But she never needed me to prove my worth. She needed me to see hers.
Shame burns through me, hot and acidic.
I'm an idiot. A traditional, pig-headed, arrogant idiot who assumed his way was the right way just because it's how things have always been done.
Quinn doesn't need an Orc warlord. She needs a partner. An equal. Someone who respects her strength instead of trying to shield her from every possible threat.
I can be that. I know I can.
But first, I have to figure out how.
The third day,I finally move.
Not toward her, I promised I'd stay on my side of the alley, and I meant it. But I can't just sit here drowning in my own misery. I need to do something.
I need to fix this. Not with violence or intimidation or primal Orc instinct.
I need to fix it her way.
I dig through the drawer in my kitchen until I find the battered laptop I bought years ago and barely used. It takes ten minutes to boot up, the ancient machine whirring and clicking like it's on its last legs.
I gaze at the glowing screen, my massive fingers hovering over the keyboard.
I've gutted a thousand carcasses. I've broken down entire livestock deliveries single-handedly. I've survived pit fights and bar brawls and every brutal test my culture could throw at me.
But sitting here, trying to navigate a search engine to research municipal zoning laws, feels harder than all of it combined.
I start typing, one slow letter at a time.
Tenant rights. Lease disputes. Rent increase limits.
The search results flood the screen, page after page of dense legal jargon that makes my head pound. I click through them anyway, forcing myself to read, to absorb, to understand.
Quinn said she didn't need me to fight her battles. She needed me to trust her to fight them herself.
But that doesn't mean I can't give her the tools to win.
I spend hours hunched over the laptop, my back aching from the terrible posture, my eyes burning from the screen's harsh light. I learn about rent control ordinances. I learn about mandatory notice periods for lease changes. I learn about tenant protection laws that might apply to her situation.
The developer was aggressive, but he wasn't necessarily operating within legal bounds. There are regulations. Protections. Loopholes Quinn can exploit if she knows where to look.
I start taking notes, scribbling information onto a pad of paper in my rough, blocky handwriting. My penmanship is terrible, I'm used to holding cleavers, not pens, but I write legibly. To organize the information in a way that makes sense.
I'm not doing this for her. I'm gathering information she can use if she wants it. No pressure. No expectations. Just resources she can choose to access or ignore entirely.
It's the smallest possible gesture. The least invasive way I can think of to help without overstepping.
But it's something.
By the time I finally close the laptop, the sun is setting again. Three days without her. Three days of this gnawing, relentless ache in my heart.
I miss her so much it's hard to breathe.
I miss her yelling. I miss her fury. I miss the way she smells like vanilla and sugar even when she's covered in sticky paste. I miss the weight of her in my arms, the feel of her small hands gripping my shoulders, the breathless little sounds she makes when I kiss her.
I miss everything.
But I'm not giving up. I can't.
