7. Chapter Seven #2
It’s the mirror image of mine in structure and nothing else.
Where my space disappears behind shelving and stacked books, his opens upward; the ceilings I’ve never thought about suddenly soaring.
Colorful woven fabrics in rich jewel tones hang on the walls, clan symbols and cultural markers I recognize from my research but have never seen displayed like this, as living things rather than archived ones.
The furniture is clearly custom-built, solid and unhurried.
The whole space smells extraordinary: layered spice and earth and something I have no name for that I am already associating entirely with him.
He carries me to his kitchen and settles me onto a heavy wooden stool beside the counter, adjusting me until I’m steady. Even seated this high, my head barely reaches the middle of his chest.
“You can observe from here,” he says. “Tell me if you need to move.”
As he works, I’m mesmerized by the transformation. In my condo, he always seemed conscious of every inch of his size. Here he moves with fluid confidence, his hands, so massive yet so controlled, measuring and mixing with practiced ease.
“It’s like you’re conducting,” I say. “Only instead of an orchestra, you’ve got herbs.”
He glances up. “The principles are similar.”
“Really?”
“Timing. Balance. Knowing when something has reached its full expression.” He stirs the pot. “Each element enters when it is ready.”
“So it’s a composition.”
His gaze meets mine. “Yes.”
The reality of our physical proximity suddenly hits me.
He stands close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body, smell the intimate scent that seems to emanate from his skin.
From this distance, I can see details I’ve never been close enough to notice: a small scar near his temple, the way his breathing changes slightly when he looks at me, how his pupils dilate when our eyes meet.
“This one stimulates circulation,” he says, indicating a golden powder. Without warning, he takes my uninjured hand, turning it palm up with more care than the motion needed.
I freeze at the unexpected contact, my pulse quickening. His fingers dwarf mine, making my hand look impossibly delicate against his green skin.
With his index finger, he places a tiny portion of the golden powder in my palm, then applies gentle pressure with his thumb. The sensation hits at once: warmth spreading up my arm, a tingling that feels pleasurable rather than painful.
“Oh,” I breathe.
“Too intense?” he asks, immediately loosening his touch.
“No. It’s pleasant,” I assure him. “Just… unexpected.”
His gaze meets mine, and something shifts in their amber depths. I’m suddenly aware of how little space separates us.
“The direct application method is traditional,” he explains, his voice rumbling lower than usual.
“I like it,” I say, perhaps too quickly based on the subtle shift in his expression.
A moment of silence stretches between us, his thumb still resting lightly against my palm. I become acutely aware of every point of contact: the warmth of his skin, the strength he is visibly holding back.
“This one supports ligament, tendon, and muscle healing,” he continues, finally releasing my hand to indicate a deep red powder. “Fire stone. Used sparingly. Safe for humans in the prescribed amount, though the sensation surprises most people the first—”
Driven by research habit and perhaps a desire to impress him, I touch my finger to the powder and bring it to my tongue to taste before he finishes the sentence. The effect is instantaneous: heat explodes across my palate, followed by an alarming numbness that spreads rapidly.
“Mmph!” I manage, eyes widening in panic.
Rhazgar moves with startling speed, reaching for a small vial on the closest shelf. “Direct tasting is not recommended. Open, please.”
I comply immediately. His large hand cups my face with unexpected gentleness, thumb brushing my lower lip as he applies several drops of clear liquid to my tongue. The intimate gesture sends a shiver through me.
Almost instantly, the numbness recedes, replaced by a cool sensation like mint.
“Better?” he asks, watching my face intently, his hand lingering against my cheek a moment longer than strictly necessary.
I nod, still unable to form words as sensation gradually returns.
“Fire stone is intended for external application,” he explains. “One grain seasons an entire pot.”
“Good to know,” I finally manage. “That would’ve been helpful information thirty seconds ago.”
“Human researchers don’t usually consume unknown substances before asking questions,” he observes mildly.
“Curiosity before caution,” I admit.
He smiles just enough to show a bit more of his tusks. “A quality that would not have served you well in my world. Many beautiful plants there killed within moments of tasting.”
“Noted for future reference. No licking strange orc spices.”
He exhales once through his nose, the closest thing to a laugh I’ve heard from him. “A wise adaptation.”
An hour into watching him work, my ankle starts to throb. He notices before I say anything. He sets down what he’s doing, crosses to me, and lifts me from the stool without ceremony, carrying me to the large couch and tucking me among the cushions.
He brings a small cushion for my ankle without being asked, then he reaches down and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, a brief deliberate touch, and returns to the kitchen.
From the couch I can still see him working, just at a greater distance.
I find I don’t mind. There’s something restful about watching someone who knows exactly what they’re doing: the quiet economy of it, the way he moves through his own space.
I drift in and out, not quite sleeping, the condo warm and full of complicated smells, Debussy still playing faintly from somewhere.
When I open my eyes, the light has shifted. He’s still at the stove.
When he finally serves the completed dish, he carries me back to the dining room table. I should probably hobble to the dining area myself even though my crutch in still sitting in my condo, but I don’t say a word in protest. Him carrying me feels like the most natural thing in the world.
A moment later, he brings two bowls to the table and sits beside me. I inhale the complex aroma before tasting. Flavors unfold across my palate in waves: earthy base notes giving way to brighter herbal elements, followed by a subtle heat that seems to target where my injuries ache most.
“This is incredible,” I tell him. “I can almost feel it working.”
“That is its purpose,” he says simply as satisfaction shows in his expression.
“Of all the preparations you’ve brought, I think these last two have been my favorites,” I tell him between appreciative sips. “Especially this morning’s, it made me feel better almost immediately.”
Something changes in Rhazgar’s expression: a subtle shift I might have missed if I hadn’t been watching him so closely. His posture straightens almost imperceptibly, and a new intensity enters his gaze.
“You prefer those preparations specifically?” he asks, his tone neutral.
“Yes. They seem to work faster than the others. Is there something special about them?”
He’s silent for a moment, choosing his words with care. “They are… specialized formulations. Traditional preparations for specific healing stages.”
“Could you make them again? Or teach me how? I’d love to document the recipes for my research.”
His expression turns unreadable. “Those preparations are traditionally shared only under certain circumstances.”
“Oh,” I say, immediately backpedaling. “I completely understand if they’re sacred or private knowledge. I didn’t mean to overstep.”
“It is not that they are forbidden,” he clarifies slowly. “Rather, they have specific… cultural significance beyond healing.”
My researcher’s mind immediately catalogues this. “Cultural significance like… ceremonial use? Social context?”
“Something like that,” he says, and there it is again, that particular discomfort I saw flicker across his face when Grulk said too much.
Except this time there’s no Grulk to blame it on.
“In WarmHearth tradition, certain preparations indicate… specific relationships between preparer and recipient.”
This intrigues me even more. “Like family relationships? Teacher-student?”
“Similar concepts,” he acknowledges, though something tells me he’s not being entirely forthcoming. “I will prepare them again during your recovery. The documentation can be discussed… later.”
His sudden reticence piques my curiosity, but years of cultural research have taught me when to press and when to respect boundaries.
“I’d appreciate that,” I say, deciding to let the matter rest. “They really do seem to be helping.”
Relief subtly relaxes his features. “Good. That is their purpose.”
When it’s time to return to my condo, Rhazgar once again lifts me in his arms. This time, I allow myself to relax into his embrace, my head resting against his shoulder, my body conforming to his as if designed to fit there.
The vibration is there again, steadier than his heartbeat, warmer somehow.
It’s easier to notice now that I’m not bracing.
It seems steadier than before. More settled.
I have the uncomfortable thought that it might be responding to me specifically, and then I have the more uncomfortable thought that I want that to be true.
As he lowers me onto my couch, arranging pillows with careful attention, I find myself watching the door long after it closes behind him, already counting the hours until the next knock.