Something shifts in her expression, approval or understanding or both. She drinks again and I notice her vessel is nearly half-empty already.
"You should slow down," I suggest carefully. "The honey makes it easier to drink than it should be."
"I'm fine." But her words carry the slightly rounded edges that suggest the alcohol is definitely working through her system. Still, she lifts her cup and cocks her head like it proves something. "See? Completely fine."
She is not fine. She's getting drunk with the kind of speed that suggests human tolerance for orcish brew is even lower than I calculated.
"Ressa—"
"Do you know what I realized yesterday?" She doesn't wait for response, just continues with the kind of rambling focus that comes from lowered inhibitions. "During the games. I realized Iwasn't afraid of you touching me. Actually, I liked it. Your hands are warm. Did you know that? Very warm. Very... capable."
My brain stalls somewhere between professional concern and the extremely unprofessional reaction to hearing that she likes my touch. "Perhaps you should drink some water."
"I don't want water. I want to tell you things." She gestures with her vessel, liquid sloshing dangerously close to the rim. "That's what this night is for, right? Honesty? Truth-telling with your partner?"
"Yes, but?—"
"I hate feeling broken." The words tumble out unfiltered, raw in ways her usual careful control never allows. "I hate that I panic over stupid things. Hate that my body hurts all the time. Hate that I can't just be normal around orcs even though I know logically that not all of you are like the Stonevein."
Her voice cracks slightly on the clan name and I shift closer instinctively, ready to offer comfort if she needs it. But she keeps talking, words spilling faster like a dam breaking.
"But you... you're different. You don't treat me like I'm glass. You call me out when I lie about pain but you don't push when I can't handle answers. You make me tea and check on me even when I tell you not to and you've seen me at my absolute worst but you never make me feel—" She pauses, searching for words through alcohol-clouded thoughts. "—less. You never make me feel less than whole even when I know I'm shattered."
The confession lands between us with weight I don't know how to carry. My chest does that complicated thing again, tighter now, warmer, something protective and possessive and entirely inappropriate twisting together with clinical concern.
"You're not shattered," I tell her quietly. "You're healing. There's a difference."
"Semantics." But she's smiling—actually smiling, soft and genuine in the firelight. "Healer semantics."
"Accurate semantics."
She laughs. The sound transforms her face completely, erasing the sharp wariness and constant tension into something that makes my pulse forget how to function properly. In the warm glow of the setting sun filtering through the longhouse, with her walls down and her rare smile breaking through, she's...
Beautiful. Devastatingly, complicatedly beautiful in ways that have nothing to do with physical features and everything to do with the person she's fought to remain despite everything trying to break her.
A friend, I tell myself desperately. She's becoming a friend. A very beautiful friend who I enjoy spending time with and want to protect and notice in completely normal friend ways.
The lie tastes more hollow than ever.
"I feel safe with you." She says it simply, like the confession doesn't reorganize my entire understanding of what's happening between us. "I don't feel safe with anyone anymore. But I do with you."
Something in my chest cracks open. Not breaking—transforming. Shifting from clinical concern into territory I absolutely should not be entering with a patient, with a human woman still healing from trauma, with someone who trusts me specifically because I've maintained appropriate boundaries.
But the sunset paints gold across her features and her smile lingers soft and genuine and she feels safe with me in ways that matter more than they should.
Friends, I tell myself one more time.
The lie dissolves completely, and I'm left staring at the truth I've been avoiding for days.
She's so much more than a friend.
11
FALLA
Itell myself that offering to carry her would be practical. Medical necessity. She already stumbled twice trying to stand after Drogath finally released everyone from the gathering, and her coordination is clearly compromised enough that walking unassisted would be dangerous. Besides, her legs still hurt her.
Clinical reasoning. Healer logic. Nothing to do with how my pulse kicked when she leaned into me instead of pulling away.
