Page 28 of Pumpkin Spice & Orc Cinnamon Roll

DROGATH

T he first snow always comes quietly.

Not with a roar, not with drama—just a slow hush that seeps in before you realize the world’s changed color.

The trees go still. The lanterns flicker lower.

The usual sound of laughter and windchimes outside the shop gets swallowed up in the soft fall of flurries that kiss rooftops and windows like secrets only the season can understand.

I don’t even mind the cold anymore.

I’m standing just outside Maple & Mallow, breath fogging the air, bundled in one of those ridiculous scarves Tessa knitted me last month—the one with the tiny embroidered acorns she claims are “protection charms,” though I suspect they’re just her way of making sure I never look too intimidating while picking up dried sage.

I don’t argue. Mostly because I like the way her eyes crinkle when she sees me wearing it.

Behind me, the windows of the shop glow warm and golden, little flickers of firelight and magic dancing across the glass.

The scent of cloves, roasted apples, and that ever-present undertone of rosemary clings to the wood like the walls themselves are breathing.

Inside, I can hear faint chatter—Tara fussing with the enchanted wreath display that keeps retying itself in different bows, Glenna laughing over tea, Bramley muttering curses about the “cursed pinecones” that keep falling on his head whenever he stands near the enchanted garlands.

And then I hear her laugh.

It cuts through everything—sharp and warm and familiar as my own heartbeat.

I turn just as she steps out of the shop, cheeks flushed, curls wild, her cloak dusted with the beginning of snow like powdered sugar on a harvest tart. She’s cradling a tiny jar in one hand, the other already reaching for me like she couldn’t help herself if she tried.

“You didn’t tell me it was snowing,” she grins.

“I figured you’d come out eventually.”

She narrows her eyes. “You lured me with spiced honey balm samples and didn’t mention the snow on purpose, didn’t you?”

I reach for her, one arm going around her waist, the other lifting her straight off her feet in one motion that earns me a surprised yelp and a laugh that rings out across the quiet square.

“Maybe,” I mutter, voice low against her ear. “Maybe I just wanted to twirl you under the lanterns first.”

She leans back in my arms, breathless and radiant and more beautiful than any moment has a right to be, and says, “Well, you’re lucky I’m in a forgiving mood.”

I spin her once, slow and steady, careful with the weight of her and the little one curled safe and warm beneath her winter layers.

The snow drifts down around us like confetti from the gods, soft and sparkling, and for the briefest moment, the whole world feels suspended.

No past. No future. Just this—her smile, the warmth of her body in my arms, and the quiet certainty that I’ve landed exactly where I was always meant to be.

When I set her down, she doesn’t let go. Her hands stay curled in the front of my coat, and I swear she’s not even cold— her whole body radiates warmth like she’s stitched out of hearth embers and cinnamon.

“You know,” she murmurs, voice almost lost in the quiet, “next fall, there’ll be tiny feet rustling through these leaves with us.”

My throat tightens. I don’t answer right away. Can’t. I just pull her in closer and press my lips to her forehead like it’s the only way I know how to speak when the words feel too big to say aloud.

“Yeah,” I finally whisper. “There will.”

She grins, bright and unfiltered, eyes sparkling with more mischief than a woman this pregnant should be allowed to wield.

“Think they’ll have your scowl or my charm?” she asks.

I grunt. “If they inherit your charm and my shoulders, we’re doomed.”

“Doomed in a good way,” she says, already picturing it—I can see it in her face. The leaves. The laughter. The bundle of chaos we’ll be chasing barefoot through the trees come next harvest.

We walk in slow circles around the courtyard, hands laced, our footprints trailing behind us in the fresh snow like proof we were here, that we’re real, that we’ve made it to something worth holding.

I glance around the square, watching the lights twinkle in the windows, the shop signs swaying gently in the breeze. Every storefront glows warm and soft, the village blanketed in silver, but it’s not the snow that makes it feel magical.

It’s the laughter behind those doors. The echoes of cider-slick voices and stories told beside fires. The soft creak of chairs and clatter of wooden mugs. The scent of woodsmoke and bread. The way the Hollow breathes like a living, breathing thing—alive in every soul that chooses to stay.

I never used to understand what it meant to stay.

Not really.

I used to build towers. Make decisions. Sign deals with pens that cost more than a family’s week of meals. I used to count success in quarterly profits and the size of the skyline I owned.

But none of it ever made me feel like this .

Not like this.

“You’re thinking too hard,” Tessa says suddenly, bumping her hip against mine. “I can hear it all the way over here.”

“Just… appreciating things,” I say, a little gruff, a little raw.

“Hmm,” she says, tilting her head. “You getting sentimental on me, Mr. I-Don’t-Do-Winter?”

“I do you,” I reply, smirking.

She groans. “That was terrible. Absolutely unforgivable.”

“Admit it. You’re still gonna kiss me.”

She pretends to consider it, then rises on her toes and kisses me like she’s proving a point—slow and soft and so full of promise it makes my bones ache. When we part, the snow has started sticking in her lashes, and I want to kiss every flake off one by one.

“I still don’t like winter,” I murmur, cupping her cheek.

She leans into the touch. “You like this winter.”

“Only because you’re in it.”

We stand there like that until the fireflies come out—real ones, not enchanted this time, their little glows flitting through the frost like stars that got lost on the way to the sky.

Somewhere down the lane, Glenna’s goats bleat in complaint over their snow-dusted dinner hay, and Tara’s laughter echoes faintly behind shuttered windows.

Tessa nestles into my side, hand resting over her belly. “You ready?” she asks softly.

“For what?”

“For all of it. Sleepless nights. Crayon walls. Maple syrup in our bedsheets.”

I just look out at the snow-covered town, this place that healed me, held me, gave me a second chance I never thought I deserved.

Then I lean down, press a kiss to her temple, and whisper the only answer that matters.

“I already am.”