“I’m going to have to rethink my entire grumpy landlord persona,” I say dryly. “Now that everyone knows I helped build a dessert display.”
She grins. “Don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me. I’ll tell everyone you threatened to evict me if I didn’t let you help.”
“That’s actually not a bad cover story.”
“See? I know you.” She points at me with a flour-covered finger. “Better than you think.”
And she does. That’s the terrifying, wonderful truth of it. She sees past the horns, past the scowls, past every wall I’ve built. She leaves extra bread for a Minotaur who pretends not to want it. She knows exactly who I am and stays anyway.
I step closer, into her space, and she doesn’t back away. Just looks up at me with those dark, knowing eyes.
“This is our victory,” I say, the words coming out rough but true. “Not just yours. Ours.”
She nods, her smile softening into something that makes my heart stutter in my chest.
“Ours,” she agrees.
And for the first time in my life, that word doesn’t sound like a trap. It sounds like freedom. Like home. Like something I’ve been searching for without knowing it.
I reach out, brush a smudge of flour from her cheek, marveling at how small, how delicate, how fierce she is. How she can contain so much life in such a compact form.
And in that moment, I know with absolute certainty?—
This feeling, this moment, this us?—
I’m never letting it go.
CHAPTER 15
thorne
A LATTE LOVE
The thing about Lena Reyes is that once she decides to succeed at something, the universe just gets out of her way. Three weeks ago, she competed in the New Vegas Dessert Showcase with a display that looked like it grew from the earth itself—all because she bullied me into building it for her.
Today, her face is plastered across the glossy pages of “Monster Bites,” the most exclusive culinary magazine in the city. And me? I’m standing outside her bakery at 4:30 in the morning, waiting for her to unlock the door like some sort of pastry addict getting his fix.
I can see her through the window, flour already dusting her cheeks, hair pulled back in that messy bun that somehow never quite contains all the strands. She moves with the confidence of someone who knows exactly what she’s doing—measuring without cups, mixing by feel, her small hands steady and sure. The place smells like heaven already, the scent of fresh bread seeping through the cracks in the doorframe. Pandesal. My weakness.
She hasn’t seen me yet, which is exactly how I like it.
I come early. I watch her bake. Eventually, I get my fill of aromatherapy and continue on to make my neverending task list of upgrades for all my property rentals.
Today is different, though. Today, the magazine sits on her counter, open to the six-page spread featuring “Moist: The Bakery’s Name Says It All.” The article calls her a “visionary,” praises her “seamless blending of Filipino heritage with modern techniques,” and—most embarrassingly—quotes me calling her work “transcendent.”
I’d like to say I was misquoted, but the truth is, I said it with my whole chest after tasting her ube-coconut cake at the showcase. Right in front of the judges. Like some lovesick fool.
Which I am.
The day of the competition still plays in my mind—how she stood tall despite being the smallest person in the room, how her hands shook slightly until she started explaining her creation, how her voice grew stronger with each word. The display we built together became more than wood and sugar glass under her touch. It became a story. Her story.
When they announced her as the winner, she leapt into my arms right there, in front of everyone, not caring what anyone thought of a human woman embracing a Minotaur like he was the most natural thing in the world to hold onto.
I’m still not used to it—being held like that. Being someone’s first thought in a moment of joy.
She spots me now, her eyes finding mine through the glass. For a second, her smile is just for me—soft, warm, private. Then it shifts into something mischievous as she glances pointedly at the clock on the wall.
4:37 AM.
