Page 10 of Pumpkin Spice & Orc Cinnamon Roll
He steps inside slowly, like he’s afraid I’ll bolt.
“Brought the wreath specs you asked for.”
“I didn’t ask for specs.”
He shrugs. “Must’ve been a miscommunication. Still figured I’d stop by.”
“And bring… blueprints?”
He offers the tube with a slight smirk. “Dimensions. Gala signage.”
“Right,” I say, voice tightening. “Because nothing sayshomegrown celebrationlike a six-foot display approved by an orc who uses copper cufflinks as emotional armor.”
He doesn’t even flinch. “You always were good with words.”
“Not good enough, apparently.”
The silence stretches between us, heavy and golden in the late afternoon light.
He watches me, then asks, “Need help with those?”
He nods toward the apple slices, one brow raised in what I can only interpret as either arrogance or very stupid hope.
“I’ve been stringing apples since before you had facial hair.”
“You say that like I didn’t have a beard at nineteen.”
“You didn’t.”
He huffs a laugh, the smallest smile ghosting his mouth. “Let me help.”
I should say no.
I should throw the thread at him and storm into the back and scream into a crate of marigolds.
Instead, I hand him the spare spool, and he starts threading slices like he’s done it a hundred times. His fingers are steady, precise, big enough to make the apples look delicate. We workside by side, quiet for a long while, until the warmth of him seeps too far into my space and I can’t breathe properly anymore.
Then our hands brush.
Just a graze. Just a fleeting brush of skin and rough callus. But it lights something in me so fast and sharp I nearly drop the entire strand.
“Don’t,” I whisper, pulling back.
He straightens, eyes flicking up. “Don’t what?”
“This. Whatever you think this is. The casual visits. The excuses to hang around. The lingering stares like you didn’t disappear into the city and ghost me foryears.”
He winces. But I’m too far gone to stop now.
“You can’t just waltz in here with your fancy plans and your soft smiles and expect me to forget how badly it hurt, Drogath. Youleft. You didn’t write. You didn’t call. You just vanished like I was some quaint little memory not worth taking with you.”
His jaw tightens, the vein in his temple twitching, and I know I’ve struck a nerve. But good. Let him feel some of the sting he left me with.
“I didn’t forget you,” he says quietly.
“Really? Could’ve fooled me.”
“I never stopped—” He cuts himself off, runs a hand down his beard. “Look. I didn’t mean to make you think I was playing at something.”
