I return to my shop, already planning my next move. Traditional Orc courtship isn't working. The premium cuts of meat, the protective presence, the direct physical approach, it's all too much, too fast, delivered without the context she needs to understand my intentions.
I need to adapt. Which means I need human advice.
Augustine,my primary supplier for exotic game, arrives the next morning with a delivery of venison. He's a lean, weathered human in his fifties who's been providing quality meat to my family for two decades. More importantly, he's been married to the same woman for thirty years.
I wait until he's finished unloading before cornering him in my walk-in freezer.
"I need advice," I say bluntly.
August looks up from his invoice pad, eyebrows rising. "About meat?"
"About courting."
His expression shifts from surprise to poorly concealed amusement. "You're asking me about women?"
"Human women specifically." I cross my arms, uncomfortable but determined. "I've been following traditional Orc protocols, but I think I'm scaring her."
"Scaring her how?"
I describe the situation as accurately as I can—the noise complaint, the gifted steaks, the territorial protection, yesterday's confrontation in the alley. August listens without interrupting, though his mouth keeps twitching like he's fighting a smile.
When I finish, he's silent for a long moment.
"Lanek," he finally says, "you can't just... drop raw meat on a woman's doorstep and expect her to understand it's romantic."
"It's a prime cut. The marbling alone?—"
"I know, I know. It's excellent quality." He holds up a hand. "But humans don't think like that. You need to take her on a date. A proper human date."
I frown. "What constitutes a proper human date?"
"Flowers. Nice clothes. You pick her up, you take her somewhere pleasant, you have a conversation, you walk her home. You court her with attention and romance, not livestock."
"I don't have livestock. I have professionally butchered?—"
"Lanek." Augusts's tone is patient but firm. "Do you want advice or not?"
I nod.
"Good. Here's what you do."
The suit is custom-made because nothing off the rack fits my shoulders. The tailor, a nervous human woman who kept measuring my chest circumference three times like she didn't believe her tape measure, promised it would be ready by Thursday. She delivered it Wednesday night with a note that saidGood lucktucked into the breast pocket.
I shower thoroughly, using the unscented soap that won't compete with Quinn's vanilla and butter smell. I trim my facial hair, polish the silver rings on my tusks, and carefully work my way into the suit. The fabric stretches across my shoulders and back, custom-tailored to accommodate my build withoutrestricting movement. The charcoal color complements my skin, and the white shirt underneath is crisp and foreign against my neck.
I look like I'm attending a funeral. Or possibly getting married. But August insisted that "dressing up shows respect and serious intentions," so I'm committed to the attempt.
The flowers are harder. The florist stared at me for a full minute when I walked in before stammering something aboutvarietyandcolor preferences. I have no idea what Quinn likes, so I default to choosing blooms that match her aesthetic, soft pinks, creamy whites, pale yellows, all arranged in a delicate bouquet that looks absurdly fragile in my hands.
I arrive at her bakery at exactly six o'clock, which August assured me was an appropriate closing time. Through the front window, I can see Quinn wiping down tables, her hair escaping its ribbon, her apron smudged with what looks like chocolate. She moves with quick, efficient grace, humming something under her breath.
I should knock. I should announce myself. Instead, I stand there holding flowers like an idiot, suddenly uncertain. What if she refuses? What if the direct human approach is just as unwelcome as the Orc methods? What if I've misread everything and she actually wants me to leave her alone?
Before I can spiral further, Quinn glances up and sees me through the window.
She freezes mid-wipe, eyes going wide.
I lift the bouquet slightly, an awkward half-wave that feels monumentally stupid the second I do it.
