Page 17 of The Orc’s Comfort

I comply immediately. His large hand cups my face with unexpected gentleness, thumb brushing my lower lip as he applies several drops of clear liquid to my tongue. The intimate gesture sends a shiver through me.

Almost instantly, the numbness recedes, replaced by a cool sensation like mint.

“Better?” he asks, watching my face intently, his hand lingering against my cheek a moment longer than strictly necessary.

I nod, still unable to form words as sensation gradually returns.

“Fire stone is intended for external application,” he explains. “One grain seasons an entire pot.”

“Good to know,” I finally manage. “That would’ve been helpful information thirty seconds ago.”

“Human researchers don’t usually consume unknown substances before asking questions,” he observes mildly.

“Curiosity before caution,” I admit.

He smiles just enough to show a bit more of his tusks. “A quality that would not have served you well in my world. Many beautiful plants there killed within moments of tasting.”

“Noted for future reference. No licking strange orc spices.”

He exhales once through his nose, the closest thing to a laugh I’ve heard from him. “A wise adaptation.”

An hour into watching him work, my ankle starts to throb. He notices before I say anything. He sets down what he’s doing, crosses to me, and lifts me from the stool without ceremony, carrying me to the large couch and tucking me among the cushions.

He brings a small cushion for my ankle without being asked, then he reaches down and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, a brief deliberate touch, and returns to the kitchen.

From the couch I can still see him working, just at a greater distance. I find I don’t mind. There’s something restful about watching someone who knows exactly what they’re doing: the quiet economy of it, the way he moves through his own space. I drift in and out, not quite sleeping, the condo warm and full of complicated smells, Debussy still playing faintly from somewhere.

When I open my eyes, the light has shifted. He’s still at the stove.

When he finally serves the completed dish, he carries me back to the dining room table. I should probably hobble to the dining area myself even though my crutch in still sitting in my condo, but I don’t say a word in protest. Him carrying me feels like the most natural thing in the world.

A moment later, he brings two bowls to the table and sits beside me. I inhale the complex aroma before tasting. Flavors unfold across my palate in waves: earthy base notes giving way to brighter herbal elements, followed by a subtle heat that seems to target where my injuries ache most.

“This is incredible,” I tell him. “I can almost feel it working.”

“That is its purpose,” he says simply as satisfaction shows in his expression.

“Of all the preparations you’ve brought, I think these last two have been my favorites,” I tell him between appreciative sips. “Especially this morning’s, it made me feel better almost immediately.”

Something changes in Rhazgar’s expression: a subtle shift I might have missed if I hadn’t been watching him so closely. His posture straightens almost imperceptibly, and a new intensity enters his gaze.

“You prefer those preparations specifically?” he asks, his tone neutral.

“Yes. They seem to work faster than the others. Is there something special about them?”

He’s silent for a moment, choosing his words with care. “They are… specialized formulations. Traditional preparations for specific healing stages.”

“Could you make them again? Or teach me how? I’d love to document the recipes for my research.”

His expression turns unreadable. “Those preparations are traditionally shared only under certain circumstances.”

“Oh,” I say, immediately backpedaling. “I completely understand if they’re sacred or private knowledge. I didn’t mean to overstep.”

“It is not that they are forbidden,” he clarifies slowly. “Rather, they have specific… cultural significance beyond healing.”

My researcher’s mind immediately catalogues this. “Cultural significance like… ceremonial use? Social context?”

“Something like that,” he says, and there it is again, that particular discomfort I saw flicker across his face when Grulk said too much. Except this time there’s no Grulk to blame it on. “In WarmHearth tradition, certain preparations indicate… specific relationships between preparer and recipient.”