Page 18 of The Orc’s Comfort

This intrigues me even more. “Like family relationships? Teacher-student?”

“Similar concepts,” he acknowledges, though something tells me he’s not being entirely forthcoming. “I will prepare them again during your recovery. The documentation can be discussed… later.”

His sudden reticence piques my curiosity, but years of cultural research have taught me when to press and when to respect boundaries.

“I’d appreciate that,” I say, deciding to let the matter rest. “They really do seem to be helping.”

Relief subtly relaxes his features. “Good. That is their purpose.”

When it’s time to return to my condo, Rhazgar once again lifts me in his arms. This time, I allow myself to relax into his embrace, my head resting against his shoulder, my body conforming to his as if designed to fit there.

The vibration is there again, steadier than his heartbeat, warmer somehow. It’s easier to notice now that I’m not bracing. It seems steadier than before. More settled. I have the uncomfortable thought that it might be responding to me specifically, and then I have the more uncomfortable thought that I want that to be true.

As he lowers me onto my couch, arranging pillows with careful attention, I find myself watching the door long after it closes behind him, already counting the hours until the next knock.

Chapter Eight

Rhazgar

I close the door to my condo, leaning against it for a moment as I collect my thoughts. My pulse still races, my body humming with awareness that lingers like the aftereffects of battle. Her scent clings to my skin, branded there now, impossible to ignore.

Crossing to my kitchen, I place my palm on the still-warm cooking vessel, centering myself through the familiar ritual of cleaning and storing sacred implements. My hands tremble slightly, something I haven’t experienced since adolescence. The warrior’s discipline I’ve cultivated for decades threatens to crumble as my mind replays every moment of her visit: the flush that colored her cheeks when I lifted her, the trust in her face when she let me carry her, the way she asked questions about my grandmother as if the answers genuinely mattered to her. When she watched me cook, her eyes followed my hands with an intensity that undid several months of careful distance in about four seconds.

Most significant of all: her request for more of what I’d made her that afternoon.

The small sound she made when she tasted it, unaware of what it meant, I haven’t stopped thinking about it since.

Then the guilt crashes over me like a rockslide.

I set the stone mortar down harder than necessary, the sharp sound echoing through the kitchen. My grandmother’s voice rises in my memory, as clear as if she stood beside me.

“These preparations are never offered casually,” she had instructed, demonstrating the traditional seven-stroke stirring motion. “They speak intention more clearly than words. To prepare them for another is to declare interest beyond friendship.”

The healing broth I brought on the first day, that I would have done for anyone in the clan who was hurt. But what I prepared in my own kitchen this afternoon was a courtship formulation, and I knew it the moment I began it. I knew it when she asked for more. I knew it when I told her I would prepare them again. Every word I didn’t say after that was a deliberate choice.

When she responded with such evident pleasure, something primal within me recognized it as acceptance, even as my rational mind screamed that she couldn’t possibly understand the significance. The memory of her expression, eyes closed, lips parted in appreciation, sends another wave of heat down my spine. In that moment, I’d gripped the counter edge so hard I had to check for fingerprints in the stone, shamed by the intensity of my own response to something she offered so freely and meant so simply.

By preparing the courtship meal, I moved from awareness to formal interest without Julia’s informed consent. That is a breach of WarmHearth honor, and there’s no version of tonight where it isn’t.

I should have stopped her. Should have explained before she tasted it. Should have said something, anything, to let her know what that specific preparation meant in my culture.

But I didn’t.

I let her taste it. Watched her savor it. Felt my entire body respond when she asked for more.

What kind of warrior uses ignorance as a weapon?

The question sits heavy in my gut. Honor and restraint are WarmHearth virtues, but beneath my hard-fought control burns a desire unlike anything I’ve experienced. When she leaned into me during our return to her condo, her small hand resting against my chest, I understood with uncomfortable clarity how completely my painstakingly maintained composure has failed me.

I move to the couch, where the cushions still bear the imprint of Julia’s small form. I touch the fabric, her scent stronger here where she sat for so long. I already know what this means. I have always known.

The steps are not the problem. The steps I know as well as any recipe: initial awareness, formal interest, declared intention, mutual commitment. My grandmother described each phase with the same precision she gave to courtship preparations. The path is clear.

The problem is that every phase assumes both parties understand what is happening.

What happens when only one person knows they’re courting?

Tomorrow, I should tell her… and apologize. I’ll explain everything: the significance of the meals, the traditional progression of WarmHearth courtship. It would be honest. Honorable. Right.