I should hate it. Being known. Being seen. Being someone’s.
Instead, I find myself almost...proud? Is that the word? This strange warmth that fills my chest when I hear people talk about Lena’s success, about how a human baker has somehow created the most popular monster-friendly bakery in the district.
“Thorne!” Lena’s voice cuts through my thoughts. She’s beckoning me from the kitchen door, a smudge of chocolate on her chin. “I need you!”
I rise, ignoring the curious stares that follow me as I make my way behind the counter. This is new, too. Having permission to enter her domain. Being wanted there.
“What did you set on fire this time?” I ask as I duck through the doorway.
She swats my arm. “That was one time this week, thank you very much.”
“It’s only Tuesday.”
“Details.” She waves a dismissive hand, then points to a tray of something golden-brown and flaky. “I need your opinion on these.”
I eye the pastries warily. “What are they?”
“Just try one,” she insists, pushing the tray toward me.
I pick up the smallest one, inspecting it closely. The pastry is shaped like a crescent, layers upon delicate layers visible atthe edges. It smells like butter and something spicy-sweet that I can’t quite identify.
“It won’t bite,” she says, eyes dancing with amusement.
“With your creations, one can never be sure,” I mutter, but I take a bite anyway.
The pastry shatters perfectly between my teeth, releasing a wave of flavors that hit my palate one after another. First, the rich butteriness of the dough. Then, a sweet, earthy filling that I recognize as ube—her signature flavor. But there’s something else too—a warm spice that builds slowly, not overwhelming but impossible to ignore.
Cinnamon. But not just any cinnamon. This is the good stuff, the kind that costs more per ounce than gold, with a depth and complexity that makes the cheap powder taste like sawdust in comparison.
I close my eyes involuntarily, savoring the combination.
When I open them, Lena is watching me intently, her bottom lip caught between her teeth.
“Well?” she asks, a hint of nervousness in her voice that seems out of place for someone who just graced the cover of the most prestigious food magazine in the monster world.
“It’s good,” I say simply.
She narrows her eyes. “Just good?”
I take another bite, considering. “The balance is perfect. Sweet but not cloying. The cinnamon complements the ube instead of fighting it.” I pause, searching for the right words. “It tastes like comfort. But interesting comfort.”
Her face lights up. “Yes! That’s exactly what I was going for!”
This is our new routine. She bakes. I taste. I give her my honest opinion. Not that I know much about baking, but I know what I like. And somehow, my blunt assessments have become valuable to her.
“What are you calling it?” I ask, reaching for another one.
She smacks my hand away playfully. “Not yet! These are just the test batch. I’m still tweaking the recipe.”
I grunt, licking the last crumbs from my fingers. “Seems perfect to me.”
“High praise from the guy who once told me pastries were ‘fine.’” She grins, turning back to her workstation.
I watch her move around the kitchen, completely in her element. This is what drew me to her from the beginning, though I’d never have admitted it then. The absolute certainty with which she approaches her craft. The joy she takes in creating something with her hands. It reminds me of my own work with wood, but where I am methodical and precise, she is intuitive and bold.
“I need to hire help,” she says suddenly, measuring flour without looking at the cups. “I can’t keep up with demand anymore.”
“About time,” I reply. “You’ve been working sixteen-hour days for weeks.”
