Page 30 of The Orc’s Comfort

“Tonight,” he says. “If you are willing. There are things I need to tell you.”

“Yes,” I say. “There are. Come for dinner. Eight o’clock.”

A few minutes later, Dr. Shah is examining my injured joints and putting them through range of motion and strength tests with evident satisfaction. She palpates my ribs and is unable to trigger even a twinge of pain.

“Excellent progress. The ribs are completely normal, the wrist is healing beautifully, and the ankle is coming along nicely. I’m quite pleased with your recovery rate.”

I don’t mention that my rapid healing likely has more to do with otherworldly herbs than my stellar genetics.

“So, I can return to work?” I ask hopefully.

“Not this week, but next, yes. Limited duty only,” she cautions. “Half days at most, and absolutely no heavy lifting. But yes, I think you’ll be ready for a gradual return. At home, I want you walking without crutches.”

Relief washes over me. “Thank you. I’ve been going stir-crazy.”

“I imagine so.” She smiles. “Just don’t overdo it. Your body is healing well, but it still needs rest.”

Rhazgar is waiting outside when I open the door. He sees my face before I say anything.

“Good news?”

“Back to work next week.”

Something in him eases. Not quite a smile, but close. He opens the car door.

The ride home is quiet too, but it’s a different kind of quiet than the drive there.

We part ways in the hallway.

At seven-thirty I close the laptop, look at what’s in my kitchen, and make pasta. It is from a jar. I am aware of the symbolism.

He arrives at eight. The research is still spread across the table where I left it. After I call, “Come in,” he crosses the threshold, broth in one hand, something small wrapped in a piece of brown leather in the other. He takes in the books, the notes, the marked pages, and whatever is happening on my stove. He knows exactly what I’ve been doing all afternoon.

He sets the broth on the counter. The leather piece stays in his hand. He looks at the research on the table, then at me.

“Julia. I need to tell you something. Before anything else.”

I give him my full attention.

“The meals I’ve been bringing you,” he says. “They were not… not all of them were simply healing preparations.” He looks at me steadily. “Some of them were… courtship meals. A WarmHearth tradition. When a warrior prepares specific dishes for another, it communicates romantic intention. The recipient’s acceptance communicates reciprocation.” A beat. “The tradition assumes the recipient understands. I did not ensure you did.”

The kitchen is very quiet.

“At first, they were simply healing foods, no courtship involved. It was on the eighth day of your recovery that I changed intentions.” He doesn’t look away. “I told myself it was the next stage of healing. That was a lie. I knew what I was doing.”

I count in my head. Six days since then. Six days of sitting across from him every morning and evening, thanking him, asking questions, and having absolutely no idea.

“You let me accept a courtship ritual I didn’t understand,” I say. “For almost a full week.”

“Yes.”

“And the silver thistle kiss.”

“Silver thistle is used in bonding ceremonies,” he says. “Among other things. I should have told you before it happened. I did not. That was wrong.”

I turn and look out the window for a moment. The city is doing its ordinary evening things. Someone is walking a dog. A car goes past.

“Were you ever going to tell me?” I ask. “If I hadn’t warned you that I’d research it myself.”