Page 16 of Built Orc Tough
It’s not electric, not like in those over-the-top paperbacks with swooning heroines and heaving corsets. No, it’s more like...weight.Like something shifts, slow and unexpected, and suddenly I’m aware of the size of his hand next to mine, the calluses on his fingers, the warmth in his skin.
We both pause.
Neither of us pulls away.
I glance up, and he’s already looking at me.
There’s nothing soft in his face—there never is—but something’s different this time. His eyes aren’t guarded or challenging or smug. Just... still. Deep. Like a forest right before a storm.
My breath catches, stupidly.
For one single beat, it’s quiet. Like the shop knows better than to interrupt whatever this is. Whatevermightbe trying to surface.
“Ohno,are we pollinating in here?” Sprout announces as she bounces through the doorway like an excited squirrel hopped up on pixie dust.
I jerk my hand back like I’ve touched fire, nearly stabbing myself with the pruning shears in the process.
Gorran clears his throat and steps away with a little more force than necessary.
Sprout blinks, takes in our flustered faces, the half-built bouquets, the tension so thick you could bottle it and sell it as an aphrodisiac.
Then she grins, slow and wicked.
“Iknewyou two were overdue for a vibe shift.”
“There’s no vibe,” I say quickly, turning my back to pretend I’m very interested in reorganizing rose stems.
Gorran doesn’t say a word, but his jaw tightens.
Sprout wanders closer, examining our work. “Well, whatever it was, I ship it. Donotlet me interrupt your enemies-to-lovers arc.”
“It’s not an arc,” I mutter.
“It's more of a slow burn,” she offers helpfully. “With heavy pruning.”
Gorran makes a noise that could be a sigh or a growl—hard to tell—and brushes past toward the back room.
Sprout watches him go, then leans in close to me and whispers, “Did it feel like touching forbidden moss?”
I choke on my own breath. “Please go alphabetize the ribbons.”
She salutes. “As you wish, Mistress of Denial.”
As she flits off with glitter trailing behind her like fairy contraband, I rest my hands on the table and try very hard not to think about how long Gorran’s eyes had held mine.
Or how, for just a second, I didn’twantto pull away.
CHAPTER 8
GORRAN
There’s a rhythm to healing work that most people miss—everyone’s too focused on the result. But for me, it’s always about the steps. The grind of dried root into fine powder, the way hot water curls around leaf and bark, the scent of crushed flowers opening like memories in warm air.
I’m halfway through prepping a sinus-clearing tincture when I hear the door chime and catch the sound of shuffling feet. I glance up to see Norren Thistlewhite, a faun with an unfortunate spring allergy and a collection of silk handkerchiefs he treats like heirlooms, blinking through swollen eyes.
He snorts into one such handkerchief and wheezes, “Gorran, if you don’t fix this nose of mine, I swear I’ll have to drown myself in a puddle behind the bakery.”
“Puddle’s not deep enough for you,” I mutter, already pulling down a jar of bluebell petals and a pouch of powdered gingerroot. “Sit. Don’t breathe on the chamomile.”
