Can't pin Maris down and make her listen. Can't wrestle the truth from the developer's assistant. Can't intimidate the kitten into coming home.
I'm useless.
Big hands that could snap bone or carry a grown man across the battlefield. Broad shoulders built for carrying weight, armor, weapons, burdens that would crush lesser beings. All the strength in the world, every ounce of muscle earned through blood and survival, and I have nowhere to put it except into scrubbing floors that don't need cleaning. Floors that were already clean yesterday. And the day before that.
I've worn a groove in the wood near the window where I pace.
The arena taught me to channel rage into action. Every blow had purpose. Every movement meant survival. Here, in this quiet room with its too-thin walls and too-gentle light, my strength is just dead weight. A tool with no task. A weapon with no enemy to strike.
I can't punch my way through loneliness.
Can't lift the silence off my chest.
A knock rattles the door. Sharp. Insistent. The kind of sound that demands attention rather than requests it.
I don't move. Whoever it is can leave. I'm not interested in pity or gossip or another well-meaning neighbor asking if I need help adjusting to human customs.
The knock comes again. Harder.
"Grath. Open the damn door."
I know that voice. Sharp, impatient, with an edge that suggests she'll kick the door down if I don't comply.
I open it.
A woman stands on the threshold. Human. Mid-twenties maybe, though I'm bad at guessing ages. Short dark hair, nose ring, leather jacket covered in pins and patches. She's holding a lute case in one hand and a paper bag in the other.
"You look like shit," she says.
"I don't know you."
"Renna. I perform at the café sometimes. Open mic nights." She pushes past me into the room without waiting for an invitation. "You're the orc everyone's gossiping about. The one who broke Maris's heart and lost the kitten."
My hands curl into fists. "I didn't break anything. She told me to leave."
"Because you let her." Renna sets the lute case down, tosses me the paper bag. It smells like cinnamon rolls. "Eat something. You're even more pathetic when you're hangry."
I don't eat. I just stare at her, trying to understand why she's here. What she wants.
"Maris is stubborn," Renna says. She drops onto the cleanest corner of my floor, cross-legged, like she owns the place. "She pushes people away when she's scared. It's what she does. But you're the big, brave hero. So stop moping and do something about it."
"She doesn't want me to do something. She wants space."
"She wants you to fight for her, idiot." Renna rolls her eyes. "Look, I don't know you. I don't particularly care about you. But Maris has been miserable for weeks, and I'm tired of watching her pretend everything's fine. So either step up or get out of the way."
The words hit harder than they should. They land like a fist to the chest, knocking the air from my lungs. Because she's right—completely, brutally right in a way that makes me feel stupid for not seeing it sooner.
I've been sitting here in this dim, cluttered room for days now, telling myself I'm doing the honorable thing. Respecting Maris's boundaries. Giving her the space she asked for, the distance she said she needed. Being careful. Being good. Not pushing where I wasn't wanted.
But that's not what she needs at all.
She doesn't need to be careful. She doesn't need distance or quiet or someone who takes her at her word when she's scared and lying to herself. She needs someone who won't let her hide behind those walls she builds so carefully, brick by stubborn brick. Someone who'll see through the lies she tells herself when things get too real, too frightening, too good to trust. Someone who'll stand next to her—solid and immovable as stone—and refuse to leave even when she digs in her heels and pushes with everything she has.
That's me. That's what I want to be.
I let out a slow breath. Then I sit down across from Renna, folding my legs beneath me. I reach for the paper bag she tossed at me, pull it open with careful fingers. The cinnamon roll inside is still warm, the sugar glaze sticky and sweet-smelling, steam rising faintly from the soft dough.
I look up at her. Meet her eyes.
