Page 14

Maya

Six months and enough stitches to circle Shadow Ridge twice—that's what it took to rebuild our lives after New York.

Spring has finally taken hold, softening the edges of a town that's been hard for too long. From the clinic's front porch, I watch residents move with purpose rather than the defeated shuffle of the past. The construction equipment that dominated the town square for months has given way to newly paved sidewalks and repaired storefronts. Hanging baskets overflow with flowers Helen insisted would "bring the life back."

She wasn't wrong.

The clinic itself has risen like some modern phoenix from the ashes of the old. Where once stood the burned-out remains of a dated clinic now stands a proper medical facility. The Ironborn didn't just rebuild—they reimagined. Solar panels capture Georgia sunshine, powering equipment I couldn't have dreamed of six months ago. The small emergency center in the back, Crow's idea has already saved two lives this month alone. And with each passing week, more patients fill our waiting room, trust growing as steadily as the town itself.

"Package for you, Doc." Mandy enters carrying a large box marked with surgical supply labels. The nineteen-year-old has blossomed since I hired her part-time, her natural caretaking instincts making her a perfect candidate for the nursing program I'm helping her apply to.

"Put it with the others in the storage room," I tell her. "And then head out. You've got that chemistry test tomorrow."

She grins, a flash of braces catching the light. "You're worse than my mother."

"Your mother isn't paying half your tuition."

"True." She disappears with the box, her footsteps echoing through halls that no longer creak with every step.

My phone buzzes with a text from Crow: Finishing up. Want me to bring dinner?

Three simple lines that contain so much. Six months ago, he would never have thought to text or offered such casual domesticity. Now, it's become our routine, as natural as the way my heart quickens when I see his name on my screen.

I reply: Yes. Starving. Just don't bring another one of your "healthy" experiments.

His answer comes seconds later: That salad was perfectly edible.

If you're a rabbit. You're decidedly not.

I can practically hear his growl of amusement. The clinic door opens again, and I look up, expecting Mandy, but it's Ash who fills the entrance. His scarred face rarely shows emotion, but there's an intensity to his movements today that draws my attention.

"Got a minute, Doc?" he asks, his gaze already scanning the waiting room—a habit I've noticed in all the Ironborn. Always assessing, always vigilant.

"For you? Several." I gesture toward my office. "Everything alright?"

He follows me, moving with surprising grace for someone his size. When Vargan returned to Shadow Ridge three months ago, Ash started appearing more frequently, too. Officially, he's here to manage club business while Vargan gets settled. Unofficially, I suspect he's developed an attachment to our little town that runs deeper than duty.

My office door closes with a soft click. Ash remains standing, broad shoulders squared like he's facing a tribunal instead of a five-foot-five doctor in a white coat.

"Got a situation." He reaches into his cut, pulling out a thick envelope. "Need your help."

I take the envelope, curiosity piqued. Inside are loan applications, grant proposals, and legal documents—all meticulously prepared and awaiting signatures.

"This is for the after-school program at the rec center," I say, scanning the papers. "Crow mentioned you were working on funding, but this is..."

"Comprehensive." He shifts his weight, almost appearing uncomfortable with the praise. "Town needs it. Kids need it."

Over the past months, I've watched Ash use his encyclopedic knowledge of legal systems and bureaucracy to help residents reclaim what Victor stole. What started as occasional assistance has evolved into a one-orc mission to restore Shadow Ridge's economic pulse.

"You're impressive, you know that?" I say, setting the papers on my desk. "These will definitely get approved."

A ghost of a smile touches his lips before vanishing. "Need a medical professional's signature on page twelve. Professional assessment of community health impact."

"Happy to help." I reach for a pen, but pause, studying him more carefully. The shadows under his eyes speak of sleepless nights, and there's a tightness to his posture that screams exhaustion. "Are you sleeping at all?"

"Sleep's overrated."

"As your doctor, I'm legally obligated to tell you that's complete bullshit."

This time his smile lingers a moment longer. "Crow warned me you don't pull punches."

"Speaking of Crow..." I lean back in my chair, pen twirling between my fingers. "He thinks you're fine, but I think you're sad. Which one of us is right?"

Ash goes perfectly motionless, only his eyes betraying surprise at my directness.

"Crow's right," he says finally. "I'm fine."

"You're lying."

"And you're nosy." There's no heat in the words. "Sign the papers, Doc. Save the psychoanalysis for someone who needs it."

I sign where indicated, but can't help adding, "Everyone needs someone who sees them clearly, Ash. Even orcs with thick walls."

He takes the papers, tucking them carefully back into his jacket. "Some walls exist for a reason."

"And some exist because they're easier than the alternative."

His eyes, sharper than Crow's, more calculating, assess me with new interest. "No wonder you've got him wrapped around your finger. You see too much."

"Not wrapped around my finger. Standing beside me," I correct. "There's a difference."

"Is there?" Something flickers in his expression—so brief I nearly miss it. Not sadness exactly. Longing, maybe.

Before I can respond, he's moving toward the door. "Thanks for the signature. And the unsolicited advice."

"Anytime." I mean it more sincerely than he probably realizes.

After Ash leaves, I finish my patient notes, check supplies, and lock up for the day. The late afternoon sun casts long shadows across Main Street as I walk toward the town's newest addition, the Shadow Ridge Recreation Center.

The building that once housed Victor's offices has been transformed. The pretentious columns and ostentatious landscaping have given way to practical facilities designed for a town rebuilding itself. Through the large windows, I see local kids learning basic wrestling moves on padded mats. Leading them, his massive green form somehow gentle despite its power, is Crow.

I pause outside, watching him demonstrate a defensive stance to a boy no older than twelve. The child mimics his posture, face screwed up in concentration. Crow adjusts the boy's stance with careful hands, then nods approval. The smile that breaks across the kid's face could power the entire town.

Three teenagers spar nearby under Diesel's watchful eye. In the corner, an elderly woman practices slow, deliberate movements that look like tai chi. The rec center, like everything the Ironborn touch in Shadow Ridge, serves multiple purposes—physical training, community gathering space, safe haven.

Near the water fountain, I spot a familiar face—the boy with the stray dog Crow and I rescued months ago. Tommy, I remember, with that same solemn expression, but healthier color in his cheeks now. The dog, whose burned paws I'd treated until they healed, sits patiently beside Tommy's mother, his coat glossy where it had once been matted and dull. The animal's eyes follow Crow's movements with unmistakable devotion, much like its young owner.

When Crow first proposed turning his makeshift gym into a full community center, I'd worried he was pushing himself too hard, too soon after his injuries. But watching him now, focused, purposeful, occasionally even smiling, I understand this is his healing as much as time and rest were.

He looks up, amber eyes finding mine through the window with that uncanny awareness he's always possessed. A subtle shift in his expression—softening around the eyes, the faintest quirk of lips—signals recognition that to anyone else would be invisible. But I've learned to read him like he's learned to read me.

He says something to the kids, who immediately scramble to continue practicing in pairs. Then he makes his way outside to where I wait.

"Spying on me, Doc?" he asks, crossing his arms over his chest in mock disapproval.

"Admiring my handiwork." I gesture to the barely visible scar on his shoulder, where one of Quinn's bullets tore through muscle and tissue. "Looking pretty good, if I do say so myself."

"The scar or the orc?"

"Both." I allow myself a moment of open appreciation, just to watch his pupils dilate in response. "Especially the orc."

"Tommy's looking stronger," I comment, nodding toward the boy inside.

"Kid's got a good right hook for a human," Crow says, pride evident beneath the gruffness. "Dog follows him everywhere now."

"Like owner, like pet." I bump my shoulder against his arm. "Both loyal to a fault once they trust someone."

He glances back through the window to check on his students. "Ten more minutes and I'm done."

"I'll wait." I follow his gaze to the children inside. "They're improving."

"Not bad for humans," he says, the old gruffness in his voice softened by unmistakable pride. "Kid in the blue shirt has real potential. Reminds me of Willie when he started."

Willie, now training under both Vargan and Crow, has blossomed in the months since Vargan’s return. The gangly teenager who once eyed orcs with suspicion now moves comfortably among them, absorbing their teachings like a sponge.

"Speaking of Willie," I say, "Savvy mentioned he's thinking about community college after graduation."

"Automotive engineering," Crow confirms. "Vargan's idea. Kid's got a knack for engines."

The mention of Vargan brings a slight smile to my face. His return to Shadow Ridge after the charges against him were dropped had been like watching a missing puzzle piece slot into place. His custom bike shop now draws enthusiasts from three counties, bringing much-needed business to town. The charges against Quinn's organization fell apart after his death, but the aftermath gave us all some sleepless nights until Hammer's lawyers sorted things out.

Across the street, I spot a familiar behemoth of an orc emerging from Greene's Diner. Hammer, looking oddly out of place without his cut, instead wearing what passes for business casual in his massive size. More surprising is the woman beside him—Helen, her loose hair catching sunlight, gesturing animatedly as she speaks.

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."

He kisses me again, deeper this time, his body pressing mine against the door with delicious weight. "Bed," he growls against my mouth. "Now."

There's something perfect about this moment—the fading sunlight through curtains we picked together, the mingled scents of leather and wildflowers that follow us everywhere, the distant call of whippoorwills beginning their evening chorus outside our windows, the knowledge that whatever comes next, we'll face it side by side.

As Crow lifts me again, heading toward the bedroom with single-minded intent, I wrap my arms around his neck and hold tight.

"You know," I whisper against his ear, "they say home isn't a place. It's a feeling."

He pauses at the bedroom threshold, looking down at me with an expression that still takes my breath away—fierce protection layered over something deeper, something neither of us names but both feel.

"Then you're my home," he says simply. "The only one I've ever needed."

My fingers trace the scars along his chest, mapping the history that brought him to me. "Remember that night in New York? When you told me, I didn't know what I was getting into?"

His hand covers mine, pressing it against his heart. "I was wrong."

"We both were," I whisper. "About a lot of things."

In this moment, surrounded by his strength yet knowing the gentleness that lies beneath, I understand a fundamental truth that's been building since the night I first stitched him up in that New York ambulance:

We were never meant to fix each other. We already fit perfectly together.

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