Page 34 of Pumpkin Spice & Orc Cinnamon Roll
“I’m not dragging her into a pissing match with Greaves,” I mutter. “This gets messy, and fast. If she’s tied to it, she gets dragged through mud she didn’t ask for.”
Tara narrows her eyes. “Maybe letherdecide what she’s willing to risk.”
It’s just after nine when I park in front of Maple & Mallow. The village is mostly asleep, save for a few scattered porch lights and the occasional clink of dishes through kitchen windows. But her shop’s still glowing.
I can see her silhouette through the frosted glass—hands moving with the slow rhythm of someone trying to stay busy so they don’t have to think. She’s lighting candles, one by one, like stars being coaxed from wax and wick. Her hair’s half-up, half-tumbled, curls catching in the soft flicker. She looks tired. Beautiful. Stubborn as ever.
I open the door slowly.
The bell above it jingles with that familiar, worn-out chime. She doesn’t turn.
“Tessa,” I say.
She sets down a bundle of dried lavender with precision, like if she moves just right, nothing will tip.
“I don’t want to talk right now,” she says, voice clipped and too calm.
“I know.”
She finally faces me, arms crossed tight like armor. “Do you?”
I step further into the shop. The scent hits me like it always does—orange rind and clove and that faint, earthy sweetness that always clings to her skin. “I didn’t come to argue.”
“Then why are you here, Drogath?” Her voice isn’t angry, but it’s not soft either. It’s a wall built from too many bruised hopes.
I want to tell her everything. About Greaves. About the bids. About the way I’ve been clawing at shadows to keep her safe without leaving fingerprints. But the words knot up in my throat.
Instead, I just look at her. Fully. Honestly.
And she looks right back, but not with the warmth I remember. Her eyes are clear, unreadable, like a lake gone still before a storm.
“You’re shutting me out,” she says. “Again.”
I swallow hard. “I’m trying to fix it before it touches you.”
Her jaw ticks. “Maybe I don’tneedyou to fix everything.”
And then she turns away.
Doesn’t storm off. Doesn’t yell. Just goes still, her shoulders rising and falling like a breath held too long.
I want to reach for her.
But I don’t deserve to.
So I nod once, even though she’s not looking.
And I leave.
I slam the truck door harder than I mean to, but the silence inside is worse than the cold. I sit there, fists clenched on the steering wheel, and for a moment, I feel every mile I’ve traveled, every boardroom I’ve dominated, every hollow success that means nothing next to the woman inside that little flower shop.
The knuckles of my right hand hit the wheel with a sharpcrack.
“I’m losing her again,” I breathe. Not a shout. Not a growl.
Just truth.
Painful. Raw.
