Page 15 of Till Orc Do Us Part

ROWAN

T he bed is cold.

Not just empty— cold.

Like whoever shared it with me vanished hours ago and took all the heat with them.

I stare at the ceiling for a long time, the quilt pulled up to my chin, limbs frozen in the exact tangle I fell asleep in. My mouth is dry. My thighs ache in a way I shouldn’t find poetic, but gods help me, I do.

And the worst part?

I don’t even regret the sex.

It’s the after I hate.

The space where he should be. The silence. The fact that he didn’t even leave a note this time.

I roll over, face buried in the pillow. It smells like him—earth and cedar and something warm I have no name for.

I groan. “Stupid.”

The knock at the front door feels like an insult.

I throw on leggings and a hoodie and shuffle down the stairs like a woman twice my age. My legs are furious with me. My brain is worse.

I unlock the door and swing it open without checking.

Liara breezes in like she owns the place, balancing a cardboard drink tray and a brown paper bag that smells aggressively of bacon.

“You’re welcome,” she chirps, sailing past me.

“What the hell?—”

“You missed our Thursday morning coven update,” she says, setting the tray down. “So I brought updates to you. Also, you look like hell. But like, a sexy, post-coital hell, which is worse.”

I blink at her. “I?—”

“Don’t even bother lying,” she says, handing me a sweating cup of iced coffee. “I know that face. That’s the I did something reckless and now I want to burn my own house down face.”

I sip, grateful and furious.

“You slept with him,” she says, eyes narrowing in delight. “Didn’t you?”

I don’t answer.

Liara whistles. “Hot Shrek strikes again.”

“Liara—”

“Oh, babe.” She flops into one of the chairs. “Tell me everything. But use adjectives.”

“There’s nothing to tell,” I mutter, sinking into the chair across from her. “It happened. It was… a thing. Now it’s not.”

“Uh-huh. And how was this ‘thing,’ exactly?”

I glare.

She holds up a hand. “Fine, fine. But judging by your lack of pants and the thousand-yard stare? I’m guessing it was good. ”

My cheeks burn. “It doesn’t matter.”

Liara leans forward, eyes suddenly sharp. “Why not?”

“Because he left,” I snap. “Before I woke up. No note. No explanation. Just gone.”

She whistles again, low and sympathetic. “Oof.”

“Yeah. Oof.”

Silence hangs for a beat.

Then Liara says softly, “Do you regret it?”

I close my eyes.

The way his hands moved. The way he looked at me like I was the only solid thing in the world. The way he murmured my name like it was a secret too precious to say twice.

I shake my head. “No.”

Liara raises an eyebrow. “Then what’s the problem?”

“I don’t know what this is, ” I say, voice cracking. “He’s… gods, Liara, he’s a man-shaped emotional bomb. He’s either going to destroy everything or disappear before he ever gets the chance.”

“Or,” she says gently, “he could surprise you.”

“I don’t want to be surprised,” I say flatly. “I want predictability. I want Jamie safe. I want my store and my town and my life .”

Liara nods. “And instead you got a six-foot-something green-skinned heatwave who listens when you talk and sketches your bookstore like it’s holy.”

I groan.

“You’re allowed to want things, Ro.”

“I don’t want him,” I say too fast.

Liara smirks. “Okay.”

“I don’t,” I insist. “I want him gone. ”

She nods again. “Uh-huh.”

“I hate that I keep thinking about his mouth.”

“Sure.”

“And the way he—ugh, damn it. ”

Liara bursts out laughing.

I toss a throw pillow at her. “You’re not helping.”

“I’m not trying to help,” she says, dodging it. “I’m here to bear witness to your descent into orc-related chaos. It’s more fun than reality TV.”

I drain half my coffee in one go.

Liara sobers. “Look. Maybe he panicked. Maybe he thought you’d want space. Maybe he’s a damn idiot. But that kiss? The way he watches you? That is not a man who’s just looking for a notch.”

I run a hand through my hair. “I don’t know what to do.”

“You don’t have to do anything right now,” she says. “But if he comes back, maybe don’t greet him with a flaming dagger of judgment.”

I snort. “No promises.”

She stands. “You’re not broken, Ro. You’re just scared.”

I walk her to the door, watching her step out into the cool gray morning. Gulls scream in the distance. The sea smells restless again.

I close the door behind her and lean against it.

The bed’s still cold upstairs.

But my body remembers every inch of him.

And worse—so does my heart.

Jamie notices, of course.

He always does.

That night, after dinner—mac and cheese with too much garlic because I forgot how to measure—I’m washing dishes when he wanders into the kitchen with his notebook under one arm and his cardboard lighthouse dragging behind him.

“Mom?”

I glance down. “Yeah, buddy?”

“You’re being quiet.”

I force a smile. “Just tired, baby.”

He frowns. “Are you sad?”

“No.”

His eyes narrow. “You’re lying.”

I sigh. “Maybe a little.”

He shuffles closer and leans into my side. “Is it because of the green giant?”

My heart stumbles. “What?”

“You know. Drokhaz. You always look like you’re thinking about him and then you forget to smile.”

I laugh, dry and thin. “Jamie?—”

“It’s okay,” he says, nodding sagely. “Green giants don’t know bedtime rules. Or how to stay put. But maybe he’ll learn.”

I crouch, hug him tight. He smells like crayons and storm air.

“You’re too smart,” I whisper into his curls.

He pats my shoulder like I’m the child. “Just don’t be sad. We still have poetry night.”

He trots off, humming.

I stare after him, throat tight.

Poetry night.

Yes.

That I can control.

I grab my planner from the kitchen drawer, flip it open like a lifeline. Page after page of lists, flyers, names, phone numbers. Things to call, things to build, things to do.

I light a candle, open a new document, and throw myself into the chaos.

I’ll find a way to make the night shine, storm or not.

Because distraction?

Distraction I can handle.

Desire? Love?

No.

But flyers? Scheduling? Sound checks and string lights?

Bring it on.