Progress.
Small progress, yes, but progress nonetheless.
"Thank you," she says carefully, like the words cost her something. She picks up the cup, inhales the steam, andsomething in her face softens. Just slightly. Just enough that I notice.
She takes a sip and her eyes close for just a heartbeat, maybe two.
That expression.
I have seen warriors savor their first drink after a hard-won battle. I have seen chieftains relax around victory fires. I have seen celebration and relief and the sweet surrender that comes after long struggle.
This is like that, but smaller. Quieter. More fragile.
And I want to see it again.
Want to be the one who puts that small moment of peace on her sharp face, who coaxes that tiny softness from behind all her armor and angles.
Want to learn what else makes her close her eyes like that, what else makes the tension drain from her shoulders even if only for a breath.
"You are very tense, Orla Peace," I observe, leaning against the cubicle wall. It creaks under my weight. "Like a bowstring pulled too tight."
"That's just my face."
"That is not a face. That is a warning sign."
She glares at me over the rim of her cup, but there's no real heat in it. More like habit. Like she glares because glaring is what she knows how to do.
"I am perfectly fine," she insists, her voice clipped and efficient, as though saying it firmly enough might make it true.
I tilt my head, studying her the way I would study an opponent before battle, looking for weaknesses, for tells, for the places where the armor doesn't quite fit. "You are the least fine person I have ever encountered in my entire life," I tell her honestly. "And I once met a berserker who fought for three daysstraight without sleeping and then tried to duel a tree because he thought it insulted his mother."
Her jaw tightens. "I'm functional."
"Yes," I agree, nodding slowly. "Things that are about to shatter into a thousand pieces are also functional. Right up until the exact moment they shatter." I gesture at her with one massive hand. "You are like a sword with a crack in the blade. Still sharp. Still dangerous. But one good strike and you will break completely."
She opens her mouth, probably to argue, she seems to enjoy arguing with me, I have noticed, but then closes it again. For a moment, just a moment, something flickers across her face. Something tired. Something that looks almost like acknowledgment.
Then it's gone, locked away behind her spreadsheet expression once more.
She sets down her cup with deliberate care, and I can see her gathering her professional armor around herself again, rebuilding the walls I almost breached.
"We need to finish your training," she announces, all business, all sharp edges restored. "You have a report due at the end of the week for the CEO."
"A report."
"Yes. A written summary of your first week observations and conflict resolution strategies."
I grunt. "I will write: Hit things less. Talk more. Humans are fragile and cannot be shaken vigorously even when they are being unreasonable." I pause, considering. "Also, the printer is cursed and should be thrown into a volcano, but apparently this violates the equipment warranty."
She peers at me for a long moment, her lips pressed into a thin line that suggests she is experiencing what she callsamigraineand what I callthe body's natural response to spending too much time in fluorescent lighting.
"That's not going to cut it," she says finally, her voice clipped and precise. Professional. The voice she uses when she is trying very hard not to murder someone with a stapler.
"It is honest," I point out reasonably. "You said I should be honest in my reports. Those were your exact words during orientation. I remember them because you said them seventeen times."
"It needs to be at least five pages," she continues, ignoring my perfectly valid point. "Double-spaced. With citations."
I blink at her. "Five pages of what? There are only so many ways to say humans are fragile and should not be dropped or exposed to direct sunlight or unexpected honesty."
