Page 5 of The Orc’s Comfort

I slip one arm beneath her knees and the other behind her back. She makes a small sound of surprise as I lift her, then instinctively curls closer, one hand catching lightly against my shoulder for balance.

She weighs almost nothing.

The warmth of her seeps through the thin fabric of my shirt. Her hair brushes my jaw, carrying the faint scent of lavender and old books I have come to associate with her. Every protective instinct I possess tightens at once. She is injured. Fragile. She trusts me to carry her.

I lower her onto the couch carefully, as though she is made of spun glass, making certain her injured side rests against the cushions before I step back.

“Don’t call an ambulance,” she pleads. “They’re expensive, and it’s really not that bad.”

I shake my head firmly. “Your injuries need a professional assessment. I’ll call emergency services.”

“Please,” she says, her eyes wide with genuine distress. “I don’t have great insurance, and ambulance bills can be thousands of dollars.”

Her words land. The concern about cost is real, but so is the need for care. “I will call, but I’ll make it clear it’s not immediately life-threatening. They can send paramedics without lights and sirens. That may cost less.”

Relief softens her features, though worry still lingers. “Okay. That’s… reasonable.”

While waiting for the medical responders, I gather pillows to elevate her injured ankle and bring a cold pack from her freezer for her head. Her condo is even more book-filled than I’d imagined, every surface covered with volumes of all sizes. Many are now scattered across the floor in a chaotic jumble.

“I’m sorry about your door,” I say, noting the splintered frame where the lock gave way.

“You broke down my door?” she asks, sounding more impressed than upset.

“I applied pressure to the locking mechanism,” I correct. “I’ll repair it tomorrow.”

A small smile touches her lips. “My hero,” she says, then immediately looks embarrassed. “I mean… thank you. Most people couldn’t have lifted that bookcase.”

“Most people aren’t WarmHearth clan,” I respond simply.

The medical responders arrive fifteen minutes later. They examine Julia while I wait in the kitchen, close enough to help if needed. Their assessment confirms what I suspected: a sprained right ankle, bruised ribs, and signs of a mild concussion, along with a suspected hairline fracture in her left wrist. They splint her wrist, stabilize her ankle, and recommend X-rays at the hospital, though they agree she’s stable enough to decide for herself.

They help her to the bathroom where the female responder stays to help.

Back on the couch, they apply a cold pack to her temple and elevate her ankle on pillows.

“You need complete rest for at least two weeks,” the lead medic instructs her firmly. “No work, minimal movement, and definitely no climbing on anything.” He glances meaningfully at all the books on the floor in front of the empty bookcase, which I’ve now righted and plan to secure to the wall before Julia is allowed to walk. “You’re lucky your neighbor was here. That kind of weight could have caused far more serious injuries if he hadn’t intervened so fast.”

After they leave, I find Julia glaring at her phone like it personally betrayed her. “Two weeks,” she mumbles. “The exhibition prep…”

“Exhibition?” I ask, recalling the conversation I’d overheard through the wall.

She looks up, surprise flickering across her face. “Oh. Right. I’m organizing a multicultural food exhibition at the library. Big project. Now I get to run it from a couch.”

“You will need assistance while recovering.” My voice comes out flatter than I intend. “Not just with the exhibition. With basic necessities.”

“I’ll manage.” The words come too fast, her thumb worrying the crack in her phone case.

“You require proper nutrition for healing,” I continue. “I could bring you food. While you recover.”

Her eyebrows climb. “You’ll cook for me? We’ve barely spoken.”

“You are not a stranger. You are my neighbor of six months, whose name I only learned because it’s printed on your mail slot.”

A laugh startles out of her. “Okay. Brutal. But fair.” She pauses, then gazes at me. “That’s really sweet, but we’ve said maybe ten words to each other, total.”

“Eleven, if you count the elevator.”

She blinks. “You counted?”