Page 50 of Built Orc Tough
I sit down, hard, like my knees gave out under the weight of it all.
Terra kneels beside me, her expression softening. “She’s still here, Gorran. That means something. So stop trying to chase her away before she can leave on her own. That’s not protecting her. That’s punishing both of you.”
I bury my face in my hands. “What if I can’t fix this?”
Terra squeezes my arm. “You’re the only one who can.”
She stands, brushes off her pants like the conversation didn’t just rip through my chest like a blade.
“I’ll be back tomorrow,” she says, heading for the door. “And if she’s not smiling at least once, I’m coming back with glitter.”
She leaves me in the quiet.
But this time, it’s not gnawing.
It’s waiting.
The silence doesn’t scrape the same way now.
It hangs heavy, sure, but there’s a different kind of weight to it—less of a knife in the ribs and more of a hand on the shoulder. Like something’s waiting for me to get my shit together. Like I’m being watched by the memory of her, and it’s not judging me. It’s just... waiting.
I glance toward the front. The flower bench is empty. Normally she’s got it overflowing with some chaotic miracle of color—blooms I can’t pronounce, stems curling like they’re dancing, petals that smell like sweetness and fire. It’s a mess, always. But it’s her kind of mess. It’s the only part of the shop that ever looked like it had a soul.
Now it just looks abandoned.
And that’s when I feel it—not anger, not even guilt. Terror. Raw, honest terror. Because I’m not mad she left. I’m scared she won’t come back.
That this time, I pushed too hard. Built a wall too high. And all she did was stand at the base of it with flowers in her hands, waiting for me to stop being afraid.
Gods, I don’t want to be afraid anymore.
I walk to the corner of the workroom where the old oak sits, the one Terra brought me after my first real heartbreak—the loss that left more than scars. I kept the grain from that tree, because it felt honest. Because it didn’t rot under pressure. And I start carving.
The knife feels good in my hand. Solid. Predictable.
The wood splits clean under the blade, and I lose myself in it. Not in the way I do when I’m hiding. This isn’t hiding. This is... something else. A focus. A hope.
She once told me I made things that lasted. That my hands were stubborn in the best ways.
So now I make something for her.
I don’t know what it is yet—only that it has petals and thorns and edges. Like her. Only that I need to give shape to this feeling or I’ll drown in it.
The shop is quiet around me, but in my mind, I can hear her laughing. That low, scratchy laugh that sounds like defiance and honey and the refusal to let the world win.
I carve slower, more deliberately.
And I start to believe, maybe there’s still time to show her I’ve been listening all along.
CHAPTER 23
IVY
The greenhouse air hangs thick with the smell of damp earth and underripe peaches, and in the corner, my fingers still grip terra cotta too hard before dropping it with a clatter. Purple petals scatter across the floor like bruises. His footsteps sound heavy on the gravel path outside, that familiar uneven rhythm he has when thoughts weigh him down. The door creaks open.
Gorran stands there, sunlight catching the silver scars across his knuckles. Words perch on his lips but don’t fall. His throat moves when he swallows, eyes dark pools searching my face. There’s only open hurt in them—shame, maybe, but no armor left. Good.
I cross the space in three strides. His sharp inhale catches in my hair before his hands rise—half protest, half surrender—but I catch his wrists.
