22. Claire

22

CLAIRE

T he moonlight casts a silver glow over the snow-blanketed settlement. Inside my modest home, the wooden ceiling stares back at me, its grainy patterns a canvas for my restless thoughts. The kiss—our kiss—plays on a loop in my mind. It's a secret reel of warmth and longing that sets my heart aflutter. Thrag's lips, firm yet yielding, were a stark contrast to his gruff exterior. It was a rare moment of vulnerability, a fleeting connection that seemed to transcend our disparate worlds.

I sit up, the blanket pooling around my waist, and let out a frustrated groan. "Why can't I stop thinking about this?" I whisper to the empty room. The memory of our kiss is intoxicating. It's a sweet poison that clouds my judgement and ignites a fire within me.

My gaze drifts to the door. Thrag insisted on sleeping outside, despite the biting cold. His silhouette is a dark sentinel against the frosted window, evidence of his stubbornness and his self-imposed solitude. A pang of guilt twists in my gut. "Why is he out there when it’s freezing?" I murmur, knowing full well that his orcish constitution is more resilient to the cold than my own.

Wrapping a thick blanket around my shoulders, I push the door open and step into the chill of the night. The crisp air stings my lungs, and the snow crunches beneath my boots as I approach him. He looks up, his amber eyes reflecting the moon's ethereal light, surprise etched on his face.

"Why are you out here?" he asks. His voice rumbles through the stillness, a low thrum that resonates in my bones.

I hold out the blanket, my hands trembling slightly, whether from the cold or nerves, I can't tell. "You’ll freeze out here," I say, even though I know it's not entirely true.

He snorts softly, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Orcs don’t freeze," he retorts, but there's a softness in his eyes that wasn't there before. "Keep it."

I sit beside him anyway, the cold seeping through the fabric of my trousers, and pull the blanket tighter around us both. We sit in silence, the world around us reduced to the soft whisper of the wind and the distant, mournful call of a night bird.

Gathering my courage, I break the silence. "About that kiss..." I begin, my voice barely above a whisper. I chance a glance at him, and see his body tense, his gaze fixed on the horizon where the dark outlines of the trees meet the star-studded sky.

"It was nothing," he says brusquely, his tone guarded. The words sting, but I force myself to maintain a steady facade, to not let my disappointment show.

"Right," I murmur, looking down at my hands. "I should’ve known that." The ache in my chest intensifies, a physical reminder of the distance between us—a chasm that seems impossible to bridge.

In a sudden move, I stand up, the need to put distance between us overwhelming. "I'm going back inside," I say, my voice sounding hollow to my own ears. "You should come in too, Thrag."

He shakes his head, a dismissive gesture that speaks volumes. "I'm fine out here, Claire. Go get some rest," he insists.

I nod, even though he's not looking at me, and turn to leave. As I reach the door, I can't help but glance back at him. My heart yearns for something I can't quite articulate—a connection, a shared warmth that extends beyond the physical confines of a kiss.

But as I close the door behind me, I resign myself to the reality of our situation. He's an orc, a warrior who has known loss and suffering beyond my comprehension. And I'm just a human teacher, clinging to hope in a world that seems determined to snuff it out.

"He doesn’t see me that way," I tell myself as I crawl back into bed, the warmth of the blankets a poor substitute for the heat that Thrag's presence ignites within me. "I need to stop hoping for something more."

With those words, I close my eyes, willing sleep to claim me, to provide a temporary respite from the turmoil of my thoughts. But as the night deepens, it's not the oblivion of sleep that greets me, but the all-too-vivid memory of Thrag's lips on mine—a bittersweet reminder of what can never be.

The clatter of footsteps outside my window pulls me from my restless sleep. Rubbing my eyes, I shuffle to the door, my bare feet cold against the wooden floor. The morning air hits my face as I step outside, and I blink against the bright winter sunlight.

My heart skips when I see Thrag standing there, a small burlap sack in his massive hands. The sight of him makes my chest tighten, memories of last night's kiss flooding back again.

"What's this?" I ask, my voice coming out softer than intended. The cold bites at my exposed skin, but I barely notice.

Thrag shifts his weight, his amber eyes avoiding mine. "Asked that old woman. Made her a trade," he says. He holds out the sack, and I recognize the familiar dusty smell of flour.

My fingers brush against his as I take it, sending sparks through my entire body. "You did that... for me?" I ask. The words come out barely above a whisper.

He looks away, his jaw tight. "You wanted it, didn't you?" he replies.

I clutch the sack to my chest, feeling the steady thump of my heart against it. The flour is still warm from being carried in his hands. I watch as he turns and walks away, his broad shoulders cutting through the morning mist like a ship through waves.

"How can I not fall for him when he's like this?" I whisper to myself, my fingers tracing the rough texture of the burlap. My heart races, and I force myself to take deep breaths. But it's no use - the simple gesture of him trading for flour has undone all my careful restraint.