He considers for a moment, that thoughtful expression that makes him look older than his years. "Because it's quiet. Because the river sounds better than settlement noise. Because..." He trails off, then grins. "Because the company's not terrible."
"Not terrible," I echo dryly. "Such high praise."
"The company is exceptional," he amends. "Exceptional and surprisingly tolerable of my excessive charm."
"Your excessive something," I mutter, but I'm fighting a smile.
"Charm," he insists. "Wit. Incredible conversational skills."
"Incredible ego."
"That too." He shifts slightly, angling toward me. "But seriously. It's nice. This." He gestures vaguely between us. "Talking without expectations. Just... existing."
The honesty catches me off guard. I don't know what to do with sincerity from someone who should want something from me, who should be angling for advantage or payment or access.
But Rakk never pushes. Never demands. Just shows up and talks and makes me laugh and then leaves when the night gets too late, respecting boundaries I didn't even have to articulate.
It's confusing. Disorienting. Makes me want things I have no business wanting.
"Yeah," I finally agree quietly. "It's nice."
The pattern deepensover the following weeks.
Rakk brings food sometimes—bread and cheese and dried meat from the mess hall that he claims he "happened to have extra of" even though we both know he's deliberately bringing it for me. I accept it without comment, eating while we talk about nothing and everything. He tells me stories about training mishaps, about Kaelen's ridiculous devotion to Lola, aboutgrowing up as the Chieftain's son with expectations he never asked for.
I tell him less. Can't quite open those doors fully, can't risk the vulnerability that comes with real honesty. But I offer small pieces—mentions of places I've been, vague references to life before the canyon, careful observations about settlement dynamics.
He never presses for more. Just accepts what I give and fills the silence with his own stories when mine run dry.
Sometimes we don't talk at all. Just sit together watching the water, existing in shared space that feels safer than it should.
And sometimes—increasingly often—there's physical contact.
Nothing dramatic. Nothing I didn't initiate. But small touches that accumulate into something more significant.
Like when he makes some ridiculous comment about his superior warrior instincts and I shove his shoulder in response. His skin is warm under my palm, muscles solid, and he rocks back with exaggerated injury.
"Violence," he declares. "Unprovoked assault against an innocent orc."
"Innocent," I scoff, but my hand is still pressed against his arm.
His eyes drop to where we're touching, something shifting in his expression. Not predatory—never predatory. Just... aware. Intensely, overwhelmingly aware.
I pull back quickly, heart hammering against my ribs.
"You know," he says after a moment, voice carefully light, "if you wanted to work on your upper body strength, I could help. Show you some training techniques."
"My arms are fine."
"Your arms are twigs." He flexes dramatically, making the muscles in his biceps bunch. "These are arms. Yours are... decorative."
"Decorative," I repeat flatly.
"Aesthetically pleasing but functionally limited."
I grab a pebble and throw it at him. He catches it easily, grinning.
"See? If you had proper arm strength, that might have actually hit me."
