Page 36 of Built Orc Tough
“Thanks,” I whisper, because it’s the only word that fits inside this moment without knocking everything else over.
He nods. Doesn’t let go.
“You should let me finish the bouquet,” he says after a beat.
I blink. “You? You hate floral arrangement. Said it was a ‘frivolous distraction’ last week.”
“I was in a mood.”
“You’re always in a mood.”
He shrugs, unbothered. “Then you’ll be impressed by how well I can channel it into symmetry.”
I snort. “Fine. But if you stick the peonies next to the foxglove again, I’m invoking botanical divorce.”
He stands, grabbing the scattered stems and arranging them on the counter like he’s been doing it his whole life. He’s focused. Intent. Fingers moving with surprising gentleness, positioning each flower like it matters.
And damn it all, it looks good.
“You’ve been practicing,” I accuse.
He doesn’t deny it.
I sit there, hand still warm from his touch, watching him work. The shop hums around us—soft wind chimes, the rustle of drying herbs, the faint scent of clove and lavender in the air.
And me? I’m realizing this place doesn’t just feel like home because of the walls or the plants or even the chaos.
It’s him.
It’s the way he doesn’t ask me to be anything but exactly what I am. Bruised, bitter, bloody-handed and all.
He wraps my wounds like they’re worth healing.
And I think—maybe that’s what love feels like.
Not fireworks. Not grand declarations.
Just this.
—
I don’t plan it. Gods, if I planned things like this, I’d never do them. I’d talk myself out of it before I even got near the edge. But here I am—teetering right on it—and for once, I don’t want to step back.
Gorran’s standing at the counter, still finessing a sprig of freesia into the bouquet like it holds the answer to the universe. His jaw is set in that steady, focused way I know too well now. And I—I’m sitting here with my heart trying to claw its way out of my chest.
So I move.
Slowly, carefully, like I’m afraid to spook him. I slide off the stool and cross the space between us. He senses me coming, I know he does, but he doesn’t look up. Not yet.
I reach out, rest my hand—bandaged, clumsy—on the side of the counter, and when he finally turns toward me, something in my chest slips out of place.
I lean in.
Soft. Unsure. Electric.
My lips brush his—light as breath, nothing more—and I feel him freeze. Completely still, like time stopped around us. Hishands hover midair, suspended in uncertainty, and for a second, I think maybe I’ve ruined it.
Then he pulls back.
