Chapter 11 Falla
FALLA
Itell myself that offering to carry her would be practical.
Medical necessity. She already stumbled twice trying to stand after Drogath finally released everyone from the gathering, and her coordination is clearly compromised enough that walking unassisted would be dangerous. Besides, her legs still hurt her.
Clinical reasoning. Healer logic. Nothing to do with how my pulse kicked when she leaned into me instead of pulling away.
"I can walk," she protests, though the slur in her words undermines the claim significantly. "I'm perfectly capable of—" She trips over absolutely nothing and I catch her elbow before she can fall.
"Yes. Very capable." I keep my tone dry, professional. Amusement trickles through my chest, though I hide it. "Which is why you've stumbled three times in as many steps."
"The ground is uneven."
"The ground is completely flat."
She squints down like the packed earth might have betrayed her, then looks back up at me with an expression caught between stubbornness and grudging awareness of her own impairment. In the firelight, her eyes look almost amber, pupils slightly dilated from alcohol.
Beautiful. Still devastatingly beautiful even drunk and argumentative and clearly about to protest again.
I'm in so much trouble.
"Let me carry you," I tell her before she can mount another defense. "It's faster and you won't fall on your face."
"I'm not going to—" She sways slightly and I move closer, ready to catch her if necessary. "That's... you don't have to carry me. I'm heavy."
"You're not heavy." The assessment comes automatic, clinical observation based on months of monitoring her recovery.
She's gained weight since Kai first brought her to Frostfang territory, muscle and healthy mass replacing the dangerous malnutrition from captivity, but she's still smaller than most orc females.
"I carry injured warriors regularly. You'll be fine. "
"But—"
"Ressa." I wait until her unfocused gaze finds mine. "Do you trust me?"
The question settles between us with weight beyond the immediate situation. Her expression shifts through several emotions too quick to catalog before landing on something that might be surrender or acceptance or both.
"Yes," she says quietly. "I trust you."
The words do dangerous things to my chest. Professional detachment slips another degree toward territory I absolutely should not enter, and I find I don't care as much as I should.
"Then let me carry you home."
She studies me for several more seconds, then nods once.
I shift position carefully, testing her reaction to the proximity before committing to movement.
When she doesn't flinch or tense, I slide one arm behind her knees and the other around her back, lifting her in a smooth motion that barely disturbs her balance.
She makes a small sound of surprise and her hands come up instinctively—one gripping my shoulder, the other finding the front of my shirt. The touch burns through fabric in ways I'm definitely noticing while maintaining complete professional focus.
"Okay?" I ask quietly.
"Okay." But she's staring at me with wide eyes, like she's just as surprised by her own acceptance as I am. Her fingers tighten slightly in my shirt. "You're very strong."
"I'm an orc." Though the observation still sends warmth through my chest that has nothing to do with carrying weight. "It's standard."
"Not standard." Her head tilts, studying my face from this new angle. "You're gentle about it. Most orcs I've met use strength like a weapon. You use it like... like a tool. Something precise."
The comparison catches me completely off-guard. No one's ever described my strength that way before—most see healer work as contradictory to physical capability, like gentleness and power can't coexist in the same frame.
But she sees them together. Sees me clearly enough to name something I've never articulated about myself.
"Thank you," I manage, though the words feel inadequate for what her observation just did to my understanding of how she perceives me.
"You're welcome." She settles against my chest more comfortably, her weight warm and trusting in my arms. "This is nice. Being carried is nice. Everything's... spinny when I walk but this is steady."
"That's the alcohol affecting your inner ear balance." Clinical explanation, healer facts. Definitely not focusing on how she feels pressed against me or how her breath ghosts across my collarbone. "It'll pass once you sleep."
"Will you stay until I fall asleep?" The question comes without filter, unguarded in ways she never allows when sober. "I don't like being alone when everything's spinny."
Something in my chest twists painfully. The idea of her alone and disoriented, fighting anxiety without support, makes protective instinct flare sharp and immediate.
"Yes," I tell her. "I'll stay."
"Good." She sighs and her head drops to rest against my shoulder like it's the most natural thing in the world. "You smell nice. Like herbs and smoke. Safe smells."
I am in so much trouble.
It is the only thought I can seem to process today.
I adjust my grip slightly and start walking, keeping my pace steady and even so the movement doesn't disturb her too much.
The night air carries early spring cold, sharp enough to see our breath but not uncomfortable when moving.
Above, stars scatter across the clear sky in patterns I've memorized from countless nights checking on patients.
Ressa's cabin sits at the settlement edge, small and practical and far enough from the main parts of the base that she can maintain distance from the constant orc presence. I navigate the familiar path automatically while cataloging every small shift in how she's positioned against me.
Her breathing has evened out, deep and regular. Her grip on my shirt loosens slightly but doesn't release. The hand on my shoulder traces small absent patterns against the fabric, like she's not fully aware she's doing it.
Trust. She trusts me enough to let me carry her, to rest against me without fear, to ask me to stay when she's vulnerable.
The responsibility of that trust should feel heavy. Instead it settles into my chest like something inevitable, like I was always going to end up here holding her while she feels safe enough to lower every careful wall she's built.
I reach her cabin and manage the door without jostling her too badly.
Inside, the space is neat and sparse—minimal furniture, everything organized with the kind of precision that suggests control maintained through small rituals.
A single lantern burns low on the table, casting warm light across simple living quarters.
I carry her to her room in the back and lower her carefully to the bed, supporting her weight until she's settled against the blankets. She makes a small sound of protest when I start to pull away.
"Don't go yet." Her fingers tighten in my shirt again, beautiful brown eyes blinking up at me with alcohol-hazed focus. "You promised you'd stay."
"I'm just getting you settled." I work to keep my voice level, clinical, even while my pulse does complicated things at the vulnerable trust in her expression. "Let me help you with your boots."
She considers this, then nods and releases my shirt. I kneel beside the bed and work the laces of her boots with careful efficiency, aware of her watching me the entire time. The leather is worn but well-maintained, practical footwear for someone who needs reliable mobility.
I set the boots aside and reach for the blanket, pulling it up over her legs. She shifts to help, movements still slightly uncoordinated but more controlled than earlier.
"Your ribs hurt?" I ask, noting how she favors her left side while settling.
"A little." She doesn't try to lie this time, which says something about how the alcohol has lowered her usual defenses. "Not terrible. Just... aware of them."
"I can make tea if—"
"No." Her hand catches my wrist before I can stand. "Just stay. Like you promised."
The touch burns through my skin, her fingers surprisingly warm against my pulse point. I should extract myself, maintain appropriate boundaries, remember that she's drunk and vulnerable and trusting me specifically because I've been professional about our interactions.
Instead I settle onto the floor beside her, my back against the wall, her hand still wrapped loosely around my wrist.
"Better?" I ask.
"Better." She adjusts position slightly, getting comfortable while keeping that connection between us. "Tell me something."
"What do you want to know?"
"Anything. Just... talk. Your voice helps when everything's spinny."
My voice helps. The confession does dangerous things to my already compromised composure, but I push past it and search for something safe to share.
"When I was young, maybe eight seasons, my mother took me on my first healing call." The memory surfaces easily, warm and clear. "A farmer had crushed his hand in equipment. My father said it was weakness to bother helping, that the male should heal on his own or die trying."
Ressa's thumb traces small circles against my wrist, unconscious movement that suggests she's listening even with her eyes half-closed.
"My mother went anyway. Took me with her.
Spent six hours setting bones and stitching cuts while the male screamed.
" I can still remember the sound, the smell of blood and fear, how my stomach had churned at the visceral reality of injury.
"When we finished, my father was waiting.
Said she'd embarrassed him by defying orders. "
"What did she do?"
"Looked him in the eye and told him that honor wasn't in following orders.
It was in choosing what kind of strength to cultivate.
" I smile slightly at the memory, at my mother's absolute conviction in the face of my father's rage.
"Then she handed me her supplies and said I'd be apprenticing under her from that day forward. "
"She sounds brave."
"She was." Present tense feels wrong, but past tense hurts too much. "She taught me that healing takes different courage than fighting. That choosing to mend instead of break isn't weakness."
Ressa's eyes open fully, focusing on me with surprising clarity despite the alcohol. "You're like her. Brave in ways most people don't recognize."
The observation lands heavy in my chest. "I'm just a healer."
"No." Her grip tightens on my wrist. "You're someone who sees broken things and chooses to help instead of walk away. That's not 'just' anything."
I don't have words for what her perspective does to my understanding of myself. So I just sit there while she watches me with those warm eyes that see too clearly, even drunk.
Eventually her breathing evens out into the deeper rhythm of actual sleep. Her hand loosens around my wrist but doesn't fully release, like even unconscious she's maintaining that connection between us.
I should leave. Let her sleep and go back to my own quarters and pretend this evening didn't fundamentally shift something in how I understand what's happening between us.
Instead I sit there watching her sleep, cataloging the way firelight plays across her features, how her expression softens without the constant wariness she carries.
Beautiful. Complicated. Trusting me in ways that terrify and warm me simultaneously.
I'm completely, irrevocably in trouble.
When I finally extract my wrist carefully from her sleep-loosened grip and stand, my legs protest the prolonged position on the floor. I pull the blanket higher around her shoulders, making sure she's warm and secure, then force myself toward the door.
Outside, cold air hits my overheated thoughts like physical shock. I stand there breathing fog into the darkness while trying to organize the chaos of realizations from tonight into something manageable.
I need to talk to someone. Need outside perspective before I do something catastrophically stupid like confess feelings to a woman who's still healing from trauma and trusts me specifically because I've maintained professional boundaries.
Kai. I need to talk to Kai.
I find him still awake in the quarters he shares with Saela, his brows furrowed when he opens the door. He takes one look at my face and gestures toward the two seats in front of his fire.
"That kind of night?" he asks.
"Yes." I sink into the chair and drop my head into my hands. "I'm in trouble."
"Ressa?"
"Yes."
Kai makes a sound that might be sympathy or understanding or both. "Tell me."
So I do. All of it—the festival days watching her slowly open up, tonight's confessions, how it felt carrying her home and staying until she slept. The terrifying realization that somewhere between clinical concern and friendship, I've developed feelings that complicate everything.
Kai listens without interruption, his expression shifting through recognition and understanding. When I finish, he's quiet for several long seconds.
"You're fucked," he finally says.
"I know."
"But not in the way you think." He leans forward, firelight casting shadows across his features. "I went through this with Saela during the Valentine Rites. Spent weeks telling myself it was just circumstance, just proximity, just anything except what it actually was."
"Which was?"
"Falling for someone who terrified me because I couldn't control it." His mouth quirks slightly. "Couldn't protect myself from it or predict where it would lead. She didn't want me and had made that clear. I eventually decided I just had to feel it and hope she'd eventually feel something similar."
The description lands too accurately. "Ressa's not ready for this. She's still healing."
"Yes."
"She trusts me because I've maintained boundaries."
"Yes."
"So I can't—" I gesture helplessly. "I can't act on this. It would be taking advantage."
"Not necessarily." Kai's tone stays level, honest. "If you had only seen her to heal her, then maybe. But this is different, and the circumstances don't mean your feelings aren't real. Doesn't mean they'll just disappear if you ignore them."
I know he's right. The knowledge sits heavy and uncomfortable in my chest.
"What did you do?" I ask. "With Saela."
"Waited. Let her set the pace. Tried not to be an idiot about it." He smiles slightly. "Mostly failed at the last part, but the waiting worked eventually."
"How did you know when it was time to stop waiting?"
"I didn't. She told me." His expression softens with what looks like memory. "She was ready when she was ready. Nothing I did or didn't do changed that timeline."
The advice settles into understanding. Wait. Let Ressa set the pace. Don't push or confess or do anything that might make her feel pressured.
Be patient while simultaneously managing feelings that grow stronger every time she smiles at me.
"I'm still fucked," I mutter.
"Yes," Kai agrees. "But at least you know it."