Page 49 of Pumpkin Spice & Orc Cinnamon Roll
“You sure you don’t want a string quartet?” Tara asks as she tries to balance a crate of cider bottles while simultaneously sampling from every single one.
“I’m sure,” I say, mouth full of apple fritter, holding a length of russet linen up to the windowlight to check the stitch. “Bramley’s nephews are bringing fiddles. That’s more than enough strings.”
“What about a goat parade?” she continues, totally serious, not even flinching. “Glenna’s herd just had a fresh batch of babies. They’re training them to wear little flower crowns.”
I stare at her. “Are you asking if I want goats in formalwear at my wedding?”
“I’m saying we could put a tiny bell on the lead goat and call it the ring bearer,” she says without blinking.
I spit cider everywhere. “You’re terrible.”
“Youloveit,” she smirks, dropping the crate with a satisfying clink.
I do love it, actually. I loveallof it—the bustle, the noise, the last-minute debates about which orchard path should host the guests and whether the barn bunting clashes with the hay bale seating. I love that Miss Fenley’s knitting lace doilies for the cider table even though no one asked her to. I love that Bramley won’t stop muttering about how “marrying an orc better come with earthquake insurance,” even as he builds us the sturdiest dance floor Maple Hollow has ever seen.
The whole town has shown up, with baskets and banjos and bundles of dried herbs. Someone donated a cider press. Someone else carved a cake topper shaped like two squirrels holding paws. There's talk of aerial acrobatics involving a halfling and a pulley system, which I’ve chosen to ignore for the sake of my sanity.
As for me—I’m stitching my own gown. Soft russet linen the color of fallen leaves, embroidered with golden thread in curling vines and tiny acorns along the hem, every stitch a prayer for a steady future. It’s not perfect, not like something off a boutique mannequin, but it’s mine, woven with joy and a hundred happy interruptions.
“Stop hunching,” Maude scolds, thumping me between the shoulder blades as I work. “You’ll cramp your posture and your future children’ll be born with uneven shoulders.”
“That’s not how posture works, Maude.”
“Tell that to my cousin’s niece. Married a gnome with a slouch, now their kid walks in circles.”
I blink. “...Are youcursingmy wedding with gnome children?”
Maude just grins and wanders off muttering about tea blends.
I shake my head and go back to my gown, fingers dancing over the golden thread like I’m coaxing the leaves into bloom.
Drogath, of course, is handling things his own way. Quiet, precise, secretly sentimental. He disappears for a day and returns with a crown he carved himself from oakwood, polished to a soft sheen and inlaid with thin bands of copper that gleam like captured firelight.
When he places it in my hands, he doesn’t say a word. Just watches me touch it, eyes full of that steady, storm-warm gaze that makes my knees wobble in ways they absolutely should not before a wedding.
“It’s perfect,” I whisper.
His voice is rough when he finally speaks. “So are you.”
Later that evening, he walks me to the porch of my childhood home with a stubborn kind of gentleness I’ve learned means he’s holding back about five different romantic gestures and trying to respect tradition.
“You sure you want to do this separate-house thing?” he asks, thumb brushing the back of my hand.
“It’s one night,” I say, though I’m already regretting it a little. “Just until morning.”
“Feels longer,” he mutters.
“Be strong, warrior,” I tease, poking his chest. “You’ve fought dragons. You can survive one evening without me hogging the covers.”
He leans down, breath tickling my cheek. “I like when you hog the covers.”
I roll my eyes, but my smile gives me away.
He kisses my forehead and steps back, letting the night fall quiet between us.
I make it two hours.
Two.
