Page 13 of Built Orc Tough
She scoffs, still not looking up. “Yeah, well, maybe next time don’t assume the florist needs floral therapy. We’re not all wilting violets.”
My lips twitch. “You’re more of a thornbush.”
That gets her attention. She straightens, hands on hips, eyebrows arched like she’s about to go full apocalyptic enchantress. “Excuse me?”
“You snap when people get too close.”
She steps toward me. “And you sulk like a moss-covered statue whenever someone challenges your little ‘herbs cure all’ worldview.”
“Because you treat everything like a design project,” I shoot back. “Like if you just arrange the chaos right, you can pretend it’s not still chaos.”
“Wow,” she says, mock-sweet. “You should embroider that on a throw pillow. Maybe sell it next to your ‘Pain Tea’ and ‘Sleep Salve.’”
“I could,” I say, voice dry. “Yours would say ‘Micromanaging is my love language.’”
That does it.
She grabs the tray of pansies sitting between us—probably to move them out of the way, maybe to wield them as a makeshift weapon. Either way, we both reach for it at the same time, and somehow our arms tangle, her elbow clips my wrist, and crash.
The entire tray goes down.
Terracotta shatters, dirt explodes across the floor, and flowers scatter like nature just sneezed indoors.
I freeze.
She freezes.
We look down at the mess, then up at each other.
There’s a beat of silence.
Then she snorts.
It’s quick and stifled, like she didn’t mean to let it out, but there it is. And then it’s a full-blown laugh—bright and surprised and cracked open like sunlight through stormclouds.
I blink.
She covers her mouth, eyes watering. “Oh gods,” she wheezes. “You—your face when the tray tipped—like someone’d slapped your best mushroom tea.”
I stare for a second longer. Then I feel it—deep in my chest, like an old door creaking open for the first time in years.
Laughter.
Mine.
It’s rougher, quieter. But it’s real.
She leans against the table, still chuckling, brushing dirt from her apron.
“You’re a menace,” she says, shaking her head.
“You elbowed me.”
“You lunged like a mountain bear!”
We both look at the chaos on the floor—smashed pots, upturned roots, petals clinging to footprints—and then back at each other.
For the first time, there’s no scowl. No sharp words.
