Page 57 of Moist!

chapter one

LENA

There is a very real possibility that I have made a terrible mistake.

Not with the bakery—that part I’m confident about. Mostly.

The ovens work (sometimes). The decor is charming (if you squint past the still-unfinished trim). And the name? Moist? Unapologetically perfect, despite the visceral reactions it gets from some people.

No, the real mistake is the leche flan donuts currently on fire in my oven.

The acrid scent of burnt caramel and singed vanilla fills the air, twisting around the warm, buttery scent of freshly baked pandesal, which had been making the kitchen smell heavenly until now. I fling the oven door open, and a thick wave of smoke rolls out like it’s escaping a crime scene.

My eyes burn. My lungs wheeze in protest. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I register the sharp screech of the fire alarm exploding through my bakery.

Then, I hear him.

A deep, rumbling groan from the front of the shop. Like an avalanche of pure irritation.

Oh no. Oh no no no.

I grab the baking sheet with my mitts and fling it into the sink, turning on the water to douse my molten failure. A loud hiss of steam billows up, adding to the absolute disaster of humidity in my tiny kitchen. I cough, waving my arms like a frantic bird, trying to fan away the smoke before?—

BANG.

The front door slams open, shaking in its frame. Heavy footfalls stomp across my brand-new floors, each step vibrating through my bones. And then, like a demon conjured by my own bad decisions, he appears in the doorway.

Thorne.

My massive, broody Minotaur landlord, looking like he was personally dragged out of his peaceful existence just to deal with me.

His thick arms are crossed over his chest, muscles flexing beneath his fitted black thermal, and his curved horns—normally polished and regal—are currently tilted at a very aggressive angle, like he’s already preparing to headbutt me into another dimension.

His dark eyes narrow at the sight of me, the charred remnants of my donuts, and the still-wailing fire alarm.

I try for a winning smile, despite the ash smudge on my cheek and the fact that my hair probably smells like disappointment.

“Thorne! Fancy seeing you here.”

His jaw clenches. “Lena.”

I clear my throat. “So, um. I can explain.”

“You set something on fire.” His voice is deep, rough, like he gargles with gravel every morning. It shouldn’t make my stomach do a little flip, but well, here we are.

“Well. Technically, I only half set something on fire. The other half is just...very well-done.”

He says nothing, but the sheer weight of his judgment is crushing. I can feel it pressing down on my shoulders, making me want to shrink into the floor tiles. But I’ve never been good at shrinking. My mom always said I was born taking up space and never learned how to stop.

I grab the nearest towel and wave it at the smoke detector, hopping a little to reach it. Thorne sighs—a long, exasperated sound—before effortlessly reaching up and silencing the alarm with one press of his thick finger. The silence that follows is somehow worse.

I peek at him from beneath my lashes, testing the waters. “So. You wanna try a pandesal while you’re here?”

His glare does not soften. “You’re going to burn this place down.”

“Not this place,” I say brightly. “Just the things inside it.”

Nothing. No reaction. Just pure, unfiltered Minotaur disappointment.

When I signed the lease three months ago, I didn’t realize I was also signing up for regular doses of this—Thorne looming in my space, making me feel like I’m a delinquent teenager instead of a thirty-five-year-old woman with a culinary degree and a dream.

Which, fine, I can deal with that but did I mention the horns? His are magnificently distracting, curving up and out from his temples, polished to a glossy sheen. I’ve never asked if he buffs them or if that’s their natural state. Seems intrusive.

I cross my arms and tilt my chin up at him. “If it makes you feel better, the next batch will be fine. It’s just caramel. The sugar got too hot.”

“It’s the third time this week.”

I wince. “Okay, well. Third time’s the charm, right?”

Thorne exhales sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose like I am actively shortening his lifespan. “I own this building, Reyes. I have a vested interest in making sure it does not spontaneously combust because you can’t control your oven.”

“Okay, first of all, rude.” I point at him with my tongs. “Second, I’m a professional. I can control my oven. The oven just doesn’t respect me.”

He gives me a flat, unimpressed look. “That’s not how ovens work.”

“That’s absolutely how ovens work. This one is temperamental. It has moods. ”

I pat the stainless steel monster affectionately. Traitor that it is, the oven chooses that moment to make an ominous clicking sound. I quickly remove my hand. “We’re still getting to know each other.”

Thorne’s nostrils flare, and I swear I can see a tiny puff of steam. Do Minotaurs breathe fire? I don’t think so, but with the way he’s looking at me, I wouldn’t be surprised if he developed the ability on the spot.

“Look,” I say, softer this time, because I do feel bad. Kind of. “I’m sorry about the alarm. I know you live right upstairs, and I’m not trying to be a nuisance.”

“Could have fooled me,” he mutters, but there’s less bite in it.

I huff, turning back to my counter, where perfectly golden pandesal sit in a warm basket. I grab one, tear it open—releasing a soft, buttery wisp of steam—and shove it at him.

“Here,” I say, thrusting the bread into his giant hand. “For your troubles.”

He stares at it like I just offered him a live grenade, his thick fingers curling around the roll.

The contrast is almost comical—my small, golden bread roll nestled in his palm, which could probably crush it with the lightest squeeze.

But he doesn’t crush it. He holds it carefully, like he’s afraid it might be as combustible as my donuts.

“It’s not poison,” I tell him. “Although if I wanted to murder you, that would be a very efficient way to do it. Gain your trust with baked goods and then—bam!—arsenic brioche.”

His eyebrow quirks up. “Is that meant to be reassuring?”

“I’m just saying,” I shrug, “I wouldn’t waste good food on murder. So you’re safe.”

He doesn’t respond. But after a long, tense moment, he takes a bite.

And I swear, for just a second, I see his ears flick—a tiny, involuntary twitch—before he tears off another piece.

I wipe my hands on my apron. “See? I make good things, too. Not just smoke hazards. ”

Victory.

It’s small, but it’s there. A crack in the armor. The pandesal is a family recipe, soft and pillowy on the inside with a delicate crust that shatters just right between your teeth. It’s simple, but that’s the point. Good bread doesn’t need to be complicated. It just needs to be good.

And judging by the way Thorne’s shoulders have dropped about half an inch—which for him is the equivalent of a standing ovation—it’s good.

I beam at him, already grabbing another roll. “Oh, if you like that, you should try my ube pandesal next?—”

Thorne turns on his heel and stomps out of my kitchen, grumbling the entire way.

“You’re going to kill me,” he mutters under his breath.

I grin. “Not before I fatten you up first.”

He pauses at the door, and for a split second, I think he might turn around. Say something. Maybe even crack a smile, though that’s probably asking too much of the universe.

Instead, he just shakes his head and continues his retreat, the door swinging shut behind him with a definitive click.

I’m left alone in my kitchen, surrounded by the lingering smell of smoke, burnt sugar, and buttery bread. I glance at the sink, where my failed donuts sit like sad, charred hockey pucks.

“Well,” I tell them, “at least something good came out of this disaster.”

Because now I know two important things: Thorne likes my bread, and somewhere under all that grump is a man who can be tempted by food.

I turn back to my counter, rolling up my sleeves. The leche flan donuts were a bust, but I’ve got four hours before opening, a kitchen full of ingredients, and the satisfaction of watching a grumpy Minotaur enjoy my baking.

Not a bad morning after all.

I reach for my flour, only to pause as a thought hits me. Maybe Thorne would prefer something less caramel-adjacent for my next attempt. Something with cinnamon, perhaps? Everyone loves cinnamon. Even brooding landlords with magnificent horns and permanent scowls.

I pull out my recipe book, flipping to a dog-eared page. Cinnamon churro muffins. Perfect.

“Don’t worry,” I tell my oven, patting it gently. “We’ll get it right this time.”

The oven makes another suspicious click.

I narrow my eyes at it. “Don’t you dare. We’re in this together.”

Somewhere upstairs, I can imagine Thorne pacing in his apartment, wondering if the fire department should be on standby. The thought makes me smile.

Let him worry. The next thing he tastes is going to knock his horns off.

I turn the dial on the oven, ready for round two. This bakery might be called Moist, but I’m determined to make sure that, at least for today, nothing else in it catches fire.