He closes the door behind me and turns, his expression unreadable. The overhead lights cast harsh shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp angles of his tusks and the rigid set of his jaw.
He's waiting for me to speak.
To explain.
To justify why I'm standing in his shop at ten o'clock at night holding a burnt offering like some kind of deranged supplicant.
I thrust the pie toward him, my hands shaking. "I wanted to apologize. For how I reacted. For what I said. You did everything I asked, and I didn't even have the decency to thank you in person. So I made this. As a peace offering. It's traditional, right? Meat pies? I read that Orcish courtship involves sharing hunted protein, and I can't exactly hunt, but I can bake, except apparently I can't bake savory things because this turned out looking like roadkill, but I tried, and I just?—"
"Stop."
I stop.
Lanek reaches out slowly, his giant hands closing carefully around the pie dish, lifting it from my trembling grip. He studies it with the same intense focus he applies to butchering a perfect cut of ribeye.
He's going to tell me it's garbage. He's going to throw it away. He's going to laugh and explain that this clumsy human attempt at Orcish tradition is an insult to his entire culture.
Instead, he lifts it closer to his face, his nostrils flaring as he inhales deeply, taking in the scent with the same careful assessment he uses when evaluating meat quality.
"Venison," he says quietly, his voice dropping to that low, rumbling timbre that makes my stomach flip. "Turnips. Carrots. Black pepper and..." He pauses, his brow furrowing slightly. "Rosemary?"
"Thyme, actually." I fidget with my cardigan, twisting the fabric between my fingers. "The recipe said sage, but I thought thyme would complement the gamey flavor better without overpowering the natural taste of the meat."
His eyes lift to mine slowly, pinning me in place that steals the breath from my lungs. Something dangerous and possessive flickers in their depths, something primal that makes my pulse hammer against my throat. "You made me a meat pie."
"Yes."
"You researched traditional Orcish recipes." It's not a question. It's a statement of fact delivered in a tone that suggests he's cataloging evidence, building a case against my carefully maintained defenses.
"Seven of them," I admit, my voice barely above a whisper. "I cross-referenced them to find common ingredients and techniques."
"You worked with suet for the first time."
"It was disgusting." I wrinkle my nose at the memory, the unpleasant, waxy texture still fresh in my mind. "I had to wash my hands four times before they stopped feeling greasy."
The corner of his mouth twitches, the barest hint of a smile threatening to break through his carefully controlled expression. "You hate savory baking."
"I do. Passionately. There's no precision. No delicate balancing of sugar ratios. Just... throwing meat and vegetables into dough and hoping it doesn't explode."
"And you made this for me anyway."
"Yes."
He sets the pie down carefully on the nearest stainless steel counter, his movements slow and deliberate, and turns back to face me. The air between us thickens, charged with something electric and inevitable.
"Why, Quinn?"
The question hangs in the air, deceptively simple.
I could deflect. Make a joke. Rebuild the walls I spent three days constructing between us.
But I came here to be honest.
To be brave.
To stop running from the one thing I want more than anything.
"Because you changed for me." My voice cracks on the words. "You spent three days learning municipal zoning laws. You stood in that alley and recorded evidence instead of ripping those men apart with your bare hands. You gave me what I asked for, even though every instinct you have was screaming at you to do the opposite. You respected my agency. My boundaries. My needs. And I didn't even say thank you."
