Swipe Fright

[ A/N – This story is the result of an experiment. The idea was to see if I could write prose while waiting in lines at a theme park. I held a poll offering unusual set-ups, and readers overwhelmingly picked a story about a flirtatious orc EMT set in the modern day.

As promised, here is the completed “line fiction”!

(At one point I invited folks on my RFM Discord channel to submit ideas for the FMC's partner, so this story also has a lobster girl cameo. Hope she's everything you imagined, Betelgeuse!)

Most of Swipe Fright was written at Disney World. There are references to at least five attractions, and I wrote them while waiting in those actual lines. Try to find them! For every guess (right or wrong), I’ll reveal an answer. One final note: this is a “sweet” romance, aka there's no sex. What did you expect from a story penned in the Magic Kingdom? ]

1.

My date is green.

I don't want anyone thinking I have a problem with…um, green. I don't. At all. I mean, I won't say something smarmy like, “I don't see color,” because a man would have to be blind not to notice that his blind date is green.

A sort of…vivid…light green. Surprisingly close to the shade of my favorite ice cream: mint chocolate chip.

Okay, Harry, let’s get it to-fucking-gether. Why the hell are you thinking about ice cream?

Look.

All I'm trying to say is that I don't care what color or species my potential dates are, just that we’re, you know, compatible. And obviously I'm talking about relationship compatibility, not making some juvenile joke about physiology.

Well, sure, we should also have compatible physiology.

My date’s physiology appears very compatible.

God help me. I can’t do this.

She’s an orc. I’ve never been on a date with an orc. I’ve only been on three dates, and they were all human women. A fae woman is beyond me. I've done no research. I have zero experience.

I once struck out with a half-elf girl in college. I can't count that for two reasons: A, I struck out, and B, I threw up in a potted plant right after. Yes, I’d been drunk, but it wasn't the liquid courage’s fault. It was me and my usual bullshit anxiety. I desecrated that poor plant.

Now the same anxiety is twining around my limbs in swirling pins-and-needles, sending invisible feelers groping towards my windpipe. If they reach my throat I’ll have a full panic attack. Fuck. Fuck.

She’s a really pretty shade of green.

I claw open my top shirt button as I stare at what has to be at least six feet of orc bombshell. She’s wearing…sexy orc clothes? Shit, I’m already fucking this up by being culturally ignorant in my head. She’s wearing a…sort-of dress in shimmering gold. It’s long in the front like a dress, but slit so high up the sides that the gap must end at her torso. I’m not sure exactly where the gap ends, because I'm gawking at a slice of bare hip as creamy as a slice of lime meringue—

Enough. Stop with the food! Jesus, Harry!

Her legs are so…so hot. Voluptuous and defined. She’s wearing those old-style sandals with the criss-crossing leather straps, except, unlike the ancient Greeks, the straps go to mid-freaking-thigh and now I’m thinking about that bare hip again. I need to look anywhere else.

I look up.

O-kay. The leather straps are a whole motif. Above her waist, a sort of bodice made of small bands tautly encloses her stomach. A thicker strap crosses her sternum just below her breasts, outlining what are clearly dual monuments to idealized womanhood. Good. Great. Nice to meet you, ladies.

Keep going! screams the small corner of my brain not being flooded with primitive demands to visualize my date naked. I heave my gaze over her boobs to—

A jaw-droppingly pretty face. Heart-shaped and dark-lashed and full-mouthed, with two small tusks on either side of a lush upper lip.

I'm staring. Pretty sure it's an uncomfortable stare. I'm making myself uncomfortable as I'm doing it.

Strands of curly blue-black hair frame her cheeks, with the rest, uh, heaped? That’s not a sexy term, but the effect is. Her hair—so much that it would probably brush her ass—is a wild wonderful mess held in place by a…tiara. Not the “princess ballerina” kind. This one is pointy and sharp and could have been designed for a heavy metal album cover. It’s the headpiece of a warrior queen. Do orcs have queens?

This is the moment I am spotted.

I’m too far away to see the color of her eyes, but the strength of her gaze bolts me to the floor. It's a narrowing sort of look. Narrowing at me. She tilts her head slightly, and a gold ring on one of her tusks flashes in the glow of a recessed light.

She leaves the table she's standing at. Her walk is pure confidence, a sensual sway that threads around knots of nearby fae revelers wearing outfits almost as interesting as hers. She exits the part of the club where the nonhumans hang out and makes straight for me.

I watch, locked in a kind of frozen fascination. She passes by human clubgoers, her presence so tangible that it draws eyes like a boat raising a wake. The thirsty club bros in shiny shirts are practically spinning off their stools to get a peek at the rear view.

My pulse starts hammering, and the invisible ring around my throat begins to cinch tight. Any second now my anxiety will pop my brain like a balloon. I can’t do this. I can’t. How does she even know I’m her date?

Because you told her you’d be wearing orange shoes. You told her and you look like a dork and she’s coming. An orc bearing down on a dork. This is so fucked and I’m going to kill Parker if my heart doesn’t explode.

The woman whose online handle is OliveOriginal comes to a stop a few feet away. I look up slightly. She’s only a little taller, but her impressive mass of hair gives the impression that she's towering over me.

Her eyebrows pinch in. “Harry?” she asks. Her voice is surprisingly melodious despite an undertone of growl. It rasps like hand-stirred cake batter with unmixed sugar on the bottom.

And somehow I’m still on a food kick even as blackness begins closing in at the edges of my vision.

“Yes,” I croak. At least, I make some sort of strangled noise.

She blinks. “You’re…pink.”

My head wobbles up and down in a rhythmless nod as heat floods my face. I’m probably closer to red now. I open my mouth…and it stays open. I slooowly turn around.

“What are you doing?” she asks my back.

My heart is ramming into my sternum and my breath has started its climb into a whistling hiss when I bolt. I flee through the club, bouncing off patrons and thinking half-formed apologies that don’t make it to my lips.

I make it all the way to the parking lot before I throw up.

2.

This is my fault.

I should have expected a disastrous outcome the second I listened to Parker. I might be lonely, maybe even desperate, but I wasn’t having a panic attack or out of my mind on cough syrup when I followed his suggestion. That’s on me. Parker’s presence in my life is arguably positive—he does me good the way painful medical procedures help the sick and injured. But taking his advice? A man who busks in city parks for a living? Insanity.

“She was an orc,” I tell him the following afternoon.

“Yeah?” He doesn't meet my eyes, but that's because he's currently juggling four brightly colored balls.

“My blind date,” I say, “was a six-foot tall orc woman.”

“Right…” The balls blur through his hands in a hypnotic rhythm. I watch each one fly up to catch the late afternoon sun. “Was she cute?”

She was gorgeous. A mint chocolate chip ten-out-of-ten woman built along Amazonian lines. “Not the point,” I say. “She was an orc.”

“You have some kind of hang-up with orcs?”

“No! I have a hang-up with friends who don't warn me that I might be meeting fae women who are way cooler than me.”

Parker sighs and catches the balls with no apparent effort. Holding two in each hand, he finally looks at me. I see exasperation and a touch of pity. It makes me want to beat him with one of his flashy bowling pins.

“Not every kind of fae women. Only orcs and goblins. That’s the entire point of the app, bro.”

“What? What the hell does that mean?” I’m struggling to keep my voice low even though Parker is still warming up and hasn’t drawn a crowd.

“It’s called ‘GreenFlag,’ man. Duh.”

“I…I thought that meant everyone was vetted,” I hiss, “not that everyone is literally green!”

“It’s both. That’s why it’s clever. Plus, dating apps suck. They’re only good in beta, and GreenFlag is still in beta.” He frowns. “Wait…how did you get all the way to the date without realizing she was an orc?”

“It’s in beta! There weren't any pictures. And in the chat it…it just didn’t come up.”

In fact, our texting had turned flirtatious fast, before either of us had shared too many details. OliveOriginal’s sense of humor and warmth had practically shot sparks through the phone, and the pure text interface had short-circuited my anxiety so I could be myself. There had been chemistry—or at least compatibility—between us from the start.

“Okay…but where did you meet her?” Parker asks, looking mildly skeptical.

“Dashers.”

His expression of disbelief goes from “mild” to “total.” He blows out a breath. “Our fair city’s biggest fae hotspot?”

“It’s for fae and humans,” I argue.

“It has a druid grove and three dwarven subbasements.”

“Druid grove?” I repeat weakly. “Is that what that big tree on top is?” When my date had suggested meeting at Dashers I hadn't even questioned it. I knew it was popular with fae, I'd just assumed she was…adventurous.

“Jesus, Harry.” Parker is rummaging through the massive canvas bag that holds his props. He pulls out a silver bowling pin and points it at me. “If you didn't realize what you were getting into with a Dashers meet-up, I have no sympathy for you. I suppose GreenFlag’s entrance survey flew right over your noggin, too?”

I slap my forehead. “Oh my God.” I’d forgotten all about the weird onboarding questionnaire.

Parker raises an eyebrow and starts to juggle. Three bowling pins begin to tumble and flash in the daylight. I've seen this routine and know it won't be long before he pulls in onlookers.

“The light bulb just came on didn't it?” He grins, eyes back on his work.

Queasy comprehension makes me groan. “They asked for my clan affiliation.”

“What did you answer?”

“I wrote, ‘I don't play online games.’ ”

Parker laughs as burning heat scorches my face.

This is the problem with not grasping a lot of social cues. You get to a point where you stop trying and just go with the flow. A ghost of mortifying anxiety ripples down my limbs as I once more picture my date’s narrowed eyes.

“Am I going to get in trouble?” My voice sounds shaky. “For like, impersonating an orc?”

Parker’s eyes roll like they’re about to join in the juggling. “Relax, Harry. Everybody exaggerates online. I once pretended to be a soybean grower to get a shot at a girl on TractorMatch.”

I eye his surfer dude tan and tie-dyed shirt. “And how did that work out for you?” I say with weary patience.

“We’re still dating.” He snickers at my nonplussed blink. “Look, some orc ladies like to swim in the human end of the pool—”

“That sounds gross.”

“And it's not like you're some hopeless prospect. You pull in six-figures, for God’s sake. Something with trains, right?”

“I'm a software engineer,” I correct, zero inflection because he won't remember.

“Oh. That. The ‘engineer’ part always throws me.” Slap. Slap. Slap. The pins hit his palms in perfect time. He's up to four, and their differently-colored metallic stripes almost strobe at the top of their arcs. “I know you like to cook, and you’re not unattractive—”

“There's a compliment.”

“I mean it. My friend Barry keeps asking me if you're gay yet so he can ask you out.”

“Not how being gay works,” I say. The words are tired, no longer heated. My anger is spent, leaving me hollow and discouraged.

“My point is that you’re a catch, my dude. Really.” Pause. “Except for that whole ‘crippling social anxiety’ thing.”

He makes it sound so…containable. Like the fear that's always threatening to wrap my limbs and throat in electric whips can be negated by packing it away into those three little words. If it was that easy I wouldn't be on my third psychiatrist. 

“Message her back,” he suggests.

My stomach churns. I shake my head rapidly, too stricken with a rush of fear to speak. Then comes the inevitable shame, the feeling that I deserve to be this lonely if I can't make myself pursue the one connection that filled me—however briefly—with a rush of hope.

Parker sighs. “Sorry, man. I was only trying to help.”

“I know. Thanks,” I add.

There's a decent gathering drawing close to us now, and I can't help but notice how many are couples. Dammit.

“Do me a favor,” Parker whispers urgently. “Set my donation box on that little foot stool.”

“Why do you have a stool?”

“Park has a rat problem,” he mutters. “Just do it. Great, thanks. One last favor?”

“Anything for my well-meaning friend,” I say drily.

“Throw that bowling ball at me.”

I toss it with gusto. He starts juggling that too, and I can't help but admire the man’s skill even as I continue to curse him in my head.

An hour later, I'm standing at a crosswalk waiting for the light to change. My phone is out and the GreenFlag app is open to the messages screen. I’m staring at the words I've just typed to OliveOriginal.

Harry49: Hey. I'm so sorry. I screwed up last night. Can I explain?

My thumb hovers over the send button. The light changes. As the other pedestrians start across the street, I remain rigidly still. My thumb gives a twitch.

Do it. Just. Fucking. Tap. Send!

I don't see the car that jumps the curb and hits me.

3.

“…waking up. Hey, buddy, can you hear me?”

Consciousness arrives in pieces, like flotsam floating on a sluggish tide of pain. The back of my head is pounding. I try to reach up and examine it, but my shoulder vetoes the idea with a flare of agony. Someone keeps groaning.

Fuck. It’s me.

“Try not to move, okay?” A man’s voice. “You got hit by a car. An ambulance is on the way.”

One of my eyes cracks open. The other refuses. I'm looking at…a license plate? It takes my spinning brain long seconds to piece together the swimming letters. JNGLEKNG.

“…jungle king…”

“Dude just hit you,” the man says. “Then he opened the door and ran. Think he was drunk.”

I don't reply because words are slippery and I can't seem to get a grip on any. I stare at the car. What color is that? Neon urine, I decide. Sirens are approaching. Multiple sirens from different directions. They get louder but never seem to arrive. Time goes fuzzy. More sounds. Slamming doors and low voices.

A woman's voice speaks close to my ear. “Sir?” The word has a crisp edge softened by a hint of gravel. It jolts my senses like good salsa. “Can you hear me?”

This time I manage to pull both eyes open. I'm looking into…

Pistachio pudding. Her eyes are the color of homemade pistachio pudding, pale green with darker flecks. Stunning against the richer green of her skin.

“Pistachio pudding?” she says, looking bemused and concerned.

“What did he say?” A different female voice—alien and breathy, almost a hiss—comes from somewhere beyond the heart-shaped face comprising my world.

“Something about salsa, then pudding. We’ll need the gurney.”

Footsteps fade away, but I don't care. I must be dead. Or I'm still unconscious and hallucinating my ass off, because amidst all of my pain is a singular lovely vision.

“…itsh you…”

“Can you understand me, sir?” She speaks slowly as she moves her head, peering into my eyes. The movement creates a curve of reflected light from a thin sliver ring around one of her tusks, simpler than the gold one she was sporting last night.

“…sivler…” Wow, my tongue is being such a dick right now. “…tried to text…jungle king hit me first…”

Her attractive blue-black brows scrunch together. This close I see she has a smattering of green freckles across her nose and cheeks. She turns away, revealing twin braids that have been coiled into a large, tightly-controlled bun pinned at the back of her head. How did she get all that hair to fit? Dream logic at work.

“Gurney isss up.” The whispery voice again.

“Thanks, Laura,” she says, “he’s talking nonsense. Let’s get him to Souliron General. Better immobilize the leg first.”

“I'll sssplint it.”

Another face swims into view. Its planes are undeniably feminine, but also strange and inhuman, with shiny red carapace taking the place of skin. Glittering black eyes regard me as it—she—shrugs. Oops…not a shrug. What I thought were pronounced shoulders turn out to be a large pair of arms quickly unfolding from the monstrous woman’s back. My suspicion of being trapped in a nightmare is confirmed when I see large red pincers.

“L-l-lobster!” I stutter, grabbing for my ex-blind date’s arm and gasping as my shoulder reminds me that it's out of service.

“Don’t move,” Olive warns, that gravel in her voice slightly more pronounced. “That’s only my partner. She has to splint your leg.”

“I'm a nephro, assshole,” the lobster-woman hisses under her breath. Using her pincers, she maneuvers two long strips of wood towards the mass of pain that might be one of my legs. Two more arms—conventionally located at her actual shoulders—prepare a bundle of white strips using delicate three-fingered hands.

Nephros. Of course. A type of aquatic fae with four arms. They do resemble lobsters superficially, but calling them that is basically a slur. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.

My eyes keep blinking out-of-sync, but I do my best to give Olive a pleading look. “I’m n-not a speciest,” I say, not sure if my words are intelligible. “Just c-confused.”

 She pats the arm that isn't hurting, splitting her attention between me and whatever it is the nephro is doing. “It’s all right. You’re concussed and going into shock.”

“N-not anti-fae,” I insist stubbornly. “N-not why I ran l-last night.”

“Last night?” That pulls her attention back to me. Her pale pretty eyes search my face. I think I see a glimmer of something. A spark.

“S-sorry, Olive,” I whisper.

She blinks. She blinks again. “Harry49?” It's a stunned whisper.

I nod, then moan as my head feels like it's about to split like a cracked cantaloupe.

Olive reaches up and rests her palm against my cheek. Her hand, warm and slightly calloused, feels incredible. I tilt my face into it.

“Just…just don’t move, okay?” Her tone is different. Less professional. She turns to her partner. “I know this patient. He’s…” Her upper teeth worry her kissable bottom lip. “…he’s the human. The one I told you about.”

“Which human?” The nephro woman is busy tying strips around the splint encasing my leg. Her movements are practiced and gentle, but my knee still protests every time she tightens one.

“Last night,” Olive says quietly, her eyes darting to me.

“Him?” says her partner in a sibilant whisper. “Mussst be karma.”

“No. It wasn't like that, I told you—”

“Ma’am? I found this.”

Olive turns her head. My noggin nixes the idea. Instead, I move my eyes to take in a gruff-looking man in a plaid shirt. In his hands he’s holding my phone. The front is a spiderweb of cracks, but the screen is on.

“Thank you.” She takes it and turns to me. “Do you want me to call someone?”

A single pained laugh creaks out of me. My parents are on an anniversary trip, my psychiatrist is out of the country, and Parker may be the only person in the city who doesn't carry a cellphone. Typical. Suddenly, a single idea works its way through the sludge of my thoughts. I raise my good arm.

“Closer…” I breathe. Olive brings the phone screen up as her friend finishes the splint. I put in my security code with trembling fingers.

The phone unlocks, and there, still perfectly readable, is the text to Olive. I tap the send button.

“R-read,” I urge.

Then her partner tightens the last strap over my knee and something shifts with a sharp wrenching sensation. The pain sends me back over the lip of consciousness and I fall into a mushy red-tinged fog.

4.

Harry49 (10:09): Is it crazy to just meet up?

OliveOriginal (10:10): Maybe but I have a good feeling.

OliveOriginal (10:10): You're not at all like other guys I match with.

OliveOriginal (10:11): I like it. You're really funny.

Harry49 (10:13): Lol, maybe I should start managing your expectations.

OliveOriginal (10:14): Manage them in person. Do you know Dashers?

Harry49 (10:14): Wow. Yeah, I know it.

OliveOriginal (10:17): I'll send an invite with the app. Please say you’ll meet me. I want to look into your eyes, not keep sending electrons back and forth lol. I'll wear my best gold dress.

OliveOriginal (10:23): Did my last message go through?

OliveOriginal (10:31): u there?

Harry49 (10:32): I'm here! OK. I'll meet you at Dashers.

Harry49 (6:17): Hey. I'm so sorry. I screwed up last night. Can I please explain?

OliveOriginal (8:08): Yes! I want to explain too. I don't think you'll see this but I'm coming by after my shift to check on you. Hope that's okay.

It's night.

I don't know if it's early or late. I've slept more than once, each time ending with a nurse gently waking me up to make sure there’s no trouble from the concussion.

On the prior wake-up, a doctor was there to report good news—as good as news gets when you’ve been struck by a car. My CT scan confirmed a major concussion, but I'm recovering fast. My shoulder was just severely bruised. My knee had been partially dislocated, but the splint popped it back in, which I guess made passing out worth it.

The bottom line is that I don't need surgery, and my recovery is going to take weeks instead of months. Plus, the drunk asshole who hit me somehow had insurance. My medical expenses are covered. It's an American capitalist hellscape miracle.

So…yay, I guess.

This last time I woke up on my own. I’m still foggy, but now it's a good fog. Instead of being caged by pain, I'm wrapped in pleasant numbness. Not quite enough to be satisfied with the muted infomercial playing on the room’s lone television, but enough that I don't bother calling a nurse to change it.

I wish I knew where my phone was—assuming it's still working. I want to check the GreenFlag messaging app. If I'm being honest, I want to know if everything right after the accident really happened. Had I really seen Olive, or only imagined her? The memory has a saturated fairytale quality like an old Hollywood movie shot in Technicolor.

A quiet knock draws my attention from the British man hawking cookware on TV. My breath stops.

Olive. The orc woman of my dreams is real after all. She stands in the doorway, looking uncertain. Air rushes back in and my heart starts pounding. My racing pulse awakens an answering throb in my knee, but I don't care.

Something in my face must encourage her, because she steps fully into the room after a moment. She's still in her EMT uniform, but her hair is out of its bun, and two blue-black braids trail out-of-sight behind her back. Her expression turns sheepish.

“I’m not supposed to be here,” she says quietly. The hint of husky gravel in her voice prickles my scalp like a massage. “Visiting hours are over, but I know the charge nurse.”

“Please—” It comes out as a croak. I cough and try again. “Come in.” It's better, but not by much. “Small world,” I add after a moment, then immediately feel embarrassed.

She steps closer. Olive is just as attractive in a rumpled EMT uniform as she was last night, but in a different way. She seems more real. Less like a fantasy and more like a woman who, I don't know…I could have a chance with.

Bullshit, snarks my inner jerk. She's still stunning and you're still you.

“I'm glad you're awake,” she says. “Can I…do you want some water?”

I nod, eager for a chance to speak without sounding like a toad. Olive takes half a step towards the bathroom before stopping short. She turns toward me again. Hesitating, she reveals the hand she'd kept behind her back.

Flowers.

She’s brought me flowers. Warmth fills my chest and then rapidly expands to all my extremities when I get a closer look. It's not a “get well” assortment bought from the hospital store, but an honest-to-God bouquet. I see roses and what might be white orchids along with other flowers I can't place, yellow and pink, all wrapped up in a wide ribbon with a heart pattern.

Orcs know what hearts mean, right? Shit…is that an insensitive thing to think? I don’t know. I'm hopped up on pain killers and a beautiful orc woman just brought me flowers and I bet they smell nice and oh God my own heart is gonna punch through my chest and fling itself at her feet.

She sets the bouquet on the tray table thing next to my bed. I notice her hand is a deeper green than the lighter color—don't think mint chocolate chip—of her face. Had I missed that before?

“I read online that humans have a much better sense of smell,” she says, not quite meeting my eyes. “And that they like flowers.” Pause. “I’ll get that water now.”

I instinctively pick up the bouquet as she busies herself at the sink in the attached bathroom. After the harsh antiseptic smells I've been surrounded by all day, the scent of the flowers hits like a narcotic. I blearily wonder how it’s possible for my heart to both melt and keep beating furiously at the same time.

Olive returns with the water and I drink gratefully. She stands there, looking at me with a directness that makes me hyper aware…of me. She seems to realize something with a murmured “oh,” and averts her eyes.

I anxiously look down at my hospital gown, but nothing’s peeking. Then again, I always assume I've screwed up in situations like this.

“Uh,” I say with my newly lubricated throat. “Is something wrong?”

“Huh? No. Not at all.” She suddenly growls a curse under her breath in a language I don't recognize. “I looked away, but not fast enough.”

“Not…fast enough?” Maybe the drugs are stronger than I thought, because I’m struggling to understand what we're talking about.

“I made you uncomfortable?” Now she sounds uncertain. “Again?”

“No?” I say it like a question because she said it like a question, and because I'm frantically trying to catch up. Echoes of my typical panic begin to lurk at the fuzzy boundaries of my drug-enforced calm. “Uh, again?”

“Like last night,” she says, then tilts her head. “Are you…heavily medicated?”

I shake my head. I don't think I am. If anything, my thoughts—and rising social anxiety—seem depressingly normal. I can already feel myself starting to spiral with Olive, like a voice whispering in my brain. It insists there's no way a guy like me could possibly keep even a basic conversation alive, not with this imposing orc woman whose pale green eyes look so tired—

Fuck. I'm an idiot. How had I missed the exhausted way Olive is holding herself? She’s probably coming off a twelve-hour shift.

Dammit, Harry, do something. The tug of basic courtesy yanks me out of my head. “Like to sit down?” I say, nodding at the chair.

The corners of her mouth lift around her tusks in an almost smile. “Thanks. I really would.”

5.

As Olive sits, I mentally flail at all the techniques my various psychiatrists have tried to instill in me over the years. It's a bit like a man falling off a cliff and reaching for scraggly roots at the edge. Maybe it's the meds, or maybe it's the tantalizing reality of Olive herself, but one piece of advice locks in: Clearly communicate what you're feeling.

“I’m glad you're here,” I say.

She looks up, her face showing a mixture of relief and surprise. “You are? I'm not…creeping you out?”

I shake my head. “I'm glad,” I repeat.

“Oh.” She wets her lips, and I find myself staring at them before quickly refocusing on her eyes. Seconds pass. “Do you know much about orcs?” she blurts.

“Uh…” I decide to keep with the honesty. “Only what I see on shows and movies.”

Olive’s mouth crooks up. “So…no.” Her posture tilts earnestly in my direction. “Here's the thing: we're often depicted as rude, and growly, and angry—but we're not. Well, not rude. We're direct.”

I nod along. “Okay. Um, so that means…”

“We say what’s on our minds. No hints. No”—her lip curls derisively—“veiled meanings. Honest words. That's all. Another term is ‘blunt.’ ” Leaning back, she pats at her knees a few times. “It's not a problem when I'm working. It's even a bonus. I just tell people what to do. They want me to. But at times like this…” She sighs. “Some humans think we're mean, but we're not.” She holds up a finger. “Unless the orc in question is a straight-up asshole.”

I'm nodding like I have a spring in my neck. “Sure. Okay.”

“Okay.” Olive’s expression tightens. “So…I need to talk to you like an orc.”

“Isn't that literally what you're doing whenever you talk?” The words are out before I think, and I wince. But then Olive gives an amused snort and her nerves seem to ease. Did I do that? Make her feel better?

“I've been looking up stuff about humans since last night,” she admits. “And I just don't think I can talk in circles like your kind does. Not after a long-ass shift, anyway.” She swings one of her braids forward over her shoulder. It's so long that she can play with the fastener on one end without lifting her hands off her lap. “So…is being blunt all right?”

“It would be a relief,” I tell her honestly. “Not all humans are good at, um, ‘veiled meanings.’ Including me.” Especially me.

“Really?” She brightens, and again I feel an obscure pleasure that I caused this reaction. “Because it would help me if you were direct too.”

I search my feelings carefully. Instead of the instinctive resistance I expect, I feel…eager. Even brave. Maybe here, on this stolen night with Olive, I can step away from the restrictive fears that rule my days.

“All right.” Fresh adrenaline puts a faint vibration in the words. I decide to be bold. “What did you mean about ‘not looking away fast enough?’ ”

“My friends who hang-out with you say that humans dislike ‘intense’ eye contact. What you guys call intense is what most orcs would call ‘using our eyes.’ ” She sounds wryly amused.

“Ah.” Now we both seem to be staring at her hands playing with the end of her braid. “I didn't mind it,” I say after a second, “I just wasn't expecting it. Now…I will.”

Like I’d flipped a switch, she looks up. That pale green gaze studies my face with the same scrutiny as before. It's a little unnerving, but also exhilarating. To be the sole recipient of Olive’s attention makes me feel a little drunk.

“My best friend thinks you’re a perv,” she says.

My fledgling exhilaration pops. I blink so many times that my eyelids are in danger of building muscle. “W-what?” I stammer. “Why?”

“I don't agree with her,” Olive says quickly. “It’s just…when you saw me last night, you sort of turned red. Gorrleene—that’s my friend—saw it happen. She was nearby in case you were a creep.”

“How does a-a blush make me a perv?” I ask. My face begins to heat like I've called the same blush to the witness stand to testify. Dammit.

Olive’s chin tips down as she sees the color I can feel creeping up my neck. “Oh, it doesn't. I know on humans it just means embarrassment.” She sounds a little distracted. “But when orc complexions darken, it means something else.”

I don't need to guess what it means, not when she's staring with slightly parted lips and hooded eyes. My body stirs as arousal picks this exact moment to wake up and see what's going on outside. Part of me wants to recklessly flirt, to confirm the reaction I think I'm seeing with Olive. A wiser part knows better; any sexual contact in my condition is liable to make all my parts…come apart. Especially if a fit orc woman is involved.

“I guess orcs don't blush?” I say a tad breathlessly.

She gives off a low laugh with an appealing scrape to it. “We do,” she says. “It’s just…hmm.” Olive hesitates, then raises her hand to show me. The back is still a deeper green than the rest of her. “It shows here. I've been ‘blushing’ since I brought you the flowers. I was worried you might reject them.”

I realize something. What Olive has told me about speaking bluntly doesn't mean that she—and probably every other orc—doesn’t care, just that they speak the truth anyway. The casual courage of that rouses a sense of chagrin, powering me to more reckless heights.

“You should know something,” I abruptly confess. “I…suffer from extreme social anxiety. Bad enough that I’m in therapy for it.”

She studies me carefully. “Did something happen to you?”

“Oh…no. Nothing I'm aware of. It's just the way I'm built.” I offer a weak smile. “Sometimes I like to believe that the parts of me that are brilliant at coding are the same parts that make my mind spin out when I don't have precise rules to follow.” I shrug with my good shoulder. “But anything's possible. Maybe a kid punched me in the face in kindergarten and I've blocked it out.”

 Olive laughs, and it feels like a sprinkle of sunlight.

“I'm just…a little broken,” I continue softly. “Or at least cracked. And that is why I ran away at Dashers.”

“I thought it was because I called you pink—which only happened due to surprise,” she says hastily.

“I mean…I am pink. Or, I guess I was more red at the time.”

“You were.” She bites her lip. “Honestly? It was kind of a turn-on.” She holds up a warning hand. “But don't tell Gorrleene I said that or we’ll both get called pervs.”

6.

I laugh, amazed that the band of tension—usually crunching my chest into a singularity by now—is a no-show. Most conversations with attractive women turn me into a stammering wreck. The question arises again: is it the drugs, or is it Olive? This time I’m leaning toward a definite answer.

“After you sent that invite,” I tell her, “I spent hours spinning these elaborate scenarios in my head. What kind of table would we sit at? Will it be noisy? What drink should I order? Does she dance? Does she dance well? Will she expect me to dance well?”

“She does dance,” Olive answers lightly, “but with more enthusiasm than skill.” She studies me. “Would you dance with me?”

“Yes,” I say, surprising myself. “Heh. See? That's good data to have.” My expression slips as I recall how nervous I was. “It’s tiring, you know? Always preparing to be ‘social’ like I'm practicing a play in my head. It helps, though.” What's left of my smile turns rueful. “The problem is that none of my scenarios prepared me for you.”

“For an orc, you mean.” She doesn’t sound offended.

“For an orc…in all her splendor,” I say softly.

“Oh,” Olive says.

And then I actually see it: color deepening her hands, flushing along her fingers. A thrill arcs up my spine. I did that. My words caused it; I'm not the only one being affected by this intimate exchange.

She folds her hands together like she’s trying to make them smaller and clears her throat. “You surprised me too,” she says. “I had no idea humans could even join GreenFlag.”

“It’s in beta,” I say. “I think they take anybody.”

There’s a longer pause, and Olive manages to make the growl in her voice sound almost delicate. “Gorrleene said you were probably an ivory hunter.” I wince at the slang, knowing it’s a term for humans who fetishize orcs.

“I'm n—”

“But then I remembered how gobsmacked you looked.”

“I didn't know about GreenFlag,” I answer, reviving my embarrassment from before. “My friend Parker told me about it. What he didn’t tell me was that it was for orcs and goblins. If I’d known I wouldn’t have signed up.”

“How did you get past the survey without realizing?”

“It was…I…” I cover my face with my hands. “Let’s just say I was deeply clueless. Can I wait to share the gory details when I’m less exposed? Like, wearing more than a hospital gown?”

Her soft laugh gives me the strength to lower my hands. “Sure,” she says. “So that's what happened. You saw me and got overwhelmed.” It’s not a question, and it’s accurate, so I don’t answer. She nods to herself, gazing past me at the wall. Then her pretty eyes find me again, and it’s surreal how much I enjoy being pinned by her stare. “I guess you don’t date a lot of fae women?”

“In college I was once shot down by a half-elf. Does that count?”

“Being shot down by an elf is a rite of passage,” she says with a wink.

Somehow, all of my shameful admissions haven't resulted in the outcome I expected. There's no pity in Olive’s eyes, or darting glances toward the exit. If anything, she's only gotten more animated as we’ve talked. I realize, with growing astonishment, that I appear to be holding up just fine. I'm not confessing, I'm conversing.

Emboldened, I say, “In my defense, there’s also your screen name. ‘OliveOriginal.’ Olive is a human name.”

“True,” she concedes. “My actual name is Ogliva. I got the nickname during my EMT training—well, during an epic bar crawl after the first exam kicked our asses. It stuck.” She taps her cheek. “Plus I love the pun. How it matches my skin tone.”

“It doesn't,” I say automatically. “You’re mint chocolate chip, not olive.”

She blinks. “What?”

I squench my eyes shut. “God, sorry. I’m really sorry. It just came out. I’m on multiple painkillers.” No response. I open my eyes and am surprised to see her looking at me with curiosity, not anger.

“You think my skin tone looks like mint chocolate chip…ice cream?” she asks.

I nod before I can stop myself. Dammit, head, you’re off my Christmas list. “Y-es.” I say aloud, giving in. “I apologize. I’m not objectifying you. I know the whole ‘equating skin tone with food’ thing is bad. I swear I’m not an…an ivory hunter.”

“Gorrleene said that, not me.” She purses her lips. “Do you like mint chocolate chip ice cream?”

“It’s my favorite flavor.” I can feel the heat creeping up my face again, and knowing that my blush is sending mixed signals only speeds it along. “I cook,” I add faintly. “It’s my main hobby. I like to try new recipes and so I’m often thinking about food.”

“And you often think about people in terms of flavors?”

“Eh…no,” I admit. “You, um, you’re the first.”

“Mm.” Despite her noncommittal answer, she looks amused and maybe even pleased. Olive shifts forward in the chair, putting her elbow on her knee and cupping her chin. “Do I get to think about you in terms of food?” She's using what I hope—and pray—is a teasing tone.

“Yes,” I say at once. “Of course.”

“Maybe I will.” Her throaty laugh brushes along the joints of my spine like strong fingers.

Good Lord…I could get addicted to that laugh.

There's a lull for a few seconds, and we both enjoy the shared quiet. Then she abruptly straightens. I watch her take a deep breath.

“I’ll say some things now,” Olive announces.

My brow furrows at the odd phrasing. She smooths her hands over her navy blue work pants. A stray thought about how well her body fills out an EMT uniform passes by, but my brain is still distracted by that last sentence. I’m struck by how…edgy she suddenly appears.

“Are you about to be extra blunt?” I guess, my own pulse accelerating.

Her eyes fly wide, searching mine. “How did you know that?”

“A feeling.”

Olive appraises me. “You’re observant,” she says.

I give a self-deprecating snort. “I've spent my whole life cataloging tiny social cues. Trying to puzzle them out.” I pat my legs in an unconscious imitation of her, fidgeting from my own nerves. “Go ahead,” I say. “You can tell me.”

She’s quiet a moment longer. Then: “You remember what I said before? About orcs being direct? That's cultural. It's not ingrained like…” Her brow creases in thought. “…like the way pixies are mischievous. Just because we're honest, it doesn’t mean…” She falters.

“It doesn’t mean you don’t care about the outcome.”

“Yes.” Olive looks at me with surprised pleasure. “Exactly. You sure you don’t hang out with orcs?”

“I barely hang out with humans,” I respond, chuckling weakly.

The corner of her mouth quirks. “Well…here goes then.” She squares her shoulders. “I’m a little crazy about you, Harry.”

I fall completely still.

Olive nods sharply. “There. That’s the thing I needed to say.”

7.

Olive’s remarkable green eyes own my gaze. I try to remind myself to breathe.

“Your messages made me laugh so much,” she tells me, “and that doesn't happen. Not to me. And we kept messaging and I started to get this…this good feeling. About you. That never happens, not with any dating app I've used.” An almost shy expression crosses her face. “When I first saw you, I admit I was shocked. I had to keep checking your orange shoes to make sure! But then…”

“What?” Forget breathing, forget blinking, I am desperate for her next words.

“You’re cute, Harry. Really cute. Even without tusks. You’re so sweet and you have gorgeous brown eyes. Did you know I was planning to message you back? I would have. Even without your last text. The thought of missing a second chance—” She shakes her head, refusing to finish the sentence. “It doesn't matter. We found each other again. And now I have butterflies.”

I finally gulp in some air. “B-butterflies?”

She nods, absently rubbing her belly. “Swarms of them. Just fluttering around. They won’t give me a fucking break.” She laughs.

Dear Lord, I mentally plead, please don’t let this all be a coma dream. Out loud, because I’m way too dumb to let a good thing go unquestioned, I say, “You don't think you'll have a problem dating a human?”

Olive shrugs, playing with her braid again. “You said you might be a little broken, right?” When I nod, she swallows. “The thing is, I’m broken too. In my world, in my culture, physical violence is a way of life. Non-lethal brawling is considered perfectly reasonable in most situations. I used to believe that too.”

“But you don't any more?”

 She shakes her head. “I’ve been dealing with contusions and shattered noses for years now. And after searching for missing teeth on asphalt while children cry over their injured parent—more than once—it all starts to seem…really fucking wasteful.” She offers a sad smile. “And I can’t risk telling that to another orc, especially not on a blind date.”

“Wow…I'm really happy you told me,” I say, quietly thrilled to be confided in.

Her throat works, and I think I see another darkening along the backs of her hands. “What about you?” she says brightly, clearly eager for a subject change. “No issues with growly green girls?”

I take a steadying breath, determined to repay her honesty. “You’re beautiful, Olive. I've thought that since I first saw you and panicked. And I like the way your voice sounds.” I want to add more, but my throat turns dry. Shit…this “naked truth” stuff takes getting used to.

“I can say the same,” she replies quietly. “In fact…I may have had a dream about you last night. In it you said…encouraging things.”

Her complexion colors then. Not by much, but enough for me to notice. I’ve seen an orc blush, so I know that this is a sign of pure arousal. Hastily, I arrange the folds of my hospital blanket to make sure I’m not revealing a sign of my own. Her attentive eyes flick down at the movement, and I catch an approving glint. I awkwardly cough.

“Anyway,” she says, “I don't suppose it will be an issue…for either of us.” Schooling her face, she takes another deep breath. Her gaze returns to mine, scrutinizing. It's strange, but her focused attention already feels more caring than intrusive. “What are you thinking?” she finally asks.

It takes time to round up my happily reeling wits. “I’m thinking…I may be glad that car hit me.”

“Don’t even joke about that,” she growls, but her nose does this adorable scrunch and her eyes are dancing below her stern brow. “But the accident reminds me: about the flowers…did you really like them? They're not an orc thing, so I wasn't sure.”

“I’ll say this,” I answer. “Men aren't usually given flowers in human society.” Olive frowns, and that's when I release the brakes on the smile that's been trying to take over my face. I turn it loose on a person I am starting to suspect is wonderful inside and out. “Which made it an amazing gesture. I love the flowers. And the ribbon you wrapped them in.”

She beams. “I didn’t want you to think I bought generic gift shop ‘get well’ crap. I went to a florist.”

“Brilliant move.” I keep trying to act normal, but the dumb smile isn’t making it easy.

Olive laughs, and I can almost see her releasing the tension she'd built up prior to her confession.

She likes me. She thinks I’m cute. I give her butterflies.

Olive relaxes into the chair, the stiff lines of her posture softening pleasantly. “So…I hear they’re releasing you in the morning,” she says casually, “and I happen to be off tomorrow.” Pause. “Would you like a ride home?”

“It would be the highlight of my month,” I say truthfully. “And if I'm up for it, maybe we can stop for breakfast?”

“If you're up for it. I can be a very stern medical professional.” She sounds almost prim, but her grin undermines the effect. “If we go, I’m paying. I get to take you out for our first date.”

A strange warmth spreads out from my chest and fills me from my feet to my still-aching head. “Deal.”

Olive’s lips curl up around her tusks. It's a uniquely orcish smile, but I bet the way her nose scrunches and eyes squeeze is special to her. They sparkle, those eyes; I could stare into them all day.

“Breakfast tomorrow,” she agrees. “Or more like brunch. This place is gonna bury you in release forms.” Her words make me laugh, and I'm awarded with another Olive smile.

She abruptly reaches out and lays her palm over my hand. Her fingers slowly curl around me. I stare at our nestled hands next to my hip. After a moment Olive’s thumb begins to move, gently rubbing across my wrist. Her faint callous creates a wonderful sensation.

“That’s nice,” I murmur. “Feels very—” My breath hitches as her other hand brushes into my hair. I lay there, quietly stunned, as her fingers begin to thread through it. There is something so innately…caring…about the movement, a lump rises in my throat.

“Is this okay?” Olive whispers.

Not trusting myself to speak, I simply nod. She keeps brushing her fingers along my scalp until stress begins to run out of my joints like water. In a few minutes I barely know where I'm at.

“I love the way your hair feels,” she says. I think I mumble a few random syllables.

She asks if I'm good a few more times, and the noises I make—definitely not words—convince her to keep going. Long minutes later, or maybe it's years, her hand lifts away.

“Harry?”

“Mmm?”

“Want a goodnight kiss?”

My lids raise up. Olive is looking down at me, eyes luminous with an emotion I can't quite identify.

“Yes,” I breathe.

Her teeth pillow into her bottom lip, a look of anticipation. Then she leans down. I feel the warmth of her face beside my skin.

“Close your eyes,” she whispers. I do.

Soft lips press into mine, and I notice the cool metal of her tusk ring against my cheek. The kiss is achingly sweet. Then she parts her lips, and it becomes earthier, a promise of future kisses. We nibble and nip, a series of tender exchanges with just a touch of heat. She tastes like mint, and for once I don't fight the association. One of us makes a soft yearning sound. Might have been both of us. 

When she draws back, her eyes are hooded and hazy. “Good night, Harry.”

“Night.” My head is spinning. Apparently the painkillers and endorphins have decided to team up and send me rushing toward blissful drowsiness. “Olive…would you stay till I'm asleep? Won't take long.”

Without saying a word, Olive slides her chair closer. She drags a second one over and sits down, putting her legs up on the opposite seat. Leaning her shoulder against the bed, she reaches over and takes my hand again.

“Cotton candy,” she rasps quietly. “Your skin makes me think of cotton candy.” She lifts our hands and plants a soft kiss on the back of mine before returning it. She doesn't let go.

I smile, feeling almost high on her touch, as Olive starts idly circling her thumb over my candy skin.

Over and over…over and over…and…over…

I don't know which of us falls asleep first. When I drift away our clasped hands have gone completely still, as warm and cozy as a dreaming couple.