By the time my shift ended, I’d fielded at least a dozen knowing looks from Brenda and deflected several attempts from other coworkers to discover the source of my unusually cheerful mood. I wasn’t ready to share my secret with anyone else yet. For now, it was enough that Brenda knew and accepted this new reality.
As I walked home, the early evening air crisp against my skin, I pulled out my phone to text Rion again.
Just got off work. Thinking about what kind of dessert to bring tomorrow. Any preferences?
His reply came as I was unlocking my apartment door.
Something chocolate, perhaps. Or whatever you enjoy. I’m not particular.
I smiled, imagining his serious expression as he typed those words. Always so careful, so precise. Even in text, I could hear the measured cadence of his deep voice.
Chocolate it is. I make a pretty decent brownie. Not as good as your biscuits, but edible.
I set my bag down and kicked off my shoes, feeling the pleasant ache of a day spent on my feet. My phone buzzed again.
I’m certain they’ll be excellent. Like their maker.
My heart did a little flip at his words. Was Rion flirting with me? The thought made me giddy. I typed back:
Flattery will get you everywhere, you know.
I hesitated, then added:
I told Brenda about us today. About what you are. Hope that’s okay.
This time, the reply took longer to come. I had changed into comfortable clothes and started measuring ingredients for brownies when my phone finally vibrated.
I suspected you might. Was she… accepting?
The hesitation in his text was almost palpable. I could imagine him sitting in his beautiful labyrinth, those large hands carefully typing out the words, his dark eyes serious as he awaited my response.
More than accepting. She was excited for me. For us. And she told me about other monsters—sorry, non-humans—in town. Did you know Dr. Mercer’s wife is a werewolf?
I sent the text, then immediately followed with another:
She wants to meet you properly sometime. But I told her we’re taking things slow on the social front. No pressure at all.
The pause before his next reply was shorter.
I appreciate that. And yes, I was aware of Mrs. Mercer’s nature. Our paths have crossed occasionally at night. She’s been… respectful.
I found myself wondering what that encounter had looked like—a werewolf and a minotaur acknowledging each other in the darkness. It struck me again how little I truly knew about Rion’s world, about the hidden community of non-humans that apparently existed alongside us ordinary folks.
She mentioned a few others too. The baker on Elm Street is apparently a changeling? I had no idea.
His reply was surprisingly prompt.
Her cream puffs are exceptional. A benefit of fae ancestry, I suspect.
I laughed out loud, delighted by this glimpse into his knowledge of the supernatural community.
You’ve had her cream puffs? Rion! You’ve been holding out on me. We need to go there together sometime.
This time, the pause stretched so long that I began to worry I’d pushed too far. I was about to send a follow-up text when my phone finally buzzed.
I order delivery. I haven’t been inside the shop itself.
Of course. He wouldn’t risk the stares and whispers that would inevitably follow him into a public place like a bakery. A pang of sadness shot through me at the thought of him missing out onso many simple pleasures because of how others might react to him.
