"I can walk," she protests, though the slur in her words undermines the claim significantly. "I'm perfectly capable of—" She trips over absolutely nothing and I catch her elbow before she can fall.
"Yes. Very capable." I keep my tone dry, professional. Amusement trickles through my chest, though I hide it. "Which is why you've stumbled three times in as many steps."
"The ground is uneven."
"The ground is completely flat."
She squints down like the packed earth might have betrayed her, then looks back up at me with an expression caught between stubbornness and grudging awareness of her own impairment.In the firelight, her eyes look almost amber, pupils slightly dilated from alcohol.
Beautiful. Still devastatingly beautiful even drunk and argumentative and clearly about to protest again.
I'm in so much trouble.
"Let me carry you," I tell her before she can mount another defense. "It's faster and you won't fall on your face."
"I'm not going to—" She sways slightly and I move closer, ready to catch her if necessary. "That's... you don't have to carry me. I'm heavy."
"You're not heavy." The assessment comes automatic, clinical observation based on months of monitoring her recovery. She's gained weight since Kai first brought her to Frostfang territory, muscle and healthy mass replacing the dangerous malnutrition from captivity, but she's still smaller than most orc females. "I carry injured warriors regularly. You'll be fine."
"But—"
"Ressa." I wait until her unfocused gaze finds mine. "Do you trust me?"
The question settles between us with weight beyond the immediate situation. Her expression shifts through several emotions too quick to catalog before landing on something that might be surrender or acceptance or both.
"Yes," she says quietly. "I trust you."
The words do dangerous things to my chest. Professional detachment slips another degree toward territory I absolutely should not enter, and I find I don't care as much as I should.
"Then let me carry you home."
She studies me for several more seconds, then nods once. I shift position carefully, testing her reaction to the proximity before committing to movement. When she doesn't flinch or tense, I slide one arm behind her knees and the other aroundher back, lifting her in a smooth motion that barely disturbs her balance.
She makes a small sound of surprise and her hands come up instinctively—one gripping my shoulder, the other finding the front of my shirt. The touch burns through fabric in ways I'm definitely noticing while maintaining complete professional focus.
"Okay?" I ask quietly.
"Okay." But she's staring at me with wide eyes, like she's just as surprised by her own acceptance as I am. Her fingers tighten slightly in my shirt. "You're very strong."
"I'm an orc." Though the observation still sends warmth through my chest that has nothing to do with carrying weight. "It's standard."
"Not standard." Her head tilts, studying my face from this new angle. "You're gentle about it. Most orcs I've met use strength like a weapon. You use it like... like a tool. Something precise."
The comparison catches me completely off-guard. No one's ever described my strength that way before—most see healer work as contradictory to physical capability, like gentleness and power can't coexist in the same frame.
But she sees them together. Sees me clearly enough to name something I've never articulated about myself.
"Thank you," I manage, though the words feel inadequate for what her observation just did to my understanding of how she perceives me.
"You're welcome." She settles against my chest more comfortably, her weight warm and trusting in my arms. "This is nice. Being carried is nice. Everything's... spinny when I walk but this is steady."
"That's the alcohol affecting your inner ear balance." Clinical explanation, healer facts. Definitely not focusing on how shefeels pressed against me or how her breath ghosts across my collarbone. "It'll pass once you sleep."
"Will you stay until I fall asleep?" The question comes without filter, unguarded in ways she never allows when sober. "I don't like being alone when everything's spinny."
Something in my chest twists painfully. The idea of her alone and disoriented, fighting anxiety without support, makes protective instinct flare sharp and immediate.
"Yes," I tell her. "I'll stay."
