Page 44 of Built Orc Tough
“No,” I say. And then louder. “No, he’s—” I falter.
And that’s the thing.
I don’t know what to call Gorran right now. Not with the way he’s been acting. Not with the way Caspian’s considering me like I’m a decision waiting to be made.
So I do the only thing I can.
I smile.
“I’ll think about it,” I say, and I hate how much I mean it.
Because for once, I’m not sure what I want.
Not completely.
And Caspian, damn him, knows it.
The door creaks open just a little farther—he must’ve nudged it when Caspian raised his voice, or maybe the breeze did it—and that’s when I realize too late that we aren’t alone.
Gorran stands near the drying rack, his posture deceptively calm, arms crossed over his chest in that silent, statuesque way that always meant more than it looked. But his jaw is tight. His shoulders tense, barely visible beneath the edge of his shirt. And his eyes—gods, those eyes—are locked on me, sharp and unreadable.
I feel my stomach drop.
Caspian, of course, doesn’t notice. Or doesn’t care. He’s too busy admiring his own reflection in the shop’s polished copper vase. “All I’m saying, darling, is that you weren’t meant for flower carts and dirt under your fingernails. You’re better than this.”
I flinch. It’s subtle, but I see Gorran clock it.
And then I say it.
The words slip out before I’ve fully thought them through, before I can walk them back, dilute them with qualifiers.
“I don’t know where I belong.”
The moment they’re out, I hate them. Because they’re true. Because they’re raw. Because I can see how they hit Gorran like a punch to the gut.
He doesn’t wait for context. Doesn’t give me a second glance. No question, no accusation, not even a sarcastic quip to mask the crack in his armor.
He just turns.
And walks away.
Quietly.
Effortlessly.
Like he’s practiced it.
Like he’sdoneit before.
The door doesn’t slam. There’s no dramatic flourish. Just the steady sound of his boots receding across the wooden floor, each step heavier than the last, each one echoing in my chest like I’ve swallowed a stormcloud.
Caspian smirks. “Well. That seemed pointed.”
I don’t answer. I can’t. My throat’s too tight, and the air suddenly tastes like regret and lavender.
Because I didn’t mean it like that.
But he’s already gone.
