rene, Tess and Maya, Darius, and three orc elders who've decided they're staying to help clean.
"You don't have to do that," I protest when Kess starts wiping down tables.
"I want to. This is what you do for places that matter."
So we clean together, all of us moving through the space with the easy rhythm of people who've shared something meaningful. Stone washes while I dry. Darius sweeps while Thorn follows behind with a mop. Aunt Rene organizes leftovers into containers and labels them with permanent marker in her shaky handwriting.
The conversations are quiet now, gentle. Stone tells a story about his first attempt at baking bread, which ended with smoke alarms and a very angry landlord. Darius counters with a tale about trying to make human coffee using orc brewing techniques. The results were apparently weaponizable.
Maya asks Kess about textile patterns, genuinely curious, and gets a twenty-minute explanation about the symbolism of different weaving styles. Tess takes notes for future marketing materials.
We finish cleaning around eleven. The space looks better than it did before the dinner, everything in its place and smelling faintly of lemon cleaner and contentment.
"This was perfect," Aunt Rene announces, hugging me fiercely. "Your mother would be so proud."
"You always say that."
"Because it's always true."
The elders leave in a group, Kess pausing to squeeze Stone's arm and murmur something in orcish that makes him duck his head. Tess and Maya head out next, already planning the social media rollout for tomorrow.
Darius lingers in the doorway. "You two did good tonight. Really good."
"We had a lot of help," Stone says.
"You created space for that help to matter. That's leadership." He salutes casually. "See you tomorrow for the afternoon shift?"
"I'll be here."
