Page 6 of Cider, Spice & Orcish Nights

THORNAK

I never thought I’d be sitting in the middle of a sunlit bakery with my tusks scraping awkwardly against a dainty little porcelain mug, squinting at scribbled human legalese that talks about "mutual appearances of affection" and "duration of marital contract obligations" like we’re divvying up the last slice of a pie.

But here I am.

Maddie’s perched on the stool across from me, elbows on the counter, hair tied up in a messy knot that’s already escaping in fluffy curls.

She’s so bright it hurts to look at sometimes—smiling even while worrying her bottom lip between her teeth, chattering a mile a minute about how they’ll probably need to make the engagement look authentic with at least a few public handholds.

I grunt into my cider, mostly to hide the ridiculous heat crawling up the back of my neck at the thought of my big, calloused hand swallowing hers.

“Alright, run me through this nonsense again,” I mutter, setting the mug down with deliberate care. My claws don’t play nice with delicate ceramic. Already chipped one of her cups last year when I came in to buy bread. She’d only laughed—said it gave it character—but it still makes me cautious.

She taps the paper with a flour-dusted finger.

“Basically: we’re engaged for appearances.

We attend a few town functions, drop by the council offices together so all the right busybodies can see us.

We sign the marriage ledger by Halloween, which keeps the orchard from sliding into Reggie’s grubby hands.

Then after a respectable period—six months, maybe a year? —we quietly part ways. No harm done.”

I snort. “You make it sound simple.”

“Well, it should be,” she says, eyebrows flying up, “except, you know, for the minor detail where I’m faking a marriage to a brooding orc lumberjack who looks like he could bench-press my entire oven.”

“Can and have,” I grumble, but my mouth quirks despite itself.

I try to focus on the parchment, but it’s damned hard with the smell of this place wrapping around me.

Warm yeast and caramelized sugar, a ghost of clove and butter hanging in the beams. It sinks under my skin, lodges deep, dredges up things I don’t like thinking about—quiet dinners that never happened, laughter that was never meant for me, hearths that never held my name.

Feels too much like home. Dangerous sort of comfort.

Still, I clear my throat, pick up her little pencil—gingerly, between two claws—and scratch my mark next to hers. The lead snaps halfway through and she just giggles, flipping it around to hand me another like this is the most natural thing in the world.

“Sorry,” I mutter, ears burning.

“Don’t be,” she chirps. “You oughta see me try to fix a wheelbarrow axle. It ends in catastrophic squealing and splinters every time.”

When we’re done, she pushes a fresh mug of cider across to me, smile soft. “Thank you. Really. I know this is probably the last thing you wanted to get tangled up in.”

I grunt, sipping slow. The cider’s sweet, tangy, spicy enough it nips at the back of my throat. “It’s not just your orchard on the line,” I finally admit.

Her eyes brighten. “I know. Still. Means a lot that you’re willing.”

“Don’t get sappy on me, sunshine.”

“Too late. Entire personality hazard,” she says with a cheeky grin that makes something low in my chest twist hard.

On my way out, I hesitate by her counter. The impulse is stupid—soft, foolish. But I dig into my vest pocket anyway, pull out a tiny wooden leaf I’d carved from scrap last night when I couldn’t sleep. Maple, curled as if caught mid-fall.

“Leftover bit,” I grunt, dropping it on her counter like it’s worthless bark. “Didn’t mean to toss it.”

Her mouth falls open in this small, delighted O that she tries—and fails—to smother. She picks it up so delicately you’d think it was spun sugar, cradling it in her palm.

“It’s beautiful,” she whispers. “Thank you, Thornak.”

“Weren’t a gift,” I lie, already stomping for the door.

“Sure it wasn’t,” she calls after me, bright and teasing, voice soft around the edges like maybe she knows better.

The walk back to my side of the forest winds through town, which I usually try to avoid. Streets too narrow, houses too close, too many prying eyes that flick from my tusks to my scars to my broad shadow on the cobblestones. Today’s worse—everyone’s buzzing with rumors after seeing me with Maddie.

Old Mrs. Tallow winks at me from her porch where she’s knitting socks that’ll probably end up too big even for my feet.

A trio of dwarf stonecutters elbow each other and chuckle under their breath.

A gaggle of pixie kids actually start following us for a block, whispering to each other in their chiming little voices about “the orc who stole the baker’s heart. ”

I glare, low and flat, enough to send them scattering with squeaks of alarm.

Beside me, Maddie’s trying her damn best not to giggle.

“You really do have the best scowl,” she says, bumping her shoulder into my arm like she’s known me a lifetime instead of a handful of awkward conversations and a contract.

I grunt. “Keeps pests off.”

“Pity it doesn’t work on me,” she teases.

For a long moment I say nothing, just let her chatter fill up the spaces in me that’ve been hollow too long.

She talks about apple tart variations she wants to try—honeyed walnut, spiced plum—about putting little jack-o’-lantern cutouts on top for the harvest fair.

Her hands flutter as she describes it, whole body moving with her words, alive in a way that’s hard to look at without feeling like it might undo me.

By the time we reach the orchard fork, she stops, cheeks pink from more than the cold. “Well. I guess this is where I turn off. I’ll… see you tomorrow?”

I nod, gruff. “Tomorrow.”

Because apparently I’ve lost all good sense—I add, “Don’t forget to lock up. Saw fox prints near your henhouse last night.”

Her face lights up like I handed her a basket of gold coins. “You’re sweet to worry. See? Under all that grumping there’s a big soft?—”

“Don’t push it, sunshine,” I growl, already stomping off.

But for the rest of the walk through my woods, the quiet feels less heavy. Like maybe her laughter stuck to me, stubborn as burrs. And damned if I don’t catch myself almost smiling.