Page 52 of Built Orc Tough
She’s already in the shop when I get there.
I smell her before I see her—honeysuckle and pepper, that impossible mix of sweetness and bite that always hits me low in the gut. She’s trimming stems at the flower bench, her back to me, spine rigid in a way that says she’s trying not to care, which only makes it worse.
I don’t speak. Just nod once as I pass her, head down, and disappear into the workroom before I make the mistake of saying something halfway honest. I’m not ready. Not when the sight of her is a punch in the chest and I haven’t figured out how to breathe through it.
The carved piece is still hidden in the drawer, unfinished. I was up most of the night working it with my thumb and a dulling blade, shaping what I didn’t have words for. But I didn’t finish it, because part of me still believes I shouldn’t. That giving her something permanent will only make it worse when she realizes what she’s settled for.
Because sooner or later, she’ll see it all. The scars. The temper. The way my hands shake sometimes when I think no one’s looking. She’ll see the bruises that never fade from years of being the guy who fixes things with fists and fortitude. Thedirt under my nails that never quite scrubs out. The ugliness of someone who’s lived too long on the edge of fight or flight.
And she’ll regret it.
That’s what keeps me quiet. Not pride. Not anger.
Just fear dressed in armor.
I throw myself into work. It’s easier that way. The tinctures don’t ask questions. The leaves don’t flinch when I get something wrong. The mortar doesn’t sigh when I forget to smile.
But the longer the silence stretches, the louder it gets. Ivy moves around the shop like she’s wearing a mask she doesn’t believe in anymore. I catch her glancing at me when she thinks I’m not looking—quick, brittle looks full of things she’s not saying. It twists something deep in my gut, because I know that look. It’s the same one I wear in the mirror when I’m bracing for disappointment.
Around midday, she finally breaks.
“Okay, that’s it,” she says, slamming the vase she’s arranging onto the counter with more force than necessary. “I cannot keep doing this weird silent ghost routine where I pretend everything’s fine while you act like I’m contagious.”
I freeze, halfway through corking a jar. “I don’t?—”
“No,” she cuts in, stepping toward the workroom door. “Don’t you dare give me that calm, quiet voice like I haven’t been watching you avoid me like I’m about to turn into a regret in real-time.”
“I’m not—” I try, but she’s already on fire.
“Either you fight for this,” she says, her voice shaking, but strong, “or you let me go. For real this time. Because this halfway nonsense, this push-and-pull like I’m some stray you fed once and now can’t decide if you want me or not—it’s killing me, Gorran.”
My throat locks up.
She steps all the way into the room now, eyes locked on mine like she’s daring me to lie. “I showed up. I stayed. I bled for this shop, for this town, for you. And all I’ve gotten in return is a man who looks at me like I’m a storm he’s waiting to pass.”
“Ivy,” I manage, voice low, rough, “you don’t know what you’re asking.”
“Yes, I do,” she says. “I’m asking for the truth. I’m asking you to stop hiding behind this idea that you’re protecting me when really, you’re just scared.”
I flinch. She sees it. Her eyes soften, but only a little.
“I know you’ve been through hell. I know people have left. I know your scars go deeper than the skin. But damn it, Gorran, I’m not them.”
“I know that,” I say, finally stepping forward. My hands ache with the need to reach for her, but I keep them at my sides. “But what if I still break it? What if I ruin the only good thing I’ve ever had?”
She exhales shakily. “Then you try. You screw it up, and you apologize, and you try again. Because that’s what people do when they love someone.”
The word hangs there between us like smoke.
Love.
I open my mouth. Close it again. My pulse is a drumbeat in my ears.
And then I reach into the drawer, pull out the carved piece, and place it on the table between us.
It’s not perfect. The petals are uneven. The edges a little rough.
But it’s a bloom. A wooden flower, her favorite shape, curled around a thorny stem that took me three hours to get just right.
