I squint at him. “Do you actually eat anything that isn’t steak?”
He pauses, considering.
Then—a shrug.
“Oh my gods.” I gasp. “You don’t, do you?”
He takes another massive bite of empanada. “Meat is efficient.”
I reel. “Efficient?”
“Protein, iron,” he says, chewing. “Fuel.”
I stare at him in horror.
“You’re telling me,” I say slowly, “that you willingly live a life devoid of pastries.”
A pause.
Then, finally, a begrudging “I eat them sometimes.”
I narrow my eyes. “But you don’t love them.”
His gaze flickers, just slightly. “They’re...fine.”
I gasp, clutching my chest. “Thorne. That’s the worst thing you’ve ever said to me.”
He huffs, setting down his plate. “Reyes?—”
“No, you don’t understand,” I say, gripping his forearm like I’m about to lead him to salvation. “You can’t just say pastries are fine. That’s a crime.”
My fingers wrap around his arm, and I’m momentarily distracted by how solid he is beneath my touch. The man is built like a fortress. All dense muscle and warm skin.
Thorne sighs through his nose, the way he does when he regrets all his life choices.
“You are deprived,” I say solemnly, pulling my hand back before I can dwell on how nice his arm felt. “And I am going to fix you.”
He blinks. “What?”
I point at him. “Tomorrow. I’m bringing a selection of pastries, and we are going to find you a favorite.”
“I don’t need?—”
“No, no, no.” I shake my head. “We’re doing this. For your soul.”
He exhales. Deeply.
But I see it—the way his mouth twitches, the way his shoulders relax, just slightly.
He doesn’t want to admit it, but he likes this.
He likes being here, eating with me, bickering over food.
I tuck my legs underneath me, popping another bite of pandesal into my mouth, and watch him.
And for the first time, I let myself admit something I shouldn’t.
I like this, too.
