Page 58 of Moist!

chapter two

THORNE

This woman is going to kill me.

Not in the normal ways people die—sword through the gut, a battle lost, the slow decay of age.

No. Lena Reyes is going to set my damn building on fire, give me an aneurysm, or worse.

Make me like her.

I can still taste the pandesal she shoved at me. Warm. Buttery. Soft as a damn cloud. And now, the scent of her bakery is stuck in my skull—fresh bread, melted sugar, and a whisper of something floral beneath it all. Something her.

I scowl at my own thoughts, dragging a rough hand down my face as I stomp back into my workshop. The scent of wood shavings and sawdust does its best to ground me, but it’s too late.

My kitchen smells like her damn bread.

I groan and yank open my fridge, looking for anything to erase the lingering taste of indulgence. I grab the nearest bottle of protein shake—unflavored, no sugar, pure suffering—and down it in three gulps, willing the richness of her baking off my tongue.

It doesn’t work. Because I can still hear her voice.

“See? I make good things too. Not just smoke hazards.”

I grit my teeth and flex my fingers, fighting the phantom sensation of that stupid, perfect pandesal in my hand. Small, warm, the edges brushing my fingertips as she shoved it at me like an offering.

I shouldn’t have taken it. I should have walked away.

Instead, I bit into the softest, most insultingly perfect piece of bread I’ve ever had in my life. And I must have reacted, because I saw the glint in her eyes.

Like she knew, and is at this moment, using this weakness to somehow manipulate me further.

I don’t know what’s worse: that I know she’s doing it, or that I look forward to her machinations?

I grunt and slam the fridge shut, as if the action can somehow eject her from my thoughts.

Reyes is nothing but a headache of a tenant. A fire hazard wrapped in a too-small apron, running a bakery with the worst name I’ve ever heard.

Moist.

Gods.

Every time I hear it, I want to commit an act of violence.

And yet, my feet still move on their own. Crossing the floor of the converted loft that I use as my workspace separate from my apartment, I stand near the window where I have a clear view of her shop across the courtyard.

Through the window, I can see her moving behind the counter, kneading something for her day’s supply or probably more bread designed to ruin me.

Her sleeves are rolled up, exposing slim forearms dusted with flour.

She tucks a loose strand of dark hair behind her ear, frowning slightly as she works the dough, her hands pressing and folding, rhythmic and sure.

My breath comes a little too slow. I should be able to ignore her. Instead, I notice things. Things I shouldn’t. Things I’ve been actively ignoring since I first opened my door to her manic grin, waving my rental flyer in my face.

Like how small and vulnerable she looked all on her own. How she bites the inside of her cheek when she’s concentrating. Or how she leans into her work, utterly unafraid of a mess, as if baking is the only thing in the world that matters.

I tell myself I’m just making sure she doesn’t burn the place down again.

That’s all.

That’s the only reason I’m standing here like an idiot, watching a human woman knead dough as if it’s some kind of hypnotic ritual.

Then, as if sensing me, she suddenly looks up.

Our eyes meet.

I don’t move.

For half a second, neither does she.

Then, she grins. That infuriating, too-bright grin—like she’s caught me in something, like she sees the battle I’m trying to win against myself.

And because she is a menace, she waves at me.

I stalk away from the window. Swear under my breath. Refuse to look back.

I throw myself into my work, hoping the rhythm of sanding wood will drown out the sound of her laughter that somehow echoes in my head despite the solid brick walls between us.

My workshop takes up half of my apartment—a massive open space filled with tools, lumber, and works in progress.

Custom furniture is my business. My livelihood. My sanity.

And I’m good at it. Damn good. I know exactly how much pressure to apply to make rough edges smooth, how to coax beauty from raw materials, how to turn chaos into order.

Unfortunately, I can’t seem to do the same with one tiny human baker.

I run my palm over the surface of a mahogany tabletop I’ve been commissioned to finish by the end of the week. The wood is cool and responsive beneath my touch, exactly as it should be.

I switch to a finer grit of sandpaper, focusing on the repetitive motions, trying to channel my frustration into something productive.

My horns feel heavy tonight, the base of my skull tense with the effort of carrying them. I should rest. Take a break. But rest means thinking, and thinking means?—

No. I’m not going there.

I’m not thinking about her tiny kitchen, or the way she hopped up and down trying to reach the smoke detector, or how she didn’t flinch when I burst through her door looking ready to gore someone.

Most humans at least hesitate when faced with an angry Minotaur.

Their instincts kick in, warning them of danger, telling them to back away slowly.

Not Lena. She just stood there, covered in flour and char, smiling like I was an expected guest rather than a landlord ready to evict her for being a walking insurance claim.

I growl, catching myself. This is ridiculous. I’m being ridiculous.

I stalk to the kitchen, where I grab a glass and fill it with water, downing it in one go. My reflection in the window above the sink glares back at me—dark eyes, broad shoulders, horns curving out from my temples like a permanent accusation.

“Get it together,” I mutter to myself.

The water does nothing to wash away the thoughts of her. Nothing ever does. I’ve tried.

For three months, I’ve tried to ignore the scents wafting up from her bakery—the cinnamon, the vanilla, the chocolate, the things I don’t even have names for.

I’ve tried to tune out the sound of her singing to herself in the early mornings, her voice carrying through the old building’s vents.

I’ve tried to forget the curve of her smile when she signed the lease, the way she looked up at me without an ounce of fear and said, “Don’t worry, I’m going to be your favorite tenant. ”

She’s not. She’s not my favorite anything. She’s a pain in my ass who can’t operate an oven without creating a four-alarm fire hazard.

And yet.

I find myself back at the window, looking down at her shop again.

I force myself back to my workbench. I pick up my tools. I focus on the grain of the wood, the texture beneath my fingers, the project that needs finishing.

I do not think about soft brown eyes or flour-dusted hands or the sweet, spicy scent of cinnamon that’s somehow found its way up to my apartment despite all logic and reason.

I don’t think about the way she says my name—“Thorne”—like it’s something to be savored rather than feared.

I don’t think about how long it’s been since anyone looked at me without that initial flicker of apprehension, that instinctive step back that humans can’t seem to help around Minotaurs.

I don’t think about how she does the opposite—steps closer, looks up, challenges me with those eyes that see too much.

I don’t think about any of it.

Until my phone buzzes with a text.

Unknown number

The cinnamon churro muffins didn’t catch fire! Progress! Want one? They’re still warm.

I stare at the screen for a long moment, not even questioning how she got my personal number. She probably found it on some paperwork. The woman is relentless.

I should ignore it. Block the number. Do literally anything other than what I’m about to do.

I type back.

Thorne

No

A pause. Then my phone buzzes again.

Unknown number

Your mouth says no but your eyes said “feed me, Lena.”

I growl at the screen. I’ve never said that in my life. I’ve never even thought those words in that order.

Thorne

Stop watching me through the window.

Unknown number

Stop watching ME through the window.

I feel a rush of heat crawl up my neck. Caught. Damn it.

Unknown number

Seriously though. One muffin. Then I promise I’ll leave you alone for at least 12 hours.

The bargaining. As if twelve hours of peace is some generous offer.

I shouldn’t respond. I shouldn’t engage. I’ll tell her right now.

Thorne

I’ll come get it. Stop texting me.

Unknown number

I put the phone down and stare at it as if it’s betrayed me. My fingers, too, are traitors, typing out words I know better than to say aloud.

I shouldn’t go down there. I need to finish my work, and pretend Lena Reyes doesn’t exist.

Instead, I find myself washing my hands, changing my sawdust-covered shirt for a clean one, and heading for the door.

As I descend the stairs, each footfall heavy with resignation, I tell myself this is just about the muffin. After all, her fire alarm woke me earlier than I had intended. And, I need to make sure whatever she’s baking won’t set off another alarm.

That’s it. It’s not about her smile, or her fearlessness, or the way she looks at me like I’m something worth looking at.

It’s definitely not about that.