Page 28 of Pumpkin Spiced Orc

GARRUK

T he porch creaks under my boots, same as it always does—three boards near the swing that never took stain right, no matter how much oil I rubbed into them. I thought about fixing it last week, even pulled out the sander, but Ivy said she likes the sound. Says it’s got character. I let it be.

Evening’s thick tonight. One of those slow Embervale dusks where the air smells like rain that hasn’t fallen yet and wild mint crushed under foot. There’s a breeze tugging at the orchard branches like it’s playing with something, not really committed to a storm, just stirring up mischief.

Brody shows up without knocking, just wanders around the corner with a six-pack swinging from one hand and a look on his face that says he’s either here to talk or here to avoid something worse.

“You always this quiet before sunset or is this a personal invite to my brooding hour?” he asks, dropping into the rocker like he owns the place.

“You’re early,” I grunt, taking a bottle off the ring and cracking it open with the edge of the porch rail. “I figured you’d be buried in council notes or arguing about irrigation flow.”

“I was. Lettie kicked me out. Said I was getting twitchy.”

“You were probably twitchy.”

He grins, stretches his legs out long in front of him. “Probably. But now I’m here. Wasting daylight with my favorite emotionally stunted in-law.”

I grunt again, but it’s not unfriendly. He knows how to translate me by now.

We sit quiet for a bit. Sip. Listen to the orchard whisper and shift. A pair of bluebirds dart by overhead, arguing about something in a language I’ll never bother trying to understand.

“You ever think about the future?” Brody asks suddenly, like he’s just remembered something he meant to ask hours ago.

I take another pull from the bottle. Let it settle. “All the time.”

“Yeah?”

I nod. “Used to just think about surviving. Then it turned into protecting the orchard. Then Ivy showed up and all of that got tangled together.”

He’s watching me with that sharp, deceptively easy gaze of his, like he’s weighing the words between what I’m saying and what I’m not. “And now?”

I exhale slow, stare out over the grove. “Now I think about making it last.”

He’s quiet a beat longer than I expect. Then: “You’re not who I expected for her.”

“I’m not who anyone expects.”

“No,” he says, lifting his bottle in mock salute. “You’re better.”

I glance at him, brows raised.

“Don’t get cocky,” he mutters, tipping the bottle back. “Took me a while to figure it out, but you’re good for her. In that way that doesn’t look soft, but still is.”

I don’t know what to say to that, so I don’t. Just nod.

“I never had brothers,” he adds after a while. “Had a cousin I punched regularly, but that doesn’t count.”

“You looking for a fight?”

“Nah,” he says, half-smiling. “I’m saying you’re family now. Even if your emotional vocabulary’s the size of a rock.”

My chest does something uncomfortable. Not bad—just tight, like something’s expanding in a space that was hollow too long.

“You’re not half bad yourself,” I say, which, for me, might as well be a damn wedding toast.

He laughs. “Gods help us all.”

We lapse back into silence. It’s the easy kind, not the loaded kind. The kind that lets crickets settle in and lets thoughts drift. My hand finds the curve of the swing’s chain, fingers wrapping around the cool metal like it anchors me.

Brody breaks it again. “Ivy mentioned names the other night.”

I freeze.

“She said you flinched like someone set your beard on fire.”

I roll my eyes. “I did not.”

“She said it was charming.”

“She’s a liar.”

“She’s an optimist,” he corrects, then leans back further, staring up into the eaves. “You scared?”

I swallow. “Terrified.”

He nods like that makes perfect sense. “Me too. About everything. Every day.”

I blink. “You don’t have a kid.”

“I know,” he says. “Still scared.”

“Of what?”

“Losing what I’ve built. What I care about. Failing people. Letting someone love me and then not being good enough for it.”

I exhale, sharp and short, like someone knocked the wind out of me.

“Sound familiar?” he adds.

“Too damn familiar.”

He chuckles, but it’s soft, not mocking. “So what names you got rattling around in that stone skull of yours?”

I hesitate. Then say, “Wren, if it’s a girl.”

His eyebrows rise. “Huh. Wren.”

“She’s small but fierce. Loud. Knows how to shake the trees. It’d fit.”

“I like it,” he says, voice quiet now. “Boy?”

“Haven’t figured that part yet.”

“I vote ‘Brody.’”

I glare at him.

“Kidding,” he says, but it’s a slow grin that spreads anyway. “Sort of. I mean, you could do worse.”

“Could name the kid after a root vegetable and still do better.”

He snorts. “Fair.”

We stay until the stars come out, until the bottles are empty and the orchard’s lullaby turns deep and hushed and warm. He stands eventually, claps me on the shoulder hard enough to jostle the swing.

“You’ll be a good dad,” he says. “Even if your kid has to translate your grunts.”

I smirk. “I’ll teach them the code.”

“Good,” he says, stretching. “Because we’re gonna need a few more wildflowers around here.”

And just like that, he’s gone, disappearing into the trees like a ghost with paperwork.

I sit a while longer, listening.

Thinking.

And for once, the future doesn’t feel like something to survive.

It feels like something worth building.