I grin, watching as he carefully sands a piece of wood. The way his large hands handle such delicate work is fascinating. For someone so imposing, he has remarkable control.
“Can I try again?” I ask, pointing to a small piece of wood. “Just sanding. No power tools.”
He gives me a look.
“Please?” I wheedle. “I’ll be careful.”
He sighs, then hands me a piece of sandpaper. “By hand. Gentle pressure. Go with the grain.”
I accept the sandpaper solemnly, like it’s a sacred object. “I won’t let you down.”
He glowers at me.
I grin and start sanding, trying to mimic his movements. It’s harder than it looks—finding the right pressure, the right angle. But after a few minutes, I start to get a feel for it.
“Not terrible,” Thorne concedes, inspecting my work.
I beam at him. “High praise from the master.”
He shakes his head, but there’s that twitch at the corner of his mouth again. Almost a smile.
An hour later, the workbench is covered in sawdust and blueprints, and I am officially banned from handling power tools.
Which is rude, but fair.
“You could’ve lost a finger,” Thorne says, inspecting my absolutely tragic attempt at sanding a curved piece.
I roll my eyes. “I think it adds character.”
He gives me a look.
Then, out of nowhere—he flicks a bit of sawdust at me.
I blink. “Did you just?—”
He shrugs, completely unbothered. “Dust happens.”
Oh. Oh, this means war.
I reach for the nearest bag of flour that I brought for my baking demonstration.
Thorne’s eyes widen.
“Reyes,” he warns.
I grab a handful of flour and chuck it at his face.
It explodes on impact, dusting his entire upper body in white powder.
For a full second, there is silence.
Then—slowly, deliberately—he wipes a hand down his flour-covered face and stares at me.
I grin.
He reaches for the bag.
I scream.
