Page 92 of Till Orc Do Us Part

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 wrapsthe 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’sinviting.

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.