Page 39 of Built Orc Tough
“I’m not here to talk about plants,” I reply, voice steady, low.
That gets her attention. Slowly, deliberately, she looks over her shoulder, eyes wary, guarded, but beneath that—a flicker of something else. Hope, maybe. Doubt. Both.
I step closer. The ribbon is still in my hand. I hold it out to her, not like a gift, but like an offering.
“I froze,” I say plainly. “That kiss... it caught me off guard. Not because I didn’t want it, but because I did.”
She blinks, expression unreadable.
“I’ve been afraid,” I continue. “Afraid that if I let myself want this—wantyou—I’d mess it up. I’ve been running from things my whole life, Ivy. I didn’t want to run from this too.”
The silence stretches between us like the distance it’s taken me three days to cross.
Then she lets out a breath, soft and shaky. “So you’re done running?”
I nod. “If you’ll let me stay.”
Her mouth twitches, something between a smile and disbelief.
“Give me that,” she says, snatching the ribbon from my hand. “If you’re gonna stand there being all heartfelt and stubborn, you may as well help me finish this bouquet.”
I move beside her. We work in tandem, quiet but not silent, hands brushing now and then. The tension doesn’t vanish—but it shifts. Changes. Softens.
I feel like maybe this is what home was always meant to be.
CHAPTER 17
IVY
It starts innocently enough—doesn’t it always?
We’re elbow-deep in potting soil, the scent of fresh earth and crushed mint swirling around us in that way it always does when the sun hits the greenhouse windows just right—like the whole world has slowed down to inhale with you. The light filters in through stained glass panes I insisted on salvaging from the chapel ruins last spring, washing the room in fractured beams of emerald and gold and blush, the colors dancing across the shelves and counter like living things. The basil tower’s leaning again, defiant as ever, and Gorran’s muttering about structural herb integrity like it’s a war strategy.
His sleeves are rolled up, exposing those stupidly strong forearms, each movement of muscle and tendon catching the light in a way that has no business being as distracting as it is. There’s a smudge of soil across one cheekbone, and I have the inexplicable urge to wipe it off—not because it’s messy, but because it feels too personal, like it shouldn’t be allowed to live there unless I put it there myself.
“You want to get dinner tonight?” he says, casual as anything, like we’re discussing the weather or pest-resistant fertilizer.
I blink, trowel halfway to the ceramic planter, fingers frozen mid-scoop. “Dinner-dinner?”
He gives me that crooked smile, the one that looks almost accidental. “The kind with food, yeah.”
I should say yes. Idosay yes. Somewhere in the flurry of startled heartbeats and brain static, I nod and mutter something vaguely enthusiastic.
And then he goes back to the mint—cool as a spring breeze, utterly unaffected—and I stand there in the middle of our ridiculous, leafy little jungle, staring at nothing and thinking every unhelpful thought I’ve ever had all at once.
The second he disappears into the storage room, I start pacing like a madwoman. The floor creaks beneath me, echoing just a little too loudly in the sudden quiet, and the scent of rosemary hanging from the ceiling suddenly feels stifling. I press a hand to my chest and realize my heart is thundering like I just sprinted from the northern ridge.
He asked me to dinner.
Not lunch. Not tea.Dinner.
Which could mean everything, or nothing, or absolutely something in that terribly ambiguous way only men like Gorran can pull off—men who’ve lived in war camps and herbalist havens and who can talk about gladiator scars and grafting lilies in the same breath.
What if it’s just friendly? What if he feels bad for being weird after the almost-kiss and this is his way of smoothing things over without getting too close? What if he thinks I’m... fragile now? Like I’m one poorly timed sneeze away from turning into a poetic puddle of feelings and orchids?
I’m mid-debate with the mop bucket when Sprout materializes through the open back door, leaves tangled in his curls, grinning like he already knows the answer to a question I haven’t even figured out how to ask.
“Heard you have a date,” he chirps, flopping onto the step stool like he owns the place.
