Chapter 3 #3
"You blew flour into mine first," he counters, his tone maddeningly reasonable, like we're discussing something as mundane as the weather instead of our ongoing territorial dispute.
"After you destroyed my cake!" The words come out harsher than I intend, laced with all the frustration of three hours of meticulous work reduced to rubble.
"Accidentally!" His eyebrows rise, genuine surprise crossing his features as though the distinction somehow absolves him of all responsibility.
We're standing in my back doorway, both covered in various types of white powder, probably looking absolutely deranged to anyone passing through the alley.
His chest rises and falls with steady breaths, and I realize I'm breathing hard too, adrenaline and fury and something else making my pulse race.
"You're impossible," I tell him.
"You're stubborn."
"You're—" I gesture wildly at all of him. "You're too big!"
"Can't help that."
"And too loud!"
"Butchering is loud."
"And you leave meat on people's doorsteps like a serial killer!"
"One person," he corrects. "One doorstep. Yours. And it wasn't a threat, Quinn, it was—"
"A courtship gift, I know! I Googled it! But we're not in some Orc village, Lanek, we're in a modern city with noise ordinances and personal boundaries and basic social conventions that apparently don't translate across species!"
He observes me for a long moment. The amusement fades, replaced by something more serious, almost concerned.
"You Googled it," he repeats slowly.
I freeze, realizing what I've just admitted. "For research purposes."
"Research."
"To understand why my neighbor was leaving dead animals on my property!"
"It wasn't dead, it was butchered. There's a difference."
"Not to me!"
"Clearly." He scrubs a hand over his jaw, leaving trails through the flour dusting his face. "I'm not trying to upset you, Quinn. I'm trying to—" He stops, searching for words. "I'm trying to be respectful. In my culture, the steak was a sign of respect."
"In my culture, it's a biohazard."
His mouth twitches again. "Noted."
We stand there in the doorway, neither moving, and I become acutely aware of how close we're standing. So close I have to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact. The scent of woodsmoke and black pepper underneath all the flour and sugar wafts to my nose.
"This can't keep happening," I say finally.
"What can't?"
"This. Us. Whatever this is. The fighting and the revenge and the—" I gesture between us. "We're adults. We should be able to coexist without declaring war."
"I'm not at war with you, Quinn."
"Then what would you call this?"
He considers the question with that same infuriating patience, like he has all the time in the world to stand in my doorway looking like a flour-covered mountain. "A misunderstanding."
"A massive one."
"Agreed." He takes a step back, finally giving me some breathing room. The sudden distance should be a relief, but instead the space between us feels strangely empty. I cross my arms over my chest, trying to reclaim some sense of control in my own doorway.
"Truce?" he asks.
I eye him suspiciously, searching his face for any hint of mockery or manipulation. But his expression is surprisingly earnest, even if he looks like he's been caught in a snowstorm. "What are the terms?"
"I'll move my early morning equipment use to after seven AM."
"Eight," I counter immediately, not willing to give an inch without a fight.
"Seven-thirty."
I hesitate, weighing my options. It's more than I expected him to concede, honestly. "Fine. And absolutely no more meat gifts."
Something flickers across his face—disappointment, maybe—but he nods. "No more meat gifts."
"And you'll fix my security window frame. Your arm bent it."
He glances back at the window in question, where the frame is indeed slightly warped from his forced entry. "I'll fix it."
"Today."
"Today," he agrees. "Anything else?"
I should leave it there. Should accept the truce and move on with my life. Instead, I hear myself say, "Why?"
"Why what?"
"Why me? Why the steak? There are dozens of other businesses on this street. Why pick a fight with the bakery next door?"
His expression shifts again, and for the first time since he crashed into my shop, he looks almost uncertain. "I didn't pick a fight."
"Then what did you do?"
"I noticed you."
I have absolutely no idea what to do with them. He noticed me. Past tense. Deliberate. Like it was a specific moment, a conscious choice.
"Oh," I manage.
"Yeah." He runs a hand through his flour-covered hair, sending up a small white cloud. "I'll get the window fixed."
Then he turns and walks out of my bakery, leaving me standing in the doorway covered in white powder, holding a bag of my own questions with no idea how to unpack any of them.
The wedding cake needs finishing.
I have work to do.
But for a long moment, I just stand there and watch the space where Lanek was, trying to figure out exactly when this stopped being simple neighbor warfare and turned into something significantly more complicated.