A low rumble left him, and it took me a second to realize it was a chuckle.
“I am accustomed to discretion,” he said.
“I bet you are.”
His gaze lingered on me.
“Tomorrow night?” I asked. “I close at nine. The library will be empty.”
“Tomorrow night,” he agreed.
We stood there for a moment in the quiet of his private sanctuary, surrounded by books and light and all the evidence of his brilliant, careful mind. It struck me then, with unsettling clarity, that this wasn’t just fascination anymore. It wasn’t just curiosity about a minotaur, or admiration for an architect, or amusement over a texting mistake.
I wanted to know him.
“Would you like to see the terrace?” he asked.
“I’d love to.”
He led me down another corridor, narrower than the others. I pressed myself slightly towards the wall to give him room, acutely aware of my own tendency to trip over air. Despite my precautions, his arm brushed against mine as he passed—just the lightest contact, his fur unexpectedly soft against my skin. A jolt of something electric shot through me, and I sucked in a startled breath. The brief touch lingered, warm and unsettling.
If he noticed my reaction, he gave no indication. He continued forward, his movements fluid and controlled despite his size. I followed, my skin still tingling where we’d touched, trying to process my response.
It’s just because he’s a minotaur,I rationalized.Anyone would be hypersensitive to touching a mythological creature.
But as I watched his powerful body moving ahead of me, I wasn’t entirely convinced by my own explanation.
The passage opened onto a dramatic terrace suspended above the slope of the land. Glass railings left the view untouched. Forest spread below us in green waves, and in the distance a wide river gleamed like a silver ribbon under the afternoon sun.
“Oh,” I breathed. “This is spectacular.”
He moved to the edge. “This is why I chose the site. Privacy, yes. But also the relationship to the landscape.”
I joined him, careful to keep a little space between us even though every nerve in my body seemed intent on getting closer. From here I could see how the house emerged from the hillside, not imposed on the land so much as drawn out of it.
“You really did create something remarkable,” I said. “Not just a home. An experience.”
He turned to look at me. “Most humans do not understand that distinction.”
“I’m not most humans.”
His gaze held mine. “No. You are not.”
I had to look away first.
A breeze lifted my hair, carrying the scent of pine and stone and whatever strange magic had apparently taken over my life. A week ago, if someone had told me I’d be standing on a modernist terrace beside a minotaur architect, trying very hard not to develop a crush on him, I would have recommended therapy.
Instead, I found myself smiling.
“Why did you bring me here?” I asked.
He was quiet long enough that I thought he might refuse to answer.
“Curiosity,” he said at last. “You are the first human who has wanted to see my work because they were interested in the architecture rather than the novelty of a monster’s lair.”
“It’s hardly a lair,” I said. “More like a masterpiece.”
Something opened in his face again at that, small but unmistakable.
