Page 27 of Till Orc Do Us Part

ROWAN

I tell myself not to overthink it.

Which, of course, guarantees that I do.

Every damn step down the sea-slicked path toward Drokhaz’s beach house, my head runs wild. My heart pounds so loud it could drown out the waves if I let it.

It’s just a house, I think.

It’s just a visit. Just a man.

But my heart knows better.

I haven’t seen him—not really—since that night in the bookstore when I took his hand and the world melted around us.

Since then, I’ve thrown myself into poetry readings and storefront repairs, in organizing volunteer shifts and pretending that seeing him every day on the boardwalk in that paint-smeared shirt didn’t make something inside me ache.

Then the message came.

A note, written in a careful hand:

"When you are ready, there is something I would show you."

Late afternoon wraps the coastline in gold and shadow. The wind’s sharp off the water—one of those days where you can feel the weight of summer fading into the bones of fall.

The path narrows near the bluff, boards creaking underfoot. Sand scatters across weathered planks. The scent of seaweed and driftwood curls on the air, rich and clean.

Ahead, the house comes into view.

Two stories, low-slung, built to stand against storms. The cedar siding glows sun-worn and silver-gray. Glass-paned windows catch the sky. A deep porch hugs the front, lanterns strung beneath the overhang like stars not yet lit.

And there—swaying gently in the breeze—is the swing.

Wide and solid, thick rope taut beneath new beams. The seat is smooth, the grain of the wood kissed by oil and sunlight. It hums with promise—of slow mornings, of shared silences, of stories told with hands and eyes.

My throat tightens.

I stop at the end of the path, heart kicking hard.

It’s beautiful.

More than beautiful.

It’s inviting.

And that terrifies me more than anything.

Footsteps sound softly from around the side—steady, unhurried.

And then he’s there.

Drokhaz rounds the corner, sleeves rolled, forearms dusted with sawdust and salt. His shirt’s faded, stretched across broad shoulders. His eyes catch mine and hold, quiet as the tide beneath a full moon.

“Rowan,” he says—low, rough around the edges. “You came.”

I swallow hard. “You asked.”

A beat. His gaze doesn’t waver. “I do not ask lightly.”

No. He never has.

A gust stirs the porch banners, setting the swing to a slow, creaking sway.

He gestures toward the steps.

I force my feet forward. One step. Another. The boards groan beneath my boots as if echoing my pulse.

As I pass the swing, my fingers brush the wood—a whisper of contact. The seat is cool beneath my touch, the rope rough with promise.

He holds the door open, waiting.

And that’s when I stop.

Right there, on the threshold.

The doorway is wide, worn smooth with use. Inside, the air glows warm with low light—oil lamps set in iron sconces. No harsh overheads here. The scent of cedar, paper, and sea-damp wood weaves through the space, grounding and alive.

My gaze drifts.

And finds them.

Framed along the near wall—Jamie’s drawings.

Every page of The Green Giant captured beneath glass.

The sea saved by a wish.

A lighthouse held tall.

The boardwalk alight with stars.

And there—drawn in crayon strokes unsteady but full of heart—me, Jamie, and Drokhaz beneath this very swing.

My breath catches, sharp and full of things I can’t name.

My feet won’t move.

Beside the door, hung on a simple iron hook, rests a single key.

Plain iron, worn from use.

The tag attached is a strip of driftwood, smoothed and inked in clean, deliberate strokes:

US.

That one word knocks the air from my lungs.

I stand frozen—wind whipping stray curls across my cheek, jacket pressed tight against my ribs.

Drokhaz says nothing.

He simply waits.

No pressure. No demand. Just… space.

Gods.

I want to run.

I want to step inside.

Both at once.

Because this moment isn’t about walls anymore. Not about fights or stubborn pride or the fire I’ve used to keep others at bay.

This is about choice.

Mine.

And I feel the weight of it in every trembling breath.

He speaks then, voice softer than I’ve ever heard. “No promises. No pressure. Only what you choose.”

I close my eyes. The porch hums beneath me, the sea shushing low and endless below.

And I know.

I’m tired of running.

Tired of guarding this battered heart as if breaking is worse than never trying.

I lift my gaze. Look straight into his.

And I step forward.

One step.

Two.

The swing sways in the wind.

I take the key in my hand, thumb brushing its worn metal like a vow.

Then I cross the threshold.

The door shuts behind me—quiet, final.

I’m inside.

And for the first time in a long, long while, I am not afraid of where this story will go.

Inside, the house hums quiet and warm.

But neither of us moves deeper in.

Drokhaz watches me with a gaze I can’t quite read—steady, patient, as if he knows the weight of every breath I take. His broad shoulders rise and fall with a slow inhale.

Still, he says nothing about the key.

Nothing about the step I’ve just taken.

And gods—thank the stars for that.

I don’t think I could bear words just yet.

The room feels too full, my heart too loud. I need air. Space. Something older than language to hold me upright.

As if sensing this, he tips his head toward the porch.

“Come,” he says softly.

I follow without answering.

Outside, the sea sings beneath the dark, waves breaking in slow, deliberate rhythm. The last traces of dusk fade from the sky—violet bleeding into deep indigo, stars beginning to prick through the veil.

The porch swing waits, swaying gently in the wind.

He settles first—broad frame taking up one end, boots planted firm on the worn boards.

I hesitate, just a beat.

Then sit beside him, not quite touching.

The wood creaks beneath our combined weight, ropes groaning softly in their hooks. The swing rocks in time with the tide.

We don’t speak.

We don’t need to.

The space between us is thick with everything unsaid—trust offered, fears still raw, something fragile and blooming that neither of us dares name.

His arm rests along the back of the swing, loose, unassuming. My fingers curl in my lap, knuckles pale.

The stars emerge, one by one.

Orion first, bold in the east. Then the softer scatter of the Pleiades, shimmering faint above the waves.

I lean back against the slats with a slow exhale. The swing shifts beneath me, wood warm from the day’s sun.

Beside me, Drokhaz mirrors the motion—silent, present.

Minutes stretch and spill, marked only by the hush of the sea and the creak of rope and beam.

And in that shared quiet, something inside me eases. Not gone. Not whole. But less sharp.

I steal a glance at him beneath the starlight.

He’s watching the horizon, mouth soft, brow uncreased. A man built of steel and story, sitting here like the simplest thing in the world.

Like home.

I face forward again.

We rock, side by side, into the dark.

No words.

No promises.

Just this.

And for tonight, that’s enough.