Page 51 of Pumpkin Spice & Orc Cinnamon Roll
They haven’t stood in my boots.
Because right now, under a canopy of trees older than war and wiser than gods, with the entire village watching from their hay-bale pews and cider-sweet breath fogging the cool morning air, I’m shaking. Hands. Knees. Voice. Hell, even my tusks feel like they’re buzzing.
The grove is lit with magic, not the flashy kind, but the quiet sort that builds slow and steady—like the hush of snow falling or the way Tessa breathes when she’s sleeping against my chest. Lanterns float above us, flickering warm and low, catching on every amber leaf swirling from the branches like nature’s confetti. Bramley says it’s coincidence. Tara says it’s divine blessing. I think the forest just knows this moment matters.
Tessa hasn’t come down the path yet, but I hear her laughter behind the trees, soft and nervous and happy in that way that always guts me. Maude’s already crying and hasn’t even seen the bride. Glenna’s goats are lined up wearing floral garlands that I was assured were ceremonial, though I’ve seen at least one eating hers. Tara’s fussing with the seating, insisting on “optimalflower visibility,” which no one understands but no one argues with.
And me?
I’m standing at the center of it all—oak crown on my head, spine straight as timber, hands clenched behind my back to hide the tremor I can’t seem to shake, even as Bramley grunts beside me, “You’re gonna snap your belt if you keep clenching your jaw like that.”
“Rather snap that than cry in public,” I mutter.
He snorts. “You will. Give it ten seconds.”
Then the music starts—soft fiddle, low drumbeat, something slow and reverent and entirely too emotional for a man trying to keep his composure.
And then she appears.
I’ve seen her in every light—firelight, dawn, storm—but I swear I’ve never seen her like this. Not like this.
Tessa walks between the trees like she belongs to them, russet gown catching the wind, golden thread glinting along the hem like fireflies. Her curls are pinned with tiny dried blooms and copper beads that sparkle when the lanterns hit just right. Her veil’s sheer enough I can still see the way her eyes shine like she’s holding a thousand secrets and every single one of them is mine.
I nearly forget how to breathe.
She walks barefoot, soft and sure, like every step knows the soil beneath it. Like this grove remembers her. Like she’s not being walked down the aisle—sheisthe aisle.
She reaches me, breath warm, lips trembling, and for a second we just stand there, face to face, everything we are pressed into the stillness between us.
Then I lift her veil.
My hand shakes when I do, because this is it. Not the end. Not the beginning. Just…the moment. The one I’ve carried inmy chest like a seed for years and years and only now, standing here with her in the middle of this ridiculous, beautiful forest full of goats and gossip, am I realizing it’s finally blooming.
Her eyes lock on mine. “Hi,” she whispers.
“Hi,” I rasp, rough and wrecked and grinning like an idiot.
The officiant—a satyr named Pollivander who’s married off half the village and claims he once wed two raccoons for tax benefits—clears his throat, clearly trying not to cry. “We gather here in sacred grove, beneath lanterns and leaves and far too many goats, to witness?—”
A loud bleat cuts him off. One of Glenna’s goats tries to eat a boutonnière. The entire front row laughs. Tessa grins like she planned it.
We say our vows right after.
Tessa goes first.
She takes both my hands in hers, eyes soft but voice clear. “You came back when I thought I’d buried you. You reminded me how to bloom. You let me be angry, messy, hopeful, and real. You said you’d never leave, and you meant it—not just in words but in action, in soil, in roots. So here’s my vow. I’ll grow with you, too. I’ll get old with you. I’ll probably steal the covers and burn half our dinners, but I’ll keep showing up, season after season, for whatever this life grows into.”
The lanterns above us flicker, catching the wind, and my heart feels like it’s trying to climb out of my ribs and crawl into her hands.
I swallow hard and speak, low and steady.
“My life ended when I left you. And it began again the moment I saw you on that ridge, mad and stubborn and godsdamn luminous. I don’t have poetry in me. Just this—” I lift her hands, press my mouth to her knuckles. “Whatever grows, I grow with you. That’s the whole vow. That’s the only thing that matters.”
There’s silence.
Lanterns overhead burst, not into flames, but into goldenfireflies, hundreds of them, swirling above us in a sudden, joyful storm of light. People gasp, shout, cheer, and somewhere in the chaos, someone yells, “Was that planned?!”
“Nope!” Tessa laughs, already crying.
