"I'm not terrifying."
"You're five-foot-two and you made a food critic leave a twenty-dollar tip out of sheer guilt. You're terrifying."
She laughs, startled and genuine, and the sound does something warm to my chest.
"This is insane," she says, but she hasn't let go of my wrist.
"Probably."
"We're completely incompatible."
"Are we?"
"You're a traditional Orc butcher who thinks raw meat is a romantic gift. I'm a pastel-obsessed baker who can't handle loud noises before dawn. We have nothing in common."
"We're both artisans," I counter. "We both care deeply about our craft. We both work alone and refuse to compromise our standards. We both moved to this neighborhood because we believed in building something valuable." I pause. "And we're both stubborn enough to fight for what we want."
"What do you want, Lanek?"
The question is quiet, almost hesitant. But her eyes are locked on mine, and I can see the real question underneath:What do you want from me?
I could soften it. I could give her the safe, human-appropriate answer about getting to know her better, about taking things slowly, about seeing where this goes.
But Quinn responded to my blunt honesty in the alley. She doesn't want carefully packaged platitudes.
"I want to court you properly," I say. "Human-style first, since my Orc methods clearly aren't translating. I want to take you to dinner, learn what you like besides baking, hear about your ridiculous vintage dress collection. I want to make you laugh instead of making you furious. And eventually, if you'll allow it, I want to show you what Orc courtship looks like when both parties understand the rules."
Her breath catches. "And what does that look like?"
"Intense. Possessive. Physical." I watch her face carefully. "But only if you want it, Quinn. I'm not going to push you into anything. You set the pace. You decide what you're comfortable with. I'll adapt."
"You'd really do that? Slow down, follow human protocols, suppress the whole territorial Orc thing?"
"For you? Yes."
She bites her lip, clearly warring with herself. Then, so quietly I almost miss it: "What if I don't want you to suppress it?"
Every muscle in my body goes tight. "Explain."
Her cheeks flush pink, but she doesn't look away. "You're right that I ran yesterday. I panicked. But not because I didn't like what was happening. I panicked because I liked it too much, and that scared me."
"Quinn—"
"I've spent so long being independent and capable and in control. And then you show up with your massive shoulders and your protective instincts and your absolute certainty that I'm worth defending, and it makes me want to—" She stops, swallowing hard. "It makes me want to let go. To trust someone else to carry some of the weight. Which terrifies me, because what if I get used to it and then you leave?"
The vulnerability in her voice cracks something open in me. I slowly pull my hand from the ice water and reach up with dripping fingers to cup her face, forcing her to meet my eyes.
"I'm not leaving, little baker. Once an Orc commits to a courtship, we don't walk away. You're stuck with me now, whether you're ready or not."
"That's very presumptuous."
"It's honest."
She leans into my palm despite herself, her eyes drifting closed. "This is a terrible idea."
"Probably."
"We're going to drive each other crazy."
