Page 21 of Built Orc Tough
“I came back here because I needed a reset. I told myself it was temporary. That I’d stay long enough to rebuild, then bolt. But now...”
I look around the shop. At the way my flowers lean toward the sunlight, how the herbs are mixed in with the arrangements now, quietly thriving together.
“Now I’m terrified I’m turning into one of those people who stays. Who trades ambition for... compostable happiness.”
Sprout rises, walking toward me with more grace than I usually give her credit for. She doesn’t say anything right away. Just stands there, watching me like she’s seeing past the sarcasm and hard edges I usually throw up like barbed wire.
“Want to know what I think?” she says finally.
“No, but I assume you’ll tell me anyway.”
“You’re not scared of staying,” she says. “You’re scared ofnotrunning. Of seeing something worth holding still for and realizing you might actually want it.”
I flinch. A small thing. But she catches it.
“And maybe,” she adds, softer now, “you’re afraid thathemight be one of those things.”
I swallow hard.
The silence stretches. Not heavy. Just full.
I reach for a daisy that’s listing too far left in the nearest arrangement and nudge it gently back into line.
“I can’t fall for someone who might leave,” I murmur.
Sprout arches an eyebrow. “You thinkhewill?”
I think of the way Gorran holds a stem like it’s something sacred. The way his voice softens when he talks to customers. The way he listens like it’s an offering.
“I don’t know,” I say. “But I don’t think he knows either.”
And for someone like me, uncertainty is almost worse than heartbreak.
The next morning, I open the shop expecting the usual—dew on the windows, the faint scent of eucalyptus clinging to the counters, a potted herb or two already invading my side of the workspace like it has squatters’ rights.
What I don’t expect is the teacup.
It’s sitting dead center on the worktable, steam still curling from the top in lazy spirals like it knows it has nowhere to be. My favorite blend—hibiscus and citrus peel with a hint of clove—floats inside, the color perfectly rich, like whoever made it knew exactly how long to steep it without turning it bitter.
Next to it, folded neatly like a pressed leaf, is a small square of parchment.
“For peace.”
Just those two words. Nothing else.
And below it, a signature I recognize now from the labels on his tincture jars—Gorran’s handwriting: clean, slanted, unpretentious.
I stare at it.
I blink.
And then I just stand there for a solid minute like someone hit pause on my entire morning routine.
Because this? This isnotpart of the plan.
This is not part of the safe little dynamic we’ve built—the one where I poke and prod and he responds with gruff sarcasm and stony endurance. Where I control the conversation with my wit and he disarms me with frustrating patience. Where we toe the line without ever admitting there’s a line worth toeing.
This is intentional. Kind.
