Page 25 of Pumpkin Spice & Orc Cinnamon Roll

TESSA

M aple Hollow has always loved an excuse for celebration, but give this town a wedding— our wedding—and it turns into a full-blown harvest fair with just enough chaos to keep things interesting and more help than I know what to do with.

“You sure you don’t want a string quartet?” Tara asks as she tries to balance a crate of cider bottles while simultaneously sampling from every single one.

“I’m sure,” I say, mouth full of apple fritter, holding a length of russet linen up to the windowlight to check the stitch. “Bramley’s nephews are bringing fiddles. That’s more than enough strings.”

“What about a goat parade?” she continues, totally serious, not even flinching. “Glenna’s herd just had a fresh batch of babies. They’re training them to wear little flower crowns.”

I stare at her. “Are you asking if I want goats in formalwear at my wedding?”

“I’m saying we could put a tiny bell on the lead goat and call it the ring bearer,” she says without blinking.

I spit cider everywhere. “You’re terrible.”

“You love it,” she smirks, dropping the crate with a satisfying clink.

I do love it, actually. I love all of it—the bustle, the noise, the last-minute debates about which orchard path should host the guests and whether the barn bunting clashes with the hay bale seating.

I love that Miss Fenley’s knitting lace doilies for the cider table even though no one asked her to.

I love that Bramley won’t stop muttering about how “marrying an orc better come with earthquake insurance,” even as he builds us the sturdiest dance floor Maple Hollow has ever seen.

The whole town has shown up, with baskets and banjos and bundles of dried herbs.

Someone donated a cider press. Someone else carved a cake topper shaped like two squirrels holding paws.

There's talk of aerial acrobatics involving a halfling and a pulley system, which I’ve chosen to ignore for the sake of my sanity.

As for me—I’m stitching my own gown. Soft russet linen the color of fallen leaves, embroidered with golden thread in curling vines and tiny acorns along the hem, every stitch a prayer for a steady future.

It’s not perfect, not like something off a boutique mannequin, but it’s mine, woven with joy and a hundred happy interruptions.

“Stop hunching,” Maude scolds, thumping me between the shoulder blades as I work. “You’ll cramp your posture and your future children’ll be born with uneven shoulders.”

“That’s not how posture works, Maude.”

“Tell that to my cousin’s niece. Married a gnome with a slouch, now their kid walks in circles.”

I blink. “...Are you cursing my wedding with gnome children?”

Maude just grins and wanders off muttering about tea blends.

I shake my head and go back to my gown, fingers dancing over the golden thread like I’m coaxing the leaves into bloom.

Drogath, of course, is handling things his own way. Quiet, precise, secretly sentimental. He disappears for a day and returns with a crown he carved himself from oakwood, polished to a soft sheen and inlaid with thin bands of copper that gleam like captured firelight.

When he places it in my hands, he doesn’t say a word. Just watches me touch it, eyes full of that steady, storm-warm gaze that makes my knees wobble in ways they absolutely should not before a wedding.

“It’s perfect,” I whisper.

His voice is rough when he finally speaks. “So are you.”

Later that evening, he walks me to the porch of my childhood home with a stubborn kind of gentleness I’ve learned means he’s holding back about five different romantic gestures and trying to respect tradition.

“You sure you want to do this separate-house thing?” he asks, thumb brushing the back of my hand.

“It’s one night,” I say, though I’m already regretting it a little. “Just until morning.”

“Feels longer,” he mutters.

“Be strong, warrior,” I tease, poking his chest. “You’ve fought dragons. You can survive one evening without me hogging the covers.”

He leans down, breath tickling my cheek. “I like when you hog the covers.”

I roll my eyes, but my smile gives me away.

He kisses my forehead and steps back, letting the night fall quiet between us.

I make it two hours.

Two.

That’s how long I manage before I’m staring at the ceiling, arms crossed, covers bunched, listening to the wind rustle the shutters and wondering if he’s as restless as I am.

Spoiler alert: he is.

At just past midnight, I hear it—a soft tap against the windowpane. I leap up and fumble with the latch so fast I nearly drop the candle.

He’s there, just outside, standing in the moonlight with his hair a little messy and his expression sheepish in the way that only happens when a giant orc is trying to pretend he wasn’t pacing for an hour.

“You couldn’t sleep either,” I say, setting the candle down.

He shakes his head. “Your window’s too small. I can’t climb through it.”

“That’s probably for the best,” I laugh. “You’d take out half the wall.”

He leans close to the glass, voice low. “You okay?”

“I miss your snoring.”

“I don’t snore.”

“Then you’ve got a rogue bear in your lungs.”

He huffs, but I can see the twitch of a smile at the corner of his mouth. “You miss me?”

I step closer to the window, pressing my hand to the glass. “Like crazy.”

He mirrors me, his palm against mine through the pane. The glass is cool, but his warmth somehow reaches me anyway.

We talk like that for hours.

Not just about wedding details or guests or where we should hang the garlands tomorrow—but about everything. The scent of cinnamon in the cider this year. The way the stars look sharper tonight. How the glade already feels different with that sapling tucked into its roots.

At one point, he rests his forehead against the window and whispers, “I can’t believe I get to marry you.”

I close my eyes, my breath fogging the pane. “I can’t believe I get to keep you.”

Eventually, the sky begins to lighten—soft blush-pink blooming behind the trees—and the birds begin their morning gossip. My back aches from leaning against the sill, but I don’t care.

He doesn’t move.

And neither do I.

When the first slant of sunlight touches the porch, he whispers, “I’ll see you at the altar.”

I nod, voice caught somewhere behind my smile. “Don’t forget the crown.”

He grins, tusks gleaming. “Don’t forget your boots.”

And then he’s gone, disappearing into the morning mist, leaving behind nothing but his breath on the glass and the wild, unstoppable thrum of joy building in my chest.

Because today’s the day.

And it feels like everything—every leaf, every step, every break and bloom—has led us right here.