Page 12 of Pumpkin Spice & Orc Cinnamon Roll

DROGATH

I ’ve spent my whole life wielding power like a weapon—cold, sharp, always angled to cut through obstacles before they could cut me first. I’ve dealt in concrete and steel, ink and pressure, boardrooms thick with cigar smoke and betrayal disguised as champagne.

But none of it— none of it —ever lit me up the way she does just by looking at me with that sunshine-in-her-veins kind of stare.

And now that I’ve tasted her again, felt her breath against mine like a prayer I forgot I needed, I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life.

But I don’t press.

Not even when I wake up with the scent of her skin still clinging to mine like warmth that won’t let go.

Not even when I want to turn back, wrap her up in the quilt she half-kicked off in her sleep, and whisper every damn thing I’ve never had the courage to say.

I don’t.

Instead, I rise before the sun, stoke her hearth, and carve a second acorn—pine this time, soft and flawed, but mine. I leave it beside her teacup without a word, without a note, without expectation.

Because love, real love, isn’t just about holding on.

It’s about giving.

And I want to give her something that doesn’t burn. Something that stays.

I pick her up late that afternoon, just as the fog is lifting off the fields and the air smells like hearth fires and woodsmoke and the faint trace of mulling spices from Bramley’s back porch.

She meets me outside her shop, apron swapped for a russet sweater and boots laced to the knee.

Her curls are wild from the wind, her cheeks pink from the cold, and she’s wearing that guarded smile again—the one that says she’s still deciding whether I’m a comfort or a threat.

I don’t blame her.

But it doesn’t stop the way my chest aches just looking at her.

“Where are we going?” she asks, folding into the passenger seat of the old pickup I borrowed from the lumber yard for the afternoon.

“Thought you might want to see the ridge,” I say, keeping my voice low, even. “Before the gala takes up every breath we’ve got.”

She eyes me, skeptical but curious. “You bribing me with views now?”

“Something like that.”

The truck rumbles to life and we roll out of town, the gravel road crunching beneath the tires as we climb the winding path toward the bluff that overlooks Maple Hollow.

The trees have turned to full fire—burnt gold, blood-red, deep rust—leaves flickering in the late light like they’re trying to catch flame just for her.

She’s quiet most of the drive, but I feel her watching me. Studying the way I grip the wheel, the way my jaw sets when I’m trying to hold something back.

Which is all the time, really.

We reach the ridge just as the sun begins to dip, casting the whole valley in a honeyed glow. I park near the tree line and step out, gesturing for her to follow me along the path I cleared last week—low pine and bramble trimmed back just enough to give space without stripping the wild.

At the edge of the clearing, she stops.

“What is this? ” she breathes, gaze sweeping over the flattened stretch of land nestled between two groves of red maples.

I hand her the rolled blueprints from my coat pocket, slow and steady. “Take a look.”

She unrolls the thick paper, hands trembling just a bit, curls falling into her face as her eyes scan the lines. I watch her lips part, her brow crease, her breath catch.

“It’s a conservatory,” I say, stepping close enough to see her expression but not so close that I spook her. “Steel frame. Glass walls. Climate-controlled root cellar beneath. Designed to keep herbs thriving even through the deep frost.”

Her voice is barely audible. “This is… my design.”

“You sketched it on the back of a seed catalog seven years ago. Said you wanted something that could keep lemon thyme blooming through January. I remembered.”

She looks up at me then, really looks, like she’s seeing me for the first time through a lens she doesn’t know how to hold steady.

“Why are you doing this?” Her voice isn’t angry. Just raw.

I let the silence stretch between us for a beat, then say simply, “Because I remember what you wanted when no one else listened. And I want you to have something that belongs to you. No strings. No leverage. Just… yours.”

She presses the back of her hand to her mouth, then lowers it slowly. “You can’t keep doing this, Drogath.”

“I’m not trying to earn forgiveness with lumber and blueprints. I just want to give you something that makes your life easier.”

She nods, just once, eyes glassy but fierce. “I’ll need to think about it.”

“Take all the time you need.”

And then I step back.

Because restraint matters. And if I’ve learned anything —it's that showing up doesn’t mean taking over.

The gala is already humming by the time I get there that evening, and gods, if Maple Hollow doesn’t know how to throw a party.

Lanterns strung from tree to tree glow like trapped starlight, casting golden halos over every face. The smell of mulled cider and roasted chestnuts fills the air, and music from the fiddlers near the barn ripples through the clearing like a spell.

And then I see her.

Tessa Quinn, in a moss-green dress that hugs her like it was stitched by fae hands, her curls pinned up with little copper leaves that gleam under the lantern light.

She moves through the crowd with a laugh in her throat, one hand always touching—elbows, shoulders, arms—like she knows people.

Like she belongs to them, and they to her.

I keep my distance.

Because tonight, she needs space. Not weight.

I speak to Bramley, toast with Tara, and spend too long answering Miss Fenley’s questions about my favorite pickling methods—apparently a test of moral fiber in these parts. But always, always, my eyes drift back to her.

She dances once. With Bramley’s grand-nephew, of all people—a gangly, red-cheeked lad who grins like he just caught the moon in his hands.

I don’t move. Not even when the boy spins her and she laughs so hard she presses a hand to her ribs.

But my fingers twitch.

I want to touch her. Gods, do I want it. Want to press my hand to the small of her back, feel her spine lean into me like it used to. Want to hold her like the world narrows down to two heartbeats and the ground beneath our feet.

But I don’t.

Because tonight is hers.

And if I’m lucky—if I’m patient —there might come a night where she walks to me instead of away.

Until then, I will stand in the firelight and watch her glow.

And if the ache in my chest gets worse with every song, so be it.

She’s worth burning for.