Page 39 of The Orc’s Comfort

“Give me five minutes.”

I throw on jeans and a sweater and my one pair of hiking boots, which lace loose enough over the brace to be almost comfortable. After brushing my hair, I fasten it with the carved bone comb I’ve worn every waking minute since he gave it to me. I swipe on a little mascara. For no reason.

When I emerge from my bedroom, Rhazgar is at my bookshelf with a book open in his hands, reading. He looks up.

His gaze travels from my boots to my face, and something in him goes quietly warm. “You look prepared for adventure.”

“I look like I raided a lost and found,” I say. “Let’s go before I reconsider.”

He carries me through the lobby, past Mrs. Craft from 2B, who raises her eyebrows so hard they nearly fly off her face, and I stop caring before we reach the front door. There’s something about being held by Rhazgar that makes self-consciousness feel like a different person’s problem. He’s so steady. Like being carried isn’t an imposition, it’s just the obvious solution.

He opens the truck door one-handed without jostling me. I miss his warmth the moment he sets me down.

The drive winds up into the foothills. The farther we get from town, the more he seems to settle into himself. His shoulders drop a fraction. His grip on the wheel eases.

“I found this place three months after the Emergence,” he says, watching the road. “When I couldn’t make Earth feel like anything but wrong.”

“Did it help?”

“It reminded me that different doesn’t mean lesser.” A beat. “I needed reminding, some days.”

We park at a gravel turnout, and he comes around to gather me out of the seat with the same care as always, easing me against him in exactly the right place.

“You always know exactly how to hold me,” I say.

“I’ve been thinking about it.” His gaze never leaves mine.

Somehow that affects me more than if he’d kissed me.

The trail is steep and rough, and I don’t feel a single step of it. His breathing doesn’t change. I watch the trees thin above us and try not to think about how delicious it feels to be in his arms.

“You’re not even winded.”

“WarmHearth physiology. High-altitude origins.” He ducks under a branch without breaking stride, the motion so fluid it barely registers. “Our blood processes oxygen more efficiently.”

“Meanwhile, I’d be dying on this trail.”

“You’d be managing.”

“Gasping and complaining.”

“Managing,” he repeats, and I can hear the amusement he’s not quite showing.

“Maybe we’ll come back when my ankle heals,” I say. “So I can do this properly.”

“I’d like that.” Simple. Certain. Like it’s already decided.

My stomach does a slow warm turn.

Then the valley unfolds before us, and I stop thinking about anything.

He doesn’t put me down when we reach the summit. Just shifts his hold slightly, turning us both toward the valley, and I stop expecting to be set down.

The whole valley is laid out below us, buildings catching the morning light, the river a winding blue cord through it all, mountains beyond. It’s the kind of view that makes your problems feel correctly sized.

My focus turns to Rhazgar’s face.

Whatever he carries in town, the studied distance, the constant calibration, it’s not here. He looks at those mountains, and something in him just opens.