Page 50 of Pumpkin Spice & Orc Cinnamon Roll
That’s how long I manage before I’m staring at the ceiling, arms crossed, covers bunched, listening to the wind rustle the shutters and wondering if he’s as restless as I am.
Spoiler alert: he is.
At just past midnight, I hear it—a soft tap against the windowpane. I leap up and fumble with the latch so fast I nearly drop the candle.
He’s there, just outside, standing in the moonlight with his hair a little messy and his expression sheepish in the way that only happens when a giant orc is trying to pretend he wasn’t pacing for an hour.
“You couldn’t sleep either,” I say, setting the candle down.
He shakes his head. “Your window’s too small. I can’t climb through it.”
“That’s probably for the best,” I laugh. “You’d take out half the wall.”
He leans close to the glass, voice low. “You okay?”
“I miss your snoring.”
“Idon’tsnore.”
“Then you’ve got a rogue bear in your lungs.”
He huffs, but I can see the twitch of a smile at the corner of his mouth. “You miss me?”
I step closer to the window, pressing my hand to the glass. “Like crazy.”
He mirrors me, his palm against mine through the pane. The glass is cool, but his warmth somehow reaches me anyway.
We talk like that for hours.
Not just about wedding details or guests or where we should hang the garlands tomorrow—but about everything. The scent of cinnamon in the cider this year. The way the stars look sharper tonight. How the glade already feels different with that sapling tucked into its roots.
At one point, he rests his forehead against the window and whispers, “I can’t believe I get to marry you.”
I close my eyes, my breath fogging the pane. “I can’t believe I get tokeepyou.”
Eventually, the sky begins to lighten—soft blush-pink blooming behind the trees—and the birds begin their morning gossip. My back aches from leaning against the sill, but I don’t care.
He doesn’t move.
And neither do I.
When the first slant of sunlight touches the porch, he whispers, “I’ll see you at the altar.”
I nod, voice caught somewhere behind my smile. “Don’t forget the crown.”
He grins, tusks gleaming. “Don’t forget your boots.”
And then he’s gone, disappearing into the morning mist, leaving behind nothing but his breath on the glass and the wild, unstoppable thrum of joy building in my chest.
Because today’s the day.
And it feels like everything—every leaf, every step, every break and bloom—has led us right here.
CHAPTER 26
DROGATH
They say orcs don’t get nervous.
