Page 21 of Pumpkin Spice & Orc Cinnamon Roll

TESSA

I t smells like clove and cinnamon and sawdust in the shop again, which might not seem like much, but to me, it’s the scent of things finally turning the corner.

I’m humming a little—something aimless and happy and embarrassingly off-key—as I hang the last wreath in the window, a crooked heart woven from cinnamon sticks and twine and wild sage from the south ridge.

It leans just a little to the left, which probably says something poetic about me and balance and still figuring life out, but it’s staying that way. I kind of like it better imperfect.

The front door chimes as it swings open, letting in a gust of maple-sweet wind and Tara Mettles, who marches straight toward the display table and plants her hands on her hips like she’s here on official business.

“You put love wreaths out in October?” she asks, one eyebrow arched so high it nearly disappears under her blunt bangs.

I grin without turning around. “Hearts, homes, and maybe a few pinecones if you look close enough. It’s called seasonal optimism, Tara.”

“It’s called rushing things,” she huffs, but she’s already poking at a wreath of tiny apples and crimson ribbon, her expression softening like she doesn’t want to admit she likes it.

People keep stopping in, not really shopping, not always saying much, just…

stepping inside. They let their hands brush the blankets on the ladder rack, breathe a little deeper when they catch the scent of rosemary and cedar tucked into the back corner, and I swear some of them just come to sit on the worn bench near the old stove and let the warmth seep into their bones.

I didn’t plan any of that. I just wanted to open the doors again and see if the shop remembered how to be a sanctuary. But maybe it never forgot. Maybe it was just waiting on me to come back with a steadier heart.

The bell chimes again—this time it’s Bramley, looking out of place with paint on his hands and a grin like he knows something he shouldn’t.

“Morning, Miss Hearth,” he drawls, brushing off his boots on the mat. “Heard you’re back in the business of mending hearts.”

I glance down at my apron, streaked with glue and glitter and something sticky that might be honey but I’m choosing to believe is sap. “If they’re willing to pay in cider donuts, absolutely.”

He chuckles and drops a paper bag on the counter before pointing toward the back. “You get that thing fixed yet?”

My breath catches before I even glance in the direction he’s gesturing. I know what he means. The acorn.

It’s still where I left it this morning—nestled in the little sunlight shelf near the register, its once-snapped stem now gleaming faintly gold in the early light.

I finished it last night, working in slow, meditative silence long after the village had gone to bed and the only sound was the owl in the orchard calling for something it would never catch.

I took the broken halves and pressed them back together, letting the jaggedness stay, not sanding it down this time.

Then I gilded the fault lines with a careful hand, using thin sheets of gold leaf the way my grandmother used to when she practiced healing rituals for cracked pottery.

“The break is part of the story,” she used to say, fingertips warm as she ran them over the seams. “You don’t hide what’s been hurt. You honor it.”

So I honored it.

Even the splintered parts.

Especially those.

The little acorn carving catches the light just so, like it’s proud of surviving.

I don’t even hear the next bell chime, but I feel him before I see him.

Drogath’s footsteps are unmistakable—solid, purposeful, quiet in that way that big things can be when they’re careful with their power.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just walks in like he belongs, and maybe he finally does, because my chest doesn’t clench the way it used to when I saw him framed in that doorway.

No panic. No need to mask or shrink or brace.

Just him.

And me.

And this strange, wonderful newness that feels a lot like falling, only this time I’m not afraid of the ground.

His eyes scan the shop like he’s checking for structural damage, and then they land on the counter.

He sees it.

The acorn.

He stops mid-step.

His brow tightens, not in confusion or judgment, but something deeper—something quiet and vulnerable and so very him. He picks it up, big fingers suddenly reverent, like he’s afraid even now he might make the break worse.

He turns it over once. Twice.

Then looks at me.

I don’t flinch.

“It broke clean through,” I say gently, wiping my hands on my apron as I step closer. “I almost threw it out.”

His jaw works like he’s chewing on something he doesn’t want to say out loud.

“But then I remembered something,” I continue, reaching out and brushing my fingers against the gold line running through the middle. “Even the broken pieces were worth keeping.”

He looks at me then—really looks—and whatever wall he had up, it doesn’t just crack, it crumbles. I see it fall from his shoulders like the last weight he’s been carrying alone, and the next breath he pulls feels like the first one he’s taken in weeks.

And then he’s kissing me.

Not the kind of kiss that waits politely for permission or wonders if now is the right moment.

No, this one is a wildfire. A promise. A damn exclamation point.

He pulls me close like he can’t quite believe I’m here, hands gripping my waist like he needs to memorize the curve of it, and I rise up on my toes, fingers curling into the wool of his coat, and forget for a second that we’re not alone in the world.

The shop disappears. The air disappears.

It’s just him and me.

And the taste of cinnamon and hope on his lips.

When we finally pull apart, breathless and ridiculous and maybe just a little dizzy, he rests his forehead against mine and says, “You fixed it.”

I smile. “We did.”

We stand like that for a long while, long enough for Tara to make some very pointed throat-clearing noises and Bramley to mutter something about “getting a room,” but neither of us moves. Not yet.

Because I’m all in now.

No backup plans. No second-guessing.

Just roots.

And whatever we choose to grow next.