Page 11 of Cider, Spice & Orcish Nights

MADDIE

I ’ve been practically vibrating with anticipation all morning, so much so that I nearly burn three trays of walnut scones because I keep daydreaming instead of setting the timer.

The bakery’s bustling in its usual cheerful chaos—gnomes arguing about who gets the biggest tart, dwarves nursing steaming mugs of dark roast, a pair of giggling elf sisters buying out half my pear turnovers—but my mind is a thousand steps ahead, sprinting straight toward Thornak.

Because today I finally get to give him the gift I’ve been hiding for a week.

It’s a custom flannel shirt—dark pine green with rich brown checks—that I had tailored special by Alma Rindle, the village’s best seamstress.

Took three separate visits to get the measurements right, and at least two awkward explanations that no, it was not for some “surprise elopement,” thank you very much, nosy town gossips.

But I wanted something that would actually fit Thornak’s broad shoulders, wouldn’t pull awkwardly across his chest, wouldn’t rip at the seams every time he moved.

Mostly, I wanted to give him something that was… his. Made with thought, with care, with hands that meant well.

By midafternoon, I can’t take it anymore.

I load up a little basket with fresh apple fritters—still warm, sugar clinging in happy little clumps—tuck the flannel inside, and set off up the path toward the forest. The orchard sighs around me, sun painting the leaves a riot of gold and copper.

I half-hum, half-chatter to myself the entire way, practicing how I’ll hand it over.

“Just thought you could use a shirt that doesn’t look like it’s begging for mercy.”

No, too cheeky.

“Saw this and immediately thought of your enormous shoulders.”

Mortifying.

“Here’s something warm, like you’ve been for me.”

Oh gods, Maddie, get a hold of yourself.

When I reach his clearing, I hesitate at the edge of the trees. The sun filters through the canopy, dappled and gentle. I can hear the soft scrape of a blade against wood, the familiar, rhythmic sound of Thornak carving.

I step forward, trying not to crunch too many twigs, and call out lightly, “Knock knock! It’s just me, please don’t throw an axe or a log or… whatever it is you keep handy for unwanted visitors.”

There’s no answer. Just that steady scraping, more focused than ever.

So, emboldened—and maybe a little reckless—I tiptoe closer. I round one of the wide beech trunks and nearly drop my basket.

Because Thornak is there, alright. Shirtless.

And sweet mother of cinnamon glaze, he’s a sight.

His back is to me, all thick muscle roped across broad shoulders, skin a deep green that goes almost black in the shadows. Scars crisscross him, pale raised lines that tell stories I’m sure he’d never willingly give voice to. Some look old, smoothed by time. Others are sharper, newer.

There’s a long tattoo winding over one shoulder blade—a band of knotwork leaves, so intricate it looks like it’s growing right from his skin. My breath catches painfully, something hot blooming in my chest.

Then he shifts, turning half toward me, and I squeak—actually squeak—because now it’s his chest on full display, more scars and powerful planes that make my thoughts go entirely unspeakable places.

Thornak freezes, eyes widening, knife still in hand. For a heartbeat we just stare at each other, me with my mouth open like a caught fish, him looking like he’d rather be anywhere else on the gods’ green earth.

“Well,” I blurt finally, voice a good octave too high, “that’s—um—that’s definitely more than I bargained for, though I mean in a good way, not like a scandalous way, though I guess it is a bit scandalous, not that I mind?—”

“Sunshine,” he growls, ears going dark at the tips, “you planning on starin’ all day or did you actually come here with something to say?”

That snaps me right out of it. I shove the basket toward him like it’s a shield. “I brought you something! It’s… um… it’s a gift. And pastries. Obviously. Because it’s me.”

He eyes the basket suspiciously, like it might explode. “You bribin’ me with sweets again?”

“Maybe,” I chirp, bouncing a little on my toes. “But there’s also this.”

I tug out the flannel and hold it up, trying not to let my hands tremble. “I had it made for you. So you’d have something that actually fits, and doesn’t look like it’s half a second from giving up the ghost whenever you breathe too hard.”

For a long moment he doesn’t say anything. Just stares at the shirt, then at me, then back again. I’m about three seconds from bolting straight back down the path when he finally reaches out, taking it from my hands with surprising gentleness.

“Didn’t have to do that,” he mutters.

“I know,” I say, voice soft. “But I wanted to.”

He huffs, rough and low. Then turns his back on me—which, honestly, rude—and starts tugging it on right there in the clearing.

I watch, hopelessly spellbound, as the fabric slides over his arms, across all those lines of muscle and scars.

It fits perfectly. No strained seams, no awkward pulling.

Just… him, comfortable, warm, somehow even more himself.

When he turns back around, I press both hands to my mouth to stop the delighted squeal trying to escape.

“It’s perfect,” I breathe. “You look—well. Honestly you look unfair. Like you’re about to chop down a tree and pose heroically in front of it just to make my entire month.”

His ears twitch again, eyes narrowing, but there’s a tiny, reluctant smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Reckless woman.”

“Guilty as charged,” I giggle.

The tension between us snaps then, turning into easy laughter that bubbles up so sweet and unexpected I nearly feel dizzy.

He lets me fuss with the cuffs, rolling them just right, and I can’t help brushing my fingers over his forearm a moment longer than strictly necessary.

His skin’s warm, the little bristling hairs catching against my palm, and he watches me with a look that makes my stomach do absolutely scandalous flips.

“Thank you,” he says, voice low and a little rough, like maybe it scrapes him up to admit it.

“Anytime,” I whisper.

That night I can’t sleep. I toss and turn under my quilt, the moonlight painting pale shapes across my ceiling.

My mind keeps replaying the afternoon in Thornak’s clearing—the way he looked half-wild with his scars and tattoos on display, the way he actually smiled, the way his chest felt under my hand.

Eventually I give up, roll onto my side, and stare at the little wooden leaf he carved, still sitting on my nightstand. I reach out, tracing it with my fingertips, feeling every delicate groove.

Because apparently my self-control is nonexistent—I press it to my lips, close my eyes, and let out a long, shivery sigh.

“Dangerous,” I whisper into the dark. “This is all so, so dangerous.”

But for the life of me, I can’t bring myself to wish any of it away.