Page 59 of Built Orc Tough
He climbs the steps to the stage without a word. No fanfare. No smug smile. He sets the bench down in the center, on the very platform I just left, and for a second, he just stands there, looking at it like maybe he’s wondering if this is a mistake.
He kneels.
Not fast. Not dramatic. Just slow and steady, like every part of him understands the weight of what he’s doing. His kneetouches the boards, and his head bows, and suddenly the square is dead silent again.
Not a murmur. Not a rustle. Even the breeze holds still.
And my breath catches.
The sunlight catches on the edge of the carving and I see our names—etched side by side, not intertwined, not romanticized, justpresent.Bold. Permanent. Like he’s saying we don’t need to be perfect to belong in the same breath.
He doesn’t look up.
Doesn’t say a word.
And I realize, he’s not kneeling to ask me anything. He’s kneeling because he’s giving something up.
That guardedness. That fear. That need to control the ending before it ever begins.
This isn’t a proposal. It’s an apology.
It’s him sayingI was wrong.I get it now.
And something in me shatters and softens all at once.
I don’t think. I just move.
Each step across the platform feels like something ancient—like the start of a new season, like the thaw of winter under bare feet. When I reach him, I stop just close enough to feel the heat coming off his skin, the tension vibrating in his shoulders.
“You could’ve said something,” I murmur, my voice barely a whisper over the hush of the square.
“I didn’t know how,” he says, eyes still on the ground.
And it hits me—this man, who’s wrestled monsters and grief and his own darkness with fists and grit, is more afraid of this moment than any of it. Afraid ofme.
Of this.
I crouch beside him slowly, letting my hand brush the edge of the bench.
“Why now?” I ask.
His breath is rough, a scrape of gravel. “Because I’m tired of being right about how everything ends.”
My heart stumbles.
He lifts his head then, just enough for our eyes to meet, and I swear I see it—all of it. The sorrow, the stubbornness, the raw, unfiltered wanting that he’s never let himself speak out loud.
“I want to build something with you,” he says quietly. “Something that lasts. Even if it’s messy. Even if we have to replant it a dozen times.”
My throat tightens. “You’re such a stubborn idiot.”
He gives a tiny nod. “I know.”
And I smile.
Because I believe him.
CHAPTER 28
