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“Then the longest one with people in it.”

“You’re getting a romance about a duke. It’s six hundred pages, and that’s as much as I’m willing to commit to on a Friday.”

“Six hundred.” He thinks it over. “I accept the duke.”

I bring it to the far table and sit down across from him, and a few pages in, he starts to hum.

I don’t think he knows he’s doing it. It’s so low that I feel it in the table before I hear it, and the green glass on the lamp between us gives a small steady ring. The information on the orcs explains that some orcs have voices that humans react to, or they hum. Elsie says Korrag’s hum comes up through her floorboards. Yorrel’s goes into the glass.

A hot ache builds low in my belly. By page thirty, I’ve crossed my legs twice, and it hasn’t helped. I don’t mention the humming, because he might stop, and I don’t want him to.

On page forty, he stops me.

“This duke has told her three times that he does not want a wife. In my hall, a man who says the same thing three times gets something thrown at him.”

“She’s going to throw something on page two hundred.”

“Two hundred,” he repeats. “There is an orc from the Stormbreak clan next to mine. He listened to three hundred of these books before he was matched. He told me before I left home that the dukes were not to be respected, and I did not believe him. Now I see why he said that.”

I laugh, and he looks so pleased with himself that I want to kiss him. I read another chapter instead.

On Saturday, I read him more of the duke story and an hour later decide he needs to learn how to do this for himself. I take him to the alphabet rug. He sits on the floor at the edge of it, and I take one of the little chairs, which makes me taller than him. I enjoy that more than I should.

“We’ll start at the beginning with A,” I tell him.

“Start with the ones in your name.”

“That’s not how it’s usually done.”

“It is how I will learn it.”

So I point out the P. He traces it on the rug, and I make him do it four times. He watches my mouth every time I say the sound. I watch his hands and think about where those fingers were yesterday, and I have to cross my legs to stop myself from rubbing my thighs together.

When I’m satisfied he has the P down, I show him the letter A.

“Now the rest of your name,” he says.

“Two letters is enough for one day. I’ll give you the rest on Tuesday.”

“What is today?”

“Saturday.”

His ears go down. That one I’m learning means something got to him. “That is two days.”

“You’re a big boy. You’ll live.”

“I will have the P perfect by Tuesday. About the A, I make no promises.”

I laugh, and then I have to go find something to do at my desk, because I’m tempted to push him down onto the rug and reward him in a very not-safe-for-work way.

I spend Sunday and Monday writing the petition. I keep looking at the clock and wondering what he’s doing. By Sunday afternoon I miss him, which is ridiculous. I’ve known him three days.

On Tuesday, he’s waiting on the steps at a quarter to ten.

“P,” he says before I have my keys out. He draws it in the air. “It is perfect. I practiced for two days.”

“And the A?”