Page 58 of Built Orc Tough
And it’s mine.
I clear my throat.
“Flowers,” I begin, voice low but steady, “are wild things.”
Mina Thorne lifts an eyebrow.
“They don’t bloom on command. They don’t wait for your schedule. They don’t soften just because you asked nicely. They push through brick walls, through storm drains, through scorched earth. They grow where they want. How they want.”
I pause.
“And I think love should be the same.”
It’s dead silent now. Even the wind holds its breath.
“I used to think love had to be pretty,” I continue, letting the words fall out the way they’ve lived in me for months. “Predictable. Like a perfectly trimmed bouquet with just the right colors and zero mess. But that’s not love. That’s performance. Real love is chaos. Real love roots itself in the cracks. It spills over. It bruises, it grows, it reaches. And sometimes, it changes you. Makes you wilder. Braver. Makes you believe you’re worthy of blooming at all.”
My throat tightens, but I don’t stop.
“This arrangement is messy. It’s full of contradictions. It’s city and soil. Sharp and soft. It’s what happens when you stop trying to tame something and just let it grow.”
I take a breath. Step back.
“And I think that’s beautiful.”
The applause doesn’t come right away.
But when it does, it swells like a wave. It’s not polite. It’s not restrained.
It’s real.
I blink fast, because I’ll be damned if I cry in front of Gossamer Quinn.
Someone whistles. I recognize that sharp note. Sprout’s standing on a bench, grinning like she rigged the entire contest in my favor.
I bow—just a little—and leave the platform as the judges start scribbling furiously.
My heart’s pounding.
I don’t know if I won. But I said what I needed to say.
The applause is still echoing through the square when I start to step down, my heart racing like it hasn’t caught up to the calm expression I’m trying to paste across my face. It’s a strange thing, standing in front of a whole town and saying something raw, somethingtrue,and not being sure if it’s bravery or stupidity—only knowing that you had to say it or you’d choke on the silence left behind.
But then something shifts.
It’s not a sound, exactly. More like theabsenceof one. The murmuring stops. The casual shuffling and polite clapping fade until it’s like the whole square inhales and forgets how to let go. The kind of quiet that makes your skin prickle, like the moment before lightning splits the sky.
And I feel him.
Before I even turn to look, Iknow.
Gorran.
He’s moving through the crowd with that deliberate, steady gait that somehow manages to saydon’t look at meandyou’re damn well going to feel thisat the same time. He’s carrying something—wood, heavy and solid, tucked in his arms like it’s sacred. And I already know what it is.
The bench.
The one he disappeared into the shop to carve when he wouldn’t look at me. The one he didn’t finish before I walked out the door and didn’t look back.
