Rornak

Rornak is absolutely going to make a fool of himself. Again.

Six months. Six months of coming here every morning, of practicing what he'll say in the mirror, of his friend Mara rolling her eyes and telling him to "just ask them already, you enormous disaster." Six months of buying the same roll and tea, of memorizing the way flour dusts across the baker's hands, of leaving tips so generous it probably seems suspicious.

His palms are sweating. The battered baking chapbook—three coppers at a stall, pages already falling out—feels like it weighs more than an anchor. One of Princess Paws' white hairs clings stubbornly to his vest and he can't brush it off now, not without drawing attention to how nervous he is, not without making it obvious that he stood in front of Mara's cracked mirror for twenty minutes trying to look presentable.

The bell above the door chimes as he enters. He ducks automatically even though he measured this doorway months ago and knows he's got three inches clearance.

"Morning," he manages. His voice comes out too soft. Gods, his voice always comes out too soft in here, like his body knows he's about to shatter into pieces and is trying to minimize the damage.

The familiar warmth of the bakery wraps around him—yeast and sugar and that particular smell of a place where someone cares about their craft. His chest does that stupid tide-water thing, all heavy and pulling, and he's thirty-four years old, he's killed men with his bare hands (don't think about that, don't, not here in this good place), and he cannot handle a simple conversation.

Just ask. You practiced this.

"I, um." The chapbook is crumpling in his grip. He forces his fingers to relax before he destroys it entirely. "I've been trying to learn. Baking. From this—" he holds up the book like evidence of a crime he's confessing to. "But I'm real bad at it. Everything comes out wrong, or burnt, or I think I'm measuring wrong because the pages are sort of falling apart and—"

He's rambling. He can feel the blush creeping up his neck, darkening his ears.

"I thought maybe you could teach me?" The words tumble out too fast. "I can pay! Whatever your normal rate is, or—or I'm good at moving heavy things, if you need supplies carried, or—I fixed the dock master's cart last week, I'm okay with repairs—"

Stop. Talking.

He sucks in a breath. The baker is looking at him, and he can't tell if that's pity in their expression or confusion or—gods—amusement. His tusks feel too big. His hands feel too rough. There's probably cat hair all over him and he's taking up too much space in this small, perfect bakery that smells like everything good in the world.

The truth sits in his throat like a stone. I just want to be near you. I just want a reason to stay longer than five minutes. I just want to know what it's like when you smile at me because you're happy to see me, not because I'm a customer.

But he can't say that. People like him don't get to say things like that.

"If you're too busy, that's—that's fine. I understand. I just thought I'd ask." He's already half-turning toward the door, ready to flee, ready to spend the rest of the day calling himself a coward while he unloads cargo and tries not to think about the way his chest aches.

This is, without question, the stupidest thing Rornak has ever done.

And he once charged a fortified position armed with nothing but a broken shield and misplaced confidence, so the bar is high.

The Harvest Moon Festival is in three days. Three days. He's known about it for six weeks—watched the enchanted autumn garlands go up in the Commons, heard merchants chattering about the floating lanterns and spiced cider, seen the Artificers' Guild testing their illuminated constructs that'll dance through the streets. Six weeks to plan this. Six weeks to work up his courage.

He's doing it the night before with a speech he's rewritten so many times the words have lost all meaning.

The flowers clutched in his left hand are from the market—late season blooms the vendor practically gave away because they're starting to wilt at the edges. He bought them anyway. Told himself it was the thought that counted. Now he's pretty sure they just look sad, drooping against his palm like they're already ashamed to be part of this disaster.

His right hand hovers near the door. Doesn't knock. Can't knock.

What if they're eating dinner? What if they're tired? What if they take one look at him standing here with his dying flowers and his desperate eyes and they feel obligated to say yes out of pity?

That's worse. That's so much worse than rejection.

A group of humans passes behind him on the street, their laughter echoing off the buildings. One of them glances his way and Rornak realizes he's been standing here long enough to look suspicious. Or unhinged. Probably both. A seven-foot orc loitering outside someone's door with flowers, having what's clearly a crisis—yeah, that's a good look. Very normal. Very not-terrifying.

Just knock. You practiced this. You know what you're going to say.

Except he's forgotten it. All of it. Every carefully crafted word has evaporated from his brain like morning mist off the bay, leaving behind only static and panic and the absolute certainty that he's about to ruin everything.

The thing is, he wants this. Gods, he wants this so badly it physically hurts—wants to walk through the festival with them, wants to see their face when the enchanted lanterns rise and paint the sky in copper and gold, wants to share honey cakes from the vendor stalls, wants one perfect evening where he gets to pretend he's the kind of person who deserves soft things. Just once. Just this once, maybe the universe could let him have something good before it remembers what he is and takes it away.

Mara's voice echoes in his head: "The worst they can say is no, you enormous disaster."

But that's not true. The worst they can say is yes out of kindness, and then he'll spend the whole festival knowing they didn't actually want to be there, watching them look for excuses to leave, seeing the exact moment they realize what a mistake they've made.

A cat yowls somewhere in the distance. Probably Princess Paws, wondering where he is. He should go back. This was a stupid idea. He can just... see them at the festival accidentally. Bump into them. Much more casual. Much less pathetic than showing up with discount flowers and a heart that's beating so hard he can feel it in his tusks.

But he's already here. And if he leaves now, he'll spend the next three days hating himself for being a coward. Again.

The flowers are definitely dying. One petal drops as he watches, spiraling down to land on his boot like a tiny white flag of surrender.

Right. Okay.

He takes a breath. Holds it. His knuckles are green-pale where they're wrapped too tight around the stems.

Just friends. No pressure. Keep it light. Give them an out. Don't be weird.

The door is wooden and solid and looks like every door in the Commons, but right now it feels like the most important door in all of Silverkeep. Behind it is either everything he wants or the confirmation that he's been fooling himself for months.

One more breath.

Rornak knocks.

The crate is heavier than it should be, which means someone packed it wrong, which means Rornak is going to have to repack the entire thing before it goes on the evening ship, which means his day just got longer.

He's not complaining. Longer days mean less time lying awake in Mara's back room, staring at the ceiling and trying not to think. Honest work. Tired muscles. It's good. It's fine.

The dock master is arguing with a merchant three berths down, voices carrying across the water. Gulls scream overhead, and Rornak is elbow-deep in straw packing when he hears it.

"Mrrrrp?"

He freezes.

No. No no no, he latched the workshop door, he checked—

"Mrrp!"

Rornak straightens just in time to see Butterscotch—because of course it's Butterscotch, the escape artist—trotting down the dock like she owns the place. Her patchy calico fur is fluffed up in that way that means she's on an adventure and extremely pleased with herself.

"Butterscotch," he hisses, abandoning the crate. "Butterscotch, get back here—"

She ignores him completely. Obviously. She's heading straight for someone near the cargo checkpoint, and Butterscotch has that look in her yellow eyes, that terrible determination that means she's decided this person is her new best friend.

Rornak moves as quickly as he can without actually running (because a seven-foot orc running at someone is terrifying), and his boot catches on a coil of rope. He stumbles, catches himself on a piling, and looks up just in time to see Butterscotch do her signature move: the full-body figure-eight around the stranger's legs, purring like a dock engine.

Traitor.

"I'm so sorry—" The words tumble out as he approaches, hands up. "She's not supposed to be out here, she's friendly, I'll just—"

Butterscotch has fully committed, flopping dramatically across their feet and exposing her belly in shameless glory.

"She, um." Rornak crouches down, reaching for the cat, very carefully not making eye contact. "She likes people. Too much. I'm really sorry, I'll get her out of your way—"

Butterscotch makes a sound like a rusty gate and rolls over, paws reaching up.

Rornak's ears are burning. His hands hover uselessly over the cat, who is now purring so loudly he can feel it in his teeth. Butterscotch reaches one paw up and bats gently at the stranger's leg, insistent.

"I swear she's not usually like this," Rornak lies.