“I’ll build you another one.”
“You can’t just—“ She stops, staring at me like I’ve grown a second head. “That’s impossible.”
“No,” I say firmly. “What’s impossible is some smug asshole thinking he can get away with destroying something you love.”
She turns away, moving to the worktable where her supplies sit abandoned. Her fingers trail over a bag of flour, a container of purple ube powder. “You don’t understand. It was perfect, Thorne. What we built together was perfect. And now it’s gone, and there’s no way to recreate that in one night.”
And I get it. I get why she’s giving up.
Because she’s tired.
She has spent her entire life fighting to be seen, to be taken seriously, to prove herself in a city where no one gave her a damn thing.
And tonight?
Tonight, someone took that from her. On purpose.
And she thinks that means it’s over.
She thinks she’s alone in this.
She isn’t.
I push off the counter, crossing to her in three strides. “Go get some rest.”
She frowns up at me, confusion creasing her brow. “What?”
“I’ll fix it.”
She lets out another humorless laugh, shaking her head. “Thorne, you can’t?—“
I step closer, my voice firm, certain. “I will.”
Because this isn’t over.
Not for me.
Not for her.
And sure as hell not for that smug bastard who thinks he can sabotage my girl and get away with it.
Lena blinks, her gaze searching my face. “You’re serious.”
I cross my arms. “Have I ever not been serious?”
She opens her mouth. Pauses. I can see the war in her expression—the hope she doesn’t want to let herself feel warring with the crushing disappointment of the day. The trust she wants to give me fighting against the fear of being hurt again.
“You can’t recreate what we had,” she says finally, her voice small. “It was too complex. Too detailed.”
“I don’t need to recreate it,” I tell her. “I just need to build something that will showcase your work. Something strong.”
“In one night?”
“Yes.”
“That’s insane.”
I nod. “Most things worth doing are.”
