Page 47 of Built Orc Tough
I turn before he can see me break, before I humiliate myself any further by begging someone who’s already shut the door. I leave without slamming it, without saying goodbye, because if I say anything else I’ll cry, and I can’t—won’t—give him that.
The shop feels colder as I cross it. Emptier.
By the time I reach the front door, I’m shaking. Not from anger. From grief. The kind that sneaks in under the bones and settles deep.
He told me to leave like it was easy.
Like I hadn’t been trying to stay.
CHAPTER 21
IVY
Ididn’t cry when he told me to leave. That would’ve been too cinematic. Too on-the-nose for the girl who keeps falling in love with the wrong kind of quiet. No, I walked out of that back room with my spine straight and my mouth shut, like I’d rehearsed it. Like it didn’t feel like a damn knife had been slid between two ribs and left there to wiggle.
The walk home is worse. Every blooming pot, every ivy-wrapped fencepost in this too-picturesque town suddenly looks like it's mocking me. Like they all knew the script and forgot to tell me I was the punchline. I spend the evening reorganizing my dried flower archive until my hands are stained with petal dust and my eyes burn. That night, I try to sleep, but the silence in my apartment doesn’t hug—it haunts. The worst part? I don’t dream. Not even the messy kind where I get to yell at him. Just endless blank nothingness, and when I wake up, it’s still there, pressed against my chest like a weight I can’t throw off.
By morning, I’m not better, but I’ve got the illusion of function. Lipstick goes on, hair gets pinned, and I march back to Bloom & Vine like I didn’t spend the last twelve hours spiraling through every conversation we’ve ever had, trying to decode the precise moment he stopped looking at me like I mattered.
He’s already there, naturally. Orcs, it turns out, are irritatingly punctual when avoiding emotional conflict. The shop smells like mint and something bitter underneath—one of his stronger brews. I wonder if he’s trying to erase me from the air.
He doesn’t even glance up when I walk in. Just keeps slicing dried valerian like he’s got a date with a potion and zero interest in my existence.
“Morning,” I say, a little too bright, like cheerfulness is a weapon and I’m about to bludgeon him with it. If I make it casual enough, maybe we can pretend the last twenty-four hours were a shared hallucination. A weird dream brought on by too much incense and not enough ventilation.
Nothing.
I set down my tote, pull off my cardigan, and march right over to the shared table. “You know,” I say, carefully arranging my scissors like I’m not one wrong breath from tossing them across the room, “if you wanted me gone, you could’ve just locked the door.”
His hands don’t falter. “Didn’t seem necessary.”
I inhale through my nose, count to three. “You know what I love most about you, Gorran? The warmth. The radiant, never-ending warmth.”
He finally looks up. Just for a second. Just long enough to land a punch with his eyes. “Your real life’s waiting for you. Didn’t want to be in the way.”
And there it is. The line that burns through every damn thread I’ve tried to sew back together.
My real life.
“You think you know what that is?” I snap, hands on my hips. “Because last I checked, my ‘real life’ included a cheating business partner, a burned-out storefront, and exactly zero people who showed up with wildflowers and peace tea when I fell apart.”
His jaw clenches. “You don’t belong here.”
“Right,” I say, voice sharp enough to cut glass. “Because I prefer my tea without dirt and my walls without mold?”
“Because this place doesn’t bend to what you want,” he bites back. “And one day, you’ll hate it for that. And you’ll hate me for not warning you.”
I step forward, close enough that I can see the flecks of gold in his eyes, and it kills me that I still want to memorize them. “Or maybe I’ll hate you for pushing me away before I got the chance to stay.”
He doesn’t answer.
And the silence that follows isn’t peaceful. It’s war. It’s the seconds before a storm hits the fields and tears through every fragile bloom.
Behind us, the shop hums. Even the herbs seem to still, like they know something’s broken.
I glance down at the scissors in my hand and wonder what it would take to cut out this ache in my chest. Just snip it right out. Put it in a mason jar, slap a label on it—‘Ivy Marlowe’s Big Dumb Heart: Handle With Care’—and shove it on one of his precious shelves next to the tinctures and the truth he never tells.
“You want me to leave?” I ask, voice lower now, almost gentle. “Fine. Just say it. Say you want me gone, and I’ll go.”
