Page 43 of Pumpkin Spice & Orc Cinnamon Roll
Especially those.
The little acorn carving catches the light just so, like it’s proud of surviving.
I don’t even hear the next bell chime, but I feel him before I see him.
Drogath’s footsteps are unmistakable—solid, purposeful, quiet in that way that big things can be when they’re careful with their power. He doesn’t say anything at first. Just walks in like he belongs, and maybe he finally does, because my chest doesn’t clench the way it used to when I saw him framed in that doorway. No panic. No need to mask or shrink or brace.
Just him.
And me.
And this strange, wonderful newness that feels a lot like falling, only this time I’m not afraid of the ground.
His eyes scan the shop like he’s checking for structural damage, and then they land on the counter.
He sees it.
The acorn.
He stops mid-step.
His brow tightens, not in confusion or judgment, but something deeper—something quiet and vulnerable and so very him. He picks it up, big fingers suddenly reverent, like he’s afraid even now he might make the break worse.
He turns it over once. Twice.
Then looks at me.
I don’t flinch.
“It broke clean through,” I say gently, wiping my hands on my apron as I step closer. “I almost threw it out.”
His jaw works like he’s chewing on something he doesn’t want to say out loud.
“But then I remembered something,” I continue, reaching out and brushing my fingers against the gold line running through the middle. “Even the broken pieces were worth keeping.”
He looks at me then—really looks—and whatever wall he had up, it doesn’t just crack, it crumbles. I see it fall from his shoulders like the last weight he’s been carrying alone, and the next breath he pulls feels like the first one he’s taken in weeks.
And then he’s kissing me.
Not the kind of kiss that waits politely for permission or wonders if now is the right moment. No, this one is a wildfire. A promise. A damn exclamation point. He pulls me close like he can’t quite believe I’m here, hands gripping my waist like he needs to memorize the curve of it, and I rise up on my toes, fingers curling into the wool of his coat, and forget for a second that we’re not alone in the world.
The shop disappears. The air disappears.
It’s just him and me.
And the taste of cinnamon and hope on his lips.
When we finally pull apart, breathless and ridiculous and maybe just a little dizzy, he rests his forehead against mine and says, “You fixed it.”
I smile. “We did.”
We stand like that for a long while, long enough for Tara to make some very pointed throat-clearing noises and Bramleyto mutter something about “getting a room,” but neither of us moves. Not yet.
Because I’m all in now.
No backup plans. No second-guessing.
Just roots.
