She sighs, blowing a strand of hair from her face. “I know. It’s just...this has been my baby for so long. Hard to let someone else in.”
I understand that better than she knows. “You’re not letting go. You’re growing.”
She glances up at me, surprise in her eyes. “That’s actually really insightful.”
I shrug. “I have my moments.”
She laughs, and the sound still does things to me that I can’t quite explain. Makes me feel lighter. Makes me want to be the cause of it again and again.
The bell above the front door chimes, signaling more customers. Lena glances at the clock, then at the fresh batch of pastries cooling on the rack.
“Mind watching these while I handle the front?” she asks, already untying her apron.
“You trust me alone with your kitchen?” I raise an eyebrow.
“No,” she says cheerfully. “But I trust you not to let anything burn down because you know you’d have to rebuild it.”
She’s not wrong.
I settle onto a stool by the workstation, keeping an eye on the timer she’s set. Through the doorway, I can hear her greeting customers, her voice warm and excited as she describes the day’s offerings. The sound of her bakery thriving is oddly satisfying.
Three timers, two customer rushes, and one near-disaster with a sheet of parchment paper later, Lena returns to the kitchen with a mysterious box in her hands.
“What’s that?” I ask, eyeing it suspiciously.
“Something special,” she says, setting it down in front of me. “For you.”
I blink. “For me?”
She nods, suddenly looking almost shy. “Open it.”
I carefully lift the lid, revealing a single pastry nestled on a bed of dark purple tissue paper. It’s similar to the one I tried earlier, but larger, more intricately shaped. The edges are crimped in a pattern that reminds me of the designs I carved into her display for the competition. The top is brushed with a glossy caramel glaze that catches the light, making the whole thing shimmer.
“I’m calling it ‘The Minotaur’s Heart,’” she says softly. “Flaky pastry filled with cinnamon-ube cream and topped with caramel glaze.”
I stare at it, something thick and unnamed clogging my throat.
“You named a pastry after me?” My voice comes out rougher than I intended.
She nods, watching my reaction carefully. “It’s going on the permanent menu tomorrow. Unless you hate the idea?”
“No,” I say quickly. “I don’t hate it.”
What I don’t say—can’t say—is how much it means to me. To be seen this way. To be immortalized not as something fearsome or dangerous, but as something worthy of being savored. Enjoyed. Sought after.
I pick up the pastry, turning it in my hands, noting the care put into every fold, every crimp, every brushstroke of glaze.
“The shape,” I say, noticing it for the first time. “It’s not just a crescent.”
She smiles. “It’s a horn. Your horn, specifically. The curve is exact.”
I look closer, and she’s right. The pastry mimics the exact curve of my left horn—the one that’s slightly more pronounced than the right.
“You’ve been studying my horns,” I tease, trying to lighten the sudden heaviness in my chest.
Her cheeks flush slightly. “They’re very distinctive.”
I take a bite, and it’s even better than the test version. Richer, more complex, with a hint of something I didn’t taste before.
