Page 40 of Pumpkin Spice & Orc Cinnamon Roll
I press my hand gently over the bandaged part of his arm. “You always try to carry it all by yourself.”
He lets out a long, weary breath. “Because I was never taught how to ask for help without seeing it as weakness.”
“And I was never taught how to trust without giving up too much of myself,” I say quietly, my eyes stinging. “We’re both learning new things.”
He looks at me like I’ve just told him the moon is his, and he’s not sure how to hold it.
“I thought you hated me,” he says.
“I did,” I reply, then smile softly. “For a little while. But mostly I hated how much I still loved you. How much I wanted to believe you were stillhim.The boy who carved me acorns and brushed snow out of my hair. And it turns out… you are. You’ve just been buried under a whole lot of guilt and ambition and pine sap.”
His mouth twitches, almost a smile. “I never stopped wanting to protect you.”
“I know,” I say. “But I don’t need a protector. I need apartner.Someone who stands beside me, not ahead of me.”
I rise and hold out my hand. “Come with me.”
He looks surprised. “Where?”
“You’ll see,” I say, tugging him gently to his feet.
We walk in silence, past the back fence of the shop, through the brittle grass and fallen leaves where the path narrows and turns soft with moss. The woods are quieter than usual this time of year—birds half-gone to migration, wind muted under the weight of waiting frost.
When we reach the old tree, the one shaped like a crooked wishbone where the two sugar maples twist around each other like lovers, I stop.
“This was my hideaway,” I say, brushing back a low branch. “When I was little, I’d sneak out here with a thermos of lukewarm cocoa and dream about a life that felt big enough to hold me, but still small enough to feel like home.”
He looks around like he’s memorizing it, his burned hand hanging loose at his side, the other fisting and flexing with that familiar tension he only shows when he’s feeling too much.
“You brought me here once,” he says after a moment. “You were wearing that ridiculous scarf with the pumpkin buttons. I remember thinking you looked like a spell I’d never figure out.”
I laugh, then press my hand to the trunk. “If you want to protect something… start here.”
He tilts his head. “The tree?”
“No, dummy,” I say with a watery smile. “Me. Us. This.”
I take his hand, burned and all, and guide it to my chest.
“Starthere,Drogath. But do it beside me. Not above. Not alone. Not in secret. If you want to build something—build it with me.”
His eyes shine in the dappled light.
And for once, he doesn’t try to speak around it.
He just leans forward, presses his forehead to mine, and exhales like he’s finally allowed to breathe.
And somewhere in the stillness of these old woods, I feel our roots begin to grow back together.
Slow. Tender. Strong.
CHAPTER 20
DROGATH
The ridge is quiet when I arrive. Not silent—Maple Hollow never truly is—but still in that reverent kind of way, the kind that makes even the wind hesitate as it threads through the maples. Leaves scatter across the dirt road like coins tossed in offering, and the sky above is painted with the sharp, clear blue that only happens after the last of summer has finally let go.
Bramley stands near the cider barrels, arms crossed, eyes narrowed, wearing that old scowl that means he’s worried and trying not to show it. Tara’s perched on a crate beside him, flicking her braid over one shoulder and sipping mulled wine like this is a front-row seat to the season’s best drama. Half the village is here, packed onto the rise in scarves and boots and hopeful suspicion, murmuring among themselves in voices just low enough to make my skin crawl.
