Page 11 of Pumpkin Spiced Orc

IVY

T he orchard’s quiet the next morning—too quiet in that suspicious, holding-its-breath kind of way, like the trees know something they’re not saying.

Like they saw what happened beneath the crimson moon and have decided to keep it to themselves for now, but only because they’re waiting to see what we do next.

The air’s gone heavy again, not in temperature but in weight, like it’s pressing just a little harder on my skin.

I don’t go to the clearing. I avoid it like it might whisper out loud.

Instead, I sit on the back steps with a chipped mug of over-steeped tea that tastes like regret and bark and pretend like I haven’t been thinking about him all night.

Like my dreams weren’t stitched together out of sweat and his voice—low, growling, broken with heat—and the memory of his hands almost, almost touching the bare skin just above my ribs.

I kissed him.

God help me, I kissed him.

Soft, at first—like maybe I could taste the answer I’ve been chasing for days on his mouth. Then desperate, like all the unspoken things between us had finally cracked open and poured out faster than I could contain them.

I don’t know who leaned in first. I don’t remember deciding to do it. One second, we were inches apart beneath that ancient tree, and the next my lips were on his and my hands were tangled in his hair and I wasn’t thinking anymore—I was just feeling .

And then I ran.

Well—not ran , exactly. I stepped back like I’d been burned and made some excuse about needing air, which was hilarious, considering I couldn’t breathe for a solid minute after leaving him there.

Now I sit on these steps, watching the wind pull through the tall grass like fingers through hair, and I try to act like nothing’s changed.

Footsteps crunch across the gravel. I don’t look up until I hear the familiar creak of the porch boards.

“You gonna sit out here all morning, or should I send someone to take your order?” Brody’s voice cuts through the silence, casual and obnoxious as always.

I blow on my tea. “Unless they serve emotional damage on toast, I’m good.”

He huffs. “You’ve been weird since last night.”

I glance at him. “Have I?”

He flops down beside me. “You’ve got that look again.”

“Please don’t say it’s the look my mom had before a storm. I’ve reached my prophetic women quota for the week.”

“No,” he says, smirking, “it’s the one you used to get before you shoved me into the pond behind Grady’s mill.”

“That was self-defense.”

“I called you bossy.”

I sip my tea. “And I wasn’t?”

He leans back on his elbows, face tilted toward the light. “What happened with Garruk?”

I don’t answer right away. The air buzzes with the quiet hum of crickets, the rustle of apple limbs above. I can’t lie—not easily, not with the orchard eavesdropping.

“I kissed him,” I say finally.

Brody doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch. Just blinks slow, like I’ve dropped a glass at his feet.

“Well,” he says after a moment. “That explains the way he’s been pacing behind the barn like a caged bear with a broken compass.”

I roll my eyes. “Don’t be dramatic.”

“He looks like he wants to tear something in half. Might be a fence post. Might be me.”

“He’s not violent.”

“He’s volatile ,” Brody corrects. “And you? You’ve got a knack for lighting fuses and walking away.”

I sigh. “I didn’t plan any of this.”

He shrugs. “No one does.”

He leaves a few minutes later without another word, and I sit there until the sun breaks through the clouds and warms the back of my neck just enough to make me stand.

I don’t go looking for Garruk.

I just… happen to walk toward the barn.

The doors are open, sun filtering through the slats like ribbons of gold across the packed earth floor. I find him near the workbench, carving something again—knife moving with slow precision, wood shavings curling down like feathers. He doesn’t look up, but his shoulders go rigid.

“You avoiding me?” he says without turning.

“Hard to avoid someone in a five-acre orchard.”

“Don’t play smart.”

“It’s the only kind I know how to play.”

He exhales through his nose. “You kissed me.”

“Technically, yes. That happened.”

“And then you left.”

“You didn’t stop me.”

He turns then, and the expression on his face is part thunderstorm, part open wound. “I didn’t stop you because I thought maybe you needed space. Because I didn’t want to scare you.”

“Scare me?” I laugh, dry. “Garruk, you’re terrifying even when you’re being nice.”

“Then why did you kiss me?” he asks, voice low, gravel-edged. “Why do that if you’re not staying? If this—” he gestures between us, fierce and helpless, “—means nothing to you?”

I feel it then. All of it. Every damned whisper in the orchard, every glance, every breath we’ve shared since I stepped foot back on this cursed land. And I don’t have an answer, not a good one.

So I cross the barn, step by aching step, and stop in front of him.

“It does mean something,” I say. “I’m just not sure what.”

He stares at me for a long time, then slowly sets the carving aside.

“Neither do I,” he says.

And then he does the most dangerous thing he’s done yet—he touches my wrist, light as a whisper, grounding me. Not pulling. Just being .

“Do you dream about me?” I ask.

His gaze drops to my mouth. “Every damned night.”

At bedtime, I sleep curled in my childhood bed, the walls faded and peeling around me like paper skin, the orchard humming outside the window.

I dream of Garruk’s hands—callused and careful—on my waist, at my jaw, across my shoulders, trailing fire behind each touch.

I dream of his voice low against my throat, of him saying my name like it’s the only word he still remembers how to speak.

And when I wake, breathless and damp with want, I don’t feel ashamed.

I feel seen .