Page 38 of The Orc’s Comfort

“Rhazgar,” she says. “Is it—”

“It’s right,” I say. “Julia. It’s exactly right.”

She lets out a breath. “I wasn’t sure about the third spice. The recipe says a pinch, but I didn’t know how big—”

“It’s right,” I say again.

She looks at me for a moment. Then something in her face changes. She understands that I am not talking about the spice.

“Good,” she says softly. “I wanted to get it right.”

I reach across the table and take her hand. She turns it over and holds mine tight, and we sit like this in the condo that smells like my grandmother’s kitchen, like every morning of my childhood, like something I believed I had lost and am only now understanding I was preserving for this.

“She would have liked you,” I say finally.

Chapter Seventeen

Julia

Three days since I cooked his grandmother’s soup recipe, and something between us has shifted, not loudly, but the way a room changes when the light does.

When he knocks at one o’clock, I’m already facing the door. I have been for a while, which I refuse to examine too closely.

“Come in.”

Rhazgar enters, and I nearly drop my mug. He’s not in his usual dark slacks and button-down. He’s in cargo pants and a fitted t-shirt under a lightweight jacket. The shirt is doing absolutely nothing to disguise how wide his powerful shoulders are.

“Good afternoon.” He sets the ceramic container on my coffee table. “I’ve brought your midday preparation.”

“You look…” I take the container, buying myself a second. “Different.”

“The cultural center canceled today’s session. Pipe repairs.” He watches me sample the broth. “I don’t have to cook there today. Their loss.”

“Yep. Their loss is my gain.” I wrap both hands around the container.

“I have a proposal.”

My heart knocks against my ribs. “Oh?”

“You’ve been inside for seventeen days.”

“The ankle,” I say, which is only half a lie. It’s been four days since Dr. Shah told me to put the crutches away, and it barely registers when I walk anymore, no swelling, minimal pain.

“I don’t intend for you to walk.” His voice is deep and intimate.

The memory of being carried: his muscles, his warmth, the way he moved as if my weight was nothing, does something embarrassing to my pulse. Part of me wouldn’t mind an excuse to be in his arms again.

“You mean—”

“There’s a place in the foothills.” He glances toward the window, then back. “A small plateau. The terrain there reminds me of home. I go there when I need to remember what home felt like.” A pause. “I’d like to show you.”

That stops me completely. He’s been careful with me for weeks. This doesn’t feel careful. This feels like trust.

“I’ve prepared provisions,” he adds, which is such a Rhazgar thing to say that my chest aches a little. “If you’d like to come.”

“Right now?” I look down at my yoga pants.

“If it’s convenient.”