Page 60 of Built Orc Tough
GORRAN
The wood under my knee is sun-warmed and solid, the kind of grounding surface that doesn’t care whether you’re brave or broken—just that you showed up and put your weight on it. The square is so quiet I can hear the distant rustle of banners flapping against shop windows, the creak of the awning above Petal & Thorn’s stall, and somewhere, off to the left, a baby crying and being promptly shushed by someone who probably didn’t expect this day to include public confessions and emotional implosions.
Ivy’s crouched beside me, the edge of her dress brushing my arm, her fingers ghosting across the carved bench like she’s checking if it’s real. Her eyes are locked on mine, unwavering, and it hits me again with the force of a forge hammer—she’s never looked away, not once, not even when I tried to disappear behind my silence and potions and old pain I wear like armor.
And I can’t stay quiet anymore.
Not this time.
So I rise to my feet, slow and deliberate, not in any grand, sweeping motion that makes people gasp but in a way that feels like I’m finally standing for something that matters more than pride or fear.
The air is thick with anticipation, the crowd holding its breath in a way that’s almost reverent, like they understand this isn’t about the festival anymore. This is about something older. Deeper. About two people who built something wild and didn’t know how to keep it from burning down around them.
“I was scared,” I say, my voice carrying across the square, not loud but firm, cutting through the silence like a blade honed on truth. “Not of her. Never of her. I was scared because she saw all of me—every dark corner, every jagged edge, every broken thing I’ve tried to bury so deep I forgot where I left it—and she didn’t flinch.”
There’s a rustle, people shifting, but I don’t take my eyes off Ivy. I couldn’t if I tried.
“She didn’t ask me to be different,” I go on. “Didn’t try to fix me or soften me or make me smaller so I’d fit easier into her life. She just… showed up. Day after day. Loud, messy, stubborn as hell. She made this town bloom again, and she made me believe—finally—that maybe I could grow, too.”
I pause to breathe, because the words feel too big, like I’ve been holding them in too long and they’ve grown sharp.
“I thought if I kept her at arm’s length, I’d be protecting her. From me. From the mess I carry. From all the things I’ve lost before. But the truth is, I was protecting myself. Because if I opened up and she left, I wasn’t sure there’d be anything left of me to put back together.”
I glance down at the bench, at the way our names sit side by side—plain, unembellished, permanent.
“But I’ve learned something,” I say, my throat rough. “Love isn’t safe. It’s not tidy. It’s not something you control. It’s something you plant. Something you water. Something you risk.”
I turn fully to Ivy now, and the crowd might as well not exist.
“I want to build something with you,” I say, and this time, my voice is quiet but sure, like an oath. “Not perfect. Not easy. Justours.Something that lasts. Even if we have to tear it down and rebuild it a dozen times.”
She stares at me for one long, impossible moment.
And then she moves.
She doesn’t speak. Doesn’t ask. Just grabs the front of my shirt with both hands, pulls me down to her level, and kisses me.
It’s not gentle. It’s not graceful. It’s messy and urgent and too much and just enough all at once.
And it’s everything.
The square explodes behind us. I can hear it—the whoops, the cheers, the delighted gasps of Mrs. Delling probably fanning herself into a frenzy. Someone yells something I don’t catch, and a little girl shrieks with joy, and a man actually throws his hat in the air like we’re in a damn fairy tale.
But none of it matters.
Because Ivy’s hands are in my hair and her smile is pressed against my mouth, and I’ve never felt morefoundthan I do in this moment.
When we finally break apart, it’s only by a breath, and she’s laughing—real, unguarded laughter that sounds like a sunrise cracking over the edge of something long frozen.
“I should be furious with you,” she says, breathless and grinning.
“You probably are,” I reply, brushing a thumb over her cheek.
“Don’t think this means you get out of being wrong, Gorran.”
“I’ll be wrong,” I say. “Every day, if it means I get to stay in it with you.”
Before she can make another jab, the ceremonial bell rings—sharp and resonant, cutting through the celebration. We both turn as the judges climb the platform again, Mina Thorne frontand center, holding a ribbon that gleams like garnet under the late-afternoon sun.
