Page 35 of Built Orc Tough
Of course, that’s the moment Gorran chooses to walk in from the storeroom, arms full of freshly ground rue and completely oblivious to the miniature bloodbath happening center stage.
He sees my expression first. Then the bouquet. Then the way I’m hissing curses through gritted teeth.
He’s at my side in seconds. No words. Just movement.
“Sit,” he says, voice low, calm, completely at odds with the storm currently rattling around in my chest.
“I’m fine,” I mutter, because pride is a hell of a drug.
“You’re bleeding.”
“It’s a scratch.”
“You’re sitting.”
And somehow, I am. I didn’t even notice him steer me toward the stool until I’m halfway into it. His fingers are already unlatching the first aid kit under the counter with the kind of quiet efficiency that makes me feel like an idiot for not just letting him help in the first place.
He kneels in front of me, and suddenly the shop goes very, very quiet.
He takes my hand like it’s made of glass. Turns it slowly. Examines the cut with that intense, brows-drawn kind of focus I’ve only ever seen him use on delicate seedlings and ancient manuscripts. Not me.
Never me.
“Hold still,” he murmurs, brushing a cloth over the wound to clear the blood. The antiseptic stings, but I don’t flinch.
Not from that, anyway.
His hands are big. Rough in places. Calloused. But his touch is featherlight. Reverent. Like I’m something fragile and precious instead of a snarky florist with boundary issues.
I can’t look away.
“You always this bossy?” I ask, trying to fill the silence before it drowns me.
He doesn’t glance up. “Only when people I care about try to amputate themselves with shears.”
Oh.
That word—care—just sits there. Casual. Heavy.
He starts wrapping the gauze, winding it snug but not too tight. His fingers brush mine, and it’s like static electricity crackling under my skin.
“You didn’t even flinch,” he says quietly.
“Had worse,” I say, then add, “Emotionally, I mean. Physically this is pretty bad. Might need a prosthetic.”
He huffs something that’s dangerously close to a laugh.
And then he looks up.
Our eyes lock, and something shifts. Not loud. Not sudden. Just... deeper. Realer.
There’s no mask on his face right now. No armor. No guarded pauses or filtered glances. Just Gorran, kneeling in front of me, his hands cradling mine like they’re something sacred, and for the first time I realize—reallyfeel—how safe I am with him.
And how terrifying that is.
Because safety means trust. And trust means risk. And I don’t know if I’m ready to be that kind of vulnerable with someone who sees me this clearly.
But I also don’t want to move.
