Page 16 of Pumpkin Spice & Orc Cinnamon Roll

DROGATH

T he engine’s still ticking when I kill the headlights and sit in the dark, the windshield fogging from the breath I didn’t realize I’ve been holding for hours.

I should go inside.

I should explain.

But I know how this will go—she’ll look at me like she doesn’t recognize the man standing in front of her anymore, and I’ll say too little or too much, and none of it will make a damn bit of difference. Not with the truth chained up behind layers of caution and bad timing.

Instead, I grip the steering wheel until my knuckles pale, and I watch the golden light flicker through the shop window like it’s a lighthouse I don’t know how to reach anymore.

The developers call themselves Kestrel Properties, but it’s a snake’s skin draped over a beast I’ve seen before—Lanton Greaves.

City-slick bastard with teeth too white and contracts slicker than spring mud.

He tried to poach one of my riverfront holdings five years ago, and I buried him under so much legal tangle he coughed up his wallet.

Now he’s sniffing around Maple Hollow like it’s easy prey. Offering twice market value for old barns, paying in quiet cash and promises made in backrooms. His pawns show up with fresh suits and friendly smiles and try to sweet-talk orchard widows into signing things they don’t understand.

I’ve been blocking him for weeks.

Using fronts. Quiet corporations. Outbidding him under false names to hold back the tide. It’s messy, and it’s not clean. But it’s working—barely.

And then he shifted.

I don’t know how he found the stretch near Tessa’s back garden, but he’s circling it now. I saw the drone footage pop up in his bid proposal yesterday. “Untapped edge potential,” he called it. “Perfect site for high-end cottages.”

Cottages. Right where the wild mint grows beside her rain barrels. Right where I carved our initials into a sugar maple the year before I left.

I crushed the copy of the bid in my fist.

Tara shows up at my temporary office above the old print shop, not bothering to knock. She never does. She barges in like a windstorm wrapped in auburn curls and opinions I didn’t ask for.

“She’s slipping,” she says, dropping a bag of pastries on my desk like it’s an offering or a bribe or both.

I grunt. “She’s scared.”

“She’s angry,” she corrects, flopping into the chair across from me. “And she’s not wrong. You’re making moves behind curtains again. You think you’re protecting her, but all she sees is the same old cycle—Drogath making decisions, alone in his cave, too noble to let anyone in.”

I say nothing.

Because I know she’s right.

And I hate it.

Tara sighs, softer this time. “You keep saying you want roots. You want to stay. Then act like it. You can’t keep treating love like it’s some antique to dust off only when it’s safe.”

I glance out the window, where the leaves are thinning, and the trees are starting to show bone.

“I’m not dragging her into a pissing match with Greaves,” I mutter. “This gets messy, and fast. If she’s tied to it, she gets dragged through mud she didn’t ask for.”

Tara narrows her eyes. “Maybe let her decide what she’s willing to risk.”

It’s just after nine when I park in front of Maple & Mallow. The village is mostly asleep, save for a few scattered porch lights and the occasional clink of dishes through kitchen windows. But her shop’s still glowing.

I can see her silhouette through the frosted glass—hands moving with the slow rhythm of someone trying to stay busy so they don’t have to think.

She’s lighting candles, one by one, like stars being coaxed from wax and wick.

Her hair’s half-up, half-tumbled, curls catching in the soft flicker.

She looks tired. Beautiful. Stubborn as ever.

I open the door slowly.

The bell above it jingles with that familiar, worn-out chime. She doesn’t turn.

“Tessa,” I say.

She sets down a bundle of dried lavender with precision, like if she moves just right, nothing will tip.

“I don’t want to talk right now,” she says, voice clipped and too calm.

“I know.”

She finally faces me, arms crossed tight like armor. “Do you?”

I step further into the shop. The scent hits me like it always does—orange rind and clove and that faint, earthy sweetness that always clings to her skin. “I didn’t come to argue.”

“Then why are you here, Drogath?” Her voice isn’t angry, but it’s not soft either. It’s a wall built from too many bruised hopes.

I want to tell her everything. About Greaves. About the bids. About the way I’ve been clawing at shadows to keep her safe without leaving fingerprints. But the words knot up in my throat.

Instead, I just look at her. Fully. Honestly.

And she looks right back, but not with the warmth I remember. Her eyes are clear, unreadable, like a lake gone still before a storm.

“You’re shutting me out,” she says. “Again.”

I swallow hard. “I’m trying to fix it before it touches you.”

Her jaw ticks. “Maybe I don’t need you to fix everything.”

And then she turns away.

Doesn’t storm off. Doesn’t yell. Just goes still, her shoulders rising and falling like a breath held too long.

I want to reach for her.

But I don’t deserve to.

So I nod once, even though she’s not looking.

And I leave.

I slam the truck door harder than I mean to, but the silence inside is worse than the cold.

I sit there, fists clenched on the steering wheel, and for a moment, I feel every mile I’ve traveled, every boardroom I’ve dominated, every hollow success that means nothing next to the woman inside that little flower shop.

The knuckles of my right hand hit the wheel with a sharp crack.

“I’m losing her again,” I breathe. Not a shout. Not a growl.

Just truth.

Painful. Raw.

The trees outside rustle with wind that smells like ash and frost and the turning of something final.

Greaves is closing in.

Tessa’s pulling away.

And I’m standing dead center between two storms, holding nothing but silence and good intentions.

I know I can’t keep hiding.

Not if I want to keep her.

And gods help me—I do. More than I’ve ever wanted anything.