Page 71 of Brotan

I raise a hand in greeting. Helen spots me and waves back, nudging Hammer, who acknowledges me with a solemn nod. The unlikely pair continues down the sidewalk, Helen occasionally laughing at something Hammer says. I've suspected something brewing there since his last visit, when Helen just "happened" to bring dinner to the clubhouse three nights running.

"Well, that's happening," Crow's voice comes from behind me, making me jump slightly.

"You think?" I twist to look up at him.

"I know." He drops onto the bench beside me, thigh pressed against mine. "Hammer doesn't make special trips just to 'check on things.' Not when he's got video calls."

"Helen's been alone a long time," I muse. "And I've never seen her sparkle like that."

"She deserves someone who sees her," Crow says simply, and my heart squeezes at how far he's come—from the orc who could barely acknowledge human emotions to this man who recognizes them without judgment. There are still nights when I find him on the porch, silent and brooding, demons from his past refusing to stay buried. But those nights grow fewer with each passing month.

"My mother called yesterday," I say, changing the subject. "They're coming for a visit next month."

Crow stiffens beside me. "Both of them?"

"Yes. Dad claims it's to see the clinic improvements, but I think they're finally ready to accept this is permanent." I turn to study his profile. "They've started to understand what we're building here. Mom even asked about volunteering at the community health fair." "You okay with that?"

"They still look at me like I might eat their daughter for dinner." His voice drops to that dangerous register that still sends shivers down my spine. "Which isn't entirely inaccurate."

"Crow!" I swat his arm, heat rising to my cheeks.

"At least they're calling me by name now," he continues, satisfaction evident in his tone. "Not 'that green person' or 'Maya's... friend.'"

Progress comes in small increments with my parents. From outright hostility to reluctant acknowledgment. From refusing to speak Crow's name to using it, however stiffly. Most importantly, they've stopped trying to lure me back to New York with promises of prestigious positions and luxury apartments.

"They're trying," I say. "That's something."

Crow stands, offering his hand. "Ready to go? I've got dinner waiting at home."

Home. The word still catches me sometimes—the stunning reality that home is now a renovated cabin at the edge of town where my medical journals share shelf space with his leather-working tools. Where my delicate china teacups sit beside his heavy stoneware mugs. Where the scent of leather mingles with vanilla and the faint piney incense he burns when nightmares wake him. Where we've created something neither of us thought possible.

I take his hand, allowing him to pull me to my feet. "What's for dinner?"

"Surprise." He guides me toward his bike, parked at the curb. "But it's not salad."

"Thank God."

The ride home takes less than ten minutes, but I savor every second—arms wrapped around his waist, cheek pressed against his back, the familiar rumble of the engine beneath us. When we pull up to the cabin, something in Crow's posture has changed. Tension. Anticipation.

"Everything okay?" I ask as we dismount.

Instead of answering, he pulls me against him, his mouth finding mine with hungry intent. Whatever dinner plans existed moments ago are clearly forgotten as his hands slide to my hips, lifting me with embarrassing ease.

"Nothing's wrong," he says when we break apart, both breathless. "Just needed that."

"And dinner?" I ask, fingers already working at his belt.

"Can wait." He kicks the door open, carrying me inside. "Had something else in mind first."

Inside, he sets me down long enough to lock the door before backing me against it. His lips travel down my neck, drawing a gasp from me that would have embarrassed me six months ago. Now, I simply enjoy his response—the low growl that rumbles through his chest into mine.

"Six months," he murmurs against my collarbone. "Still can't believe you're here."

I thread my fingers through his hair, pulling gently so he'll look at me. "Where else would I be?"

His eyes, amber fire in the dimness, search mine. "Anywhere. Everywhere. You could have had any life you wanted."

"I have exactly the life I want." I trace the edge of his tusk with my thumb, a gesture that always makes his pupils dilate. "Right here. With you."

---