I chose it because the bakery next door smelled like vanilla and butter, and the tiny human woman who ran it had fire in her eyes when she yelled at me about noise ordinances.
I didn't realize it at the time, but I recognized my mate the moment she stepped into my life.
And I ruined it.
I ruined it by being what I am, a traditional Orc who doesn't understand human subtlety, who thinks courtship involves leaving premium cuts of meat on doorsteps, who resorts to violence and intimidation because those are the tools my culture gave me.
She deserves better.
She deserves someone who naturally fits into her world, who doesn't have to spend three agonizing days teaching himself an entirely foreign legal system just to have a basic conversation about tenant rights. Someone who doesn't have to actively suppress the urge to commit felonies every time a threat appears.
Someone human.
Quinn Hayes deserves a partner who makes her life easier, not harder. Who complements her business instead of disrupting it with bone saws and bloody aprons. Who can take her on normal dates to normal restaurants without terrifying the waitstaff.
And I am not that person.
I never will be.
The most loving thing I can do for her is remove myself from her life entirely. Let her find someone appropriate. Someone who doesn't make her cry or force her to draw boundaries or put her in the impossible position of choosing between her principles and her feelings.
The decision settles over me like a lead weight, heavy and suffocating, but I know it's the right one.
I move through the shop, methodically shutting down equipment and securing inventory. My hand throbs with every movement, blood still seeping from the split knuckles, but I ignore it. I have packed wounds in the field before. This is nothing.
The industrial refrigeration units hum quietly as I check the temperature controls one final time. The custom smoking chamber I had installed last month sits dark and unused. I was planning to surprise Quinn with a specialty applewood-smoked salmon, something delicate enough to complement her pastries without overwhelming them.
I won't be here to make it now.
I climb the stairs to my apartment above the shop, each step feeling heavier than the last. The space is sparse, I never bothered to fully furnish it. A bed. A table. A single chair. The oversized couch I ordered specifically because I imagined Quinn curled up on it, small and soft against the dark leather, reading while I prepped ingredients in the attached kitchen.
Foolish.
I yank my largest duffel bag from the closet and start throwing clothes into it with mechanical efficiency. I don't have much. A week's worth of work clothes. The ruined suit I wore to ask her on a proper date. A few personal items.
The silver rings that decorated my tusks when I first arrived in this city sit in a small wooden box on the bedside table. I wore them during my apprenticeship, during my journeyman years, during the grueling process of becoming a master butcher in the traditional Orc style.
I haven't worn them since the day Quinn told me the thick metal made me look even more intimidating.
I pick up the box, running my thumb over the carved lid. My father made this box. His father made the rings. They represent generations of tradition, of pride, of cultural identity.
But they scared her.
I set the box in the bottom of the bag and continue packing.
My phone buzzes on the bedside table. Probably the lawyer confirming receipt of the footage. I ignore it and grab my travel documents from the desk drawer. My butcher's certifications. My business licenses. My lease termination clauses.
I knew when I signed the commercial lease that there was an early exit option if I provided ninety days' notice and paid a penalty fee. At the time, I thought it was a waste of negotiating capital—why would I ever need to leave?
Now I'm grateful for the foresight.
I can relocate the business. Find another neighborhood. Start over somewhere Quinn's scent doesn't linger in every breath of air I take. Somewhere I won't torment myself by watching her thrive without me.
The phone buzzes again. Then again, insistent and demanding.
I growl low, and snatch the device up with more force than necessary. I'm ready to silence it completely, ready to throw it across the room if that's what it takes to finish this packing without further interruption. But the screen stops me cold, freezing me in place like I've been struck.
Not the lawyer.
