2. Chapter Two
Chapter Two
Julia
The problem with living alone is that no one stops you from turning your entire condo into a library. I squeeze another reference book onto an already overstuffed shelf, forcing Cultural Traditions of Pre-Emergence Societies into the narrow space beside Integrating Cuisines: A Cross-Species Study.
My living room resembles the aftermath of a bibliophile’s fever dream.
Custom shelving units line almost every available wall, each sagging under the weight of my obsession.
My coffee table hosts stacks of library journals, and my dining table doubles as a research station.
Even my kitchen counters haven’t escaped the invasion, featuring cookbooks from every culture I can get my hands on.
“It’s not hoarding if they’re organized,” I mutter to myself, the familiar justification I’ve been using since library school.
The books are my armor, my comfort, my constant companions.
Unlike people, books are predictable. They don’t find me awkward or judge my occasional social missteps.
They wait patiently for me to discover their secrets, never rushing, never demanding.
They don’t leave, either, which, after losing my father, matters more than I usually let myself admit.
My father’s copy of Myth and Meaning is still on the shelf exactly where I put it after his funeral, a bookmark still marks the page it’s held for twenty years. I haven’t been able to move it. I’m not sure I want to.
A rich, unfamiliar aroma drifts in through the shared vent above my kitchen sink, and I pause, closing my eyes to better appreciate it. Something with deep, earthy notes and a hint of spice. Something unmistakably… Rhazgar.
My enormous green neighbor has been cooking again.
His kitchen seems perpetually active, producing scents that make my frozen dinners seem even more pathetic by comparison.
Sometimes I linger in the hallway after work, pretending to check my mail while actually hoping to catch a whiff of whatever culinary magic he’s creating in the condo next to mine.
I glance at my reflection in the decorative mirror across the room and grimace. My wavy brown hair escapes its messy bun in rebellious tendrils, and my glasses are sliding down my nose again. Hardly the picture of professional competence I try to project at the library.
“Hi there, I’m Julia, we share a wall,” I practice, pushing my glasses up and attempting a casual smile. “I couldn’t help noticing you cook a lot, and I’m organizing this multicultural food exhibition, so I was wondering…”
I drop the smile, frowning at my reflection. Too eager. Too transparent.
“Excuse me, Mr.—” I stop, realizing I’ve never heard anyone use his surname. Another gap in my cultural knowledge that makes me feel woefully unprepared for this conversation.
“Good evening, Rhazgar. I’m Julia Whitaker, your neighbor? I’m a librarian specializing in cultural preservation and…” No, too formal, too rehearsed.
A groan slips out as I flop onto my overstuffed reading chair.
Six months of living next door to him, and I still haven’t managed more than a quick nod in the hallway or a murmured greeting in the elevator.
It’s not that I’m afraid of orcs; I work with several at the library, including our wonderful custodian, Hammon, who brings donuts every Friday.
But Rhazgar is different. He’s so… intense.
Seven feet of silent, watchful presence.
Those deep amber eyes that seem to miss nothing.
The economy in every movement, as if constantly calculating the necessary force needed in a world built for smaller beings.
When he looks at me, I feel entirely seen.
It’s thrilling, and it’s uncomfortable, and I don’t know what to do with either.
I’ve observed him at condo association meetings, how he sits perfectly still while others fidget, how he considers each point before offering his thoughts in that deep, rumbling voice that seems to vibrate through my chest, and lower.
His contributions are always thoughtful, measured, and surprisingly insightful about human concerns.
Last month, when Mrs. Craft’s grandson was being bullied by other children in the community garden for befriending a young orc, I watched Rhazgar approach the situation.
I expected intimidation. His size alone would terrify most adults, let alone children.
Instead, he knelt down to their level and spoke so quietly I couldn’t hear his words, but the effect was immediate.
Those children have been inseparable ever since, and Mrs. Craft now bakes cookies specially for Rhazgar every Sunday.
That’s when my fascination truly began, seeing the gentleness beneath the intimidating exterior.
My phone rings, jolting me from my thoughts. It’s Eliza, my assistant at the library.
“I hate to bother you on your day off, but any news since we talked last week about the orc cultural center?” Eliza asks. “The director mentioned the exhibition three times this morning alone. I think he’s stressing.”
“They finally got back to me,” I admit, wincing. “Short-staffed, and apparently most of what they do is private: clan ceremonies, not public events. They offered to send materials, but nobody who’d actually stand up and present. So I’m back to square one.”
“What about your neighbor? The one you keep mentioning?”
Heat floods my cheeks. “I don’t keep mentioning him.”
“Five times in the last staff meeting alone,” Eliza counters dryly. “The scary-looking chef with the food that smells amazing?”
“He’s not scary-looking,” I protest automatically. “Just… intense.”
“Whatever you say, boss. But seriously, why not just ask him? Worst he can do is say no.”
“It’s complicated,” I sigh, unable to articulate how the thought of approaching Rhazgar directly makes my pulse race in a manner completely unrelated to fear. “I don’t want to make things awkward in our building.”
“More awkward than you hiding in the stairwell when you hear him coming?” Eliza asks with alarming accuracy.
“That was one time, and there was a legitimate maintenance issue I was checking on,” I lie badly.
“Mmhmm. Well, the exhibition’s three weeks away, and we promised authentic cultural representation. So unless you want to explain to Director Harrison why we’ve got human interpretations of orc cuisine…”
“I’ll figure something out,” I promise before ending the call.
I glance at the stack of cultural cuisine books I’ve been collecting, knowing they’re poor substitutes for actual lived experience.
My professional reputation is built on authentic cultural preservation, on creating space for communities to represent themselves rather than having others speak for them.
And yet here I am, going directly against my own principles.
The spicy aroma intensifies, and I find myself drawn to the shared wall again.
I press my hand against it, a now-familiar ritual, as if I could somehow absorb Rhazgar’s cultural knowledge through the drywall.
The warmth I feel is probably just from his oven, but I let myself imagine it’s something more, a connection forming despite the barrier between us.
“This is ridiculous,” I mutter, pushing away from the wall. “You’re a professional. Act like one.”
Talking to someone I actually want to impress apparently requires practice I never got, growing up with a father who understood me without explanation and a mother who never left room for a response.
Determined to distract myself, I eye the highest shelf of my newest bookcase, an eight-foot monstrosity I assembled last weekend.
The top shelf holds my most precious volumes: rare first editions and hard-to-find texts on endangered cultural practices.
I desperately need a particular cookbook that documents traditional healing foods from various cultures, including what little is publicly known about orc culinary medicine.
My stepladder wobbles ominously as I climb and stretch to reach the spine of Healing Through Heritage: Traditional Restorative Cuisines. My fingers brush against it, pushing it just beyond my grasp.
“Come on,” I mutter, rising onto my tiptoes on the top step, which is clearly labeled ‘NOT A STEP’ in red lettering.
I grasp the book triumphantly, but triumph turns out to be premature.
The ladder shifts beneath me and suddenly I’m clawing at empty air.
I slam into the bookcase, my weight sending it toppling over.
Some of the shelves are packed so tightly the books stay jammed in place during the fall.
For one suspended moment, I have the absurd thought that at least I’ll be killed by what I love most.
Then gravity claims us both. The massive shelf unit crashes down with me beneath it, its frame catching across my hip and legs rather than my chest, hundreds of pounds of knowledge and wood pinning me to the floor.
White-hot pain explodes through my ankle, ribs, and wrist. Something strikes my temple, and stars explode across my vision.
I hear myself cry out, the sound shockingly loud in my usually quiet space. Books rain down around me, pages fluttering like wounded birds. A particularly heavy encyclopedia lands on my stomach, forcing the air from my lungs as a grunt escapes me.
Through the ringing in my ears, I hear rapid, heavy footsteps in the hallway. A pounding on my door. A deep voice calling my name with unprecedented urgency. A wave of dizziness washes over me as I try to focus my thoughts, the room spinning alarmingly around me.
“Julia? Julia Whitaker?”
It’s Rhazgar. My addled brain finds this hilarious. I’ve been trying to figure out how to approach him for six months, and all it took was nearly getting crushed by literature.
“I’m under here,” I call, but it’s barely a whisper. Black spots dance at the edges of my vision.
The last thing I register before consciousness fades is the sound of my door bursting open and Rhazgar’s voice, closer now, filled with a concern that warms me even as darkness claims my sight.
Well, I think distantly, this certainly breaks the ice.