Page 28 of Built Orc Tough
I place the last flower in the bouquet—a white lily—and take a step back. Ivy does the same. We’re shoulder to shoulder now, not touching, but close enough.
“And now?” she asks, eyes on the flowers, not me.
“Now I just want quiet,” I say. “And things that grow. Things that don’t bleed when you hold them too tight.”
She exhales slowly. “That’s why you work with herbs.”
I nod.
“And why you moved here.”
“Elderbridge is slow,” I say. “Slow is good. Slow lets you breathe.”
She’s watching me like she’s seeing something new. Like I’m a puzzle she’s only just realized isn’t meant to be solved, just held.
“You’re not what I expected,” she says.
“Most people say that after I don’t smash something in the first five minutes.”
She chuckles, the sound light and raw all at once. “No, I mean…you’ve seen horror, and instead of becoming cruel, you became gentle. That’s rare.”
My chest tightens. “It’s not always gentle in here.” I tap my temple. “Some days, it’s a storm.”
“I get storms,” she says, quiet. “Lived in one most of my life.”
We don’t say anything for a while. The shop is quiet except for the wind chimes brushing the open window.
Then she says, “The bouquet’s crooked, by the way.”
I huff out a laugh. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re still too heavy-handed with the twine. It’s a flower arrangement, not a hostage situation.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
She nudges me with her shoulder. “Thanks for telling me, Gorran. Really.”
I nod once, not trusting myself to speak.
We go back to work, but something’s shifted. There’s a closeness now that isn’t about storms or mistakes or unspoken things. It’s just…quiet.
And that’s enough.
She doesn’t speak when she does it. No quip. No question. No witty detour to make the moment easier to swallow.
Her hand just reaches out—slow, careful, like she’s approaching a skittish animal—and rests lightly on my forearm. Not grabbing. Not pushing. Just...there.
And I let her.
The weight of it is nothing. Her fingers barely press into my skin. But the meaning, that lands heavy. Because I don’t let people touch me. Not since the pit. Not since every hand that came near was meant to bind, shove, hurt, or claim.
But hers is warm. Still. Present.
I don’t flinch. That alone feels like a kind of miracle.
I glance down, not moving, and see her thumb gently trace a small arc across my arm. Not to soothe me—she’s not that sentimental. It’s just...connection. Her way of saying,I heard you. I see you. I’m not afraid.
And it breaks something in me. Not in a bad way. More like an old bone finally cracking back into place after being set wrong for too long.
