I freeze, my fingers still touching his, and our eyes lock. His pupils have dilated slightly, and there's an intensity in his gaze that I've never seen before, something raw and hungry that makes my breath catch.
The plate trembles slightly between us.
6
FAUGH
Irelease the plate immediately, stepping back with controlled precision while my chest continues to rumble with the tail end of that involuntary growl. The sound reverberates through my ribs, primitive and unwelcome, and I force myself to lock it down with the same iron discipline I have spent years cultivating. My hand flexes once at my side, still warm from where her smaller fingers brushed against mine, still tingling with the sensation of her skin against my calluses.
"I apologize." I clear my throat, straightening my spine and pulling my shoulders back into a more formal posture. "That was inappropriate. A primal slip. It will not happen again."
Chantel stands frozen in place, clutching the plate with both hands now, her eyes wide and her lips slightly parted. Her chest rises and falls rapidly beneath her oversized sweater, and I can see the faint flush spreading across her cheeks, turning her skin a delicate pink that makes something tighten dangerously in my gut. She opens her mouth, closes it, then opens it again, clearly struggling to formulate words.
"I..." She trails off, her voice breathy and unsteady. "That's... okay. It's fine. Totally fine. Super fine. I mean, not fine like itwas good or anything, just fine like it's not a problem, which is different from saying I enjoyed it or anything weird like that, because that would be... yeah."
She spirals into verbal chaos with the same careful attention I use when monitoring a potentially volatile situation. Her rambling indicates significant distress, though her body language suggests the distress is not fear-based. Her pupils have dilated. Her breathing remains elevated. The scent of lavender intensifies when she is flustered, and the studio now carries a concentrated cloud of it mixed with the sharp tang of acrylic paint and something warmer, something distinctly her.
"Eat your pastry, Chantel. You are stressed." I gesture toward the plate she is gripping with white-knuckled intensity, deliberately keeping my tone carefully neutral and my hands visible and steady at my sides, where they cannot betray the tension coiled through my shoulders. The pastry has begun to crack slightly under the pressure of her grip, flakes of golden-brown pastry dough threatening to scatter across the paint-stained hardwood floor of her studio. I keep my gaze fixed on the plate itself rather than on her face, knowing that if I allow my eyes to linger on the flushed curve of her cheekbones or the rapid rise and fall of her chest, my control will fracture further. My voice emerges low and measured, each word precisely enunciated, the deliberate formality of my speech a counterweight to the dangerous warmth spreading through my chest.
She blinks at me, then looks down at the pastry like she has forgotten it exists. "Right. Food. Because that's the normal thing to do right now, which is eat French pastries and pretend that didn't just happen." She takes an enormous bite, chewing aggressively while maintaining direct eye contact in what I recognize as a defensive power move.
I turn and walk out of her studio space, pulling the door closed behind me with meticulous care. Once in the hallway, I lean against the wall and press the heels of my palms against my closed eyes, breathing slowly through my nose.
Unacceptable. The entire situation, the way my control had shattered so completely, the way I had allowed myself to lose the carefully maintained composure that has defined my existence for the past decade, was completely, utterly unacceptable. I press my palms harder against my eyes, feeling the subtle tremor in my massive hands, a physical manifestation of the war being waged between the disciplined, methodical version of myself I have cultivated and something far more primal that threatens to consume it entirely. This is precisely the kind of weakness I cannot afford. Not here. Not with her.
I have shared living space with Chantel for precisely nine days, and already my carefully constructed control is developing structural cracks. The way she chews on her lower lip when she is concentrating on a painting makes me want to cross the room and replace her teeth with mine. When she walks around the apartment in those threadbare leggings and oversized shirts that slip off one shoulder, I have to actively redirect my thoughts toward mundane tasks like reorganizing the spice cabinet or calculating optimal cleaning schedules.
This is precisely why I have always maintained such strict professional boundaries throughout the entirety of my career, why I have cultivated a reputation as someone entirely unshakeable and dependable. This is precisely why I do not allow myself to become attached to anyone, to anything, to let my carefully guarded emotional distance erode. Attachment breeds complication. Attachment breeds the exact kind of weakness that currently courses through my veins like a toxin, threatening to undo every disciplined choice I have made in thepast decade. Attachment, I have learned through years of painful experience, is a liability I simply cannot afford to carry.
I push off the wall and return to the kitchen, methodically cleaning the counters I have already cleaned twice today, letting the familiar rhythm of the work settle my nervous system back into equilibrium.
Three days later,Chantel emerges from her bedroom wearing a vintage black dress that fits her curves in ways that make my jaw tighten involuntarily. She has attempted to wrangle her mass of chestnut hair into something approximating elegance, though several rebellious curls have already escaped to frame her face. She is wearing actual heels, which bring her height up to approximately five feet five inches, still absurdly small compared to my frame.
"Okay, so I know I look terrified, because I am terrified, but try to be supportive and not point out all the ways this is going to be a complete disaster." She wobbles slightly on the unfamiliar shoes, catching herself on the doorframe. "It's just a small showing at Gallery Luminosa downtown. Very casual. Probably like twelve people total, mostly friends of the owner. Nothing huge or stressful or anything that warrants this level of panic sweating."
I am already wearing my charcoal suit, the one I had custom tailored specifically because standard sizes do not account for an orc's shoulder width or arm length. The jacket strains slightly across my back when I move, but the overall effect is sharp and professional. I have braided my hair into a tight plait and trimmed my beard to precise lines.
"I will accompany you." I state it as fact rather than question, collecting my keys from the small ceramic dish Chantel madeduring what she described as her "pottery phase before I realized clay hates me personally."
"You don't have to do that." She fidgets with her small clutch purse, opening and closing the clasp repeatedly. "I mean, it's really nice that you want to, but it's not like I need a bodyguard or anything. It's an art gallery, not a biker bar. The most dangerous thing there will probably be the cheap white wine and Karen from my Tuesday painting class asking if I'm still doing 'that abstract nonsense' or if I've considered painting something people actually want to buy, like sunflowers or beaches or whatever."
"Security purposes." I open the apartment door, holding it while she passes through. Her scent hits me directly as she moves past, lavender and nervous anticipation and the faint chemical tang of the spray she used to set her hair. "Gallery events attract unpredictable crowds. Your safety is a valid concern."
"Faugh, literally nobody is going to start trouble at a small community art showing." She locks the door behind us, her hands shaking slightly as she turns the key. "The most dramatic thing that ever happens at these things is somebody's girlfriend crying in the bathroom because another artist got more attention, or maybe someone getting tipsy and trying to debate the societal implications of postmodern expressionism. Which, okay, that second one was me at the last event, but I was making valid points about the commodification of emotional labor in creative spaces, so."
I follow her down the stairs, automatically positioning myself one step behind and to her left, maintaining the protective formation I used during my years working security. "Nevertheless, I will attend."
She glances back at me, her expression softening slightly. "You really want to see my work, don't you? Like, you're not justdoing this because you think I'm going to get mugged between here and the gallery."
"I have observed your work in progress." I hold the building's exterior door open, scanning the street out of habit before allowing her to exit. "I am interested in seeing the completed pieces in a formal exhibition context. Your use of color theory is structurally sophisticated, and your compositional balance demonstrates advanced technical understanding despite your chaotic process."
Her face flushes pink, visible even in the dim evening light. "That's... actually really nice. Thank you. Most people just say my stuff is 'interesting' in that tone that means they think it looks like I threw paint at a canvas while having a seizure."
I follow her gaze back toward the street, where my truck sits waiting at the curb, gleaming with its usual meticulous care. The vehicle is immaculate, a testament to the same obsessive order I maintain everywhere else in my life. I gesture toward it with a deliberate sweep of my arm, my massive hand briefly silhouetted against the amber glow of the streetlamp.
"They lack the proper aesthetic education necessary to appreciate genuine artistic merit. Their opinions are, therefore, largely irrelevant. I will drive us. My truck is equipped with proper climate control, and the route to the gallery is direct. You will not need to worry about navigation or transportation logistics."
Gallery Luminosa occupiesa converted warehouse space in the arts district, all exposed brick and industrial lighting. The crowd inside is exactly as Chantel described: small, casual, predominantly dressed in variations of artistic black with statement jewelry. I have to duck significantly to enter through the doorway, and my presence immediately draws attention.Several conversations pause. Multiple sets of eyes track my movement across the space.
