Page 22 of Pumpkin Spice & Orc Cinnamon Roll
DROGATH
T he papers are heavier than they should be.
Not physically—they’re standard weight, clean and crisp, tucked into a leather folio with my company’s seal embossed in deep black—but the gravity of them, the damn finality humming beneath each signature and stamp and wax seal, feels like I’m carrying an entire forest on my shoulders. Maybe I am.
Still, I’ve carried worse.
Hell, I’ve been worse.
But this? This is the kind of weight I’d haul uphill barefoot, grumbling the whole way and secretly loving every second of it, because it’s for her. And for this place that keeps sinking its roots deeper into my ribs every time I think I’ve got a handle on it.
Maple Hollow.
Godsdamn whimsical name for a town with so much bite beneath the sugar, but here I am, standing on the porch of the town hall, squinting into the golden wash of autumn light like a fool about to propose something bigger than even I’m ready for.
The leaves above whisper and flutter like they know something’s coming. Maybe they do.
I’ve asked Tessa to meet me here. Didn’t say why. Just told her I needed her to see something.
She arrives in a swirl of red scarf and wind-tousled curls, cheeks pink from the breeze, eyes suspicious in the way she always is when I’ve got that particular look on my face—the one she says means either trouble or sentimentality, and she’s not sure which one annoys her more.
“What’re you up to?” she asks, stepping close, arms folded, mouth twitching like she’s fighting back a smile.
I simply hand her the folio.
She arches a brow but opens it. Her fingers skim the first page, slow at first, then faster, flipping through with increasing disbelief as her gaze darts over each deed, each transfer, each map marking out parcels of land I’ve spent years acquiring and now giving away.
“To the trust,” she says, voice caught between shock and awe and something else that makes her lashes flutter like she’s blinking back more than just surprise. “You’re putting all of it into the community forest trust.”
I nod once, short and sure. “Every acre.”
Her eyes flick back to the pages, then narrow as she flips toward the back. “Except one.”
She’s sharp, this one. Always has been.
I reach into my coat again and pull out the final document—a single page, thick cardstock, ink still fresh. I don’t hand it to her right away. Just hold it between us like it’s a promise I need her to see before she touches it.
“One stretch of land stays in my name,” I say. “But it’s not for me.”
Her brows lift in that slow, suspicious arc. “Drogath…”
“It’s a glade,” I cut in, softer than usual, because even I know how not to bulldoze a moment like this. “Northeast ridge. Past the fox den trail. You always liked that clearing. Said it felt quiet in the right kind of way.”
She goes still, hands wrapped tight around the folio, and I can tell she knows exactly the one I mean. I scouted it after she said that, made sure it was protected from development even before I started undoing everything else.
“I’m keeping it because I want to plant a maple tree there,” I go on, stepping closer. “One every year. For the rest of our lives. You and me. A tree for each autumn we’ve made it through together.”
She laughs then—but it’s the kind that breaks open around the edges, half sob, half joy, and it gets to me with a force I wasn’t braced for.
“You’re still ridiculous,” she whispers, swiping at her eyes like it’s somehow my fault she’s crying in the damn village green.
I grin, full and sharp and probably smug, tusks flashing in the sunlight. “Only about you.”
She launches herself at me before I can get another word out, arms around my neck, mouth crushed to mine, and for a moment the whole world shrinks down to the scent of her hair and the softness of her lips and the way her smile finds its way into the kiss like she’s forgotten how not to be happy.
Which is good, because I never want her to forget again.
When she finally pulls back, she lets her forehead rest against mine, and I wrap both arms around her waist like I’m anchoring us both to the ground.
“I don’t deserve you,” she murmurs.
“You do,” I say, low and certain. “You deserve more than this glade. You deserve the whole godsdamn forest.”
A loud throat-clear interrupts whatever else I might’ve said, and we both turn to see Bramley standing a few feet away, arms crossed and face as grumpy as I’ve ever seen it—though the corners of his mouth twitch like he’s fighting the ghost of a grin.
“I came for a cider refill,” he says, gruff and pointed, “not a live reenactment of an orc courting ritual.”
Tessa snorts and steps back with one last squeeze of my hand, giving Bramley her best sunny smile. “You’re just mad because we didn’t invite you to the wedding yet.”
His bushy brows shoot up. “Yet?”
I stiffen. “We’re not—we didn’t?—”
“Relax,” Tessa drawls, patting my chest like I’m a particularly excitable mule. “No rings yet. He’s just getting around to planting metaphorical trees.”
Bramley harrumphs, clearly not satisfied with that answer, and then—like he’s been holding it back all day—he jerks his chin at me and mutters, “You’ll need a sturdier barn once those half-orc babies start climbing the rafters.”
I nearly choke on air.
Tessa doubles over laughing.
Bramley just turns and walks off like he didn’t just lob a godsdamn grenade into the middle of my nervous system, leaving me standing there with the echo of “half-orc babies” bouncing around in my skull like a pinball.
Tessa’s wheezing, trying to catch her breath. “You should see your face,” she gasps. “You look like someone told you taxes are made of spiders.”
“I—what—he?—”
“Articulate, as always,” she teases, pressing a kiss to my cheek and then sauntering off toward the cider barrel like she didn’t just break my brain with one laugh.
And damn me, I’m still standing there, hand clutching that last deed, heart hammering like I just sprinted a mile uphill. Because as ridiculous as it sounded… it didn’t scare me.
Not like it used to.
Maybe Bramley’s right. Maybe I will need a sturdier barn.
Hell, maybe I’ll build it myself.
One maple tree at a time.