“Acceptable,” she repeats, rolling her eyes. “You know, for someone who claims to not care about pastries, you sure do eat a lot of them.”
“Only yours,” I say without thinking.
The words hang in the air between us.
Lena’s eyes widen slightly.
I freeze, fork halfway to my mouth.
What did I just say?
Her cheeks flush a faint pink, and she looks down at her plate. “Well. I’m...glad you like them.”
I clear my throat, setting the fork down. “The display should be finished by tomorrow.”
She blinks at the abrupt change of subject. “Oh. Already?”
“Three tiers, rotating center platform, carved details on each level,” I confirm, falling back on facts to steady myself. “The sugar glass will need to be added last, but the structure itself is ready.”
“That’s amazing,” she says, and there’s that warmth in her voice again. “I can’t believe how quickly you worked.”
I shrug. “It’s not complicated.”
“To you, maybe,” she says, setting down her plate. “To me, it’s like magic. The way you look at wood and just...see what it could be.”
There’s something in her expression that makes my chest feel too tight.
“It’s just wood,” I say gruffly.
“No,” she says, and suddenly she’s standing, moving closer to me. “It’s not just wood. Not when you touch it.”
I swallow hard, acutely aware of how small her kitchen is, how little space there is between us.
“Reyes—”
“You know,” she says, tilting her head slightly, “I’ve been thinking about something.”
“Dangerous,” I mutter.
She smirks. “Maybe. But I’ve been thinking about how you carry burn treatment with you.”
I tense. “So?”
“So,” she continues, taking another step closer, “that means you get burned a lot.”
I shrug. “Occupational hazard.”
“Or,” she says, and her eyes are too knowing, “it means you care about being prepared. About helping if someone gets hurt.”
I don’t know what to say to that.
Because she’s right.
And I hate that she sees through me so easily.
“You’re not as scary as you want people to think you are,” she says softly.
I snort. “I’m a Minotaur.”
