When I signed the lease three months ago, I didn’t realize I was also signing up for regular doses of this—Thorne looming in my space, making me feel like I’m a delinquent teenager instead of a thirty-five-year-old woman with a culinary degree and a dream.
Which, fine, I can deal with that but did I mention the horns? His are magnificently distracting, curving up and out from his temples, polished to a glossy sheen. I’ve never asked if he buffs them or if that’s their natural state. Seems intrusive.
I cross my arms and tilt my chin up at him. “If it makes you feel better, the next batch will be fine. It’s just caramel. The sugar got too hot.”
“It’s the third time this week.”
I wince. “Okay, well. Third time’s the charm, right?”
Thorne exhales sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose like I am actively shortening his lifespan. “I own this building, Reyes. I have a vested interest in making sure it does not spontaneously combust because you can’t control your oven.”
“Okay, first of all, rude.” I point at him with my tongs. “Second, I’m a professional. I can control my oven. The oven just doesn’t respect me.”
He gives me a flat, unimpressed look. “That’s not how ovens work.”
“That’s absolutely how ovens work. This one is temperamental. It has moods.”
I pat the stainless steel monster affectionately. Traitor that it is, the oven chooses that moment to make an ominous clicking sound. I quickly remove my hand. “We’re still getting to know each other.”
Thorne’s nostrils flare, and I swear I can see a tiny puff of steam. Do Minotaurs breathe fire? I don’t think so, but with the way he’s looking at me, I wouldn’t be surprised if he developed the ability on the spot.
“Look,” I say, softer this time, because I do feel bad. Kind of. “I’m sorry about the alarm. I know you live right upstairs, and I’m not trying to be a nuisance.”
“Could have fooled me,” he mutters, but there’s less bite in it.
I huff, turning back to my counter, where perfectly golden pandesal sit in a warm basket. I grab one, tear it open—releasing a soft, buttery wisp of steam—and shove it at him.
“Here,” I say, thrusting the bread into his giant hand. “For your troubles.”
He stares at it like I just offered him a live grenade, his thick fingers curling around the roll. The contrast is almost comical—my small, golden bread roll nestled in his palm, which could probably crush it with the lightest squeeze. But he doesn’t crush it. He holds it carefully, like he’s afraid it might be as combustible as my donuts.
“It’s not poison,” I tell him. “Although if I wanted to murder you, that would be a very efficient way to do it. Gain your trust with baked goods and then—bam!—arsenic brioche.”
His eyebrow quirks up. “Is that meant to be reassuring?”
“I’m just saying,” I shrug, “I wouldn’t waste good food on murder. So you’re safe.”
He doesn’t respond. But after a long, tense moment, he takes a bite.
And I swear, for just a second, I see his ears flick—a tiny, involuntary twitch—before he tears off another piece.
I wipe my hands on my apron. “See? I make good things, too. Not just smoke hazards.”
Victory.
It’s small, but it’s there. A crack in the armor. The pandesal is a family recipe, soft and pillowy on the inside with a delicate crust that shatters just right between your teeth. It’s simple, but that’s the point. Good bread doesn’t need to be complicated. It just needs to be good.
And judging by the way Thorne’s shoulders have dropped about half an inch—which for him is the equivalent of a standing ovation—it’s good.
I beam at him, already grabbing another roll. “Oh, if you like that, you should try my ube pandesal next?—”
Thorne turns on his heel and stomps out of my kitchen, grumbling the entire way.
“You’re going to kill me,” he mutters under his breath.
I grin. “Not before I fatten you up first.”
He pauses at the door, and for a split second, I think he might turn around. Say something. Maybe even crack a smile, though that’s probably asking too much of the universe.
