“So the labyrinth-building is innate? Not just a cultural expectation because of, you know…” I trailed off, suddenly worried I was being insensitive.
“Because of the myths?” He didn’t seem offended. “Perhaps. Nature and nurture are difficult to separate. I build because it satisfies something in me, not because of Greek legends.”
“I understand that,” I said. “I organize books because it brings me joy, not because librarian stereotypes dictate it.”
He nodded, a look of appreciation in his eyes. “Exactly.”
We ate in comfortable silence for a moment, the pasta delicious despite my earlier kitchen chaos. Rion’s bread was even better—crusty on the outside, tender within, with complex flavors that complemented the simple pasta perfectly.
“This bread is amazing,” I said after finishing a slice of the sourdough. “Seriously, you could sell this.”
“I considered it,” he admitted. “Opening a bakery. But the logistics of a minotaur-owned business in a human town seemed… complicated.”
The matter-of-fact way he said it made my heart ache. How many dreams had he modified or abandoned because of who—what—he was?
“Have you always lived so… apart?” I asked carefully.
He was quiet for a long moment, his dark eyes focused on something distant. “Not always,” he finally said. “There was a time when I tried to integrate more. Work construction jobs, interact with humans regularly.”
“What happened?”
“What usually happens.” His voice held no self-pity, just resignation. “Fear. Prejudice. Occasionally violence.”
I reached across the table without thinking, placing my hand over his much larger one. “I’m sorry.”
He looked at my hand on his, then up at my face, his expression unreadable. “It was a long time ago.”
“Still.” I didn’t move my hand, and neither did he. “It’s not fair.”
“Life rarely is.” He turned his hand beneath mine, his palm now facing upward, our fingers not quite interlaced but definitely touching. “But it has its moments of… unexpected grace.”
The way he looked at me as he said this made warmth spread through my chest. We sat there, food momentarily forgotten, hands connected across my small table.
“What about you?” he asked after a moment. “Has life been fair to Clara the librarian?”
I laughed softly. “Fair enough, I suppose. No major tragedies, just the usual disappointments. Failed relationships, career setbacks, the crushing realization that adulthood is mostly about pretending to know what you’re doing.”
“You seem to know what you’re doing,” he observed.
“That’s just good pretending,” I assured him. “Inside, I’m usually panicking about whether I’ve organized the Historical Fiction section correctly or if I’ll ever stop being the girl who tripped during her graduate school commencement.”
“You tripped?”
“Spectacularly,” I confirmed. “Cap flew off, gown billowed up, the whole works. There’s probably still footage circulating on campus.”
His mouth twitched. “I would have caught you.”
The simple statement, delivered with such certainty, made my breath catch. “I believe you would have.”
Our eyes held, and I became acutely aware that our hands were still touching, his warm and solid beneath mine. I reluctantly withdrew to take another sip of wine, needing a moment to compose myself.
“So,” I said, aiming for casual conversation, “what do you do besides building amazing labyrinths and baking incredible bread? Any hobbies? Secret talents?”
He seemed to consider the question seriously. “I carve,” he said finally. “Wood, mostly. Sometimes stone.”
“Carve what?”
“Furniture. Decorative pieces. Chess sets.”
