Chapter Four
Riona
We eat in surprisingly comfortable silence for a few minutes. I can’t help noticing the scale of his lunch: meat, stew from a thermos, and what looks like half a loaf of bread. “Orcs burn through about three times the calories humans do,” he explains, catching my glance.
“I wasn’t judging,” I assure him. “Just curious. Does human food actually work for you?”
“Well enough, with supplements.” He hesitates, then adds, “Though some traditional foods are difficult to reproduce here.”
“Do you cook?” I ask, genuinely curious about his life outside of school.
“Necessity makes one learn,” he says. His formal phrasing makes me smile. “But some recipes require ingredients that do not exist on Earth.”
I’m struck again by how much had to be left behind, not just home and family, but even the comfort of familiar food. “That must be hard.”
He shrugs slightly, a surprisingly human gesture. “Adaptation is survival.”
“Still,” I persist, “there must be things you miss.”
He’s quiet for a moment, and I worry I’ve overstepped. But then he says, so softly I almost miss it, “Many things. The food most of all.”
The simple admission feels significant, a small piece of himself offered without tactical assessment or rules.
Before I can respond, the lounge door bursts open and Principal Winters hurries in.
“Oh good, you’re here,” she says, sounding harried. “Mr. Vraag, we need you at the playground. One of the older children climbed onto the roof of the equipment shed during outdoor recess. He’s refusing to come down, and the roof is slick.”
Vraag stands immediately, all personal conversation forgotten. “Location?”
“East playground,” Principal Winters says. “The fifth-grade teachers are there, but—”
He’s already moving, his long strides carrying him swiftly toward the door. At the threshold, he pauses and glances back at me. “We will finish this later.”
It’s not a question, but a statement of intent that sends an unexpected shiver down my spine. Then he’s gone, off to handle whatever crisis awaits.
I realize I’m still staring at the empty doorway when Principal Winters clears her throat. “He’s quite efficient, isn’t he?”
“Very,” I agree, hoping I don’t sound as flustered as I feel.
“The children seem quite taken with him,” she continues with an assessing look. “Especially your class.”
“He’s been surprisingly good with them,” I acknowledge. “They were intimidated at first, of course, but now they treat him like a celebrity.”
“And you?” Principal Winters asks with the deceptively casual tone she uses when fishing for information. “How’s he working out in your classroom?”
I choose my words carefully. “He’s very professional. He respects the classroom while staying alert.”
“Good, good.” She nods, apparently satisfied. “Some of the parents expressed concerns initially, but the board is committed to our inclusive hiring practices.”
“Well, if any parents have concerns, they’re welcome to visit my classroom and see for themselves how Mr. Vraag interacts with the children,” I say with perhaps more heat than I should.
Principal Winters raises an eyebrow at my tone, then simply nods. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
When she leaves I sit with that for a moment. I said more than I meant to, and I’m not sure I mind.
The end-of-lunch bell breaks my reverie. I gather my things and head back to retrieve my students from the cafeteria. By the time we return to the classroom, Vraag still hasn’t returned from the playground incident.
We’re midway through our afternoon science activity when he finally reappears at the classroom door. His uniform is damp, and there’s a smudge of mud on one sleeve, but otherwise he looks as composed as ever.
“Crisis resolved?” I ask quietly as the children work on their leaf rubbings.
“Affirmative. The child was successfully retrieved with no injuries.”
“Did you have to climb up after him?”
A slight pause. “Elevated retrieval tactics were necessary.”
The mental image of Vraag scaling the equipment shed on slick, rain-wet equipment to rescue a stubborn fifth-grader makes me smile. “Our hero.”
I mean it teasingly, but something flashes in his eyes that makes my breath catch. For a heartbeat, we simply look at each other, and I’m struck by how intriguing his eyes are—not just amber, but with flecks of gold near the pupil.
“Ms. Walker!” A child’s voice breaks the moment. “Jackson’s rubbing too hard, and he ripped his paper!”
I turn away, summoning my teacher focus once more. “Let’s get you a new sheet, Jackson. Remember, gentle pressure works best.”
The rest of the afternoon passes without incident. As the final bell approaches, dark clouds thicken outside our windows. The children, packing up their belongings, cast worried glances at the threatening sky.
“Don’t worry, friends,” I assure them. “We’ll make sure everyone stays dry during dismissal.”
“I don’t have an umbrella,” Theo says anxiously, his voice barely audible.
Before I can respond, Vraag speaks from his position by the door. “Standard protection protocols include adverse weather contingencies. All students will be escorted to transportation with appropriate shelter.”
Theo looks up at him with wide eyes. “You promise?”
“Affirmative,” Vraag replies solemnly. “Protection is sacred.”
The simple phrase seems to reassure Theo, who nods and continues to put things into his backpack.
As the dismissal bell rings, the sky opens up once more. Rain pours down in sheets, drumming against the windows. I coordinate with other teachers to create a covered walkway of umbrellas for the bus riders, while car pickup shifts to the covered area near the front entrance.
In the bustle of organizing rain-safe dismissal, I lose track of Vraag until I notice him standing beside Theo, who waits for his mother’s pickup. Without drawing attention to himself, Vraag has positioned his massive body to block the wind that occasionally gusts rain under the overhang.
I’m shuttling between bus duty and car pickup, getting progressively more soaked despite my umbrella, when Theo’s mother arrives.
As the boy darts toward her car, Vraag unfastens his uniform jacket and lifts it over Theo like a canopy, shielding him from the worst of the downpour during the short dash to the vehicle.
The gesture is so instinctive, so quietly protective, that something tightens in my throat. He doesn’t do it for show—if anything, he looks faintly uncomfortable when Theo’s mother waves a grateful thank-you.
As the last students depart and the teachers scatter to their cars, I linger, watching Vraag scan the parking lot with focused attention.
I approach him, struggling to keep my umbrella steady in the gusting wind. “That was kind of you,” I say. “Helping Theo in the rain.”
He glances down at me, raindrops clinging to his lashes and the ridges of his brow. “Weather mitigation,” he says. “The child’s size made him more vulnerable.”
“Still,” I say, softer now, “you didn’t hesitate.”
“Orc physiology tolerates temperature variation more efficiently than humans,” he states matter-of-factly.
The rain intensifies, and a strong gust nearly turns my umbrella inside out. Vraag’s hand shoots out, steadying it with effortless strength.
“Your protection implement is inadequate for current conditions,” he observes, keeping his hand on the umbrella stem to hold it stable. “Do you have rain gear in your vehicle?”
“I’ll just dash for it,” I admit, eyeing the sheets of water between us and the parking lot.
He considers this for a moment, then makes what appears to be a decision. “Wait here.”
Before I can respond, he strides purposefully into the downpour, raindrops bouncing off his broad shoulders as he disappears around the corner of the building. I wait, confused, until he returns a minute later carrying what I recognize as the tactical bag from his locker.
From it, he withdraws a large black rain poncho that would likely hang to his hips but would completely swallow me.
“Standard issue all-weather gear,” he explains, holding it out. “Waterproof material with thermal retention properties.”
The gesture is so unexpected that I simply stare for a moment. Something about it lands in my chest, unexpected and warm. I choose not to dwell on it. “I can’t take your gear.”
“It is a temporary loan,” he clarifies. “Logical resource allocation given our respective physiological considerations.”
When I still hesitate, something in his expression shifts.
“Please, Ms. Walker. Allow me to ensure your safe passage.” The quiet sincerity in his voice crumbles my resistance, which is the problem, really.
I’ve spent a long time making sure it holds.
I’m not sure when I decided this man was an exception.
“Thank you,” I say, accepting the poncho.
As I slip it over my head, I’m immediately enveloped in warmth and the subtle scent of cedar and something faintly spicy. The poncho is comically large, hanging well past my knees, but gloriously dry.
“Better?” he asks, and I catch a note of quiet satisfaction in his voice.
“Much.” I smile up at him, suddenly aware of how close we’re standing beneath the narrow shelter of the overhang. “But now you’re getting even more soaked.”
Rain beads and runs over the dark fabric of his jacket, collecting at the seams, dripping from the edges. It hits me all at once: he’s more concerned with me than himself, and something in me shifts, whether I want it to or not.
“Your vehicle is closer,” he points out. “This minimizes your exposure.”
“Well, when you put it that way, how can I argue?” I laugh. “Always the practical one.”
“Practicality ensures survival,” he says, but his voice carries something gentler than the statement itself.
Together we step into the rain, his larger frame naturally blocking the worst of the wind as we make our way to my car. He waits as I unlock the door and toss my bags inside.
“I’ll return your poncho tomorrow,” I say, reluctant to take it off just yet.
He nods. “No hurry. Your comfort is the priority.”
The simple statement shouldn’t affect me. It does. “Thank you, Mr. Vraag. For everything.”
“I am merely fulfilling my assigned duties,” he replies, though something in his eyes suggests otherwise.
“Still,” I say softly. “Thank you.”
For a heartbeat, neither of us moves. Rain traces the ridges of his brow and clings briefly to his tusks before falling away.
His gaze holds mine a fraction too long.
He’s beautiful. In a way that makes my pulse race and my breath catch.
I pull back first. “Drive safely.”
As I pull out of the parking lot, I glance in the rearview mirror. He remains where he is, rain-darkened and still, watching until I turn onto the main road.
The scent of cedar and spice follows me all the way home, and if I press my face into the fabric of his poncho once I’m safely inside, that’s nobody’s business but mine.
What I don’t pursue is the question of why it feels so easy to let him take care of me, and why easy is the part that worries me most.