Page 43 of Built Orc Tough
IVY
The sun’s barely crept past the treetops when I walk into the shop the next morning, a full hour before opening, humming to myself in a way that is both suspiciously cheerful and entirely uncharacteristic. My hair actually cooperated for once, my dress doesn’t have a single tea stain, and the warm buzz from last night hasn’t dulled, not even a little.
Everything looks softer somehow—like the flowers bloomed overnight just to be admired, like the shelves arranged themselves into aesthetic perfection, like the air itself decided to smell faintly of citrus and something sweeter I can’t quite name.
I’m glowing. IknowI’m glowing. Not in the literal enchanted-illuminated sense, but the kind that radiates out when you’ve made it past the awkwardness and into something real. Something warm. Something... possible.
And then Gorran walks in.
He doesn’t scowl, exactly. Doesn’t even ignore me. But he moves around the space like his thoughts are three miles away, his greetings clipped, his gaze evasive in a way it hasn’t been in weeks.
I try to make a joke about the camellias mutinying again—no smile. I ask if he wants coffee—he says he already had some.I mention a customer who thought we were married yesterday and how she offered us a wedding fern—still nothing.
The glow falters.
I don’t push it, not right away. Maybe he didn’t sleep well. Maybe he’s got a headache. Maybe I said something weird last night and he’s just processing it on a three-day delay like he does with most emotions.
But still, the silence stretches.
By midday, I’ve overwatered the begonias and snapped at Sprout for eating my lunch. Twice.
And that’s when the bell chimes.
The door swings open, sunlight slicing through it like a spotlight, and there he is. Caspian.
Wearing his polished city jacket, all navy satin and brass buttons, smiling like a man who’s used to applause just for showing up.
“Ivy,” he says, voice smooth and smug and just soft enough to make you second-guess the edge.
I freeze. My hands are full of eucalyptus sprigs and every inch of me goes stiff like I’ve been mid-transformation this whole time and he’s just reversed it.
“Caspian.” My voice is dry as potting soil.
He walks in like he owns the place, casting a practiced eye over the arrangements, the counters, the curated mess of petals and leaves. “Charming. Quaint. There’s something very... rustic rebellion about it.”
Gorran’s head snaps up from the back corner. He doesn’t speak, but I can feel the weight of his gaze from here.
“I didn’t know you were coming,” I say.
“Well, I wrote, didn’t I?” Caspian says, lifting a brow.
I narrow my eyes. “Once. Three months ago. After you found out I didn’t combust from ‘unsupervised rural living.’”
He laughs. “Still sharp. Good. I always liked that about you.”
Before I can respond, he leans against the counter like he belongs there and launches into his pitch—because of course he has one.
“There’s an opening,” he says, smoothing nonexistent lint from his sleeve. “Head of event curation at the Conservatory’s new urban garden expansion. Real staff, real budget, actual seasons and showcases. You could build something gorgeous. Somethingseen.”
I stare at him.
“I already am,” I say, but it sounds less certain than I want it to.
He tilts his head, eyes scanning me like he’s cataloging flaws to polish. “Come back to the city. You don’t have to bury your talent here in the moss and mud. You could have everything again. Just... shinier.”
Gorran clears his throat. Loudly.
Caspian glances over, then back at me. “Is that your assistant?”
