"They liked you very much," Faugh says simply, his massive hand settling against the small of my back. "Gralt told me you were good for me. The others asked when they could visit again."
"Everyone liked everyone. It was weird and wonderful and I want to do it again." I tilt my head back to look up at him. "Thank you. For everything. For this apartment, for tonight, for the clip, for just, for being you."
He reaches up to touch the golden claw clip, his fingers gentle. "You do not need to thank me for loving you, Chantel. It is the easiest thing I have ever done."
I feel tears prick at my eyes again, because this ridiculous, enormous, obsessively organized Orc somehow always knows exactly what to say to completely undo me.
"I'm going to get paint on all your nice furniture," I warn him, my voice thick with emotion, barely managing the words through the lump forming . "Like, genuinely, Faugh. The expensive stuff. There will be acrylic stains. Permanent ones, probably. I'm not exactly known for my careful application of protective coverings."
"I know," he says simply, his tone carrying absolute certainty, as though he has already calculated and accepted this particular variable into his life's equation.
"And I'm never going to remember to put my coffee cups in the dishwasher," I continue, my words tumbling out in that rapid, anxious way they do when I'm overwhelmed. "I'll leave them everywhere. On the nightstand, on the windowsill by my easel, probably balanced on top of some half-finished canvas. You're going to find them growing mysterious molds in corners of this apartment you didn't even know existed."
"I am aware," he replies with that infuriating calm, like he has already mentally prepared for this scenario and several others besides.
"And sometimes—like, okay, a lot of times—I'm going to have existential crises at two in the morning about my art," I add, my voice cracking slightly. "Full-blown, tear-stained, questioning-my-entire-existence kind of crises. The kind where I wake you up pacing and muttering and probably making no sense whatsoever."
"I will make you tea and listen to every single one." He leans down to press a kiss to my forehead. "You are chaotic and messyand brilliant, and I love every part of you. Even the parts that leave paint water in the refrigerator."
"That was one time!"
"It was three times."
I laugh, soft and content, and snuggle deeper into his side. Across the room, the remnants of our dinner party sit in cheerful disarray, physical proof of the life we are building together. A life that is loud and colorful and sometimes completely disorganized, but also warm and safe and full of people who love us.
I touch the golden clip in my hair one more time, feeling the etched runes under my fingertips.
Protection. Devotion. Forever.
Sometimes, I think, the best thing that can happen to a chaotic life is not finding someone who tries to control it or smooth out all the rough edges. It is finding someone who sees all that chaos, all that beautiful mess, and says, Here. Let me help you hold it together.
And then builds you something strong enough to do exactly that.
"I love you," I whisper into the quiet warmth of our living room.
"I love you too, Chantel," Faugh rumbles back. "Now please go to sleep before you convince yourself you need to start a new painting at midnight."
I grin against his chest.
He knows me so well.
