An orc crashes through my awning. Then apologizes—with muffins and a handwritten poem about soup. I should’ve called the city. Instead, I hired him.
Now he’s shelving books too loud, cooking like he owns the kitchen, and looking at me like I’m something sacred. They say he’s too big. Too much. They’re not wrong.
Especially when he reads poetry and touches things he shouldn’t—like me. The city wants to shut it down. The council says it’s a conflict of interest. Fine. Let it be a conflict.
But I’m not giving up the orc who rebuilt my life… And broke my bed.
