Page 19 of Pumpkin Spice & Orc Cinnamon Roll

TESSA

T he morning light filters through the shop’s front window like honey through cheesecloth—slow, golden, and impossibly soft.

It bathes the wooden floor in warmth, catching on the edges of dried marigold garlands and glass jars filled with clove buds and cinnamon curls.

Normally, this light soothes me. It hushes the world and tells me to exhale.

But this morning, my breath is all tangled up in the sight of Drogath sitting at my worktable, his massive frame hunched like he’s trying to take up less space, his coat shrugged off and tossed over a chair, and his thick, veined forearms streaked with angry red burns.

He’s quiet.

Too quiet.

And not the brooding, grumbly kind of quiet he wears like a second skin.

No, this is a silence stitched from pain and sleepless hours and maybe even regret, though he’d never say that aloud.

He winces as I press a damp cloth to the worst of the burns, the raw skin along his left forearm pulsing a bright, angry pink that makes my stomach turn.

“You need to stop throwing yourself in front of fires,” I murmur, dipping the cloth in my cooling chamomile salve and wringing it out with trembling fingers.

His eyes flick up to mine. “Didn’t exactly have a volunteer line.”

“Well, congratulations, you’ve earned yourself a lifetime ban from open flame,” I say, trying for lightness. “I’ll have Tara enchant the hearth if I have to.”

He doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t even smirk.

Instead, he studies me like I’ve changed since last night. And maybe I have.

I’m not sure what shifted exactly, but something deep in my bones no longer wants to fight. Not him. Not this. Not the ache that’s lived inside me since he came back and stirred it all up again.

“Drogath,” I whisper, dabbing gently at the burn near his elbow, “what happened?”

He watches for a long moment, like he’s weighing the cost of honesty against the weight of silence.

Then he speaks.

“There’s a man named Greaves,” he begins, voice low and gravel-rough.

“He runs a shell company—Kestrel Properties. He’s been trying to buy out land around here for months.

I started blocking his bids when I saw his name on a contract for Bramley’s cousin’s orchard.

Bought up a few plots myself under dummy corporations.

Made noise in the right places. Stalled where I could. ”

“And the woods?” I ask, because I have to know. My fingers are still on his skin, but my heart is bracing.

He nods, slow and reluctant. “I got wind he was eyeing that stretch behind your garden. I tried to shut it down. But he’s slippery.

Started coming at it sideways—pressuring folks, sending his men in at night to scope.

Last night, I caught one trying to light a marker fire.

Bastard panicked, torched half a grove. I got him out, but the wind turned fast.”

I don’t speak.

Because if I do, I might break.

He saved the trees. The same trees I used to dream under. The ones I used to tell him secrets beneath.

“You didn’t tell me any of this,” I finally say, my voice shaky but warm.

“I thought if I handled it, you’d never have to know,” he admits, jaw clenching. “But I see now… that wasn’t love. That was cowardice wearing a good intention.”

I press my hand gently over the bandaged part of his arm. “You always try to carry it all by yourself.”

He lets out a long, weary breath. “Because I was never taught how to ask for help without seeing it as weakness.”

“And I was never taught how to trust without giving up too much of myself,” I say quietly, my eyes stinging. “We’re both learning new things.”

He looks at me like I’ve just told him the moon is his, and he’s not sure how to hold it.

“I thought you hated me,” he says.

“I did,” I reply, then smile softly. “For a little while. But mostly I hated how much I still loved you. How much I wanted to believe you were still him. The boy who carved me acorns and brushed snow out of my hair. And it turns out… you are. You’ve just been buried under a whole lot of guilt and ambition and pine sap. ”

His mouth twitches, almost a smile. “I never stopped wanting to protect you.”

“I know,” I say. “But I don’t need a protector. I need a partner. Someone who stands beside me, not ahead of me.”

I rise and hold out my hand. “Come with me.”

He looks surprised. “Where?”

“You’ll see,” I say, tugging him gently to his feet.

We walk in silence, past the back fence of the shop, through the brittle grass and fallen leaves where the path narrows and turns soft with moss. The woods are quieter than usual this time of year—birds half-gone to migration, wind muted under the weight of waiting frost.

When we reach the old tree, the one shaped like a crooked wishbone where the two sugar maples twist around each other like lovers, I stop.

“This was my hideaway,” I say, brushing back a low branch. “When I was little, I’d sneak out here with a thermos of lukewarm cocoa and dream about a life that felt big enough to hold me, but still small enough to feel like home.”

He looks around like he’s memorizing it, his burned hand hanging loose at his side, the other fisting and flexing with that familiar tension he only shows when he’s feeling too much.

“You brought me here once,” he says after a moment. “You were wearing that ridiculous scarf with the pumpkin buttons. I remember thinking you looked like a spell I’d never figure out.”

I laugh, then press my hand to the trunk. “If you want to protect something… start here.”

He tilts his head. “The tree?”

“No, dummy,” I say with a watery smile. “Me. Us. This.”

I take his hand, burned and all, and guide it to my chest.

“Start here, Drogath. But do it beside me. Not above. Not alone. Not in secret. If you want to build something—build it with me.”

His eyes shine in the dappled light.

And for once, he doesn’t try to speak around it.

He just leans forward, presses his forehead to mine, and exhales like he’s finally allowed to breathe.

And somewhere in the stillness of these old woods, I feel our roots begin to grow back together.

Slow. Tender. Strong.