Just like her.
I think about Lena as I work—about the first time I saw her, standing in my office with that rental application, all bright eyes and stubborn chin. How she looked at me without flinching, without the hesitation most humans show around Minotaurs. How she said the name of her bakery with such pride, daring me to mock it.
I think about how she fights—for her space, for her dream, for every customer who walks through her door. How she transforms flour and sugar into memories, into comfort, into art that melts on your tongue.
She deserves this chance. This spotlight. This moment to show what she can do.
And if I have to work until my fingers bleed to give it back to her, I will.
The hours crawl by. My back aches. My eyes burn. I ignore it all.
Around four in the morning, my hands start to cramp. I flex them, pushing through the pain, refusing to slow down. The second tier is taking shape—maple this time, lighter than the walnut base, creating contrast. I sand it until it’s smooth as silk, the grain catching the light in rippling patterns.
By five, I’m starting on the top tier. Cherry wood, rich and warm, with a natural reddish glow that seems to pulse with life. I carve this one more delicately, adding details that echo the texture of her desserts. Swirls like frosting, ridges like pastry. A canvas for her creations.
I don’t stop.
Because she deserves this.
She has spent her whole life fighting for herself.
So for once, I’m going to fight for her.
I finish the last connection just as dawn breaks, the pale light filtering through the bakery windows. I stand back, assessing my work with critical eyes. It’s not as intricate as the first display. Not as delicate. But there’s something right about it. Something that feels like her—and like me. Like us.
It’s solid. Elegant. A display that says look at me and try to doubt me. I dare you.
I dust off my hands, rolling my shoulders to ease the stiffness that’s settled there. Every muscle in my body aches with fatigue, but I’ve never felt more accomplished. More certain.
The stain is still drying in places, the wood still warm from my hands. But it’s done. It’s ready.
I step back, take one last look at what I’ve created. Then I climb the stairs to her apartment, my footsteps heavy with exhaustion but my heart lighter than it’s been in hours.
I knock on her door. Wait. Knock again, louder this time.
She opens it, blinking sleep from her eyes, hair a wild tangle around her face. She’s wearing an oversized t-shirt and shorts, her feet bare on the wooden floor. She’s never looked more beautiful.
“Thorne?” Her voice is rough with sleep, her eyes widening as she takes in my appearance—covered in sawdust, probably looking like I’ve been through a war. “What time is it?”
I don’t answer. Just jerk my chin toward the stairs that lead down to the shop.
She stares at me for a long, silent moment. Something shifts in her expression—wariness giving way to curiosity, maybe even hope.
Then she brushes past me, heading down to the bakery. I follow, watching her back, the tension in her shoulders, the way she hesitates at the bottom of the stairs before pushing through the door.
She stops dead in her tracks when she sees it.
For several heartbeats, she doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just stares at the display that now dominates the center of her kitchen—three tiers of contrasting woods, flowing from dark to light, each surface smooth and ready for her creations.
Then she turns to me, her eyes shining with something I can’t quite name. Not quite tears, not quite joy, but something in between. Something fierce and grateful and determined all at once.
And in that instant, I know?—
She’s not giving up.
Not today.
Not ever.
