"After you destroyed my cake!" The words come out harsher than I intend, laced with all the frustration of three hours of meticulous work reduced to rubble.
"Accidentally!" His eyebrows rise, genuine surprise crossing his features as though the distinction somehow absolves him of all responsibility.
We're standing in my back doorway, both covered in various types of white powder, probably looking absolutely deranged to anyone passing through the alley. His chest rises and falls with steady breaths, and I realize I'm breathing hard too, adrenaline and fury and something else making my pulse race.
"You're impossible," I tell him.
"You're stubborn."
"You're—" I gesture wildly at all of him. "You're too big!"
"Can't help that."
"And too loud!"
"Butchering is loud."
"And you leave meat on people's doorsteps like a serial killer!"
"One person," he corrects. "One doorstep. Yours. And it wasn't a threat, Quinn, it was?—"
"A courtship gift, I know! I Googled it! But we're not in some Orc village, Lanek, we're in a modern city with noise ordinances and personal boundaries and basic social conventions that apparently don't translate across species!"
He observes me for a long moment. The amusement fades, replaced by something more serious, almost concerned.
"You Googled it," he repeats slowly.
I freeze, realizing what I've just admitted. "For research purposes."
"Research."
"To understand why my neighbor was leaving dead animals on my property!"
"It wasn't dead, it was butchered. There's a difference."
"Not to me!"
"Clearly." He scrubs a hand over his jaw, leaving trails through the flour dusting his face. "I'm not trying to upset you, Quinn. I'm trying to—" He stops, searching for words. "I'm trying to be respectful. In my culture, the steak was a sign of respect."
"In my culture, it's a biohazard."
His mouth twitches again. "Noted."
We stand there in the doorway, neither moving, and I become acutely aware of how close we're standing. So close I have to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact. The scent of woodsmoke and black pepper underneath all the flour and sugar wafts to my nose.
"This can't keep happening," I say finally.
"What can't?"
"This. Us. Whatever this is. The fighting and the revenge and the—" I gesture between us. "We're adults. We should be able to coexist without declaring war."
"I'm not at war with you, Quinn."
"Then what would you call this?"
He considers the question with that same infuriating patience, like he has all the time in the world to stand in my doorway looking like a flour-covered mountain. "A misunderstanding."
"A massive one."
