Page 26 of Built Orc Tough
I shoot her a look. “We’re not main characters. We’re coworkers. Who happen to share a shop. And a roof. Temporarily.”
“Sure,” Sprout says, grinning. “And I’m just a pollen fairy with no sense of drama.”
Lyria lifts her teacup. “To proximity, tension, and poor impulse control.”
I groan.
This is going to be a long festival season.
By midday, the shop smells like a confusing marriage between lavender serenity and whatever swamp brew Gorran has cooking in his corner. It’s starting to give me a headache—or maybe that’s just my ego bruising from this morning.
I’m halfway through repositioning the hydrangeas for the third time when I catch him humming. Not loudly. Just under his breath. Low, almost soothing.
He hums.
That mountain of stoicism and barkskin hums.
I march over before I can talk myself out of it. “We need to talk.”
Gorran doesn’t even flinch. He sets down his pestle and glances up, one eyebrow cocked in that maddeningly unreadable way he has. “We are talking.”
I fold my arms. “About boundaries.”
A slow nod. “Mhm. Those invisible things people usually only remember after crossing them?”
“Exactly. Like, say, sharing a blanket with your shopmate during a thunderstorm. Or waking up practically nose-kissing.”
His mouth twitches. That orcish attempt at a smirk that’s half amusement and half war mask. “Didn’t hear you complaining last night.”
“That’s because I was asleep,” I shoot back. “And unconscious Ivy is notoriously non-confrontational.”
He chuckles and leans back against the counter, arms crossed over his chest, making him look even more annoyingly composed. “So, what would conscious Ivy like to say?”
“That we’re professionals. Shared business, shared roof, shared responsibility—not shared...whatever that was.”
He tilts his head. “You mean comfort? Trust? Warmth in a cold storm?”
“Don’t romanticize it, you walking cedar chest,” I snap, but there’s no heat in it. And we both know it.
He steps forward, slowly, like a bear approaching a skittish squirrel. “So we set boundaries.”
“Yes.” I plant my feet like I’m not already flustered by how close he is. “Clear. Firm. Boundaries.”
“Alright,” he says, voice low. “No more storm cuddles. No more shared tea. I’ll stop humming in the mornings. You stop rearranging my herbs.”
I blink. “That’s not—I didn’t say anything about tea or herbs?—”
He grins. “Just making sure we’re thorough.”
I roll my eyes. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re pink in the cheeks again.”
I cover my face with both hands. “Boundaries, Gorran. We need them.”
“Sure. Starting tomorrow.” He reaches past me to grab a jar of crushed thyme, his arm brushing mine deliberately. “Today, I’m still enjoying breaking them.”
I should protest. I should quote workplace laws and ethical business partnerships. Instead, I snort. Actually snort. Which makes him laugh harder.
