Page 2 of Built Orc Tough
I take a slow breath, forcing a smile that could curdle cream. "Look, this is clearly a misunderstanding. I’ll contact the town clerk and get it sorted. No offense, but I didn’t move halfway across Lumera to share workspace with someone who probably bathes in mud and chants to his succulents."
Gorran doesn’t rise to the bait. Just raises one eyebrow, shrugs slightly, and starts unpacking a crate of labeled jars. He’s already claimed the far table, I notice, and half the shelving unit Ispecificallyplanned to use for peonies.
"You do that," he says, calm as a meditation bell. "Until then, try not to shed petals on my tinctures."
I make a frustrated noise that sounds vaguely like a curse and grab my suitcase from the doorway.
So much for a fresh start.
I wheel my suitcase into the workroom with the grace of a woman holding back a very specific kind of meltdown—the kind that’s ninety percent repressed rage and ten percent delayed caffeine.
Gorran doesn’t look up. He’s uncorking a jar of what smells like a bog and mint had a messy divorce, stirring it with a stick like he’s summoning spirits. The worst part? He doesn’t even seem annoyed that I’m there. No flinch. No fluster. Just pure, unbothered audacity in orc form.
“You’re in my way,” I say, tugging my suitcase toward the small closet where Aunt Maybelline used to keep her inventory. Except it’s not inventory anymore—it’s full of twine bundles,hand-labeled apothecary bottles, and something that looks like a preserved animal heart in resin.
Lovely.
“You’re inmyshop,” he replies, voice steady like this is a conversation he’s already mentally won.
“Nope. See, here’s the thing. This was my aunt’s. Now it’s mine. It’s a flower shop. It has always been a flower shop. Not a cauldron-and-grubby-baskets-of-moss emporium.”
He sets the jar down and finally looks at me. There’s something ancient in his expression, the kind of patience that only develops after years of having to prove you’re more than you look like. But today, he’s not in the mood.
“We agreed to share the space,” he says, emphasizing the word like he knows exactly how much I hate the sound of it. “I signed a legal lease with Maybelline before she passed. It’s binding.”
“Yeah, well, I didn’t agree to anything,” I snap. “She didn’t sayone wordabout renting to an orc. Let alone one who thinks tinctures are an acceptable alternative to actual medicine.”
His jaw tightens.
“And what about whatyousell?” he asks, gesturing to the shelves. “Cut flowers that die in two days? At least my work heals something.”
Oh, hell no.
“Floristry is an art form,” I hiss. “It takes precision, skill, and a little bit of magic when done right. What do you do? Mix weeds with moonlight and hope no one gets hives?”
His eyes narrow, but his tone stays maddeningly calm. “You really think this town needs another boutique city transplant? Someone who thinks they’re better than the place they landed?”
I bristle. “I don’t think I’m better. I think I’mdifferent. And different doesn’t mean disposable.”
He steps closer. Not threatening—he doesn’t have to be. He’s a whole damn wall of green muscle and herbal confidence.
“This space has room for both of us,” he says slowly. “You make your dying pretty things. I’ll make mine useful.”
I stare up at him, practically vibrating with frustration. “This isn’t just a workroom. It’s sacred space. My aunt taught me everything I know in this room.”
He pauses, something flickering behind his eyes for half a second. But then it’s gone. “And now it’s yours. Half of it.”
That’s it. I snap.
I grab one of his labeled jars—“Soothing Balm: Elderflower, Birch, Ashroot”—and hold it like a hostage. “You want to coexist? Fine. But I swear, if even one of your ‘remedies’ leaks onto my bouquets?—”
He snatches it back, lightning-fast. “Then keep your overpriced funeral arrangements out ofmyingredients.”
We’re nose to chest now, because even when I square up, I barely reach his shoulder. And for a heartbeat too long, the tension gets… weird. Not soft. But sharp in a different way.
The kind that leaves something unsaid.
I step back first. Because of course I do.
