She said she wants me. But I have no idea in what capacity.
But what if I rush her? What if I push for more than she's ready to give and she retreats back into the safety of distance? What if caring about her this much means I'll inevitably hurt her by wanting too much too fast?
The uncertainty is unfamiliar. Uncomfortable. I don't know how to ache.
But watching Ressa smile while touching the bracelet I made her, I'm definitely aching. Wanting more than I know how to ask for. Hoping I haven't already fucked this up beyond repair.
16
RESSA
Falla's watching me again.
I can feel his gaze tracking my movements as Drogath explains the Leprechaun Trail rules with his usual dramatic flair—something about trickster spirits and tests of joy and partnership resilience. The shaman's voice fades to background noise while I focus on the weight of Falla's attention, the way awareness prickles across my skin like heat from an open flame.
Last time we stood in these woods together, I'd been fighting memories of running, of fear, of Stonevein orcs hunting me through the trees. Now there's just Falla and the way his blue-green eyes carry warmth instead of threat, patience instead of predation.
I turn my head and catch him staring. He doesn't look away or pretend he wasn't, just holds my gaze with that steady intensity he wears like armor.
"Ready?" he asks, the single word carrying layers of meaning beyond the scavenger hunt.
Am I ready to walk through the woods where I used to only find terror? Ready to trust that nothing will hurt me here? Readyto believe that safety exists in partnership with an orc male instead of despite him?
"Yeah." The answer comes easier than expected. "I'm ready."
The trail begins at the forest edge where carved markers indicate the first checkpoint. Other couples scatter into the trees around us—Kai and Saela disappearing with practiced stealth, Ursik practically dragging Kerra forward with loud enthusiasm that defeats any concept of strategy.
Falla falls into step beside me, close enough I can feel his body heat but leaving space between us. Always giving me room to choose proximity instead of assuming permission.
The first marker bears a carved riddle in symbols I don't immediately recognize. Falla crouches to examine it, his long black hair falling forward over his shoulder.
"'Three leaves speak truth, one speaks lies,'" he reads, his brow furrowing. "'Follow the liar to find what you seek.'"
I scan the surrounding area and spot them immediately—four carved wooden shamrocks mounted on nearby trees, each pointing in different directions. Three bear traditional three-leaf designs while one has four leaves instead.
"The four-leaf one." I point to the northward marker. "That's the liar. Shamrocks only have three leaves."
Falla's mouth curves into something approaching a smile. "Smart."
"Practical." I move toward the indicated direction, warmth blooming in my chest at his praise. "There's a difference."
"Not much of one when you're right."
The path leads deeper into the forest where spring growth softens the winter-bare branches. Sunlight filters through new leaves in shifting patterns that would normally make me nervous—too many shadows, too many places for threats to hide.
But with Falla beside me, the shadows stay just shadows. Nothing more threatening than absence of light.
We find the second checkpoint near a small stream where a wooden box sits balanced on stones. A sign reads: "Open carefully—tricksters don't play fair."
Falla reaches for the latch then pauses, his healer-trained caution kicking in. "Carefully could mean anything."
"Could be trapped." I circle the box, examining it from multiple angles. "Or maybe that's the trick—making us overthink something simple."
"One way to find out."
He opens the latch with slow precision and the box springs wide, wooden frogs launching into the air on springs with enough force that I yelp and stumble backward. Falla catches my elbow automatically, steadying me while the frogs scatter across the ground in chaotic bouncing patterns.
For a moment I just stare at them. Then laughter bubbles up from somewhere deep in my chest—real, genuine amusement that feels foreign and perfect at the same time.
