Page 23 of Till Orc Do Us Part

ROWAN

T he rain starts midmorning—slow and steady, the kind of gray drizzle that turns the boardwalk slick and makes the sea smell sharper somehow. I hear the wind hissing through the gaps in the windows upstairs, rattling the old glass with every stronger gust.

The shop feels too big today. Too empty.

I sit behind the counter with my third mug of lukewarm coffee, a stack of returns on the desk in front of me—books I should be sorting, invoices I should be logging. Instead, I’m staring at the same line in a shipping manifest for the fourth time, mind circling like a riptide.

I haven’t heard from him.

And I told myself that’s what I wanted.

"Space."

"I need space."

The words tasted like iron when I threw them at him. Still do.

But the hollow in my chest says something else entirely.

The doorbell jangles loud and sharp through the stillness, startling me out of the loop.

I look up—heart leaping and sinking all in the same breath.

It’s not Drokhaz.

It’s Liara.

Of course.

She storms in without ceremony, curls wild beneath a green knit cap, a battered paper bag in one hand, and a dented thermos in the other. Her coat drips little puddles on the welcome mat. The cold rolls in with her, sharp and damp.

“You better not have locked that door just to brood,” she says flatly.

I groan. “Not now.”

“I brought tea.” She kicks the door shut behind her with one boot. “And truths.”

“I didn’t ask for either.”

She peels off her coat, tosses it over the nearest chair. “Didn’t ask. Don’t care.”

I exhale, rubbing my eyes. “Liara?—”

“Sit,” she orders, already moving toward the counter like she owns the place.

I frown.

She levels a look at me. “I said sit.”

The sharpness in her voice brooks no argument, and part of me is too tired to fight.

I drop into the armchair near the front window, the one I usually reserve for reading or late-night wine. The gray light outside softens the stacks of books lining the window displays—weathered covers, faded spines gleaming like old friends.

It should be comforting.

It isn’t.

Liara pours tea into one of my chipped mugs without asking, hands it to me.

“Drink.”

I take it—warm and fragrant, laced with chamomile and some kind of citrus. Her signature blend for when I’m spiraling.

I sip because arguing will get me nowhere.

She settles across from me, sharp eyes taking in every twitch of my fingers, every tight line in my face.

“You’re brooding,” she says simply. “That’s clue number one.”

“Not brooding.”

“Sulking?”

I glare. “Liara?—”

“Fine. Brooding and sulking.” She sips her tea. “And you’re doing a shit job pretending otherwise.”

The shop creaks softly around us—wood groaning beneath the weather, the faint scent of lavender and old ink curling in the air. It’s comforting and suffocating all at once.

“I’m fine,” I mutter.

She leans forward. “Liar.”

I slam the mug down a little harder than necessary. “What do you want?”

“To keep you from self-destructing.” Her voice softens, but only a little. “You’re spiraling, Ro. And you’re pushing everyone away.”

I turn toward the rain-lashed window, throat tightening. “I told him I needed space.”

“And then you ran.”

The words slice clean through me.

I clench my jaw. “It’s safer this way.”

“For who?” she asks gently.

I say nothing.

She leans closer, voice low. “You’re not scared of losing him.”

“I don’t want to need him,” I say through gritted teeth.

Liara shakes her head. “You’re not scared of needing him, either.”

“Then what?”

She meets my gaze, steady and unflinching. “You’re scared he might stay.”

The words land so hard I can’t breathe for a beat.

The rain blurs the glass outside, a watery reflection of my own face staring back—tired, guarded, breaking.

She reaches across the table, warm fingers curling over mine.

“Rowan,” she says softly. “You’ve built your whole life on not depending on anyone. On being enough. On carrying everything alone. But now… there’s someone who sees you.”

I shake my head, tears stinging hot behind my eyes. “He can’t. ”

“He does.” Her voice is steady as stone. “Mother. Woman. Firebrand. Mess. All of it.”

A tear slips free before I can stop it.

“Damn you,” I whisper.

Liara moves to sit beside me, wrapping an arm around my shoulders.

And I break.

All the words I’ve bitten back for days, weeks, months—falling free on a trembling breath.

“I’m tired,” I say, voice shaking. “Of being the strong one. Of having to be everything. Of pretending I don’t want more.”

Her grip tightens. “Then stop pretending.”

“I don’t know how,” I choke out.

“You let him in,” she says softly. “One step at a time.”

I press a shaking hand to my mouth.

Because gods, I want to.

I want someone who sees all of me.

Who stays.

Who chooses this mess, this fight, this stubborn heart—even when it’s easier to walk away.

And I am so damn terrified of what happens if he does.

Or worse—if he doesn’t.

The tears come harder now, raw and silent.

Liara holds me through it all.

The shop hums with rain and wood and quiet.

When the storm inside me finally stills, I lean against her shoulder, spent.

“No more running,” she says gently.

I nod.

Because some battles are worth staying for.

And I am tired of fighting alone.

That night, after Liara leaves me wrapped in a blanket and my own exhausted silence, I climb the stairs to check on Jamie.

He’s asleep, sprawled across his bed in a tangle of limbs, clutching his battered plush shark. Beside him on the nightstand lies his finished story—the final draft of The Green Giant, painstakingly illustrated in bright, hopeful crayon strokes.

I pick it up with trembling fingers.

Settle into the armchair in the corner and begin to read.

“The Green Giant had strong hands but a kind heart…”

The words blur almost immediately.

I blink hard, but the tears come anyway—hot and unstoppable, trailing down my cheeks in thick, aching waves.

Page after page, line after crooked line, the story unfolds.

Hope. Courage. The belief that even the fiercest giants can choose to protect, not destroy.

That love can be a kind of bravery.

By the time I turn the final page—Jamie’s careful scrawl beneath a drawing of the lighthouse shining bright—I am weeping openly.

For the child who believes so fiercely.

For the man who fought for a chance.

For myself.

Because gods help me—I want that light, too.

When the tears slow, I press a kiss to Jamie’s curls, lay the book gently back on his nightstand.

And downstairs, beneath the stormy dawn light filtering through the front windows, I find the banner Liara made weeks ago—simple letters on soft linen:

YES TO RENOVATION WITH HEART.

With shaking hands, I pin it to the window where anyone passing will see.

A small choice.

But mine.

And it’s a start.