Page 59 of The Orc’s Comfort

"We did," he says.

He pulls me close. “And now we begin the next project.”

“The second cookbook?”

“That too.” His hand moves to my stomach. “But I was thinking of something more personal.”

I laugh. “Only you would categorize a baby as a personal project.”

“The most important project.” He takes both my hands, his thumb moving across my knuckles. For a moment, he says nothing, simply looking at me in the quiet of the deserted hall.

“I’m still scared,” I say.

“Good.” He draws me against his chest. “It means you understand what this is. But you’re not facing it alone. You never were. You never will be.”

I breathe in the scent of him, herbs and heat and something that has meant safety for long enough now that I’ve stopped trying to name it. My racing heart slows.

“How far along do you think I am?”

“Six weeks, approximately. Scent markers aren’t precise at this stage.” His arms tighten around me. “Seven months remaining.”

“Seven months.”

“Seven months to prepare.” His voice takes on that planning tone I know so well. “Nutritional protocols, living space modifications, infant development research, and the second cookbook manuscript—”

“Rhazgar.”

“—ginger preparations for nausea, iron-rich broths, bone broth for mineral strength—”

“Rhazgar.” I press my fingers to his lips. “Can we have one moment where you’re not planning meals?”

He considers. “No. Meal planning is how I show devotion.”

“I know.” I kiss him. “And I love you for it.”

The drive home is in quiet, comfortable silence. His hand rests on my thigh, steady and reassuring.

Inside our house, with its expanded kitchen and herb garden and walls lined with both our books, he settles me on the couch with a blanket.

“Elder Korgath will want weekly meetings,” he says. “For nutritional monitoring and blessing ceremonies.”

“As long as they’re not too elaborate.”

“I’ll communicate that.” He pauses. “Grulk will want involvement.”

“Of course he will.” I roll my eyes. “Not only will my mother have opinions, but she’ll immediately be on the phone with three doctors.”

“I’ll add her to the list of people requiring careful management.” His mouth twitches. “And Torgun has already messaged about crafting traditional birthing ceremonial gifts.”

“We have seven months to figure it out.”

He sits beside me, close enough that our shoulders touch. Through the window to the balcony, I can see his herb garden: Earth plants growing alongside WarmHearth transplants that somehow thrive in alien soil.

Like us, I think. Adapting. Creating something new.

“The rosemary needs pruning,” Rhazgar observes.

“Of course it does.”