FREAKSHOW.

“What on earth,” you whisper. But you’re moving before you can consider the answer.  

The creature before you is unlike anything you’ve seen, and while it’s covered in a layer of fur and its eyes are large and insectoid (are those wings tucked tight against its back?), it's clearly no beast.  

Curled in on itself, one of it’s legs tethered to the ground, hands (fuck, those hands are too human) caging an injury on it’s torso: it’s a pitiful sight.  

It shuffles back when you near it, but you kneel, pausing only a moment as it chirps at you, the sound a question – and a warning. It’s large, and even sitting with its knees clutched to its chest its head sits above yours.  

“What did he do to you?” 

Because it’s no question that this is why you’ve been forbidden from the basement. This is why your grandfather forbade you from leaving your room at night, and why he’s always ignored certain questions you’d asked.  

For a moment you’re torn between going for the injury and going for the rope. You hesitate, going over your options.  

The wound is clotted and old, and you know little about first aid, other than stopping the bleeding.  

The rope, however, is mundane in appearance. You wonder why the creature hadn’t set itself free until your fingers graze the fibres, and your hand jerks away with a sting. 

A red welt raises where you’d touched the rope. You stare at the creature’s ankle with horror – the fur and flesh beneath the tether is blistered and burnt. The fur is missing in patches, damaged badly.  

“I’ll be back,” you promise, before eyeing the lab equipment.  

Glassware, a burner, metal instruments – none of it is particularly familiar to you, but the set of tongs and the scalpels look useful.  

You snatch them up and return to the creature – it looks more and more like a giant moth upon closer inspection. It’s wings which twitch and shudder at your scrutiny, are beautifully patterned, and covered in a thick later of some kind of dust.  The creature – also unnervingly humanoid in shape – wears no clothes, but its short fuzzy fur is thick enough to obscure its bodily features. 

It chirps again the sound higher in pitch, almost alarmed when you return, and rears back as far as the tether will allow. 

You wince at the implication, and hold one of your hands out in supplication. “I’m going to cut the rope. Will you let me?” 

It grows still at your words, and you wonder how much it understands. 

It’d be easier to cut from where you are, but then that’d leave the moth creature with a ring of potentially magical rope stuck around its ankle, and you doubt it’d let you close enough to help once it’s loose. 

Slowly you close the distance. It allows the movement, though visibly tenses when you pick up the tongs. You use the metal to lift the rope from its leg, and it lets out a hiss. 

The scalpel is a poor choice, but it does the job. Frustratingly, slowly, you pick at the threads until the rope comes apart and falls from the creature.  

For a moment the pair of you are still.

You dare to meet its eyes, curious as to what it’ll do next. It seems equally hesitant to break the tension, staring at you with an intensity that’s almost unnerving.  

A thump from upstairs jolts you from the moment, and like a bolt the creature is standing, fur on end and wings fluttering with unease. 

“There should be a back door,” you whisper, scanning the area with mounting unease.  

The basement is small, but you’d seen external door during your trips around the grounds. With three of the walls apparently bare and the fourth leading back to the house, you frown. 

You eye the bookshelf and move to shove it aside. Several sheets of paper flutter to the ground, and you curse, bracing yourself and pushing harder. 

The shelf moves with a sudden lurch when a set of hands appear above your own, and the heat of another body slots behind yours. You don’t have any time to start at the creature’s proximity, though, because the door comes into view. It’s not locked – thank god – but the bilco doors at the top of the stairs are barred shut.  

There’s more noise from upstairs, and your breathing hitches. You’d be in trouble if he knew you were poking around in the basement. And you shuddered to think of what he’d do to you if he found out you’d freed his ‘pet’.  

You claw at the wood – it's nailed to the door and you let out a despairing whimper.  

The creature pushes you aside, digs its fingers into the rotting wood, and pulls it free with a loud groan and a crack.  

Those are footsteps on the stairs – your grandfather is entering the basement. 

“Go, go, go,” you whisper, shoving the creature on the arm.  

The bilco doors shudder open, creaking in protest, just as your grandfather swings the basement door open and lets out a shout. 

You don’t really have time to process what happens next. The creature wraps an arm around your waist and holds you against its chest. You don’t have a chance to marvel at it’s strength, or kick your legs as your feet leave the ground. 

Then it moves. With unnatural speed it bounds a few steps across the estate grounds before jumping into the air, wings snapping open before launching you into flight.  

You’d shriek if it weren’t for the hand that presses against your face, covering you nose to jaw. Crushed against the creature you still loop your arms around its neck, terrified of the sudden drop beneath you.  

The fear doesn’t abate, but after a few minutes of flight you grow used to the position, and your trust that the creature won’t drop you grows. You realise that it had saved you from your grandfather. From having to explain away your misdeeds. Your guilt.  

When the creature sets you down at the edge of the estate grounds, you know you can still go back. That if you sneak into your bed right now, you can continue your life of moderate luxury without fear of consequence.  

Nobody has to know what you’d done.  

You hesitate to step out of its grasp.  

It chirps a question at you and you swallow.  

Grandfather will have discovered the creature is missing. What will he do first? You’re not that great a suspect. He won’t go to your room immediately. Will he give chase? Summon a tracker? A mage?  

Either way, morning come he’d be making your life miserable. You might escape blame but he’ll still be in a rage for gods-only-know how long. Breaking your things. Beating the staff. Perhaps even locking you in your room again.

“I don’t want to go back,” you murmur. Further consideration isn’t really needed. 

The creature tilts its head. Lets out a low grumbling chirp, accompanied by a shrug. And opens its arms to you. 

Sarah was eyeing her couch and wondering if she could somehow drag it inside by herself when she heard footsteps behind her.

"Looks like you could use a hand."

She spun around to find her neighbor from the house to the left standing at the end of her driveway. He was massive—at least seven feet tall, with shoulders broad enough to block out the afternoon sun. Gray-green skin stretched over corded muscle. Tusks curved up from his lower jaw, and his dark hair was pulled back in a thick braid. An orc.

Sarah's first instinct was to refuse, to say she had it handled. She'd heard the warnings about orcs her whole life—hot-tempered, unpredictable, dangerous. And now one was offering to come into her home, to be alone with her and Lily.

But she looked at the couch, then at the boxes, then at this stranger who was keeping a careful, respectful distance, his hands visible at his sides.

"I..." She swallowed. "That would actually be really helpful. The other mover didn't show."

"Thoran," he said, taking a step closer. "I live next door. Been watching you struggle with those boxes for the last twenty minutes."

"Sarah." She managed a smile that felt shaky. "And my daughter Lily is inside."

It wasn't subtle—she was making sure he knew she wasn't alone, that someone would notice if something happened. His expression shifted, something that might have been understanding or maybe sadness flickering across his features.

"I'll just help you get the heavy stuff in," he said quietly. "You can tell me where you want it, and I'll leave you to unpack."

Sarah nodded, her heart hammering. She was probably being paranoid. This was a nice neighborhood. He was just being neighborly. And she really, really needed help with that couch.

"Okay. Thank you."

Thoran moved past her—she caught a scent of earth and grass and something unexpectedly pleasant, like vanilla—and stepped up into the trailer. He lifted one end of the couch like it weighed nothing.

"Where do you want this?"

"Living room. Through the door, straight ahead."

She watched him maneuver the couch through the doorway with surprising grace for someone so large. No bumped walls, no scrapes. He set it down exactly where she pointed, then stepped back immediately, giving her space.

"What else?" he asked.

Over the next hour, Sarah directed while Thoran hauled. Her dresser, Lily's bookshelf, the kitchen table, box after box after box. He worked steadily, efficiently, never once complaining or acting like she should be grateful. Just... helping.

Lily appeared in the doorway after the first few trips, staring up at Thoran with wide eyes.

"Lily, this is Mr. Thoran from next door," Sarah said quickly. "He's helping us move in."

"You're really big," Lily said with the blunt honesty of six-year-olds.

Thoran paused, a box labeled "KITCHEN - FRAGILE" in his arms. He crouched down slightly, making himself smaller. "Nice to meet you, Lily. Your mom says you have a lot of stuffed animals."

"Forty-two," Lily said seriously. "Do you want to see?"

"Maybe after we get everything inside," Sarah interjected. "Mr. Thoran is being very kind with his time."

"Just Thoran," he said, straightening. He carried the box to the kitchen and set it on the counter with impressive care.

When the last box was finally inside, Sarah stood in her living room surrounded by chaos and felt tears prick her eyes. Not from sadness, but from sheer exhausted relief.

"Thank you," she said, and her voice came out rougher than she intended. "I don't know what I would have done. Seriously. Thank you."

Thoran shrugged, looking uncomfortable with her gratitude. "It's what neighbors do." He moved toward the door, then hesitated. "If you need help with anything else—furniture assembly, whatever—I'm right next door. Number seventeen."

"I appreciate that." Sarah followed him to the door. "Really."

He stepped out onto the porch, and Sarah noticed for the first time how carefully he'd been moving through her space. Nothing knocked over, nothing out of place. Considerate. Respectful.

"Welcome to the neighborhood," Thoran said, then walked back to his own house.

Sarah closed the door and leaned against it, her hands shaking slightly. She'd just let a strange orc into her home. Had let him carry her things, be near her daughter. Every warning she'd ever heard screamed at her that she'd been reckless.

But he'd just... helped. Been kind. Left when the work was done.

"Mama, he was nice," Lily said from the hallway. "Can we give him cookies?"

"We don't have any cookies yet, baby. Maybe once we're more settled."

Through the window, Sarah watched Thoran return to his own driveway, back to unloading his truck. His property was immaculate—the grass a lush carpet of green, flower beds overflowing with color, bushes trimmed into neat shapes. It was easily the nicest yard on the block.

Sarah turned away from the window and looked at the boxes filling her new home. Her arms ached less now. The couch was in place. The worst was done.

Maybe this neighborhood, this fresh start, would be okay after all.

Over the next few days, Sarah fell into the exhausting rhythm of unpacking and job hunting. She'd taken a week off from her waitressing job to make the move, and money was already tight. The divorce settlement had been enough for the down payment on this house, but barely. Every dollar mattered.

She tried not to think about Jason, about the way he'd looked at her when he said he needed "space to find himself." About how that space had apparently included his twenty-three-year-old dental assistant. At least Jason was consistent with his every-other-weekend custody schedule and the child support payments. She'd give him that much—he showed up for Lily, even if he'd failed at showing up for their marriage.

She saw Thoran outside several times over those first few days. Each time, he'd wave—a simple, friendly gesture—and she'd wave back, still feeling slightly guilty about her initial fear. He'd been nothing but helpful, and here she was, jumping at shadows.

On the third morning in the new house, Sarah woke to the sound of a lawn mower. She checked the clock: 7:30 AM. Groaning, she pulled on her robe and shuffled to the kitchen to start coffee.

Through the window over the sink, she could see Thoran pushing an industrial mower across his front lawn, moving in precise, careful rows. He was already showered and dressed for work—she could tell by the way his hair was damp, catching the morning light.

As Sarah watched, he shut off the mower and pulled off his work gloves. He walked to the side of his house and returned with a watering can, moving among his flower beds with surprising delicacy for someone so large. He crouched beside a rosebush heavy with deep red blooms, examining the leaves, gently adjusting a wayward stem.

There was something almost tender in the gesture.

Sarah poured her coffee, remembering how carefully he'd set down her fragile boxes, how he'd crouched to speak to Lily at her level. The same gentleness.

She was still standing at the window when Thoran looked up and caught her watching. Sarah felt her cheeks heat, but he just smiled—she could tell even from this distance—and raised his hand in that same easy wave.

Sarah waved back and quickly moved away from the window, feeling oddly flustered.

Lily made her first friend on the fourth day—a girl named Mia from two doors down who was also in first grade. The two of them spent the afternoon drawing with chalk on the driveway, their laughter echoing through the quiet street.

Sarah was sweeping the front porch when Mia's mother, Jessica, came to collect her daughter. She was a friendly woman in yoga pants and a bright smile, and Sarah felt herself relax slightly under her warm greeting.

"So glad you moved in," Jessica said. "This is such a great street for kids. Everyone looks out for each other."

"It seems really nice," Sarah agreed. "Very different from the city. Everyone's been so welcoming."

"Oh, you'll love it here." Jessica glanced toward Thoran's house, and her smile tightened slightly. "I saw Thoran helped you move in. That was... nice of him."

"He was a lifesaver," Sarah said. "One of the movers didn't show up. I don't know what I would have done without his help."

"Just..." Jessica lowered her voice, leaning in conspiratorially. "Be careful, okay? I mean, I'm sure he was perfectly polite, but you know how they can be. Hot-tempered. And he's so big—he could hurt someone without even meaning to. I just think it's better to keep some distance, especially with Lily."

Sarah felt something twist in her chest. "Has he done something?"

"Oh no, nothing like that. He keeps to himself mostly. It's just... you never know. Better safe than sorry." Jessica brightened her smile again. "Anyway, Lily is adorable. Mia can't stop talking about her."

After Jessica left, Sarah stood on the porch, watching Thoran's house. The roses along his front fence swayed in the breeze, their red petals luminous in the late afternoon sun. She thought about the way he'd crouched down to speak to Lily. How he'd asked where she wanted things placed, never once assuming. How he'd left immediately when the work was done.

Hot-tempered. Better safe than sorry.

Sarah had heard those phrases before, usually followed by statistics she half-remembered from news programs. But she'd also heard similar things said about single mothers, about divorced women, about waitresses who dared to have opinions. Stereotypes were easy. Convenient.

And yet, part of her wondered if Jessica was right. Sarah had let a stranger into her home after knowing him for all of five minutes. What if she'd been reckless? What if she'd put Lily at risk?

The front door of Thoran's house opened, and he emerged carrying his work bag. He caught sight of Sarah on the porch and raised his hand in greeting.

Sarah waved back, watching him load his truck and drive away. He'd been nothing but kind. Nothing but careful.

But Jessica's words lingered, planting seeds of doubt where there had been tentative trust.

The smell hit her on a Tuesday morning.

Sarah had just dropped Lily off at her new school and was heading to her car when the scent stopped her in her tracks. Bread. Fresh-baked bread with hints of honey and butter. Her mouth watered instantly.

She looked around, trying to locate the source. The neighborhood was quiet—most people already at work. Then she noticed the slightly open window on Thoran's house, warm air escaping, carrying that intoxicating aroma with it.

He was baking.

Sarah stood there for a long moment, trying to reconcile the image of her massive orcish neighbor with the domestic act of bread-making. It seemed so... gentle. Unexpected.

She thought about Jessica's warnings, about her own lingering doubts. And then she thought about Thoran crouching down to meet Lily at eye level, about the careful way he'd handled her boxes, about the tenderness with which he tended his roses.

Maybe people were more complicated than the stories told about them.

Sarah got in her car and drove to her job interview, but the smell of fresh bread—and the questions it raised—lingered in her mind all day.

On Friday evening, Sarah was wrestling with the lawnmower she'd bought at a garage sale. It was ancient and temperamental, and after twenty minutes of pulling the starter cord until her arm ached, she was ready to throw it in the trash.

"Having trouble?"

Sarah looked up to find Thoran standing at the edge of her driveway. She'd been so focused on the mower that she hadn't heard him approach. He kept a respectful distance, his hands at his sides.

"This thing is possessed," Sarah said, gesturing at the mower with frustration. "I've been trying to start it for twenty minutes."

"Mind if I take a look?"

Sarah hesitated. Jessica's warnings echoed in her head. But her arms hurt, the grass was getting long, and she had exactly zero mechanical ability. Besides, he'd already been in her house. If he'd wanted to do something terrible, he'd had plenty of opportunity.

"Please," she said, stepping back.

Thoran moved past her—she caught that same scent of earth and grass and vanilla—and crouched beside the mower. Large hands probed the engine with careful precision, moving with the confidence of someone who knew machines intimately.

"Your spark plug's fouled," he said after a moment. "And the air filter's clogged. You got a rag?"

Sarah hurried inside and returned with a dish towel she'd been about to throw away. She watched as Thoran cleaned the spark plug with methodical care, removed the air filter and tapped it clean, checked the oil level. His movements were so careful, so controlled.

"Try it now," he said, standing.

Sarah pulled the cord once. The engine sputtered to life, running smoothly.

"Oh my god." She stared at the mower, then at Thoran. "You're a miracle worker. Thank you so much."

"It's a good mower. Just needs maintenance." He wiped his hands on the rag. "You should change the oil before winter."

"I will. Definitely." Sarah found herself smiling, genuine this time. "I really appreciate this. You've been so helpful since I moved in."

Thoran looked uncomfortable with her gratitude. "It's nothing. Just being neighborly."

"It's not nothing," Sarah insisted. "The move, this—you've gone out of your way. So thank you."

He ducked his head slightly, and Sarah could swear she saw a flush of deeper green spread across his cheeks. "You're welcome."

Sarah watched him walk back to his house, and she realized something had shifted. The fear was still there—a lifetime of warnings didn't disappear overnight—but underneath it was something else. Curiosity, maybe. Or the beginning of trust.

The following week, Sarah started her new job at a family restaurant downtown. The hours were better than her old place, and the tips were decent. She arranged after-school care for Lily, and for the first time in months, she felt like maybe things were starting to stabilize.

On Wednesday, she came home to find a small package on her doorstep. Inside was a loaf of bread wrapped in brown paper, still faintly warm. No note, but she didn't need one. The bread was golden-brown, the crust crackly, the interior soft and fragrant with honey.

Sarah stood in her kitchen holding the loaf, unexpected tears pricking her eyes. When had anyone last done something kind for her, expecting nothing in return?

She cut a thick slice and slathered it with butter. The bread melted on her tongue, perfect and comforting. She closed her eyes and let herself enjoy it.

Later, after Lily was asleep, Sarah stood at her kitchen window. Thoran's house was lit, warm light spilling from the windows. She could see his silhouette moving in what must be the kitchen, and she found herself smiling.

The roses were dying.

Sarah noticed it over the weekend—the beautiful red blooms along Thoran's fence were wilting, leaves turning brown. It seemed wrong, somehow. Those roses had been so vibrant.

On Monday, she saw Thoran in his front yard, staring at the rosebush with an expression of such profound sadness that Sarah felt it in her chest.

She found herself walking over before she could second-guess it.

"Are they sick?" she asked.

Thoran didn't seem surprised by her presence. "Black spot. Fungal infection. I've tried everything, but..." He trailed off, touching a withered petal with one finger. "My mother gave me the cutting when I bought this house. Only thing I have from her garden."

The pain in his voice was unmistakable. Sarah had never been good with plants, but she understood loss.

"Maybe the garden center could help? They might have something stronger."

"Maybe." He didn't sound hopeful.

That evening, Sarah did something impulsive. She drove to the library and checked out three books on roses. She stayed up late reading about black spot, about fungicides and pruning and proper spacing for air circulation.

The next day, armed with information and a determination she couldn't quite explain, she knocked on Thoran's door.

He answered looking surprised, a dish towel over his shoulder and flour dusting his forearms.

"Hi," Sarah said, suddenly feeling foolish. "I, um, I did some research. About black spot. I thought maybe..." She thrust the books toward him.

Thoran took them carefully, his expression unreadable. He flipped through the first book, then looked at her.

"You went to the library for me?"

"It's not a big deal. I just thought—"

"Thank you." His voice was rough. "That's... really kind."

They stood there awkwardly for a moment. Then Thoran said, "Do you want to come in? I just made cinnamon rolls."

Sarah knew she should say no. She should maintain boundaries, keep things neighborly but distant. That's what she'd always done before.

"I'd love to," she heard herself say.

Thoran's kitchen was spotless and filled with the scent of cinnamon and sugar. Cooling racks covered the counter, laden with perfect spiral rolls glistening with icing. The kitchen itself was surprisingly cozy—copper pots hanging from hooks, herbs growing in pots on the windowsill, a worn cookbook open on the counter.

"This is amazing," Sarah said, accepting a plate. The roll was still warm, the icing melting into the layers. She took a bite and actually moaned. "Oh my god. This is better than the bakery downtown."

A flush of green spread across Thoran's cheeks. "It's just a hobby."

"This is way beyond a hobby. This is..." She took another bite. "Seriously, you could sell these."

"I'm not that good."

"Are you kidding? Thoran, this is incredible."

He ducked his head, but she could see him fighting a smile. They sat at his small kitchen table, and Sarah asked about his landscaping business. He talked about his clients, about the satisfaction of transforming neglected yards, about the peace he found in working with growing things.

"What about you?" he asked. "What brought you to Maple Street?"

Sarah found herself telling him about the divorce, about Jason and his dental assistant, about the cramped apartment and her determination to give Lily stability. She talked more than she'd intended, and Thoran listened without judgment, without pity.

"It's hard," he said simply. "Starting over."

"Yeah." Sarah wiped icing from her fingers. "But this is better. Lily loves her new school. The neighborhood is great. And the neighbors aren't so bad either."

This time, Thoran definitely smiled.

After that, things shifted.

Thoran taught Sarah how to change her oil and replace her air filters. Sarah taught him about the tiny library two blocks over that she'd discovered with Lily. He left baked goods on her doorstep—scones, muffins, braided loaves studded with cheese. She returned his containers with notes of thanks and sometimes dinner leftovers, since she'd noticed he seemed to live on sandwiches when he wasn't baking.

They waved to each other in passing. Exchanged small talk about the weather. It was nice.

Then came the incident with the Hendersons.

Sarah was pulling weeds in her front yard when she heard raised voices from down the street. She looked up to see Thoran standing in front of his truck, which was parked at the curb, while Mr. Henderson gestured angrily.

"—inconsiderate! That thing is an eyesore. This is a nice neighborhood!"

"I'm parked legally," Thoran said, his voice calm but tight. "And I'll be moving it in ten minutes when I'm finished loading."

"You're always parked here with your equipment blocking the view. Some of us take pride in this street."

Sarah saw Thoran's massive hands clench into fists. Saw the tension in his shoulders. She was moving before she thought about it.

"Hi, Mr. Henderson!" She waved cheerfully as she approached. "I was actually hoping to ask Thoran about doing some landscaping for me. Thoran, do you have a minute?"

Both men turned to her. Mr. Henderson looked irritated at the interruption. Thoran's expression was harder to read.

"The Jensons used you, right?" Sarah continued, addressing Thoran but keeping her tone light and public. "Their yard looks amazing. I'd love to get some ideas for my backyard."

"I... yes, I can take a look." Thoran's voice was strained.

"Perfect! Mr. Henderson, you should see what he did with their drainage issues. Completely transformed the space." She beamed at the older man, who had the grace to look slightly embarrassed.

"Well. I suppose that's different. Professional work." He cleared his throat. "Just try to be mindful of the parking, would you?"

He walked away, and Sarah turned to Thoran. His hands were still clenched, his jaw tight.

"You okay?" she asked quietly.

"You didn't need to do that."

"I know. But he was being a jerk." She paused. "Not the first time?"

"Not even close." Thoran exhaled slowly, deliberately relaxing his shoulders. "Thanks for the intervention. Even if you don't actually need landscaping work."

"Who says I don't? My backyard is a disaster."

He looked at her for a long moment. "You really want me to work on your yard?"

"If you have time. I can pay—"

"Don't insult me." But his voice was warm. "Come on, let's take a look."

They spent an hour walking her backyard while Thoran sketched ideas on a notepad. He pointed out where she could add raised beds for vegetables, where a small patio would catch the afternoon sun, how strategic plantings could create privacy from the neighbors behind her.

"You have a good eye for this," Sarah said, watching him draw.

"Plants don't judge." The words came out before he seemed to mean them to, and he looked embarrassed. "I mean—"

"I get it." Sarah sat on her back steps. "People can be awful. Quick to assume the worst."

"Were you? When you first moved in?" The question was careful, but genuine.

Sarah thought about lying, then decided he deserved honesty. "A little. Yeah. I'd heard things, believed things. I'm sorry."

"I'm used to it." Thoran sat beside her, the steps creaking under his weight. "When I was growing up, other orc kids called me weak because I liked baking. Humans crossed the street when they saw me coming. Couldn't win either way."

"That's not fair."

"No. But it's reality." He glanced at her. "Your friend Jessica warned you about me, didn't she? After you moved in."

Sarah felt her cheeks heat. "She mentioned... that you kept irregular hours."

"Uh huh." Thoran's smile was wry. "It's okay. At least you gave me a chance."

"You fixed my lawnmower and brought me bread. You made it pretty easy."

They sat in comfortable silence, watching the evening shadows lengthen across the yard. Sarah thought about all the assumptions she'd made, all the warnings she'd half-believed. How close she'd come to missing this friendship.

"Thank you," she said quietly. "For being patient with me. With all of us."

Thoran bumped her shoulder gently with his—a movement so careful she barely felt it. "Thank you for actually seeing me."

Over the next few weeks, Thoran became a more regular presence in their lives, though always at a respectful distance.

One Saturday morning, Sarah was outside helping Thoran plant new additions to his garden when Lily wandered out, wearing her garden gloves—the small pink ones Sarah had bought her for their own backyard.

"Can I help too?" Lily asked, hovering at the edge of Thoran's lawn.

Sarah started to say no, to keep the boundary she'd been maintaining, but Thoran looked up with such genuine pleasure that she hesitated.

"I could use an expert on butterfly plants," Thoran said to Lily. "Your mom says you're really good at butterflies."

"I'm the best in my class at drawing them," Lily said, moving closer with more confidence. "But I don't know about the real kind."

"Well, butterflies need special plants. Milkweed for monarchs, parsley for swallowtails." He gestured to a small plant in a pot. "Want to help me plant this one? It's called catmint, and it attracts all kinds."

Lily looked at Sarah, who found herself nodding. "Okay, but you have to listen to Mr. Thoran's instructions."

"Just Thoran," he said gently, then showed Lily how to dig the proper hole, how to loosen the roots, how to pat the soil down just right.

After that, Lily would wave to Thoran from the porch when she saw him, always with Sarah present. He'd wave back, never approaching unless Sarah was there. He seemed to understand without being told that Sarah needed to control the pace.

One evening, Sarah was carrying groceries from the car when a bag split, sending oranges rolling across the driveway. Thoran appeared almost instantly, helping her gather them while Lily watched from the doorway.

"Thank you," Sarah said, flustered. "I thought I could carry them all in one trip."

"I do that with mulch bags," Thoran admitted. "Always ends badly."

Lily giggled from the doorway. "Mama tries to carry too much."

"It's a very common condition," Thoran said solemnly to Lily. "Very serious. Called 'I-don't-want-to-make-two-trips-itis.'"

Lily's giggle turned into a full laugh, and Sarah felt something in her chest relax.

A few days later, Sarah was frosting cupcakes for Lily's class when she realized she was short on sprinkles. Without thinking twice, she walked over to Thoran's house and knocked.

"Do you have sprinkles?" she asked when he answered. "I'm making cupcakes for Lily's class and—"

"Three different colors," he said, disappearing into his kitchen. He returned with containers of rainbow sprinkles, stars, and hearts. "Take what you need."

"You are a lifesaver." Sarah paused. "Do you want to help? I'm drowning in cupcakes over there."

Thoran glanced past her to where Lily was visible through Sarah's front window, carefully arranging the cupcakes. "If you're sure."

They spent the next hour frosting cupcakes while Lily supervised, declaring which ones were "perfect" and which needed "more sprinkles, please." Thoran's large hands wielded the piping bag with surprising precision, creating perfect swirls.

"You're better at this than me," Sarah said, slightly indignant.

"Practice," Thoran said. "I've frosted a lot of cakes."

"Can you make a butterfly?" Lily asked, and Thoran proceeded to pipe an intricate butterfly on one cupcake, much to her delight.

Sarah watched him with her daughter—patient, gentle, completely focused on making Lily happy—and felt her last reservations begin to crumble.

After that evening, Lily started asking about "Uncle Thoran" regularly. When could they visit him? Did he like the drawing she'd made? Could he show her how to do the butterfly frosting?

So Sarah started saying yes to small things. They'd wave to him together. Stop to chat when they saw him outside. Lily would show him her drawings while Sarah stood beside her.

Two weeks after the cupcake incident, Sarah found herself in a bind. She'd forgotten milk—actually forgotten it, despite having it on her list—and Lily was exhausted from a long day at school, already in her pajamas and halfway through a movie.

Sarah stood in her kitchen, debating. She could bundle Lily back into clothes and drag her to the store, which would result in tears and tantrums. Or...

She looked out the window. Thoran was in his front yard, deadheading roses in the fading evening light.

Her heart hammered as she walked outside. This was different from chatting on the porch or frosting cupcakes together. This was asking him to be alone with her daughter. Trusting him with the most precious thing in her life.

"Hey," she called softly.

Thoran looked up, smiling. "Hey yourself. Lily already asleep?"

"Almost. She's watching a movie." Sarah twisted her hands together. "I have a huge favor to ask, and you can absolutely say no."

"Okay..."

"I forgot milk at the store. Lily's already in her pajamas and exhausted, and I really don't want to drag her out again." The words came out in a rush. "Would you mind sitting with her for fifteen minutes? She's watching Moana, she'll probably fall asleep on the couch. I just—I don't want to leave her alone, and you're the only person I—" She stopped, realizing what she was about to say.

The only person I trust.

Thoran's expression softened with understanding. He knew what she was asking. What it meant.

"I'd be honored," he said quietly. "Take your time. We'll be fine."

Sarah showed him inside, pointed out where the emergency numbers were even though he'd never need them, reminded him that Lily knew his name if anything happened. Thoran listened patiently to her nervous rambling, then gently steered her toward the door.

"Sarah. We'll be fine. I promise."

The grocery store was only five minutes away, but Sarah's hands were shaking on the steering wheel. She'd just left her daughter with an orc. What would Jason say? What would Jessica say?

But more importantly—what did Sarah think?

She thought about Thoran's gentleness with Lily. His patience. The way he crouched down to her level and listened like her questions mattered. She thought about the books he'd helped her with, the roses they'd tended together, the quiet evenings in his kitchen.

She thought about how safe she felt with him. How seen.

Sarah grabbed the milk and headed back, her heart rate slowly returning to normal.

When she pulled into the driveway fifteen minutes later, she could see through the front window. Thoran and Lily were in his front yard, examining his rosebush in the last light of day. Her daughter's small hand was tucked trustingly into his massive one as he showed her the new growth emerging from the pruned stems, pointing out the healthy leaves.

Sarah sat in the car for a moment, watching them. Lily was chattering, probably asking a million questions, and Thoran was answering each one with the same careful attention he gave to everything. There was nothing but gentleness in the picture. Nothing but care.

She'd been so afraid. And she'd been so wrong.

Sarah got out of the car, and Lily spotted her immediately.

"Mama!" Lily called, waving. "Thoran says the roses are going to be okay! The medicine is working!"

"The fungicide," Thoran corrected gently. "And we won't know for sure for a few more weeks. But it's looking better."

Sarah walked over, and Thoran pointed out the healthy green shoots, the absence of black spots on the new leaves. He explained the treatment plan like he was discussing battle strategy, and Lily listened with rapt attention.

"Can we grow roses, Mama?" Lily asked. "Thoran says he'll give us a cutting when these are healthy."

"We can definitely try." Sarah met Thoran's eyes over her daughter's head. "I'm sure Thoran will help us not kill them."

"I have faith in you." His tone was teasing, and Sarah found herself grinning.

After Lily went to bed that night, Sarah stood at her kitchen window for a long time, watching the light in Thoran's house. She thought about the trust she'd placed in him, how natural it had felt despite all her fears. How right it had been.

A few days later, Sarah was making beef stew—her grandmother's recipe, the one that took all afternoon and filled the house with warmth. She'd made too much, as usual, and found herself standing at the stove, looking at the pot, thinking.

Before she could second-guess herself, she walked next door and knocked.

Thoran answered, looking pleasantly surprised. "Hey. Everything okay?"

"I made beef stew," Sarah said. "Way too much for just Lily and me. Want to come over for dinner?"

Thoran's expression softened. "I'd like that. Let me clean up first."

He arrived twenty minutes later, his hair damp from a shower, carrying a container of what turned out to be chocolate chip cookies still warm from the oven. Lily chattered through dinner about school and her friends and a stray cat she'd seen. Thoran listened attentively, asking questions, making her laugh with stories about unruly garden gnomes and his most difficult landscaping clients.

After dinner, while Lily drew pictures at the coffee table, Sarah and Thoran cleaned up together in the kitchen. They moved around each other easily now, comfortable in the small space.

"This was nice," Thoran said, drying the last dish. "Thank you for including me."

"Thank you for the cookies. And for being so good with Lily. And for..." Sarah gestured vaguely. "Everything, I guess."

"Sarah." Thoran set down the dish towel. "Can I ask you something?"

"Of course."

"What changed? Between when you first moved in and now?"

Sarah thought about it carefully. "I stopped listening to what I'd been told and started paying attention to what was actually in front of me. And what was in front of me was someone kind and talented and generous." She met his eyes. "Someone who became my friend."

"Your friend." Thoran said the words like he was tasting them. "I like that."

"Good." Sarah smiled. "Because you're stuck with us now."

The following Friday, Jason's sleek sedan pulled into Sarah's driveway at exactly 6 PM. He was nothing if not punctual about his custody weekends.

Sarah had Lily's overnight bag ready by the door, but her daughter was dragging her feet, still coloring a picture at the kitchen table.

"Lily, honey, Daddy's here," Sarah called.

"Just one more minute! I want to finish Uncle Thoran's garden!"

Sarah's stomach dropped. She'd been careful not to mention Thoran during her brief text exchanges with Jason, some instinct telling her it would only cause problems.

The doorbell rang. Through the window, Sarah could see Jason on the porch, but his attention was fixed on Thoran's house next door. Thoran's truck was parked in the driveway, and Thoran himself was visible in his front yard, trimming hedges.

Sarah opened the door, trying for a bright smile. "Hey. She's almost ready, just finishing up a drawing."

Jason stepped inside, still looking past her. "Is that an orc living next door?"

"That's Thoran. He's our neighbor. Very nice guy."

"Nice guy." Jason's tone was flat. He finally looked at her, his expression tight. "You're letting Lily play around an orc?"

"I'm not 'letting' her do anything. We're neighbors. We're friendly." Sarah kept her voice level, aware that Lily could hear from the kitchen.

"Sarah, those people are dangerous. Everyone knows—"

"Everyone knows what? Stereotypes?" Sarah crossed her arms. "Thoran helped us move in. He's been nothing but kind and respectful."

"Daddy!" Lily came running, throwing herself at Jason's legs. She held up her drawing. "Look! I made a picture of Uncle Thoran's garden! He has forty-two roses. Well, not forty-two, but a lot. And he showed me how to—"

"Uncle Thoran?" Jason's voice was sharp. He looked at Sarah over Lily's head. "She's calling him uncle?"

"It's just a term of affection," Sarah said quietly. "Jason, don't make this into something it's not."

Jason crouched down, taking the drawing from Lily. "That's very nice, sweetheart. Why don't you go grab your bag? We're going to have a great weekend."

Once Lily had scampered off, Jason stood, his jaw tight. "We need to talk about this. I'm not comfortable with some orc being around my daughter."

"He's not 'some orc.' He's Thoran. He's a landscaper and he bakes and he's been a good friend to us." Sarah felt her own anger rising. "You don't get to do this, Jason. You don't get to leave and then try to control who we're friends with."

"I have a right to be concerned about Lily's safety—"

"Her safety isn't threatened. The only threat here is you teaching her your prejudices."

They stared at each other for a long moment. Through the window, Sarah could see Thoran had stopped trimming and was watching the house. He was too far away to hear, but he seemed to sense something was wrong.

"I'm ready!" Lily announced, dragging her unicorn backpack.

Jason's expression smoothed instantly. "Great! Let's go, princess." He picked up her bag, then looked at Sarah one more time. "We're not done discussing this."

"There's nothing to discuss," Sarah said firmly. "Have a good weekend, Lily. I love you."

After they drove away, Sarah stood in the doorway, her hands shaking with residual anger. She saw Thoran set down his hedge trimmers and walk over, concern evident on his face.

"Everything okay?" he asked, stopping at the property line.

Sarah wanted to lie, to brush it off. But she was tired of pretending. "My ex saw you. Made some comments. He's..." She trailed off, not wanting to say the words.

"Prejudiced," Thoran finished quietly. "It's okay. You can say it."

"It's not okay. He had no right—" Sarah felt tears prick her eyes, anger and frustration overwhelming her. "I'm sorry. You didn't ask to be dragged into my messy life."

"Hey." Thoran took a step closer, his voice gentle. "Your life isn't messy. It's complicated. There's a difference." He paused. "And for what it's worth, I don't mind being part of it. Any part of it."

Sarah looked up at him, at the genuine warmth in his eyes, and felt something in her chest loosen. "Thank you," she whispered.

"Do you want some company? I just made apple turnovers."

Despite everything, Sarah found herself smiling. "You always have something baked, don't you?"

"Stress baking. It's a thing." He smiled back. "Come on. Let's eat our feelings."

They sat in Thoran's kitchen, eating warm turnovers and not talking about Jason. But the confrontation hung between them—a reminder that the world outside their friendship wasn't always as accepting as they'd grown to be with each other.

The roses bloomed again in late summer.

Sarah was leaving for work when she saw them—deep red petals unfurling in the morning sun, healthy and vibrant. Thoran stood beside the fence, staring at them with an expression of such joy that Sarah felt tears prick her eyes.

She walked over without thinking. "They made it."

"They made it." Thoran's voice was rough. "I thought I'd lost them. My mother's roses."

On impulse, Sarah hugged him. He stiffened in surprise, then carefully wrapped his arms around her, and Sarah realized she felt safer in that moment than she had in years. Safe and valued and seen.

"Thank you," he murmured into her hair. "For the books. For caring about something that mattered to me."

"That's what friends do," Sarah said, though the word suddenly felt insufficient for what they'd become.

They pulled apart slowly, and Thoran reached out to gently cup one of the blooms. "Will you help me take a cutting? For your garden?"

"I'd be honored."

That weekend, Thoran showed Sarah and Lily how to prepare the cutting, how to root it, how to plant it in the perfect spot in their backyard. Lily took her job as "rose guardian" very seriously, checking on it every day, reporting to Thoran on its progress.

The neighborhood slowly adjusted to their friendship. Jessica stopped making pointed comments. Mr. Henderson hired Thoran to redesign his front yard and actually apologized for the parking incident. Other neighbors began waving, started conversations, asked Thoran for landscaping advice.

But the best moments were the quiet ones. Saturday mornings when Thoran would knock on their door with fresh pastries and Sarah would make coffee, and they'd sit on her porch while Lily played. Evenings when Sarah would bring over dinner and they'd eat in Thoran's garden, surrounded by flowers and the sound of wind chimes. The way Lily had started calling him "Uncle Thoran" and how his face lit up every time.

The way Sarah had started to imagine a future that included him in it.

On a cool evening in October, Sarah found Thoran in his backyard, building something with wood and chicken wire.

"What's that going to be?" she asked.

"Cold frame. For growing herbs through winter." He looked up, pushing hair from his face. "Want to help?"

They worked together as the sun set, Thoran explaining the construction while Sarah held pieces in place. Their hands brushed as they passed tools, and Sarah noticed Thoran's calluses, the careful way he handled even the smallest components.

"Can I tell you something?" Thoran said suddenly.

"Always."

"I was going to sell this house. Before you moved in." He kept his eyes on his work. "I'd been saving up for a place further out. Somewhere I wouldn't have to deal with the stares and comments. Somewhere I could just... exist."

Sarah's chest tightened. "And now?"

"Now I have roses to tend. A cold frame to build. A neighbor who appreciates my baking." He finally looked at her, his dark eyes intense. "Now I have reasons to stay."

"Thoran—"

"I know it's complicated. I know there's Lily to think about, and what people might say. I know I'm not..." He gestured at himself. "I'm not what most people picture when they think about their lives."

Sarah reached out and took his hand, so large it engulfed hers. "You're exactly what I need in my life. What we need. Someone genuine and kind and strong. Someone who shows up." Her voice cracked slightly. "Someone who sees us and stays."

"I'll always stay," Thoran said softly. "If you'll have me."

Sarah thought about the woman she'd been when she first moved to Maple Street—scared, defensive, ready to believe the worst. She thought about the life she'd imagined back then, safe and small and carefully controlled.

This was better. This was real.

"We're not going anywhere either," she said.

Thoran smiled—a real smile, wide and unguarded—and Sarah felt her heart expand in her chest. He squeezed her hand gently, and they stood there in his garden as stars began to appear overhead, surrounded by the roses he'd saved and the life they'd built, one small kindness at a time.

Inside the house, the smell of bread baking drifted through the open window. Somewhere down the street, a dog barked. A car passed, its headlights sweeping across them briefly before moving on.

It was all perfectly ordinary and absolutely magical.

"Come on," Sarah said, tugging his hand. "Let's go check on that bread. And I want you to teach me how to make those cinnamon rolls."

"The secret's in the dough," Thoran said, letting her lead him toward the house. "You have to be patient with it. Give it time to rise."

Sarah laughed. "I think I'm learning that about a lot of things."

They walked inside together, and Thoran showed her the intricacies of his cinnamon roll dough—how to knead it just enough, how to tell when it had risen properly, the precise way to roll it out so the spirals would be even.

Sarah found herself watching his hands more than the dough. The careful way he worked, the gentleness in every movement. She thought about those same hands fixing her lawnmower, building the cold frame, holding Lily's hand so carefully while showing her the roses.

"You're not paying attention," Thoran said, amusement in his voice.

"I am." Sarah looked up to find him watching her. "Just... not to the dough."

The kitchen suddenly felt smaller. Warmer. Thoran's hands stilled on the counter between them.

"Sarah," he said softly. "I need you to know—I'm not expecting anything. This, what we have, it's already more than I ever hoped for. Your friendship, Lily's trust, being part of your lives—"

"Thoran." Sarah moved around the counter until she was standing directly in front of him. She had to tilt her head back to meet his eyes. "What if I want more than friendship?"

His breath caught. "Do you mean—"

"I mean I think about you constantly. I mean I look for your truck when I come home. I mean when Lily talks about her future, you're in it, and when I think about mine, you are too." She reached up, placing her hand against his chest, feeling his heart beating fast beneath her palm. "I mean I'm falling for you, and I don't want to stop."

"I've already fallen," Thoran admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. He raised one hand, hovering near her face, not quite touching. "Can I—"

"Yes," Sarah breathed.

He cupped her cheek with infinite care, his palm warm and rough with calluses. Sarah leaned into the touch, then rose up on her toes as he bent down. The first brush of his lips against hers was feather-light, tentative, as if he was afraid she might break.

Sarah wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him properly.

Thoran made a soft sound of surprise and happiness, then pulled her closer, one arm around her waist, the other hand sliding into her hair. He kissed her like she was precious, like she was the answer to a question he'd been asking his whole life. Sarah melted against him, feeling safe and cherished and utterly herself.

When they finally pulled apart, both breathing hard, Thoran rested his forehead against hers.

"This is..." He trailed off, searching for words. "I've never felt like this before."

Sarah laughed, the sound shaky with emotion and happiness. "Me neither. Not like this. Not this... easy."

"Easy?" Thoran smiled against her hair. "You thought I was terrifying when you moved in."

"Okay, fair. But once I got past my own stupidity—" She pulled back to look at him. "This has been the easiest thing in the world. Being with you. Letting you in."

"The butterfly cupcake probably helped," he teased, and she swatted his chest lightly.

"The butterfly cupcake definitely helped." She kissed him again, shorter this time but no less sweet. "So did the bread. And the roses. And the way you look at me like I'm not broken."

"You're not broken." Thoran pulled back enough to meet her eyes, his expression serious now. "You're healing. There's a difference. And I—" He paused, cupping her face gently. "I care about you. So much. You and Lily both. I want to be here for all of it, if you'll let me."

"Stay," Sarah said firmly. "Stay for all of it. The good days and the hard ones. Stay for Lily's school plays and terrible movies and lazy Sunday mornings. Just... stay."

"There's nowhere else I'd rather be."

They stood there in his kitchen, wrapped in each other's arms, while the timer beeped softly in the background. The bread was ready. The night was cool and clear outside. Somewhere down the street, a dog barked. A car passed.

It was all perfectly ordinary and absolutely magical.

"The bread," Sarah finally murmured against his chest.

"Let it cool," Thoran said, tightening his hold on her. "I want to stay right here for another minute."

So they did, swaying slightly in the quiet kitchen, the scent of fresh bread surrounding them. Through the window, the roses swayed gently in the evening breeze—red petals glowing in the porch light, reaching toward the sky, blooming despite everything.

Just like the people who tended them.

·•—–٠✤٠—–•·

The ball bobs to the surface but refuses to budge when you try to pick it up as if it's stuck on something. But you're in the middle of the ocean, so what could that be? You reach into the water and find something firm and slimy. You can see into the water a little, and there's definitely nothing there.

You tug at the invisible thing again, mystified. The water ripples as it surfaces, becoming visible all at once. It's a mottled brown and white octopus merman. His big eyes regard you curiously as the tentacle you just touched curls around your arm, suctioning to it.

"Hi. Any chance I can get that ball back?" You ask, because your nephew will probably start screaming if you don't return with it.

The mer's gaze switches from the ball back to you. The suckers on his tentacles clamp on the plastic as he pushes it towards you and you have to really yank the ball to get it free, offering him a sheepish smile.

"Did you think it was food?" You ask.

He cocks his head. Maybe he hasn't seen a human before. It's a good thing you're a competent swimmer because he takes his time looking you over, his tentacles curling around your limbs, the tips of them tapping your skin lightly like he's surprised by the texture.

"Oi, what are you doing all the way over there?"

The distant shout of your brother-in-law makes you turn to look. Apparently no one noticed you weren't on the boat and now they've sailed pretty far away. Too far for you to care to swim.

"Pick me up!" You shout, cupping your hands around your mouth.

"What?!" He answers. "I can't hear you!"

Amazing. You contemplate staying put until they realize they need to turn around and get you, but the octopus mer has already noticed your dilemma. He wraps two tentacles around your waist and then does the strangest thing. He flares out hidden frills between each tentacle until his lower half is oval-shaped, floating at the surface of the water like he's mimicking the ball. He swims towards the boat, delivering you back to your astonished family.

"You can't go a second without getting into some kind of trouble," your sister says with a laugh. "You could've let the ball go."

"What, and anger Cuthulu over here for littering and have him capsize the boat?" You joke, pulling yourself up the ladder and handing the ball to your nephew, who squeals with joy.

"Thank you, Mr. Fish Spaghetti!" He says, peering over the edge of the boat.

The octopus mer turns a shy pink. You feel bad about letting him go without some kind of thank you, so you give him a cracker with cheese from the charcuterie board.

He gives it a sniff before poking it into his mouth. His eyes widen even more than they already are, his tentacles swishing happily in the water.

"You know feeding merfolk is a bad idea, right?" Your sister says. "They're not tame. You're ruining his ability to hunt for himself or something like that."

"Oh come on, he's just a fella," your brother-in-law says with a chuckle.

A soft plop has all of you turning to see the octopus mer has invited himself onto the boat. He extends a cautious tentacle and pats your arm before waving a tentacle at the charcuterie board. Yes, he's just a fella. Can he please have some more crackers with cheese?