Page 48 of Built Orc Tough
Still nothing.
“Coward,” I whisper. “You can face down a charging warg but not a woman who cares about you.”
That gets a flicker. A breath. But not enough.
So I do what I always do. I retreat.
I turn on my heel and walk to my station, the click of my boots on the floor loud in the too-still room. I work in silence. He doesn’t move.
But I swear to every god who ever guarded a garden, he hears every single breath I take.
The scissors clatter onto the workbench like punctuation—sharp and final. I can’t stay here, not when the air’s so thick with what we won’t say. My hands are shaking and there’s this terrible buzzing in my head, like every thought is hitting a wall and ricocheting back with sharper edges.
I don’t say goodbye. I don’t slam the door. I just leave.
Out the back, through the alley, past the compost bin that still smells like damp chamomile and unresolved tension. My boots crunch on the gravel as I make my way toward the greenhouse, and by the time I wrench the door open, I can’t hold it in anymore.
The sob catches me off guard. Just one at first. Then another. And then it’s like everything I’ve been shoving down since yesterday claws its way out of my throat. I slide down against the wall of the greenhouse, curl my knees to my chest, and cry like I haven’t let myself cry in years.
It’s ugly and loud and messy. My mascara’s probably halfway down my cheeks and my nose is running, and I don’t care. The greenhouse doesn’t judge. The lemon balm doesn’t roll its eyes. The violets don’t tell me to get over it.
I don’t even hear the door creak open.
Sprout crouches down beside me a few moments later, silent as a breeze. She doesn’t say anything at first, just sits next to me on the cold stone floor like she’s done it a hundred times before, like she knows exactly how long it takes to fall apart and how long to wait before handing someone a tissue.
“You okay?” she asks finally, her voice soft, like she’s trying not to scare me off.
I wipe at my face with my sleeve and let out a laugh that sounds more like a hiccup. “Oh, you know. Just having a charming public breakdown. Very on brand.”
Sprout tilts her head. “Did he say something?”
I nod.
“Do I need to turn him into a toad?” she offers, dead serious.
I let out another broken laugh, smaller this time. “I think he already thinks I’m leaving.”
Sprout frowns. “Are you?”
“I don’t know,” I whisper. “Maybe he’s right. Maybe I don’t belong here.”
She grabs my hand without warning, her fingers small but warm. “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard come out of your mouth.”
I blink at her.
“This town needs you,” she says fiercely. “I need you. The shop needs you. Gorran definitely needs you, even if he’s too emotionally constipated to admit it.”
I sniffle. “He told me to go.”
“Then stay,” she says, with the stubborn conviction only a part-fae teenager can pull off. “Stay and show him he’s wrong. Elderbridge isn’t Elderbridge without you in it.”
I watch her for a long second.
And against all logic, all heartbreak, all that ache in my chest that won’t quit—I almost believe her.
CHAPTER 22
GORRAN
