Page 49 of Built Orc Tough
There’s a scent in the shop now that wasn’t there before. It’s faint, barely lingering—citrus and salt, like dried tears over lemon balm—and I hate that I notice it. I hate that I know it’s hers, that I can smell where she walked, where her fingers trailed across the edge of the counter before she left like the air would hold her in place if she just touched it hard enough.
The quiet used to be my ally. My sanctuary. Now it gnaws. It’s too still. Too loud in its stillness. Every creak of the floorboards feels like something mocking me. Every clink of glass is a sound she would’ve commented on, with some smart-ass remark about my “orcish thunderhands” or “ungentle herb fondling,” and gods, I miss her mouth.
I keep my hands busy because that’s what I know. Grind. Boil. Label. The tasks numb the worst of it. Until they don’t. Because no matter how much root I crush into powder, no matter how much salve I stir into gloss, there’s no tonic that shuts off memory. No cure for how her voice sounded when she asked if I wanted her gone.
And I didn’t say no.
I just let her go.
That moment replays over and over in my head like a curse—her eyes all fire and fracture, voice trembling but steady in that infuriatingly brave way of hers, like she was holding herself together just long enough to give me the chance to do the right thing. And I didn’t.
I’d rather be burned alive in my own tinctures than admit I’m scared. But I am. Because if I open that door, if I let her in, then she could leave. And if she does—gods help me—I don’t know if I’d survive it twice.
The shop bell never rings the same way twice. But today it hits sharp—angry. The way only family enters. The way only Terra storms in.
“You absolute moss-brained bastard,” she growls, her voice pitched low and dangerous, the kind of tone she reserves for wolves and fools. “What in the blazing hell did you do?”
I don’t turn. I keep labeling jars.
“You’re going to ignore me?” she snaps, crossing the workroom in five strides like she owns the place. “Because I swear to the old gods and every herb spirit from here to Hollow Point, if you don’t look at me, I’ll set your dried nettle on fire and dance on the ashes.”
I set the label down. Slowly.
“She’s crying in the greenhouse,” she hisses. “Sprout found her. Sitting on the floor like you kicked her out of her own life.”
I grind my molars. “She’s better off gone.”
Terra’s voice softens, dangerously. “No, Gorran. She’s not. And neither are you.”
I meet her gaze, and the anger in her face is like a slap. “She has a future. Out there. Somewhere real.”
“Real?” Terra laughs bitterly. “You think this isn’t real? That the roots she’s laid here, the work she’s done beside you, that’s nothing? You think coming back from failure and standingshoulder to shoulder with you while the whole town watches isn’t real?”
I say nothing.
“She chose this,” Terra snarls. “She chose Elderbridge. She chose the weird flower shop with the part-time orc and the passive-aggressive herbs. She chose you. And what do you do? You give her the cold shoulder and tell her to run.”
“She deserves more,” I growl. “She deserves soft hands and easy mornings and someone who doesn’t carry the weight of everything they’ve broken.”
“She deserves to decide that for herself,” she spits. “But instead of trusting her, you treated her like a flight risk. Like your pain is prophecy and you’re just speeding up the ending so you can say you were right all along.”
I slam the vial down on the table, glass rattling. “What if I let her in and I ruin it anyway?”
She doesn’t flinch. “Then at least you ruined it honestly. Instead of lying to both of you and calling it protection.”
My hands shake.
Just slightly. Just enough to notice.
Terra steps closer, softer now. She places her hand over mine—steady, grounding. “You love her. You wouldn’t be this cruel if you didn’t.”
I breathe out like it hurts. “That’s the problem.”
“No,” she says gently, “the problem is you think love has to hurt. That it’s something you earn by bleeding for it. But Ivy? She doesn’t want a martyr. She wants a partner. Someone who stands next to her, not in front of her like a damn wall.”
I drag a hand down my face. “I don’t know how to be that man.”
“Yes, you do,” she says quietly. “You already are. You just keep convincing yourself you’re not.”
