Page 46 of Built Orc Tough
I shake my head. “No. She sees scars. And one day, she’ll want pretty again. Easy again. And I’m neither.”
Terra reaches out and touches my hand, rough calluses against rougher ones.
“Gorran,” she says, her voice firm, “you don’t get to decide what someone else sees in you. You only get to decide if you’ll let them look.”
I pull my hand away gently. “Then let her look at someone else.”
Terra stands. Doesn’t argue.
She just looks at me like she used to when we were kids—like she wants to protect me from the parts of myself I’ve always been too proud to hide.
“You’re not alone, you know,” she says, heading for the door.
“I know.”
And I do.
But knowing doesn’t make the silence easier.
Or the longing quieter.
I hover in the doorway longer than I should, one hand curled around the frame like I need something to anchor me. Gorran doesn’t look up. He’s seated at his bench, shoulders hunched, hands moving with methodical precision over some herb I don’t recognize, his whole body coiled tight like he’s trying to disappear into the work.
“Gorran,” I say, softly.
Nothing. Just the sound of pestle against mortar. That damn scrape, again and again, like it’s carving the silence deeper.
I take a breath, step into the room. “Look, I—can we just talk? Please?”
That gets a reaction, but not the one I want. His shoulders stiffen. He doesn’t stop moving, doesn’t look at me, but the silence feels sharper now. Hostile.
“I don’t want to fight,” I add, too fast. “I just... I need to explain?—”
“You don’t owe me anything,” he says flatly, cutting me off. His voice is low and calm, but there’s steel in it. Cold and final.
I flinch like he’s thrown something. “I’m not here because I owe you. I’m here because I care.”
He finally turns to look at me, and I almost wish he hadn’t. His face is blank. Not angry, not sad. Just... unreadable. Empty.
“If you care,” he says, each word measured and even, “then go. If that’s what you want. No need to explain anything.”
My throat tightens. “Is that seriously all you have to say to me?”
He nods once. “You came from the city. You’ll go back. It’s fine.”
“No, it’s not—Gorran, gods, that’s not what I’m doing. That’s not?—”
“You said what you needed to say. So go.”
The way he says it—like he’s letting me off some hook, like I’m a burden being removed—I don’t even know how to respond.
My breath hitches. “Do you even want me to stay?”
He doesn’t answer.
That silence is the cruelest part.
I nod, jaw clenched to keep the tears from shaking loose. “Right. Got it.”
