Page 16 of Pumpkin Spice & Orc Cinnamon Roll
It slips out before I can stop it.
Silence drops like a weight. The words echo a little too loud in the loft’s open air.
I freeze, cheeks going hot, hands still knotted around the twine garland like it might save me from tumbling headlong into emotional chaos.
Behind me, I hear the soft shift of boots on wood, the low creak of the hayloft floorboards beneath Drogath’s weight.
He says, “That why you’re scared of both?”
“I’mnot—” I start to snap, but the ladder shifts.
Just an inch. A wobble.
It’s enough.
My foot slips on a patch of loose straw, and I pitch forward with a yelp, fingers scrambling for balance that isn’t there.
But Drogath is.
His arms are around me before the ladder can even tilt again, solid and warm and absurdly strong as he catches me against his chest like I weigh nothing. My breath slams into my lungs, my whole body stiff, and suddenly we’reclose. Closer than we’ve been in years.
His hands are on my waist, anchoring me.
Mine are clenched in the front of his coat, knuckles white.
And there’s nothing between us but about three inches of air and a decade of unfinished sentences.
Dust floats in the amber light streaming through the slats in the roof, catching on the faint breeze from the open hayloft door.Everything smells like dried clover and old wood, and his scent—pine, leather, faint smoke—wraps around me like it never left.
His eyes are molten gold. Focused. Still. Watching me like I might shatter and he’s terrified to be the one who causes it.
“You okay?” he asks, voice low, rough-edged with something too tender for comfort.
I nod.
But I don’t move.
Because suddenly I can feel the echo of every kiss we ever shared. The way he used to tilt his head, just so, when he was about to brush his lips over mine. The way his tusks framed his mouth, sharp and beautiful, when he smiledonly for me. The way his hands—those same hands currently holding me steady—used to cup my face like I was the only soft thing in a hard world.
My heart stutters. Stumbles. Starts to gallop.
He leans in.
Only a little. Barely enough to register.
But Ifeelit.
The intention in his breath. The weight of all the things he’s not saying. The apology curled up between us like a leaf waiting to fall.
Part of mewantsit.
Wants to give in. To kiss him and forget the years and the ache and the jagged edges we never sanded down.
But the other part that remembers what it felt like to be left behind, cold and waiting for letters that never came, heartsick with the taste of clove and goodbye still on my lips?
That part screamsnot yet.So I pull back.
Carefully. Quietly. Like untangling a root without tearing it.
