Page 8 of Pumpkin Spice & Orc Cinnamon Roll

DROGATH

I t’s well past sunset when I finally step back to look at the lantern string I just secured between the beams of the cider tent. My shoulders ache from the effort—partly from the ladder, mostly from the restraint it’s taking to stay near her and keep my damn hands to myself.

The evening’s wrapped in the kind of autumn chill that seeps into your bones if you’re not moving, but sweat still clings to my neck from hoisting crates and hammering signage for the better part of four hours.

And through it all, she’s been here—Tessa Quinn, in her cinnamon-smeared apron and windblown curls, moving like a force of nature that doesn’t realize she’s the entire season distilled into a single, infuriating, irresistible person.

I don’t know how she manages to do it—walk by without touching me and still leave me gutted like I’ve taken a blade to the ribs.

Earlier, she brushed past me on her way to hang cinnamon bundles over the drink table, and I swear the scent has been stitched into my skin ever since. Cinnamon and orange peel and whatever herb she keeps in her pocket that makes her smell like a damn midsummer wish granted too late.

It’s maddening.

She doesn’t notice. Or maybe she does and pretends otherwise.

Meanwhile, I’m out here carving directional signs for a village that hasn’t needed directions since the age of horse-drawn carts. Just something to keep my hands busy, to keep the hunger out of my gaze.

“Hey, Broodfather,” Tara calls from behind me, her voice all wicked amusement and glittery menace. “You missed a lantern.”

I glance over my shoulder to see her perched on a hay bale like it’s a throne, legs crossed, sipping cider from a copper mug like she’s judging a festival instead of helping build it.

“Top beam,” she says, pointing. “Just left of the sign that says Harvest Dance & Cider Garden. That one looks lonely.”

“I’ll get it,” I grunt, grabbing another hook and the last lantern from the crate.

As I climb the ladder, I hear her mutter something else under her breath—too quiet for most ears, but I’ve been dealing with elven sass since I was eighteen.

“What was that?” I ask, steadying the ladder against the beam.

“Oh, nothing,” she says with a slow, toothy grin. “Just admiring the way you brood while stringing fairy lights. Very masculine. Very ‘tall, dark, and smoldering like overcooked stew.’ ”

That earns a laugh out of me. A real one. Dry, low, and caught off guard enough to surprise us both.

She raises an eyebrow. “Stars above. You laugh now? All it took was insulting your cooking?”

“I don’t cook,” I say, flicking the lantern wire into place. “I order delivery and threaten the kitchen staff into compliance.”

“Explains a lot.”

I climb down and wipe my hands on the rag tucked into my belt. “You’re really enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“Oh, immensely,” she says, hopping off the bale and twirling the empty mug. “You striding around like a walking thundercloud, carving signs and trying so hard not to look at her like she hung the moon.”

“I don’t—” I start.

But Tara just levels me with that knowing stare—the one that says don’t waste your breath, orc boy, I already know what you’re not saying.

“She’s not ready,” I say finally, voice quieter than I mean for it to be. “And I’m not pushing her. I just want to… be here. If she ever wants to reach back.”

Tara nods slowly, the amusement softening at the edges. “You’re getting closer. Just don’t make the mistake of thinking proximity equals permission.”

“I wouldn’t.”

Her gaze sharpens. “No. But your heart might.”

And then she’s gone, disappearing toward the fire pit with a sway of hips and a whistle that sounds suspiciously like the beginning of a matchmaking spell.

I turn back toward the tent just in time to see Tessa standing at the far end, tying a ribbon around a basket of raffle entries, lips pursed in concentration, a little smudge of cinnamon dusting one freckled cheek.

She catches me watching.

Her eyes flick up, sharp and cautious, and for a moment I see it again—that flicker of something soft beneath all the shields. But it’s gone as fast as it came, shuttered behind a polite smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

It slays me.

Because I remember what it used to look like when she smiled for me, not in spite of me.

I exhale slow and steady through my nose and make my way back to the tool chest, resisting the urge to look at her again. I know that look too well—like she’s still waiting for me to prove I won’t scorch her life just by standing too close.

And I can’t blame her.

Back at the inn, the fire’s already down to embers by the time I slide behind the desk and light the oil lamp. My hands are sore, my back aches, and I’ve got hay in places no hay should be. But none of that stops me from pulling out the contract folder I brought with me from Caldrith Keep.

I flip to the page I’ve read too many times—Section 8.2: Holding Trust Deeds and Property Leases.

There, in black ink and archaic phrasing, is the clause that makes it all mine—Maple & Mallow, the land it sits on, the surrounding acre I claimed just in case the town ever tried to expand and shove her out.

The ink I signed it with cost a fortune. The shell corporation is as impenetrable as a fortress. And every single clause was meant to protect her.

But it doesn’t matter.

Because the second she found out— really found out—none of it felt like protection. It felt like manipulation. Like ownership.

She deserves better than that.

She deserves choice.

I take up my pen and, for the first time since this all began, I scratch through the clause myself—no lawyers, no witnesses. Just me, ink, and intention. I write a new statement, clean and plain:

Full ownership of the land known as Parcel Hollow-1 is hereby granted in perpetuity to Tessa Quinn, with no lien, clause, or repayment required.

I initial it.

Then I set the pen down and stare at the paper until my eyes blur.

I don’t tell her.

Not yet.

I want her to know— feel —that I’m standing by her not because I hold something over her, but because I’d still be here even if I had nothing left to give but this stubborn heart and a pair of hands that only ever learned how to build or break.

Outside, the wind howls faintly, shaking the windows like old bones rattling secrets in the dark.

I lean back, close my eyes, and whisper into the room lit only by lamplight and embers, “Let her choose me. Or let her walk away. But let her know it’s hers now, either way.”

Then I reach for a fresh block of wood and my carving knife.

Because if I can’t sleep, I may as well make something with my hands that isn’t built from regret.