Page 23 of Pumpkin Spiced Orc

IVY

I wake to the kind of stillness that feels sacred—the kind that settles into your bones and makes you believe, if only for a breath, that maybe things really are going to be okay.

There’s a breeze curling through the window, cool and sweet, stirring the curtain like it’s beckoning me back to the orchard.

Somewhere out there, birds are fighting over whose dawn song gets center stage, and if I close my eyes, I can almost pretend I’m not still sore in places I forgot existed.

Garruk’s already gone. Or rather, he’s not in bed, which in his language means he’s somewhere within a hundred feet, probably shirtless, probably hammering something, probably acting like he didn’t just bare his soul to me under a storm that nearly tore the sky in half.

I stretch, slow and catlike, muscles aching with the good kind of pain, the kind that means I survived something—and not just physically.

Emotionally. Magically. Romantically, even, which is a word I haven’t let myself use out loud but is now starting to settle into my vocabulary whether I like it or not.

When I wander outside in Garruk’s shirt, which hangs on me like a curtain and smells like bonfire smoke and stubbornness, I find him exactly where I expect to—by the house.

Or rather, the skeleton of a house. The beginnings of a porch, a frame too rough to be called anything yet, and a pile of wood that I suspect he wrestled into shape with his bare hands.

He doesn’t look up. Just jerks his chin toward a corner marked out with stones and says, “That’s where the fireplace’ll go.”

“Good morning to you too,” I reply, crossing my arms, which is difficult in a shirt that could double as a tent. “Building a house without even asking if I’m staying? Bold move.”

“You’re staying,” he says simply. No hesitation. No uncertainty.

“You’re very sure about that.”

“I know what you look like when you’re trying to convince yourself to leave. And I know what you look like when you’ve already decided to stay.” He finally turns to me, wiping sweat off his brow with the back of one callused hand. “You’re not going anywhere.”

And damn it, he’s right. I’ve already unpacked the parts of myself I swore I’d never show anyone again. I’ve rooted myself in a way that doesn’t feel like giving up or settling down—it feels like finally growing in the direction I was always meant to.

“Then make the porch big enough for a swing,” I say. “And I want a greenhouse. And a reading nook. And a real kitchen this time, none of that open fire pit nonsense.”

He grunts, but it’s the fond kind. “Anything else, your highness?”

“Space for Brody to store his tools. He’ll probably show up whether we want him to or not.”

He does. Three hours later.

Wearing a smug grin and a toolbelt slung over his shoulder like he’s been preparing for this exact moment for weeks. “Well, well,” he says, dropping a bag of nails beside the half-built frame. “You’ve gone domestic.”

I glare at him. “You’re not funny.”

“I’m hilarious. And you’re glowing. It’s gross.”

Garruk doesn’t say much—he never does when Brody’s around—but he hands him a hammer and gets back to work like the two of them have been doing this every summer since birth.

I mostly get in the way, offer unsolicited design suggestions, and throw a wrench at Brody when he makes a comment about how the orchard looks happier now that I’ve finally ‘put out.’

It’s not a lie, though. The land does feel… brighter. Not in a loud way. Just in the way it hums underfoot, content and slow, like it’s finally settled into itself again. Like it trusts us.

That night, I head into town.

It’s still the same crooked streets and overly suspicious cats, the same leaning sign outside the pub that hasn’t been fixed since Brody and I were kids and dared each other to ride it like a swing. But it feels different now—less like a place I escaped, more like a place that waited.

The council chambers are predictably stuffy. Mabel’s waiting with her glasses halfway down her nose and a clipboard already full. Joss smells like cinnamon and parchment, and Edric’s wearing his permanent scowl like it’s part of his bones.

“I’m not here to apologize,” I say before they can get a word in.

“Good,” Mabel replies, flipping a page. “We wouldn’t believe you anyway.”

“I’m here to pitch something.”

They raise eyebrows, but no one interrupts.

So I lay it all out—the co-op, the plan to share stewardship between the town and the orchard, to stop pretending like the magic’s something we can wall off or ignore.

I talk about rotating care, magical sustainability, blending old ways with new ones.

I talk about the bond—not just mine with Garruk, but between the orchard and the people who depend on it.

And when I finish, the silence is so thick you could spread it on toast.

“It’s ambitious,” Edric finally says.

“It’s necessary,” I counter.

Joss nods. “Your mother would’ve approved.”

That lands like a stone in my chest. But I don’t flinch. “Then let’s do it.”

The vote passes. Barely.

But it’s enough.

When I return to the orchard, Garruk is sitting on the half-built porch, a mug in one hand, the sky overhead streaked with the last blush of twilight. He doesn’t ask how it went. He just reaches out, pulls me into his side, and lets me rest my head on his shoulder.

“This is going to work,” I murmur.

His hand slides into mine, warm and rough and steady. “It already is.”