So.
Is this who I am now?
A troll's concubine? A bridgewife?
Because, honestly, the signs are damning.
I'm sitting in a surprisingly cozy little shed tucked under the northern span of the Old Goat Bridge. There's a blanket around my shoulders, some chipped pottery with actual tea in it—herbal, slightly mossy—and a straw mattress that doesn't smell like regret for once.
There's even a flower in a vase.
A single daisy.
The troll put it there.
A daisy.
I sip my tea and stare into the middle distance, trying not to think about what I've become.
It started, as these things often do, purely transactional.
I needed shelter for the night. It was raining. The guards at the gate said I was loitering and threatened to beat me with a stick. I asked if I could borrow the stick to beat them back. They didn't laugh.
So I wandered. Ended up at the bridge. Saw a rickety wooden door tucked beneath the arch like a secret.
I knocked.
He opened.
He blinked at me with those big mossy eyes. Tusked. Shirtless. Smelled like wet stone and smoked meat.
I smiled. Professionally.
And said: "I offer warmth, conversation, and flexible morals in exchange for dry bedding."
He blinked again. Nodded.
And that was that.
Now it's been a week.
A week.
What happened?
I'll tell you what happened: bacon.
Troll makes excellent breakfast.
Who knew?
Every morning—well, every evening, since he's a nocturnal petrified slab during the day—he fries eggs and bacon on a flat stone like some kind of rustic Michelin-starred beast. Sunny side up. A little cracked pepper. Perfect yolk jiggle.
It started as shelter. Then it became food. Then it became… something else.
And now?
Now the bastard's catching feelings.
He hums when I brush my hair.
He gets nervous when I leave to "go into town for a bit." (Read: scam three old ladies out of their perfume money.)
He asked—asked—if I liked daffodils.
This morning he gave me a rock he thought looked like a heart. It did not. It looked like hemorrhoids. But it was sweet.
And the sex?
I mean—
Look.
I've had my fair share of bards and barons and one very enthusiastic centaur.
But this troll?
Oh. Boy.
Let's just say: when the man gets going, you feel it in your soul.
I'm not saying he cracked the foundation of the bridge once, but I'm also not saying he didn't.
There's something to be said about girth.
And stamina.
And that deep rumbling growl he does right before—well.
Anyway.
I'm not complaining.
I mean, my hips are complaining. A little.
Okay, a lot. I had to walk funny for a day and told a nun I was recovering from a horse accident.
But emotionally?
It's… complicated.
Because by day, he's stone. Like literally stone. I curl up against his cold granite thigh and read trashy scrolls from the market. He doesn't snore. He doesn't talk back. Just sits there. Solid. Reliable.
By night, he's warm. Fierce. Attentive. Kind of sweet. Sometimes funny.
Too sweet.
I caught myself humming while picking moss out of his armpit last night.
Humming.
I'm in danger.
So now I'm sitting here, questioning everything.
Is this it?
Is this my arc?
Once a seductive scam artist. Now a kept woman under a bridge. Eating bacon. Picking wildflowers. Getting railed nightly by an emotionally available boulder with abs.
Is this what I want?
I pull the blanket tighter.
The daisy waves at me in the breeze.
Somewhere in the distance, a merchant yells at a mule.
I sigh.
"Gods damn it. I miss the dragon."