He mumbles into my hair. Low, guttural, a sound that rolls through consonants I don't recognize. Old orc. The language nobody taught him but his blood remembers anyway.
I exhale. Let my hand settle over his forearm. His skin runs hot, the way it always does, heat that radiates through the sheet between us. He pulls me tighter without waking up, his fingers curling against my ribs like he's checking I'm still here.
His arm tightens once more and then loosens, and his breathing shifts from deep sleep to the shallow pulls of a man surfacing. He stretches behind me, one long roll of muscle from shoulder to hip, and his lips find the back of my neck.
"Morning, trouble." His voice drags like gravel on pavement.
"Morning."
I slide out of bed before I can talk myself into staying. The floorboards creak under my bare feet and I fill the kettle and set two mugs on the counter while Rex finds his jeans on the floor and pulls them on without buttoning them. He pads into the kitchen scratching the back of his head, hair sticking up on one side, jaw unshaved.
I hand him the orc-shaped mug I found at the thrift store in Coos Bay, the one with the lopsided tusks and a handle where the arm should be. I bought it because it made me laugh. He drinks from it without comment, which makes me laugh harder. He leans against the counter and drinks from it like he's lived here for years. The morning light through the window catches the gold tusk caps and throws a coin-sized reflection onto the cabinet behind him.
He tells me about the scouts he's been watching while the coffee steams between us.
"Bloodstone scouts have been watching the town." He takes a sip. "Two SUVs rotating positions on Route 7. Telephoto lenses mounted in the back seats. They've been photographing the Anchor, Holly. The bar. Your building."
I set my mug down.
He takes another sip and his eyes stay on mine over the rim. "That's why I left. I thought if I put distance between us, they'd follow me instead of sitting outside your window. Knox told me I was an idiot." A breath. "He was right. I can't protect you from three hundred miles away. I can't protect you by not being here."
"So you came back."
"So I came back."
I set my mug on the counter and pull my laptop from the stack of contact sheets on the kitchen table. The email sits in mysent folder, timestamped two nights ago. Every photograph from Dale Rickman's rally outside Betty's Diner. Every face, every license plate, every printed sign with its block letters and its scrubbed-clean language.
"While you were gone, Humans First had a rally in the main street. I sent Knox the photos from the rally."
Rex's mug stops halfway to his mouth. He looks at me over the rim.
"He needed to know someone organized thirty people to march outside Betty's front door. I took the shots."
He sets the mug down.
"I need to get to the clubhouse." He pushes off the counter. "I need to get Knox to call Church. The scouts and now Rickman's group at the same time—two fronts."
"Go."
He crosses the kitchen. His hand catches the side of my face, thumb against my cheekbone, and he presses his lips to my forehead.
The rain clears by noon and the sun comes through hard and cold, February light that turns the harbor silver and puts shadows under every overhang on Main Street. I grab my camera bag and head out.
The harbor first. I shoot the fishing boats rocking at their moorings, the net floats piled on the dock, the gulls banking above the breakwater. Then the storefronts: Frank's barbershop with the faded pole, Morretti's with the chalkboard specials, the hardware store with its hand-lettered OPEN sign that's never been updated.
I'm building the show. The collection for the Anchor's walls. The camera gives me a frame and the frame gives me a reason to look at this town as the place I chose. Not Rex's town. Not the club's territory. Mine. The harbor I run past on mornings when my head gets loud. The storefronts where people know my name. The lighthouse in the distance with its rusted railing and its light that still works because someone climbs up there every few months and changes the bulb.
I move along the waterfront toward the community center and spot Dale Rickman before my lens does.
He stands outside the entrance tacking flyers to the corkboard. HUMANS FIRST COMMUNITY MEETING—WEDNESDAY 7PM. The fist logo centered above the text.
I raise the camera and start shooting.
Dale notices. His hand pauses on the thumbtack and his head turns, and he watches me through the viewfinder for two full seconds before he crosses the street.
Up close, his eyes sit deep under heavy brows and his smile is the kind you see on men who run HOA boards and report their neighbors' fence heights. His cologne reaches me before his voice does, cedar layered over antiseptic.
"Still taking pictures for your orc little friends?"
