Page 30 of Pumpkin Spiced Orc

GARRUK

T he wind smells different today. It’s got that sharp, crisp edge to it—the kind that slips down the back of your neck and reminds you that time’s passing whether you like it or not.

There’s a coppery scent under the apple-sweetness, the kind that comes when the trees start to bleed color from their limbs and send their leaves tumbling to the ground like slow, graceful regrets.

Crimson, gold, rust—they fall in lazy spirals around us as Ivy threads her fingers through mine and pulls me down the trail toward town like it’s something we’ve done forever.

She’s humming some old tune under her breath, off-key but warm, the kind of sound that makes the air feel thicker with belonging.

Her shawl keeps slipping off her shoulder, and she doesn’t bother fixing it.

Every few steps, I reach over and tug it back into place without saying anything, and she smirks like she knows I’ll do it again before we’re halfway to the square.

“You know,” she says, crunching a leaf underfoot, “I’m pretty sure the orchard’s trying to seduce us.”

“Us?”

“Well, mostly me. But I assume you’re included by marriage.”

I grunt. “Jealous tree.”

She laughs, light and wicked, and tosses her braid over her shoulder. “If it grows any more red leaves, I’m going to start getting suspicious.”

The path winds through old birch trees, their white bark peeling like curled parchment, and every now and then a burst of wind sends a fresh wave of color skittering across the ground.

It’s the kind of walk that doesn’t have a destination, just a rhythm.

Boots hitting packed dirt. Her voice teasing.

My silence saying more than I used to know how to.

We reach town just as the sun cuts through the clouds, casting everything in this golden glow that makes the rooftops look like they’re on fire and the bakery’s windows steam up with magic and rising dough.

Ivy points out the ridiculous scarecrow that Lettie dressed like a mage this year—robes, floppy hat, and all.

“I swear, if it starts talking, I’m burning it down.”

“You say that about all inanimate objects that dress better than you.”

“Wrong. Just the ones with smug expressions.”

We loop around the square, past the market stalls that have swapped melons for gourds, and I feel her squeeze my hand when a kid runs past wearing a leaf-crown and yelling something about fall blessings.

She’s always watching the children, even when she pretends she’s not.

I catch her face softening, the corners of her mouth curling into something more instinctive than planned.

And then she says something that knocks me off my feet.

“You ever think our kid’s first words’ll be ‘get off my land’?”

I stop walking. She doesn’t. Not right away. When she realizes, she turns, pulling our hands tight between us, and looks at me with that infuriating, brilliant smirk that ruins me every damn time.

“Well?” she prompts.

I raise one brow. “Damn right.”

She laughs, the kind of laugh that makes my ribs ache in the best way, and steps back into my space, wrapping her free hand around my arm. “You’d wear it like a badge of honor.”

“Already planning the embroidery.”

“We should get ahead of this,” she says, mock-serious. “Drill the really important vocabulary early. Boundaries. Privacy. Agricultural zoning.”

“No,” I say, pressing a kiss to her temple. “First word’ll be Ivy.”

She stops. Really stops. And then she looks up at me, eyes gone soft and wet at the edges like I reached in and grabbed her heart without asking.

“You big sap,” she murmurs.

“Learned from the orchard.”

She leans into me then, forehead to chest, arms wrapped around my middle like she’s trying to memorize the way I breathe. We stay like that for a long time. The town keeps moving around us, but it feels like we’re the eye of the storm—calm, solid, rooted.

“You’re different now,” she says eventually, quiet like she’s not sure if I’ll agree.

I rest my chin on her hair. “Yeah. You did that.”

“No,” she says. “You let it happen. That’s harder.”

We walk again, slower now, like the moment stretched something between us that made the pace change.

We pass the smithy, the schoolhouse, the post—each one bearing signs of the season.

Pumpkins line the fence posts. Charms made of acorns and copper wire hang in windows.

Children run in herds with chalk-smudged cheeks and pockets full of spells they haven’t learned how to use yet.

People nod when they see us. No one stares anymore. Ivy waves like she’s been here her whole life. Me? I just hold her hand and don’t let go.

We circle back through the orchard as the sun sinks behind the ridge. The shadows stretch long, and the light goes syrup-thick. I brush a strand of hair from her cheek, tucking it behind her ear, and she catches my hand before it drops, presses a kiss into my palm like it’s something sacred.

“I love you,” she says simply.

I nod. “I know. I feel it. Every day.”

She sighs, content and tired and glowing from the inside out. “Let’s keep walking.”

So we do.

And for once, the future doesn’t feel heavy. It feels like home.