Perfect.
Quinn Hayes doesn't know it yet, but in about twenty minutes, she'll receive a courtship gift that would make my grandmother weep with pride.
I take my time with the preparation. This isn't just any cut of meat; this is a statement. I trim the excess fat cap, leaving justenough to baste the meat during cooking. Clean the bone until it's pristine white. Wrap the whole thing in butcher paper with the kind of precision I usually reserve for competition entries.
The silver platter is in the storage room, part of the display equipment I brought from my old location. I polish it until my reflection stares back at me, tusks and all, then arrange the wrapped steak with the bone positioned just so.
Presentation matters. My father taught me that. Anyone can throw meat on a plate. A craftsman makes it an experience.
I check the clock. Nearly six AM. Quinn's bakery is open, which means she's likely back in her kitchen right now, frantically trying to salvage the wedding cake I inadvertently destroyed. The thought makes guilt twist in my gut, but I push it aside. I can't undo the damage, but I can demonstrate that I understand the value of her work, that I respect her craft even if we practice different trades.
The alley is quiet when I step outside, the platter balanced in one hand. Dawn light filters between buildings, painting everything in soft grey. Her back door is painted a cheerful yellow that seems almost aggressive in its brightness, complete with a pastel welcome mat that reads "SWEET DREAMS START HERE" in looping script.
I set the platter down carefully, centering it on the mat. The wrapped steak gleams against the silver, the bone extending past the edge like a promise. For a moment I consider adding a note, some explanation of what this means, but I discard the idea immediately.
Either she'll understand or she won't.
Either way, I'll know.
I'm back in my shop, elbow-deep in breaking down a side of pork, when I hear her door open. My hands still on the blade, my ears straining despite myself. The sound of her footsteps. A pause. Then?—
Silence.
I keep working, to maintain the steady rhythm of separation and portioning, but every nerve in my body is attuned to the space beyond my wall. Is she pleased? Confused? Will she storm back over here demanding to know what kind of game I'm playing?
Minutes pass. Five. Ten. Fifteen.
Nothing.
I finish the pork shoulder and move to the grinder, feeding trim into the machine for breakfast sausage. The mechanical whir fills the space, but underneath it I'm listening, waiting, wondering if I miscalculated entirely. Maybe human courtship doesn't work like this. Maybe leaving premium cuts of meat on someone's doorstep is threatening rather than flattering. Maybe I should have just written a check and called it even.
Maybe I'm a thirty-two-year-old butcher who just made a complete fool of himself over a woman I spoke to for less than five minutes.
The grinder jams, pulling me back to the present. I shut it down and clear the blade, forcing my attention to the work in front of me. This is what I know. This is what I'm good at. Clean cuts, honest labor, the satisfaction of transforming raw material into something valuable.
Not courtship. Not navigating the complicated space between neighborly apology and genuine interest. Not trying to impress a human woman who probably thinks Orcs are barbaric at best and dangerous at worst.
I restart the grinder and feed the meat through more carefully this time, watching the ground pork spiral into the waiting bowl. The fat content is perfect. The seasoning is already prepped. By noon I'll have two hundred pounds of breakfast sausage ready for my restaurant clients, and by tonight I'll haveforgotten about the way Quinn Hayes looked standing in my freezer with fury in her eyes and sugar on her cheek.
Probably.
The morning progresses in its usual rhythm. I finish the grind, portion the sausage, update my inventory spreadsheet, and start prepping for the afternoon's custom orders. A regular client wants crown roast of pork for a dinner party. Another needs duck breast, scored and ready to pan-sear. I lose myself in the familiar motions, in the meditation of skilled work, and almost manage to stop checking the clock every fifteen minutes.
Almost.
At eight thirty, my phone buzzes. Unknown number. I wipe my hands on my apron and answer.
"Lanek's Butcher Shop."
Silence. Then, in a voice that drips with enough sugary venom to kill a lesser man: "What exactly is this?"
My pulse kicks. I lean against the steel prep table, suddenly grateful for the support. "Quinn."
"Don't 'Quinn' me. What isthis?"
I could play dumb. Probably should. Instead, I find myself smiling at the walk-in door. "Did you get my gift?"
"Your—" She makes a sound somewhere between a laugh and a strangled gasp. "Yourgift. You left a bloody steak on my welcome mat."
