7. Chapter Seven
Chapter Seven
Julia
Three firm raps at eight o’clock. Perfectly Rhazgar. “Come in!” I call, setting aside the cultural anthropology text I’ve been pretending to read while actually watching the clock.
The door opens, and Rhazgar enters carrying a covered ceramic container, the familiar steam rising from beneath the lid already filling my condo with complex, earthy aromas. But something’s different this morning. There’s a new tension in his movements that speaks of decisions made.
“Good morning,” he says, his deep voice carrying that formal courtesy I’ve come to recognize as him gathering his thoughts. “I’ve brought the second-stage healing broth.”
“You look thoughtful this morning,” I observe, watching as he sets the container on my coffee table with his usual care. “Something on your mind?”
He settles onto my sturdiest chair, the one that has become his, his large frame somehow managing to look both powerful and oddly vulnerable. “I’ve been considering your invitation. To the exhibition.”
My heart does a little skip. “And?”
“I would be honored to participate,” he says, meeting my eyes with that intense gaze. “There are traditions that can be shared, should be shared, if they are to survive for future generations.”
The care in his words tells me this decision wasn’t made lightly. “You’re sure? I meant what I said, I would never want you to share anything that makes you uncomfortable or violates your traditions.”
“I know.” His voice drops. “That’s exactly why I’ve decided to trust you with this. You understand the difference between preservation and appropriation, between honoring and exploiting.”
Heat rises to my cheeks at the compliment. “I try. It’s what my work is supposed to be about: creating space for communities to represent themselves.”
“You do more than try,” he says quietly. “This past week, watching you document what I’ve shared, seeing how you note not just the techniques but the intentions behind them…” He pauses, seeming to search for words. “My grandmother would have approved of your approach.”
I wasn’t expecting that. The back of my eyes sting, which is absurd, and I blink it away. “That means more to me than you probably realize,” I admit. “From everything you’ve told me about her, she sounds remarkable.”
“She was.” He’s quiet for a moment, his gaze distant. “She spent her final years terrified that everything she’d preserved would die with me. That I’d be the last keeper of traditions no one else valued enough to learn.”
Understanding blooms. “And now you’re seeing a way for them to continue.”
“Perhaps.” He looks at me again, something like hope in his eyes. “I’ve already decided what stays protected and what doesn’t. That part is settled.”
“I promise you, this exhibition will be done right,” I say earnestly. “You’ll have complete control over what you share and how it’s presented. No one will speak for you or interpret your culture through their lens.”
“Good,” he says, even more firmly this time. “That’s why I’m agreeing.” We share a moment of understanding, the air between us charged.
Then he says, “I have questions.”
He produces a small notebook from his jacket pocket. He has, apparently, been preparing for this conversation.
For the next hour, we go through his list, and it isn’t small.
Timing for the rushka, which needs to begin four hours before the exhibition opens.
“The broth requires twelve hours for full preparation,” he says, without looking up from the notebook, “but I can do the first stages at home and complete the final reduction on site if the timing allows.” Ventilation, for the open flame. Whether he can bring his own equipment.
“I’ll make sure it’s allowed,” I say, writing down what I don’t know and answering what I do.
He taps his pen against the page. “And the spice demonstration. I want people to understand that spice in WarmHearth tradition is not about heat for its own sake. It’s about…
layering. Intention. Each addition changes what came before it.
” He looks up. “Can you give me twenty minutes for that portion without the committee feeling rushed?”
“I’ll put it in the program. Blocked and labeled.” He nods, makes a note, and closes the notebook.
When we finally finish, I have three pages of logistics and he has what appears to be the outline of a small curriculum. He surveys it with the expression he gets when a broth has come together correctly: not satisfied, but sure of it.
“This can be done well,” he says.
Coming from Rhazgar, that’s a standing ovation.
Then he clears his throat, the formal mask settling back into place. He lifts the lid, and steam still curls up, thinner than before. “It’s cooled some. I should have poured it an hour ago.” A pause. “I got distracted.”
I accept the bowl he pours for me, inhaling the complex blend of herbs and minerals. After a week of these preparations, I’ve developed a palate for the subtle differences between them, the way each one targets specific aspects of healing.
“This one’s different,” I observe after the first sip. “Sharper somehow. More… assertive.”
“Silver thistle and bone marrow,” he confirms. “For the second stage of healing, when the injured tissue requires deeper restoration.”
As I drink the broth, savoring both its effects and the comfortable silence we’ve developed, Rhazgar studies me with that intense focus I’ve grown accustomed to.
When I finish, he takes the empty bowl without being asked, rinses it in my kitchen with the quiet efficiency that has become familiar over the past eight days, and returns to his chair.
He doesn’t sit. Instead, he stands for a moment, considering me with the unmistakable stillness that means he’s arrived at a decision.
“Your mobility has improved,” he observes. “This changes our approach.”
“Yes,” I agree, lifting my bandaged wrist. “I can finally hobble around on my own, though the doctor says no weight-bearing on this ankle for another week.”
“Then today, you will come to my home,” he announces, as if it’s the most natural progression in the world. “My kitchen is better equipped for the next phase of healing preparations.”
I blink in surprise. “Your condo? Are you sure?”
“This recipe requires specific equipment I cannot transport here,” he explains. “Additionally, proper cooking atmosphere enhances medicinal effectiveness.”
“Your condo.” Something shifts in my chest at the words, not reluctance, just awareness of what crossing that threshold means. “Yes. Alright.”
I push myself up from the couch, reach for the crutch leaning against the end table, and make it exactly three steps before my foot catches the curled-up edge of the rug and my ankle rolls.
I don’t fall, but I lurch, and before I’ve fully registered the stumble, he’s there.
No hesitation, no asking. His arms simply close around me and I’m off the floor.
We’re both very still for a moment.
“You can put me down,” I say, and don’t move.
“I know.” He doesn’t.
He adjusts his hold without ceremony, one arm behind my shoulders, the other finding the backs of my knees, his movements so careful I barely feel any pressure against my bruised ribs.
“Ready?” he asks, his face closer to mine than it’s ever been.
I nod, not trusting my voice. The sensation is disorienting: being completely weightless in his arms, held against a chest so solid it feels like stone.
Heat radiates through his clothes, warming me instantly.
I instinctively wrap my uninjured arm around his neck for stability, drawing us into even more intimate contact.
The position brings my face level with his, our breath mingling in the small space between us.
I’m acutely aware of every point of contact: his palm warm against my back, his arm solid beneath my legs, the texture of his shirt where my fingers rest against his shoulder.
This close, I can see the intricate patterns in his irises, green flecks swimming in rich amber, pupils expanding slightly as they focus on me.
“Comfortable?” he asks, his deep voice vibrating through his chest and into mine.
“Perfect,” I manage, though comfort is hardly the word for this. I’ve never felt simultaneously so vulnerable and so completely safe. I’m not sure those two things are supposed to coexist.
He navigates my condo with surprising grace for someone so large, ducking beneath the doorframe, turning sideways so my feet don’t hit the wall.
The journey down the hall takes seconds, though it feels longer as I try to memorize everything about the moment: The steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath my ear, the way his arms don’t tremble at all despite my weight, the clean scent of rosemary and woodsmoke that clings to his skin.
Beneath all of that, low and continuous, a sound I recognize from my reading and am not going to think about right now.
When we reach his door, Rhazgar shifts me slightly to access his keys, and I take the opportunity to do something I’ve been wanting to do since he first lifted me.
I let one fingertip trace the edge of his collar, feeling the texture of his skin where it meets fabric.
He goes absolutely still for a heartbeat, his breath catching, before he continues with the key.
Neither of us acknowledges what just happened, but the air between us feels charged, electric.
His door swings open.
“Welcome to my home,” Rhazgar says, his deep voice carrying a hint of uncertainty I’ve never heard before. “Khal-mek or dra.” Him repeating himself in what must be orcish makes something flutter deep in my stomach.
“It’s beautiful,” I tell him honestly, taking in the harmonious blend of his cultural elements with Earth-adapted surroundings.
He carries me through the doorway, and I get my first look at his condo from the best possible vantage point, his arms.