Page 33 of The Orc’s Comfort

“No,” he says. “But I came all the way across town, so you’re getting it anyway.”

He sits forward with the focused attention he reserves for things he considers serious. “Thirty generations of HammerFall matchmaking wisdom places you between stage two and stage three. Stage two is the formal declaration of interest. Stage three is demonstrated commitment through significant personal sacrifice.” He looks at me. “The hair comb counts as stage three.”

“I wasn’t thinking about stages.”

“No,” he agrees. “That’s probably why it worked.”

Through the wall, I can hear Julia’s morning beginning: the soft sound of her moving around her condo, the kettle, the distinctive quiet of someone who is thinking.

“She is processing,” I say.

“She is a librarian,” Grulk says. “She processes by researching. Give her today.” He stands. “The exhibition is in just over a week. Whatever you are building, build it before then. Public moments have a way of clarifying things.” He heads for the door. “Also I have prepared an excellent physical demonstration sequence in case you need it.”

“I won’t need it.”

“It involves the Mighty Oak—”

Before I can stop him, he’s on his feet, chest thrust forward, arms wide, filling my living room with an enthusiasm that makes my furniture look fragile.

“—and a very impressive Pouncing Predator—”

He drops into a low stalking crouch that no orc his age should be able to manage, circling the coffee table with predatory focus.

“—and I have developed a new one, which I call the Fertile Mountain—” He plants his feet wide, spreads both arms in a sweeping upward arc, and executes a slow, deliberate pelvic rotation of such serene confidence that I understand immediately and completely why the integration counselors dedicated an entire section of the community guidelines to the prohibition of these poses in public spaces.

“Grulk.”

He straightens immediately, smoothing his coveralls with great dignity. “I’m just saying it’s available.”

He opens the door. Pauses. “She fed you pasta, Rhazgar. After everything you told her.” He looks back. “Think about what that means.”

He leaves.

I stand in my kitchen for a moment. Through the wall, Julia is humming, an unconscious habit she’s never done in my presence. The melody is something classical. Beethoven, possibly. I have learned to recognize it.

I pick up the container of broth and head for the door.

Chapter Fourteen

Julia

With one additional week of recovery ahead, I’ve decided to make productive use of my time.

This is what I tell myself at eight that morning, moments before Rhazgar arrives with the broth and we both do an admirable job of pretending everything is perfectly normal. He asks how I slept. I say fine. He checks my ankle with the same thorough attention he always gives it. I drink the broth. He rinses the bowl. Neither of us mentions last night.

His grandmother’s hair comb is holding my hair up. I put it in this morning without deciding to. He notices, then glances at the recipe on the counter, still folded where I left it. He looks at it for one long moment, then returns his gaze to me.

He leaves at his usual time. I sit in the kitchen with my coffee and gaze at the recipe for a long time.

Then I open my laptop.

Not to find things out. I already know what I need to know. He told me. But knowing a thing and understanding it are different. I pull up every source I’ve been avoiding all week, the ones that felt like prying before. Now they feel like homework I owe him.

The cultural anthropology paper I find midmorning stops me cold, not because it reveals something new but because it confirms something he said. Buried in the methodology section is a note about WarmHearth clan specifically: that certain healing preparations are not general-purpose. That they’re reserved. That who you make them for, and how, communicates something the researcher clearly struggled to translate. She ends up using the phrase “relational declaration” and moving on quickly, as if she knew she’d only gotten close to the real meaning.

Relational declaration.

I sit back. He told me last night in plain language what he’d done and why. Still, seeing it confirmed in academic text, that these meals have been something specific, something with intention, three times a day for six days, makes it land differently. Not worse. Just more real.