CHAPTER 1
LIVIA
I'm sitting in the corner booth ofThe Velvet Standard, swirling the last traces of a fourteen-dollar martini around a glass that's shaped like something an interior designer convinced themselves wasmid-century modern minimalistbut really just looks like a geometric anxiety attack. The overhead lighting is doing that specific dimmed Edison-bulb thing that every single trendy bar in this city seems contractually obligated to install, which means I can barely read the nutritional information on the complimentary olive plate but somehow still see every single one of my own pores reflected in the polished copper table trim.
I check my phone again. 7:47 PM. He's seventeen minutes late, which is statistically within the acceptable deviation range for first dates in a metropolitan area with unpredictable public transit, but I've already mentally categorized this entire evening under "sunk costs" and started composing my polite exit strategy text. The makeup alone was a forty-minute investment I'm never getting back, and I specifically wore my good bra, the one without the stabby underwire that migrates into my armpit halfway through the workday. I deserve a refund from the universe for that level of optimism.
I pull up his profile again on my phone, squinting at the slightly pixelated photos through the smudged screen protector I keep meaning to replace.Narod, 31, Actuary. Interests: Risk assessment models, historical architecture podcasts, indoor rock climbing.The photos show a broad-shouldered guy with a warm smile, wire-rimmed glasses, and skin that registers somewhere in my brain as a distinctly greenish tint, which I'd assumed was either a highly specific Instagram filter or some kind of deeply committed cosplay aesthetic. Maybe he's really into fantasy LARPing. Maybe he's a hardcoreWickedfan. Maybe he just has an extremely niche skincare routine involving algae masks and has fully leaned into it as a personal brand.
Honestly, at this point in my dating career, a guy with an unconventional hobby would be refreshing. My last three dates were with men who described themselves asentrepreneursbut actually sold protein powder through Instagram DMs,creativeswho expected me to subsidize their SoundCloud careers, and one particularly memorable financial analyst who spent forty-five minutes explaining his cryptocurrency portfolio before asking if I wanted todisrupt traditional relationship modelsby having an open arrangement where he could still see his ex-girlfriend on Thursdays.
I take another sip of overpriced gin. The olive is aggressively brined and leaves a sharp, salty coating on my tongue that I'm pretty sure is supposed to read assophisticatedbut mostly just tastes like regret. Around me, the bar hums with the low, self-satisfied murmur of people on successful dates, the kind where both parties are leaning in and laughing at things that probably aren't that funny but sound good when you're attracted to someone. There's a couple two booths down doing that thing where they're pretending to share appetizers but really just feeding each other, and I feel a sharp, reflexive stab of cynicism mixed with something uncomfortably close to loneliness.
I'm running the mental calculation on whether it's more dignified to wait the full thirty-minute grace period or cut my losses at twenty-five when the ambient noise in the room just... stops.
Not gradually. Not the natural lull in conversation that happens when a song changes or someone drops a glass. This is immediate and total, like someone reached over and turned the volume knob on the entire universe down to zero. I glance up from my phone, confused, and follow the collective line of every single head in the bar as they turn toward the entrance.
The heavy wooden door swings open, the kind with the ornate brass handle that weighs about fifteen pounds and makes a deeply satisfyingthunkwhen it closes. A figure ducks through the doorway, and I do meanducks, because the doorframe only barely clears the crown of his head. He straightens up inside the bar, and the overhead lighting catches on the lenses of his wire-rimmed glasses and the smooth, pale sage-green planes of his face.
Oh.
Oh.
Not a filter. Not cosplay. Not an avant-garde skincare routine.
The man walking directly toward my booth, shoulders hunched in a way that looks physically uncomfortable for someone his size, wearing a button-down shirt stretched so tightly across his chest that I can see the faint outline of the undershirt beneath it and an argyle sweater vest that would look adorably dorky on anyone else but on him looks like something a very polite tank tried to wear to a PTA meeting, is an actual Orc.
A real, literal, unmistakable Orc, complete with tusks that curve gently upward from his lower jaw, meticulously polished to rounded points, and hands so large that when he nervously adjusts his glasses, his fingers completely obscure the frames.His skin isn't just green in an artistic, whimsical way. It's a smooth, matte jade-green that looks entirely organic, and his eyes, deep-set beneath a heavy brow, are the warmest, softest amber I've ever seen, currently scanning the room with profound and visible anxiety.
He spots me. Our eyes meet. I watch, frozen, as his mouth opens slightly, his tusks catching the light, and he takes a careful, deliberate breath before walking directly toward me with the kind of precise, controlled movements of someone who is hyperaware of exactly how much space his body occupies and is trying desperately not to knock anything over.
My brain is doing backflips. Somewhere in the distant background of my consciousness, my internal spreadsheet of expectations is lighting up with error messages, recalculating every single assumption I made about this date in rapid succession. I'm vaguely aware that my mouth is slightly open, that I've stopped mid-sip with my martini glass hovering in front of my face like I'm trying to hide behind it, and that I should probably say something or do something or at leastblink, but my entire cognitive process has temporarily blue-screened.
He stops at my booth. Up close, he's even more massive than I initially registered. His shoulders are so broad that he's blocking out a significant portion of the ambient light, and I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes, which are currently fixed on me with a mixture of hope, terror, and something that looks like he's bracing for me to scream or throw my drink in his face.
"Livia?" His voice is deep, resonant, and slightly hesitant, like he's tested my name several times in private and is now deeply worried he's mispronounced it. There's the faintest trace of an accent I can't quite place, something that turns the vowels slightly rounder and more deliberate. "I am... I apologize for my tardiness. The train experienced unexpected delays, and I did not wish to arrive in a state of perspiration, so I took an alternateroute that added an additional twelve minutes to my estimated travel time. I should have sent a message. I am very sorry."
I blink. Lower my martini glass. Push my glasses up my nose in a reflexive gesture that buys me exactly two seconds to process the fact that this enormous, intimidating Orc is apologizing to me with the earnest formality of someone who has rehearsed this exact speech multiple times and is still worried he's getting it wrong.
"No, it's... it's fine. Totally fine." My voice comes out slightly higher than normal, and I clear my throat, trying to inject some semblance of composure into the situation. "Trains are a nightmare this time of day. Completely understandable."
He visibly relaxes, his shoulders dropping a fraction of an inch, though he still looks like he's holding his breath. He gestures toward the opposite side of the booth with one massive hand, his fingers thick and blunt and careful. "May I sit?"
"Yes. Of course. Please." I'm nodding too enthusiastically, and I force myself to stop and take a deliberate sip of my martini to give my hands something to do other than fidget with the napkin I've apparently shredded into confetti without realizing it.
He slides into the booth with a precision that suggests he's done complex spatial calculations to avoid knocking over the table, the candle, or my drink. The bench creaks slightly under his weight, and he folds his hands on the table in front of him, fingers interlaced, his posture ramrod straight in a way that looks like he's sitting for a performance review. His knees don't fit comfortably under the table, so he angles them slightly to the side, and I catch the faint scent of peppermint and something earthy and warm that I can't quite identify but that makes my hindbrain sit up and pay attention in a way I wasn't prepared for.
"I hope the venue is acceptable," he says carefully, his eyes flicking around the bar before returning to my face with anintensity that makes my pulse kick up for reasons I'm not ready to examine. "I researched establishments with favorable reviews for first meetings and optimal noise levels for conversation. I also confirmed they have a drink menu with non-alcoholic options in case you do not consume alcohol, though I see you have already ordered, so that particular contingency was unnecessary."
I stare at him. He researched noise levels. He planned contingencies. He showed up seventeen minutes late and apologized with the precision of someone drafting a formal memo.
"This place is great," I hear myself say, and I mean it. "And for the record, you're the first person all year who actually asked about drink preferences before picking a place. That's... that's really thoughtful."
His eyes widen slightly behind his glasses, and the tiniest hint of a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, just enough to make his tusks shift. "Oh. Good. That is... I am very glad."
CHAPTER 2
NAROD
