Page 24 of Built Orc Tough
Thunder rumbles again, but it’s fading now, distant.
In here, it’s just candlelight and the scent of drying mint and lavender. And her. Sitting next to me like we’ve always done this.
We don’t move closer.
But the space between us feels smaller than it’s ever been.
And for once, I don’t feel like filling the silence with words.
—
The storm doesn’t stop.
Not for hours.
The wind dies down eventually, but the rain just keeps going, relentless and heavy, drumming on the roof like it’s trying to lull the town into forgetting it ever knew sunlight.
The candles burn low. We’re both still sitting on the floor, shoulders angled toward each other but not quite touching. It’s not awkward. Not anymore. Just... quiet.
I glance at Ivy.
She’s got her knees drawn up, arms wrapped loosely around them, her cheek resting against the soft curve of her elbow. The dishcloth she used earlier is folded under her head like she didn’t mean to make a pillow, just sort of drifted that way by accident.
She’s asleep.
For the first time since I met her, she looks... still.
Not tired in the way she usually is—tight around the mouth, eyes darting like she’s expecting the worst out of every conversation—but real, soft, defenseless in a way that makes my chest go tight.
I should look away.
But I don’t.
I study the slope of her nose, the freckle at the edge of her jaw, the way a piece of hair has come loose and curled over her brow. She mumbles something under her breath, something low and soft and probably sarcastic even in dreams, then settles deeper into the floor like her body knows it’s safe here.
That’s what gets me. That she feels safe enough to fall asleep beside me.
I lie back, keeping a respectful distance, but not too much. The candles flicker above us, casting strange little shadows on the ceiling, and the scent of chamomile and mint clings to the air like a lullaby.
I close my eyes.
I don’t sleep easily. Never have. The past has a way of sinking claws into my back when the lights go out. But with her here—quiet and breathing steady—I feel the weight shift.
The shop isn’t just shelter anymore. It’s something more.
I wonder what it would be like tostay.
CHAPTER 11
IVY
The first thing I register is warmth. Not the sun-on-face kind or the blanket-cocoon kind, but the unnerving, solid kind that radiates from another living body and shouldn’t be there.
The second thing is breath. Not mine. Heavy. Measured. Warm enough to stir a loose curl near my ear.
Oh gods.
I pry one eye open and find myself face-to-face with what can only be described as the personification of bad decisions and good jawlines. Gorran is asleep. On his side. Inches from mine. His forehead is relaxed, his lips parted just enough to let out a soft breath, and—dammit—his tusks do this ridiculously endearing curve upward that somehow makes him look less like a terrifying warrior and more like someone who probably sings to his plants when no one’s listening.
