Page 5 of Pumpkin Spice & Orc Cinnamon Roll

TESSA

I t starts with tea.

Not the fancy, loose-leaf kind I label in tiny glass jars with handwritten tags, or the spiced black blend Tara insists gives her visions when she’s hungover.

No, this is the bottom-of-the-barrel, nearly forgotten tin I keep shoved behind the rose hips and dried orange peel—a dusty old tin that used to rattle when shaken, though I never remembered why.

Until today.

I’m crouched in the back of Maple & Mallow , ankle-deep in boxes of cinnamon brooms and half-wrapped garlands, hunting for the last of the sun-dried apples when I knock over the tea shelf.

Everything topples like a bad metaphor. I reach to catch the chamomile but miss completely, and the whole mess clatters to the floor with the subtle grace of a drunk goose.

I groan and drop down to gather the tins, cursing under my breath.

“By maple’s bloody mercy.”

The rattle comes again—quiet, familiar—and I freeze.

I lift the tin slowly, dust smudging the painted label, and twist the lid free with a hesitant breath.

Inside, nestled in old fragments of rose petal and forgotten mint, is the acorn.

Small, hand-carved, made from whittled walnut with a little swirl etched on the cap. His mark.

Drogath made it for me years ago, after a storm ruined the Harvest Gala and we spent the whole night drying out under the orchard shed. He whittled it while I wrapped myself in his coat, swearing I wasn’t cold, and he pressed it into my palm like it meant more than the whole world.

It did, once.

I clutch it now, fingers trembling, as something low and aching swells beneath my ribs. It’s like the wind’s been knocked out of me by something invisible and very, very old.

I tuck it away. Deep. Far back. Like it might burn me if I hold it too long.

By afternoon, I’m back at the front counter, stringing up dried apple slices on fishing line and trying very hard not to spiral into emotional chaos.

The apples are sticky, the thread keeps knotting, and my thoughts won’t stop replaying the curve of Drogath’s mouth when he used to whisper things he never had any business meaning.

And then the door opens.

Of course.

He’s wearing another coat that looks like it cost more than my roof repair, and he fills the doorway like a particularly handsome thundercloud. He’s got a rolled-up paper tube in one hand, a leather satchel slung over his shoulder, and that maddeningly unreadable look on his face.

“Afternoon,” he rumbles.

I don’t drop the apples this time, but my hands do still a little. “I hope you’re here for the dried marjoram, because I’ve got nothing else for you.”

He steps inside slowly, like he’s afraid I’ll bolt.

“Brought the wreath specs you asked for.”

“I didn’t ask for specs.”

He shrugs. “Must’ve been a miscommunication. Still figured I’d stop by.”

“And bring… blueprints?”

He offers the tube with a slight smirk. “Dimensions. Gala signage.”

“Right,” I say, voice tightening. “Because nothing says homegrown celebration like a six-foot display approved by an orc who uses copper cufflinks as emotional armor.”

He doesn’t even flinch. “You always were good with words.”

“Not good enough, apparently.”

The silence stretches between us, heavy and golden in the late afternoon light.

He watches me, then asks, “Need help with those?”

He nods toward the apple slices, one brow raised in what I can only interpret as either arrogance or very stupid hope.

“I’ve been stringing apples since before you had facial hair.”

“You say that like I didn’t have a beard at nineteen.”

“You didn’t.”

He huffs a laugh, the smallest smile ghosting his mouth. “Let me help.”

I should say no.

I should throw the thread at him and storm into the back and scream into a crate of marigolds.

Instead, I hand him the spare spool, and he starts threading slices like he’s done it a hundred times.

His fingers are steady, precise, big enough to make the apples look delicate.

We work side by side, quiet for a long while, until the warmth of him seeps too far into my space and I can’t breathe properly anymore.

Then our hands brush.

Just a graze. Just a fleeting brush of skin and rough callus. But it lights something in me so fast and sharp I nearly drop the entire strand.

“Don’t,” I whisper, pulling back.

He straightens, eyes flicking up. “Don’t what?”

“This. Whatever you think this is. The casual visits. The excuses to hang around. The lingering stares like you didn’t disappear into the city and ghost me for years .”

He winces. But I’m too far gone to stop now.

“You can’t just waltz in here with your fancy plans and your soft smiles and expect me to forget how badly it hurt, Drogath. You left . You didn’t write. You didn’t call. You just vanished like I was some quaint little memory not worth taking with you.”

His jaw tightens, the vein in his temple twitching, and I know I’ve struck a nerve. But good. Let him feel some of the sting he left me with.

“I didn’t forget you,” he says quietly.

“Really? Could’ve fooled me.”

“I never stopped—” He cuts himself off, runs a hand down his beard. “Look. I didn’t mean to make you think I was playing at something.”

“Then what are you doing?”

“I’ve been trying to do right by you,” he says. “Even when I was gone.”

“By disappearing?”

“No,” he growls, frustrated. “By protecting you.”

I blink, caught off guard. “What?”

“I own the deed to this shop’s land,” he says. Flat. Simple. But it might as well be a lightning bolt straight to the chest.

My world tilts.

“You what ?”

“I’ve had it since the year after I left. Bought it through a shell company so no one else could touch it. I kept the taxes paid, kept the title safe. No one even looked at this street unless I allowed it.”

“You’ve been… you’ve been owning my shop without telling me?”

“Not to control it. To protect it. To protect you. ”

I reel back, vision going white at the edges. “So all this time, you’ve been making decisions about my life behind my back? And I’m just what—too fragile to handle the truth?”

“That’s not what I?—”

“You don’t get to choose what’s best for me, Drogath!” My voice cracks, full and furious now. “That’s not love. That’s control. That’s the same damn thing that broke us in the first place.”

His face hardens like stone, but his eyes… his eyes are raw. Wounded. Wide.

“I thought I was doing the right thing,” he says, quiet now. “I thought if I built enough walls around you, no one could hurt you. Not even me.”

“Well, newsflash,” I snap. “You still did.”

I don’t wait for his response. I storm into the back room, heart thudding like a war drum, the scent of dried apple and crushed rosemary thick in the air behind me.

And in the silence that follows, I think I hear something break.

Maybe it’s just the thread.

But it feels like something far more fragile.

Something I used to believe in.