The lounge of the Harmony Matchmaking Agency was basically a romance bomb waiting to explode. Candles—hundreds of them—flickered like they were auditioning for a seduction scene, casting wiggly shadows on crimson silk tablecloths. Each table sported a lone rose, screaming “kiss already!” while plush velvet chairs begged couples to get cozy. At the room’s center stood a massive decorative tree, its branches sturdy enough for a harpy to perch like a feathered queen, its leaves twinkling with enchanted dew that looked like someone had sprinkled glitter on a budget. Soft jazz slinked through the air, the saxophone’s sultry notes practically whispering, “Hey, you two, make bad decisions.” The vibe was equal parts romance and raw, sweaty desire—like the room was daring everyone to fall in love or at least rip each other’s clothes off.

  Gorg, the hulking orc, sat at one table, looking like a nervous boulder. His green skin gleamed under the candlelight, his tusks catching the glow as he fiddled with his wine gss like it was a puzzle he couldn’t solve. His leather tunic strained against his chiseled pecs, and his calloused hands kept clenching and unclenching, broadcasting “I’m freaking out” louder than a goblin’s war drum. Across from him, Fira, the harpy, radiated confidence like she’d invented it. Her white wings, vast and pristine, were folded with regal grace, their feathers shimmering like a fresh snowfall. Her golden eyes sparkled with mischief, and her lithe body—wrapped in a gossamer dress that hugged every curve—moved like a predator sizing up dinner. Her taloned feet tapped the floor, a subtle flex of her wild side, like she was saying, “Yeah, I’m hot and I could cw your face off.”

  Behind a one-way gss panel, Lukas was a sweaty, panicking mess, clutching a notepad like it was his lifeline to sanity. His heart was doing backflips, and his first match felt like a tightrope walk over a pit of dragons. What if they hate each other? What if the crystal’s 70% was a drunk intern’s typo? What if I tank this and end up selling my socks for bread money? His mind was a disaster movie, starring him as the guy who trips and sets everything on fire. And then there was Sylra, standing next to him, her succubus aura hitting him like a lust-fvored sledgehammer. She was still rocking the bck ce bra and panties combo, her curves a walking distraction. Her tail brushed his leg, and his cock perked up like it had just been called to the principal’s office. No! Bad penis! This is a workpce, not a… whatever this is! He shifted, trying to hide the bulge in his trousers, his face burning hotter than a dwarven forge.

  Sylra caught his squirming and smirked, her crimson eyes glinting like she was reading his soul’s dirtiest pages. “Rex, darling,” she purred, her voice a mix of comfort and teasing that made his knees wobble. “I was a nervous wreck on my first match, too. But trust me, love—or at least a good romp—always finds a way.” Her hand nded on his shoulder, sending a jolt of heat straight to his groin, his erection now staging a full-on rebellion against his pants. Oh, gods, why am I like this? Focus, Lukas, focus! He nodded, forcing his eyes back to the lounge, scribbling nonsense on his notepad like “candlelight = romantic, probably.”

  Gorg cleared his throat, his voice rumbling like a distant avanche. “Your wings… they’re beautiful. Like moonlight on a frozen ke.” It was clumsy but sweet, his eyes wide with awe as he stared at Fira’s feathers. Okay, solid start, big guy, Lukas thought, scribbling furiously. Poetry’s not dead, apparently.

  Fira’s lips curled into a coy smile, and she stretched her wings to their full, glorious span, feathers rustling like a soft breeze. The candlelight danced across them, turning her into a glowing angel of temptation. “Thank you, big guy,” she said, her voice a teasing melody that could melt steel. “Want to touch them? They’re softer than they look.”

  Gorg’s eyes bugged out, his breath hitching. “Can I?” he asked, sounding like a kid offered unlimited candy. When Fira nodded, he reached out, his massive hand shaking like he was defusing a bomb. His fingers brushed her wing, the feathers silky as a cloud’s daydream, and he gaped like he’d discovered magic. Then—a soft, unmistakable moan slipped from Fira’s lips. Gorg froze, his hand stuck mid-air, his brain clearly blue-screening. Did I imagine that? Lukas imagined him thinking, because holy hell, I heard it too! Lukas’s pen hovered over his notepad, his own heart pounding. Is this allowed? Should I write ‘moaning’ down? Is that a metric?

  Gorg resumed, more cautiously, his fingers tracing a feather’s curve. Another moan, louder and dripping with intent, filled the air. Fira’s golden eyes locked onto his, her pyful vibe morphing into full-on seductress mode. Her lips parted, her tongue flicking out to wet them, and she leaned forward, her body screaming “take me now.” Her hips swayed, her dress creeping up to reveal smooth, taut thighs. “You like that, don’t you?” she murmured, her voice pure velvet sin. “Keep going, Gorg. Let’s see how much you can handle.”

  Lukas’s jaw hit the floor. What is happening?! Are they about to… right here? On the table? His cock throbbed, and he cursed his body’s terrible timing. Not now, you horny gremlin! We’re professionals! Gorg’s trousers were visibly tighter, the outline of his arousal impossible to miss. His hand lingered on her wing, bolder now, and Fira’s moans came faster, each one a spark to his obvious desire. Her taloned foot slid under the table, brushing his leg in a move so deliberate it could’ve been choreographed. “If you’re this good with my wings,” she whispered, “imagine what else we could do. Want to fly with me, big guy?

  ”Before Gorg could answer, Fira unched skyward with a powerful wingbeat, the gust sending napkins flying like confetti at a bad party. Her taloned feet cmped onto Gorg’s shoulders, lifting him slightly from his chair. The orc’s eyes popped wide, his hands filing like he was trying to swat a swarm of bees. Fira’s ughter was wild, almost manic, her wings beating steadily as she hovered, Gorg dangling like a very confused Christmas ornament.

  Lukas’s notepad hit the floor with a sad thunk. “What the actual hell is she doing?!” he hissed, his voice cracking like a pubescent goblin’s. His heart was sprinting, visions of his career imploding fshing before him. Is this in the handbook? Did I skip the chapter on ‘harpies yeeting orcs’? I’m fired. I’m so fired. “Is this part of the date? Did I miss a memo about mid-air wrestling?”

  Sylra’s usual cool-girl vibe cracked, her eyes narrowing as she watched the chaos unfold. “Oh, gods,” she muttered, her tail flicking like an anxious cat’s. “This is bad. Capital-B Bad.” She spun to Lukas, her voice sharp. “In harpy culture, inviting someone to ‘fly’ is basically a neon sign saying, ‘Let’s have sex, like, yesterday.’ She’s trying to whisk him to her nest for a very… enthusiastic romp.”

  Lukas blinked, his face turning tomato-red as his brain painted a vivid picture of Fira and Gorg tangled In a treetop love nest, feathers flying, moans echoing. Nope, nope, brain, stop it! His cock, predictably, thought this was the best idea ever, and he shifted awkwardly. “Sex? Already? They just met!” he squeaked, sounding like he’d inhaled helium. “Isn’t that… good? They’re vibing, right?” Please say yes so I don’t have to write ‘catastrophic date failure’ in my report.

  Sylra shook her head, her expression grim. “Not for an orc. Being lifted or carried—especially in public—is like spitting on their honor. It’s a challenge, Lukas. Fira might as well have challenged him to a cage match. He’s not seeing sexy times; he’s seeing a fight.”

  Lukas’s stomach did a swan dive. “A fight? Oh, shit.” I’m not a matchmaker; I’m a disaster catalyst. He gnced at Gorg, whose shock was hardening into a scowl, his fists clenching as Fira held him aloft. The orc’s pride was clearly taking a beating, his eyes narrowing as he growled, “Put me down, harpy. You think you can mock me?”