Page 25 of Built Orc Tough
Panic hits like a floral truck.
I jolt upright, limbs flailing, trying to remember how many terrible life choices it takes to land curled up beside an orc on a shop floor, wrapped in a blanket that smells suspiciously like pine, spice, and imminent regret.
Gorran stirs but doesn’t open his eyes. Just mutters something low and unintelligible and shifts slightly, like the universe itself has decided it’s too early for my spiral.
I don’t scream. That feels like personal growth.
Instead, I scramble to my feet, trip over a rogue cushion, curse the ancestors, and practically dive behind the counter like the floral goblins of shame are chasing me. My cheeks are on fire, my hair is doing its best Medusa impression, and my brain is yelling things like “BOUNDARIES” and “DIGNITY” in increasingly shrill tones.
I need tea. Possibly whiskey. Maybe a new identity.
By the time Gorran finally blinks awake and stretches like a forest cat who’s never known stress in his life, I’ve already remade the worktable display three times and alphabetized my ribbon drawer just to feel something.
“Morning,” he rumbles, voice still gravelly from sleep.
I don’t turn around. “Is it?”
He stands, bones cracking like polite popcorn, and walks toward the back. I can feel him glance at me, but he says nothing. Which is worse.
“So,” I say, casually, like we didn’t just have a totally platonic emotional sleepover under candlelight. “About last night…”
He pauses.
Here it comes. The explanation. The dismissal. The “this doesn’t mean anything” that I can nod along to while plotting my emotional evacuation plan.
But instead, he just says, “It wasn’t terrible,” and walks off.
Excuse me?
Wasn’t terrible?
I glare at the closed back door like it personally insulted me. Because now I’m not sure what to do. Do I agree? Laugh it off? Pretend it didn’t happen and hope my brain cooperates?
Before I can spiral further, the bell over the front door jingles like the soundtrack of doom, and in sweeps Miss Lyria, wearing a cloak embroidered with literal question marks.
“Well, well, well,” she sings, eyes twinkling like she knows things I haven’t even admitted to myself. “Did the storm drive you into each other’s arms? Or just adjacent sleeping positions?”
I open my mouth. Close it. Open it again.
“I—he—we didn’t—sleeping proximity was coincidental,” I stammer, nearly knocking over a pot of sage in my flailing.
“Of course it was,” she coos, patting my shoulder like I’ve just shared a sordid affair instead of a logistical nightmare.
Sprout follows her in, arms full of glittery garden stakes and eyes wide with theatrical concern. “Oh no, you didn’t kiss, did you? Because I bet fifty silver on chapter seventeen.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
Miss Lyria grins. “Word travels fast, dear. And a little elf told me she saw two silhouettes behind the frosted glass this morning. One considerably taller than the other. Sharing... ambiance.”
“Gorran had a blanket,” I mutter. “That’s not ambiance, that’s insulation.”
“Mm-hmm,” Lyria hums, pouring herself tea from my kettle like she pays rent. “Well, regardless, you’ll want to nip this in the bud if you’re not interested. Because Elderbridge is buzzing, and not just because of the pollinators.”
I bury my face in my hands. “I can’t believe this town has a gossip network faster than the capital’s press cycle.”
Sprout plops onto a stool. “You’re basically the main characters now. Everyone’s rooting for you. Except Old Man Gleason, but he’s still bitter about his cactus dying in ’93.”
