I slip my apron over my head, tying it with quick, practiced movements, and get to work. I’ve got pain au chocolat to laminate, sourdough to shape, and mango filling to cook down for a new tart recipe I’ve been tinkering with. No time for dwelling on mysterious midnight repair missions.
Except... my movements feel lighter today. More confident. I slap my dough onto the counter with extra force, just because I can. I load up my heaviest mixing bowl with double the usual amount of flour, place it near the edge—a spot that yesterdaywould have made it teeter dangerously—and watch it sit there, perfectly stable. I practically dance around my kitchen, music blasting from my portable speaker, taking advantage of every inch of my newly sturdy workspace.
I’m piping chocolate filling into croissants when I spot him through the window. Thorne, making his way across the courtyard, clipboard in hand. His dark horns gleam in the morning sunlight, curving up majestically from his head. He’s wearing a tight black t-shirt that clings to his shoulders like it’s afraid to let go, and a scowl that would send small children running for cover.
He stops to speak with the owner of the vintage clothing shop across the way, gesturing at something on his clipboard. His movements are crisp, efficient. All business. Not at all like someone who spent what must have been hours last night secretly fixing up my bakery.
I smile to myself, sliding the croissants into the oven.
I could let it go. Pretend I haven’t noticed. Match his stubborn silence with my own.
Or I could thank him properly and watch him squirm.
I opt for the latter, because I’m me, and tormenting my stoic landlord has become my favorite hobby. Plus, I know exactly how to do it: with food. His one weakness.
I assemble a box with military precision, selecting my best offerings: a chocolate-almond croissant still warm from the oven, a slice of guava cheesecake with a graham cracker crust that took me twelve attempts to perfect, a calamansi tart with toasted meringue, and my personal favorite—an ube pandesal roll glazed with condensed milk. Each item a different color, texture, flavor profile. A greatest hits album in pastry form.
I close the box, tie it with a sunshine-yellow ribbon because I know it’ll make him groan, and wait for the perfect moment.
It comes just after the morning rush dies down. Through the window, I see him exit the flower shop next door, making notes on his clipboard. I grab the box and dart out the front door, timing my “casual” sidewalk crossing to intercept him.
“Fancy meeting you here,” I say, as if bumping into him in front of his own building is some wild coincidence.
He looks up, those dark eyes narrowing slightly as they focus on me. “Reyes.”
Just my name. One word. Yet somehow he manages to pack it with a world of suspicion.
“Beautiful morning, isn’t it?” I gesture vaguely at the sky, which is actually overcast and threatening rain. “Perfect day for... making rounds? Is that what you call it? When you stalk around looking all official with your clipboard of doom?”
His left eyebrow twitches. “It’s called property management.”
“Riiiight.” I rock back on my heels, hugging the box to my chest. “Very important business. Lots of managing to do. Speaking of managing things...”
I thrust the box at him before I lose my nerve. He stares at it like I’m offering him a live grenade.
“What’s this?”
“A thank you,” I say simply.
His expression doesn’t change, but his ears—those adorable, furry, bovine ears—flick once. A tell. “For what?”
“Oh, I don’t know. For fixing my counter. And my shelves. And basically everything else in my kitchen that was one strong breeze away from collapse.”
He shifts his weight, his massive frame suddenly looking uncomfortable in a way that makes my heart do a stupid little flip. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I bite back my smile. “No? So my counter just... magically repaired itself overnight? And the shelves decided to straightenup on their own? And the trim fairy came to finish my windows?”
“Must have,” he grunts, still not taking the box.
“Well, then I guess this is for the counter fairy,” I say, pushing the box closer to his chest. “I hope they like pastries.”
For a moment, I think he might actually keep up the charade and refuse the box. But then, with a sigh that sounds like it’s dragged up from the depths of his soul, he takes it. His fingers brush against mine in the process, warm and rough, and I pretend not to notice the little spark that shoots up my arm.
“I have no idea what you’re thanking me for,” he insists, but the box is already securely in his grasp. “But I’ll... dispose of this properly.”
“You do that,” I say, grinning up at him. “Just be warned—proper disposal of those pastries requires teeth and an appreciation for butter.”
A muscle in his jaw twitches, like he’s fighting back something that might be dangerously close to amusement. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
