Page 19 of Pumpkin Spiced Orc
He leans back on his elbows, face tilted toward the light. “What happened with Garruk?”
I don’t answer right away. The air buzzes with the quiet hum of crickets, the rustle of apple limbs above. I can’t lie—not easily, not with the orchard eavesdropping.
“I kissed him,” I say finally.
Brody doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch. Just blinks slow, like I’ve dropped a glass at his feet.
“Well,” he says after a moment. “That explains the way he’s been pacing behind the barn like a caged bear with a broken compass.”
I roll my eyes. “Don’t be dramatic.”
“He looks like he wants to tear something in half. Might be a fence post. Might be me.”
“He’s not violent.”
“He’svolatile,” Brody corrects. “And you? You’ve got a knack for lighting fuses and walking away.”
I sigh. “I didn’t plan any of this.”
He shrugs. “No one does.”
He leaves a few minutes later without another word, and I sit there until the sun breaks through the clouds and warms the back of my neck just enough to make me stand.
I don’t go looking for Garruk.
I just… happen to walk toward the barn.
The doors are open, sun filtering through the slats like ribbons of gold across the packed earth floor. I find him near the workbench, carving something again—knife moving with slow precision, wood shavings curling down like feathers. He doesn’t look up, but his shoulders go rigid.
“You avoiding me?” he says without turning.
“Hard to avoid someone in a five-acre orchard.”
“Don’t play smart.”
“It’s the only kind I know how to play.”
He exhales through his nose. “You kissed me.”
“Technically, yes. That happened.”
“And then you left.”
“You didn’t stop me.”
He turns then, and the expression on his face is part thunderstorm, part open wound. “I didn’t stop you because I thought maybe you needed space. Because I didn’t want to scare you.”
“Scare me?” I laugh, dry. “Garruk, you’re terrifying even when you’re being nice.”
“Then why did you kiss me?” he asks, voice low, gravel-edged. “Why do that if you’re not staying? If this—” he gestures between us, fierce and helpless, “—means nothing to you?”
I feel it then. All of it. Every damned whisper in the orchard, every glance, every breath we’ve shared since I stepped foot back on this cursed land. And I don’t have an answer, not a good one.
So I cross the barn, step by aching step, and stop in front of him.
“Itdoesmean something,” I say. “I’m just not sure what.”
He stares at me for a long time, then slowly sets the carving aside.
