"Sit down, Lanek, or I swear I will climb you like a tree and force you into a chair."
The mental image that creates is intensely distracting. I sit.
She disappears into the back and returns with a first aid kit that looks like it's seen better days, along with a bowl of ice water. She pulls up a stool directly in front of me, setting the supplies on a nearby counter, then carefully takes my right hand and lowers it into the bowl.
The cold bites, sharp and immediate. I don't flinch.
"How bad does it hurt?" Her voice has gone quiet, all the panic replaced by focused concern.
"It's tolerable."
"That's not what I asked."
I study her face, the way her eyebrows are drawn together, the smudge of flour still on her cheek, the fierce concentration in her expression. "It hurts less than watching you panic."
Her eyes snap up to meet mine. "That's not—you can't just say things like that."
"Why not? It's true."
"Because it's—" She stops, biting her lip. "You could have seriously injured yourself."
"But I didn't. And your bakery isn't burning down."
"Lanek." She sounds exasperated and something else, something raw. "You can't keep doing this."
"Doing what?"
"Protecting me. Defending me. Throwing yourself into danger because you've decided I'm, I don't know, worth guarding."
"You are worth guarding." I say it simply, because it's fact. "You work hard, you create beautiful things, you refuse to compromise your standards even when it costs you. Why wouldn't I protect that?"
She acknowledges me, her hands still cradling my wrist, her fingers cool against my overheated skin. The bakery is silent except for the faint drip of water from the sink and our breathing.
"I don't understand you," she finally whispers.
"What don't you understand?"
"Any of this. The meat, the flowers, the—" She gestures helplessly at my burned hands. "You barely know me. We've done nothing but fight since you moved in. So why do you care?"
In Orc culture, the answer would be obvious. She's strong, fierce, and valuable. She challenged me, tested my strength, and proved herself worthy of pursuit. But Quinn needs human context, human reasoning.
So I try.
"Because you walked into my shop covered in sugar and yelled at me about noise ordinances while holding a ruined cake," I say slowly. "And instead of crying or giving up, you were furious. Righteously, beautifully furious. You didn't back down, didn't apologize, didn't shrink. You demanded I respect your space and your work."
I pause, making sure she's listening.
"And then you retaliated with industrial fans and aggressive pop music, which was clever and proportional and deeply entertaining. And when I tried to court you with traditional Orc methods, you didn't simper or act flattered. You told me what you thought, which was that I was an idiot leaving bloody meat on your doorstep."
Her mouth twitches despite herself.
"You're competent, creative, stubborn, and absolutely unwilling to accept help even when you desperately need it. You fight for what you've built, and you don't compromise your vision for anyone." I hold her gaze. "So yes, Quinn. I care. Because you're worth caring about."
The silence stretches between us, heavy and loaded. Her hands are still on my wrist, her thumb unconsciously stroking the sensitive skin just above my palm. I can see her pulse jumping in her throat, watch her pupils dilate slightly.
"That's the Orc talking," she finally says, but her voice wavers. "You're just—it's biological. Territorial. You see a challenge and you respond."
"Partially," I admit. "But if it was only biology, any strong opponent would trigger the same response. It's not just that you challenged me, Quinn. It's that I like you. I like your sharp tongue and your ridiculous vintage dresses and the way you smell like a bakery exploded on you. I like that you're competent and fierce and absolutely terrifying when you're angry."
