Page 9 of Cider, Spice & Orcish Nights

MADDIE

I wake to the faint scent of roasted chestnuts clinging to the cool night air, to the softness of my cheek pressed against something warm and solid that definitely isn’t my pillow.

My eyes flutter open—and immediately widen to the size of caramel tarts—because I’m still curled up against Thornak.

His shoulder is rock-hard under my cheek, his big arm draped along the back of the bench like he might’ve been keeping me steady all this time.

For one glorious, embarrassing heartbeat I just stay there, soaking in the quiet thrum of his breath and the way he radiates heat like a living hearth. Then mortification sets in, sharp and hot, crawling up my neck until my ears feel like they might catch fire.

“Oh stars above, I fell asleep on you,” I croak, voice scratchy from sleep and probably from drooling on his shirt. “Why didn’t you shove me off? Or, I don’t know, growl loud enough to scare me upright?”

He makes a low, rough sound that might be a laugh if he was less grumpy by nature. “Figured you’d wake up eventually. Less fuss that way.”

I sit up so fast I nearly topple right off the bench, hands flailing. “Still, that’s—oh gods, there’s probably a damp spot where I drooled, I’m so sorry?—”

“Settle down, sunshine,” he rumbles, looking away like the distant cider cart is the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen.

His ears twitch, the tips going darker, and for a wild second I wonder if I’ve actually managed to embarrass a giant, brooding orc.

“Ain’t the worst thing to ever happen to my shirt. ”

“Oh well that’s comforting,” I mutter, burying my burning face in my hands.

We stand after that, me brushing off my skirts and trying very hard not to catch anyone’s smirking eye.

The last stragglers are packing up, lanterns winking out one by one, until the square is left in a hush of trampled petals and cider-sweet air.

Thornak waits while I gather my baskets—gruffly refusing help with a grunt and a pointed look at my stubborn little arms—then falls into step beside me as we head back toward the orchard.

It’s a quiet walk, the sort that should feel awkward after everything, but somehow doesn’t.

I steal glances up at him from under my lashes, catching the faint lines around his eyes that mean he’s thinking hard about something.

Or maybe he’s just planning how best to flee the next time I try to feed him pie in public.

When we reach the orchard gate, the moon’s peeking out from behind the trees, silvering the old fence posts and turning the grass into a bed of tiny stars. I can’t help it—something bubbles up in me, light and fizzy, the kind of feeling that begs to be shared.

So I scoop up a handful of fallen leaves, all copper and gold, and toss them at Thornak’s chest with a mischievous little shriek. They scatter everywhere—some catching on his broad shoulders, a few clinging stubbornly to the tips of his tusks.

For a second he just stands there, stunned, looking down at the bits of leaf plastered to his shirt. My heart plummets. Oh gods, what if I’ve pushed him too far? What if he storms off into the woods and decides I’m more trouble than a thousand greedy developers combined?

Then he huffs out this rumbling sound, low and rolling, a laugh that vibrates straight through me. It’s rough and unpolished, like he doesn’t quite remember how to do it, but it’s so warm I could melt right into the earth.

“Reckless little menace,” he mutters, brushing leaves out of his hair.

I gasp in exaggeration. “Was that—did I just witness a genuine Thornak laugh? I ought to mark this date down forever. Have it engraved on a pie plate or something.”

“Don’t push your luck, sunshine,” he grumbles, but there’s a soft crinkle at the corners of his eyes that says he’s not truly annoyed.

We part ways at the porch, him trudging off toward the tree line while I watch his hulking silhouette melt into the shadows.

The orchard seems to sigh around me once he’s gone, settling back into its gentle creaks and rustles.

I press my palm to my chest, feeling my pulse flutter there, a little wild thing.

That night I sit cross-legged on my bed with my old leather journal balanced on my knee. The candle’s burned low, its wax dripping in crooked trails that remind me of lazy days spent frosting cakes. I twirl my pen between my fingers for a long moment, chewing my bottom lip.

Then I write.

He makes me feel safe. Even when he’s scowling like I’ve personally insulted his grandmother’s knitting or looming so large I get dizzy trying to look all the way up at him.

It doesn’t make sense—he’s exactly the sort of man who should terrify me.

The tusks, the scars, the growl that could rattle windowpanes.

But somehow, standing next to him feels like…

standing under a great oak tree. Protected.

Sheltered. Like even if the world tries to blow me apart, he’ll be there, rooted deep and unmoving.

I stop, nibbling at my pen cap, feeling my heart twist painfully.

I shouldn’t want that. Shouldn’t start craving something real when this is all supposed to be pretend. But gods, I think I do.

My eyes drift to the little wooden leaf on my nightstand, its curves catching the candlelight.

I pick it up, running my thumb over the delicate veins Thornak carved so carefully, pretending it was scrap.

As if I couldn’t see the way his hands hovered gentle on tiny things, so deliberate it made my breath catch.

I sigh, pressing the leaf to my lips for the briefest, foolish moment.

Then I set it back down with the utmost care, blow out the candle, and crawl under the covers.

Sleep takes me slow, wrapping me up in drifting images of warm pie, crackling fires, and the echo of a gruff laugh that feels like it was meant just for me.