Page 9 of The Orc's Protection
He studies me for a moment, and I resist the urge to fidget under his intense gaze.
“Noted,” he finally says, and though his expression remains neutral, there’s a warmth in his voice that wasn’t there before.
The children come back from their water break in a rush, and the rest of indoor recess dissolves into noise and movement. By lunch the rain has slowed to a drizzle.
My attention snags on Vraag as he helps Theo find his place in line.
“Lunch formation requires proper position maintenance,” I hear him say, tone grave. “Your assigned location is three spots from the front.”
Theo, who normally struggles with line formation, nods solemnly and takes his place without protest.
The sight catches me off guard. I look away before I can linger on it, or on what it stirs. Professional boundaries exist for a reason, especially with someone I work with every day. And there’sanother reason, quieter and less convenient, that I’m not going to examine in the middle of a school day.
After delivering my class to the cafeteria, I head to the teachers' lounge.
“So, Riona,” Janet from first grade slides into the chair beside me, her expression alight with curiosity, “what’s it like having the orc stationed in your classroom all day?”
Several heads turn our way, clearly interested in our exchange, though pretending otherwise.
“He’s very professional,” I say carefully. “The children have adapted to his presence remarkably well.”
“I bet they have,” Janet says with a knowing smile. “But what about you? I mean, he’s quite… substantial.”
Heat creeps into my cheeks as I register her suggestive tone. “I don’t know what you’re implying, but Mr. Vraag is our security specialist. He’s doing his job, and I’m doing mine.”
“Of course, of course,” she backpedals, though her smile remains. “Just making conversation. It’s not every day we get such an… impressive addition to our staff.”
I’m saved from responding by the lounge door opening. Conversation halts as Vraag himself enters. The teachers’ lounge, crowded with eight humans, suddenly feels half its size.
He notices the stares but gives no indication of discomfort. With methodical movements, he retrieves his lunch bag from a shelf too high for any of us to reach without a ladder.
“Mr. Vraag,” I call, ignoring Janet’s knowing smirk, “would you like to join us?” I gesture to the empty chair at our table.
He hesitates, clearly assessing the social dynamics at play. “I typically consume provisions while maintaining perimeter surveillance.”
“It’s not the perimeter,” I admit, “but it’s still part of the ecosystem.”
After a moment’s consideration, he nods. “Logical suggestion.”
As he approaches our table, Janet and two other teachers suddenly remember urgent tasks elsewhere. Their hasty departures aren’t exactly subtle, and anger flares through me on Vraag’s behalf.
“Don’t take it personally,” I say quietly as he settles into the chair across from me, which creaks ominously under his weight. “They’re just…”
“Uncomfortable with orc proximity,” he finishes matter-of-factly. “A common response. Some humans adjust faster than others.”
The resignation in his voice bothers me more than I expected. “Well, they’re missing out. You’re much more interesting to talkto than Janet, who only wants to gossip about the new PE teacher.”
Something shifts in his expression—not quite a smile, but the thing just before one. “An admittedly low standard of comparison.”
I find myself watching that almost-smile with more attention than it probably deserves, cataloging the way it softens his features, how it makes the sharp edges of his tusks look less intimidating and somehow… appealing.
I laugh, surprised by the hint of humor. “Was that a joke, Mr. Vraag? I didn’t know that was allowed by Integration Protocol.”
“Protocol 37 permits appropriate workplace humor when relationship parameters are established,” he says seriously, though that almost-smile remains.
“Relationship parameters?” I echo, suddenly aware of how alone we are in the usually crowded lounge.
“Professional familiarity,” he clarifies.
