“Oh, Maddie,” she breathes, crossing the shop in three quick strides. Her arms are around me before I can protest, squeezing tight. “I thought you were just being your usual dramatic self. But you’re… you’retruly broken up,aren’t you?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I croak, though the tears keep coming. “I’m just… the dough’s being a stubborn beast, and I’m tired, and?—”
“And your heart’s gone and gotten itself tangled up with a giant, gruff orc who doesn’t know what to do with it,” she finishes for me, her voice gentler now. “You think I can’t see it? You’ve been half in love with that brute since the first time he fixed your porch railing and pretended your pies weren’t the highlight of his entire week.”
I try to sniff back the tears, wiping my face with my wrist, which only smears dough across my temple. “It was supposed to be pretend. That was thewhole point.Easy to end, clean. But now… I want it to be real so badly it hurts. And that’s what terrifies me. Because if he decides it was all just a favor to keepthe orchard safe—if he leaves for good—I don’t know how I’ll patch myself back together again.”
Liora pulls back enough to look at me, her bright eyes fierce. “Maybe he just needs to figure out that what scares you isn’t loving him. It’s losing him. You’ve never been afraid of your feelings, Maddie. That’s what makes you shine so damn bright. Maybe it’s time to show him that.”
I let out a watery laugh. “Easy for you to say. You’ve never had to coax a heart twice the size of your whole body into trusting yours.”
“No,” she admits, squeezing my shoulders. “But if I did, I’d start by reminding that big oaf what he stands to lose. Because whatever else Thornak Ironjaw is, he’s not blind. Or heartless. He’s just… scared. Same as you.”
She helps me clean up the mess on the counter, dusts the flour from my hair, then plants a kiss on my forehead. “Don’t give up on him yet, sunshine. He needs your stubbornness right now, even if he’s too stupid to ask for it.”
And later, when I’m alone again in the kitchen, the lanterns glowing soft around me, I find myself whispering a tiny promise to the warm air.
“I won’t give up. Not yet.”
Because even if he never opens that door, never reads my note, never tastes the turnovers still warm with all the hope I kneaded into them—I’ll know I tried. I’ll know my heart was brave enough to keep loving him anyway.
CHAPTER 22
THORNAK
The forest is caught between seasons today—still clinging to autumn’s dying gold while the breath of winter tests its edges. Frost curls delicate along the ridges of oak leaves underfoot, catching stray shafts of sunlight so they flash like silver coins scattered in the dirt. Above, the trees creak and whisper in the wind, dry branches rasping together in low conversations that fill the hush with secrets.
Most days, this is where I find my ease. Out here in the quiet, where the only judgments are from crows that cock their heads and chitter before leaping into the air. Where the world is simple—fell a tree, shape it, haul it home. Where there’s no clever little woman with eyes bright as lantern flame who can look straight through me, see every bruise on my spirit without even trying.
But lately even the woods won’t leave me be. Every breeze feels like it’s carrying her voice. Every patch of sunlight on moss reminds me of the way her hair looks under orchard boughs—bright and wild and warm in a way that makes my chest twist.
I’ve been stubborn. Told myself keeping away was smart. That by staying here, pacing my cabin like some caged beast, I was protecting her from the slow bleed of disappointment she’dfeel if she realized forever with me isn’t cider and dances and sweet pie crust.
This morning’s the same. I step outside, breath steaming, jaw tight. I tell myself I’ll go check the traps by the ridge, see if the old doe’s been by with her half-grown fawns again. Anything to keep my feet from wandering toward her orchard, toward her.
Then I see it.
Sitting right there on my top step.
A little wooden box, neat corners joined by tiny hammered pegs. A cloth draped over it—checkered red and cream, one of the patterns she keeps at the bakery for wrapping pastries. There’s even a small embroidered swirl at the edge, a shape I realize is meant to be a curling vine, dotted with tiny specks that could be berries. Her doing, no doubt.
I stand there longer than I should, cold nipping at my ears, breath coming shallow. Because some fool part of me’s afraid if I reach down it’ll vanish, a trick of sun on frost.
But it doesn’t.
It stays right there, warm steam curling faint from beneath the cloth. My hands feel clumsy as I pick it up, heavier than its small size should allow. I lift the lid.
The scent hits me first—sweet apples, rich cinnamon, butter so deep it makes my stomach twist with hunger I’ve been trying to ignore. The turnovers inside are nestled close together, still warm enough to fog the wood. The edges are crimped into tidy little ridges, dusted with coarse sugar that sparkles like tiny shards of quartz.
And tucked just beneath one fold of the cloth, barely anchored, is a slip of paper.
My hands actually shake as I reach for it. Ridiculous. I’ve held battle axes slick with blood steadier than this. But when I unfold it, her small, looping script is enough to nearly knock me flat.
I miss you. I shouldn’t, but I do. Even if you never come back.
It’s not fancy. Not overwrought. Just true.
And it hits harder than any blade I’ve ever taken. I squeeze my eyes shut, pressing the note to my forehead, swallowing past a thick knot in my throat that refuses to budge. The cold wind sighs through the pines, stirring the box in my hands, carrying that sweet, warm scent right up into my chest.
