I’m not thinking about her tiny kitchen, or the way she hopped up and down trying to reach the smoke detector, or how she didn’t flinch when I burst through her door looking ready to gore someone.
Most humans at least hesitate when faced with an angry Minotaur. Their instincts kick in, warning them of danger, telling them to back away slowly. Not Lena. She just stood there, covered in flour and char, smiling like I was an expected guest rather than a landlord ready to evict her for being a walking insurance claim.
I growl, catching myself. This is ridiculous. I’m being ridiculous.
I stalk to the kitchen, where I grab a glass and fill it with water, downing it in one go. My reflection in the window above the sink glares back at me—dark eyes, broad shoulders, horns curving out from my temples like a permanent accusation.
“Get it together,” I mutter to myself.
The water does nothing to wash away the thoughts of her. Nothing ever does. I’ve tried.
For three months, I’ve tried to ignore the scents wafting up from her bakery—the cinnamon, the vanilla, the chocolate, the things I don’t even have names for. I’ve tried to tune out the sound of her singing to herself in the early mornings, her voice carrying through the old building’s vents. I’ve tried to forget the curve of her smile when she signed the lease, the way she looked up at me without an ounce of fear and said, “Don’t worry, I’m going to be your favorite tenant.”
She’s not. She’s not my favorite anything. She’s a pain in my ass who can’t operate an oven without creating a four-alarm fire hazard.
And yet.
I find myself back at the window, looking down at her shop again.
I force myself back to my workbench. I pick up my tools. I focus on the grain of the wood, the texture beneath my fingers, the project that needs finishing.
I do not think about soft brown eyes or flour-dusted hands or the sweet, spicy scent of cinnamon that’s somehow found its way up to my apartment despite all logic and reason.
I don’t think about the way she says my name—“Thorne”—like it’s something to be savored rather than feared.
I don’t think about how long it’s been since anyone looked at me without that initial flicker of apprehension, that instinctive step back that humans can’t seem to help around Minotaurs.
I don’t think about how she does the opposite—steps closer, looks up, challenges me with those eyes that see too much.
I don’t think about any of it.
Until my phone buzzes with a text.
Unknown number
The cinnamon churro muffins didn’t catch fire! Progress! Want one? They’re still warm.
I stare at the screen for a long moment, not even questioning how she got my personal number. She probably found it on some paperwork. The woman is relentless.
I should ignore it. Block the number. Do literally anything other than what I’m about to do.
I type back.
Thorne
No
A pause. Then my phone buzzes again.
Unknown number
Your mouth says no but your eyes said “feed me, Lena.”
I growl at the screen. I’ve never said that in my life. I’ve never even thought those words in that order.
Thorne
Stop watching me through the window.
