He’s quiet for a beat. “Right. Professional.”
The silence stretches. I want to reach out, to tell him I’m sorry, that I can’t stop thinking about him, that I’ve never felt this safe, this wanted, this understood. But instead, I watch the numbers tick down—five, four, three—and say nothing.
When the doors open, Greg steps out first. He turns back just long enough to give me a small, sadsmile, his tusks glinting, softening what should’ve looked fierce into something heartbreakingly gentle.
“See you around, Sean.”
And then he’s gone.
Outside, the evening air hits cool against my face. I stand there, watching him walk away, my heart hammering like it’s trying to reboot.
What the hell am I doing?
I’ve always wanted love. Real love. Not the half-measures and hookups and almosts. And now that it’s right here—in the form of a beautiful soul who looks at me like I’m magic—I’m running from it.
Maybe I’m scared he’ll realize I’m not worth it. Maybe I’m scared he already has.
Either way, I’m standing here alone, watching the guy who could be my everything disappear into the night.
I take a deep breath, pull out my phone, and type out a message:
Sean: I miss you already.
I stare at it for a long time. Then delete it.
Not yet.
Maybe in the morning.
Or maybe I’ll just walk into the server room tomorrow and tell him in person.
Assuming I can still look him in the eye.
16
PERMISSIONS GRANTED
GREG
Friday night, after another day of playing polite at work, I stand outside Sean’s door, balancing bags and a box like some kind of geek-inspired domestic delivery service. My heart’s pounding harder than it ever did facing a final boss.
Okay, Greg. You’ve wrestled trolls, negotiated with middle managers, and rewired a router blindfolded—you can handle one adorable IT-disaster admin.Your mate.
Us orcs are known for our persistence, for working painstakingly—and patiently—to win our mate’s affection. It’s in our nature to build, to steady, to stay, even when that mate’s running scared. I just hope he’ll let me in.
I take a breath that feels way too dramatic for a hallway and knock.
The door opens a crack. Sean blinks at me, that blond swoop swooping a little harder than usual, shirt half-tucked. His beautiful blue eyes flick from bags to box. “Are you… starting a side hustle?”
“Kind of.” I hold up a bag like evidence. “Dinner delivery. Tech support. Minor repairs. Emotional persistence.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Greg.”
“Sean.” I smile, trying for confidence and landing somewhere around terrified golden retriever. “You don’t get to push me away. You’re stuck with me now. I know I’m not subtle or smooth, but I’m sure about this—about you. So, too bad. You’re mine now. Deal with it.”
There’s a pause long enough for my brain to start buffering. Then he sighs, leaning against the doorframe. “You don’t play fair.”
“Correct.”
