Page 23 of The Orc’s Comfort

“Several things. That the seeds came through was sheer luck.” His jaw tightens briefly, some old grief passing under the words. “It took three years to persuade it to thrive here. The soil is wrong, the light is wrong. But it adapted. It’s stubborn that way.”

The significance steals my breath. These leaves aren’t just ingredients; they’re artifacts of a lost world, precious beyond measure.

“Rhazgar, I can’t… this is too valuable to use on my minor injuries.”

His gaze meets mine with unexpected intensity. “This is precisely what it was meant for. Preservation without purpose has no meaning.”

As I struggle to find words, he continues, “Would you like to see where it grew? I have some pictures I drew.”

My heart jumps at this unexpected offering. “Absolutely!”

“I’ll be back in a moment. I know right where they are.”

When he’s gone, I smile at his willingness to share more of himself with me, then my thoughts turn to other things. His shy, occasional smile. His personal scent that somehow always lingers under the smell of herbs and spices. And especially the way his gaze follows me when he thinks I’m not looking.

When he returns, he sits beside me, and the couch, which has always felt perfectly adequate, suddenly seems to have very little space in it. He opens the portfolio without appearing to notice how close we are. I notice enough for both of us.

Some pictures are pen and ink, some charcoal, and a few seem to be his first attempts at watercolor, which are surprisingly good.

When he finds what he’s looking for and holds the watercolor up, it takes my breath away: a steep mountainside covered in silvery plants that seem to glow in the light of two visible moons. The alienness of the landscape makes it clear just how far Rhazgar is from his home.

“It’s beautiful,” I whisper, my fingers hovering close to the paper.

“It grew only at high altitudes, where the air was thin and the soil rich with volcanic minerals,” he explains, his voice taking on the rhythmic quality I’ve come to recognize when he shares his culture. “Harvesting required specialized climbing skills. WarmHearth warriors would scale the most treacherous peaks to gather it for healing ceremonies.”

I take my time looking through the pictures as he tells me about each landscape in language that is almost poetic. The landscape pages give way to a stretch of blank ones, and I keep turning, expecting more. I’m turning one of the last pages when he makes a sharp sound and tries to take the portfolio back.

But the damage is done. I’ve already turned the page. Instead of another landscape, I find myself looking at… me. I’m at what appears to be the condo community garden opening last spring, my head thrown back in laughter at something off the page.

“I’d prefer—”

Even though I want to stop looking, I’ve already turned another page, which is another picture of me. This time at the condo association meeting, my face serious as I present the cultural preservation initiative.

“Rhazgar?” I ask, not really needing an answer to my unspoken question.

“Go ahead.” His deep voice is resigned. “You’ve already seen too much. Might as well look through the rest. There’s nothing inappropriate.”

After turning another page, I see myself at the farmers’ market, examining a basket of peaches.

I look up at Rhazgar, whose green complexion has darkened considerably around his cheekbones. He’s blushing.

“I… these are—” he stammers.

“You’ve been drawing pictures of me.” Instead of feeling like he’s been perving on me, I have a funny, fluttery, swooping feeling in the pit of my stomach.

“Cultural documentation?” he manages, but the excuse falls flat even to my eager ears. “Comparative social observations?”

“Right,” I say, unable to suppress a smile. “Very scientific.”

Our eyes meet, and something electric passes between us. The embarrassment fades. What replaces it makes me forget what we were talking about.

My thoughts about him have morphed over the last week from interest to intrigue to something sharper and more potent. The urge to cross the scant distance between us is overwhelming. My fingers actually twitch with the need to trace the line of his jaw, brush the pointed tips of his ears, discover if those lips are as soft as they look.

His breathing changes, deepens. The air between us feels thick, humming. He notices.

“Julia.” My name is rough in his throat.

I should ease to the far edge of the couch. Create distance. But my body has other ideas, swaying slightly toward him.