He left me once , eight autumns agowith nothing but a broken heart and a busted cider press.
Now he’s back.
Built like a tree trunk, smelling like firewood and cinnamon sin, and acting like this town wasn’t the one thing he swore he’d never return to.
I run a wreath shop. I talk to my herbs. I make spell sachets that sometimes purr.
I do not have time to fall for the orc who once made me cry into my pumpkin scones.
But then he shows up at the Harvest Gala.
In a flannel shirt tight enough to make the mums bloom.
And offers to rebuild...
He left me once , eight autumns agowith nothing but a broken heart and a busted cider press.
Now he’s back.
Built like a tree trunk, smelling like firewood and cinnamon sin, and acting like this town wasn’t the one thing he swore he’d never return to.
I run a wreath shop. I talk to my herbs. I make spell sachets that sometimes purr.
I do not have time to fall for the orc who once made me cry into my pumpkin scones.
But then he shows up at the Harvest Gala.
In a flannel shirt tight enough to make the mums bloom.
And offers to rebuild the town cider barn with his bare hands.
He’s grumpy. He’s tusked. He bakes.
And worst of all… he remembers everything.
The way I take my tea.
The spot behind my ear that makes me melt.
The exact sound I made the first time he…
Nope. No. Bad memory.
I swore I wouldn’t fall again.
But…. he brought cinnamon rolls.
Read on for tusked cinnamon rolls, magical autumn festivals, cozy vibes, and the most emotionally damaged firewood daddy this side of the ridge. HEA Guaranteed!
