The food between us creates a bridge that wasn’t there before. It’s comfortable, this shared meal on his workshop floor, surrounded by sawdust and wood shavings and the blueprints we’ve been arguing over for days.
“So,” I say, changing the subject before I can think too hard about why I enjoy his company, “the base structure.”
Thorne nods, reaching for the sketches he’s made. “Three tiers. The bottom needs to be wider for stability. Each level connects with these supports.”
He points to the design, his large finger tracing the lines with surprising delicacy.
“I want each tier to represent a different place,” I explain, scooting closer to see the blueprint. “The bottom is home—the Philippines. Purple ube cake, coconut elements. The middle tier is the journey—bright, surprising flavors. And the top is the destination—something new and unexpected.”
Thorne considers this, his brow furrowed in concentration. “We could incorporate different wood textures for each level. The bottom could have carved patterns that echo Filipino designs.”
I stare at him, slightly stunned.
“What?” he asks, noticing my expression.
“You—you researched Filipino designs?”
He shrugs, looking almost embarrassed. “Basic research. For the project.”
My heart does a ridiculous little flutter. “That’s really thoughtful.”
He grunts, turning back to the blueprint. “It’s just practical.”
But I can see the faint color rising up his neck, and it makes me unreasonably happy.
We finish eating, and Thorne stands, gathering the plates. “Back to work. No tools.”
I pout. “But how will I help?”
“You can hand me things,” he says firmly. “From a safe distance.”
I roll my eyes but follow him back to the workbench. I watch as he measures and marks a piece of wood, his movements precise and deliberate. There’s something hypnotic about the way he works—focused, methodical, every action serving a purpose.
It’s the opposite of how I bake, where I’m all intuition and spontaneity.
“You’re staring,” he says without looking up.
“I’m observing,” I correct. “Professional curiosity.”
He snorts. “About wood?”
“About you,” I say before I can stop myself. “I mean, about how you work. It’s different from baking.”
He glances up at me, expression unreadable. “How?”
I lean against the workbench, careful not to disturb his materials. “When I bake, I follow recipes, sure, but there’s a feeling to it. You have to know when the dough feels right, when to trust your instincts. But you—” I gesture to his precise measurements. “You’re all about exactness.”
Thorne considers this. “Wood doesn’t forgive mistakes.”
“Neither does baking, sometimes,” I admit. “But there’s more room for improvisation.”
He returns to his work, but I can tell he’s thinking about what I said.
“That’s why you’re good at it,” he says after a moment. “The improvisation.”
I blink, surprised by the compliment. “Did you just say I’m good at something?”
He rolls his eyes. “Don’t make me regret it.”
