"Sorry. I'm invading your morning routine."
"Routine benefits from occasional disruption."
"Does it?" She tilts her head, considering. "I'd have pegged you for someone who thrives on consistency."
"Consistency provides security. But security without adaptation leads to stagnation."
"Philosopher and linguist. Renaissance orc."
The term should feel patronizing, but her tone carries genuine warmth. No hint of the careful distance most humans maintain, the subtle but persistent reminder that I remainotherregardless of academic credentials or cultural assimilation.
"My family would dispute the philosopher designation."
"Your family sounds like they're missing some pretty obvious evidence."
I hand her the last visible sock, red cotton, well-worn at the heel. Our fingers brush again during the transfer, and this time neither of us pulls away immediately.
"Thank you," she says. "For helping. And for not laughing at my complete lack of grace."
"Grace is overrated. Authenticity is far more valuable."
"Is that another family disagreement?"
"Among many."
She shifts the basket to her hip, movements more careful now that she's aware of the precarious nature of gravity and cotton blends.
"I should probably get these downstairs before they stage another escape attempt."
"A sensible strategy."
But neither of us moves toward our respective destinations. The stairwell feels smaller somehow, morning light castingeverything in golden warmth that transforms institutional concrete into something almost cozy.
"About yesterday evening," she begins, then pauses. "I mean, last night. The conversation. I hope I didn't overstep with the personal questions."
"You did not overstep."
"Good. Because I enjoyed talking with you. Really talking, not just neighbor pleasantries."
"As did I."
"So maybe we could... I don't know. Continue the conversation sometime. When we're both more coherent and less likely to spill things everywhere."
Something in her tone suggests the offer extends beyond mere neighborly courtesy. A possibility I hadn't considered, hadn't dared consider.
"I would welcome continued conversation."
"Great. Good. Excellent."
She smiles, bright and genuine, and I find myself responding with something that feels dangerously close to hope.
"I should mention," I say, retrieving my laundry bag, "that in orcish culture, when someone provides unexpected assistance, especially involving personal possessions, tradition requires a formal acknowledgment."
"Oh. Should I... what's the appropriate response?"
"Generally, the assisted party offers a gesture of gratitude, and the assisting party responds with a courtesy bow to indicate the debt is forgiven."
"Like a handshake?"
