Page 60 of Moist!

chapter four

THORNE

I hear her before she even reaches the door.

The light, quick rhythm of her footsteps across the courtyard. The faint hum under her breath, slightly off-key. The way the very air seems to shift, like the space itself is bracing for her arrival.

I should be used to it by now.

Instead, I exhale sharply, already knowing that whatever Lena Reyes wants today is going to cost me.

Then, the door swings open.

She steps inside my workshop like she belongs here, which—technically—she doesn’t. But she doesn’t seem to care, because she’s grinning, her dark eyes bright with mischief, and she’s carrying a bakery box like it’s some kind of peace offering.

Trouble.

She slams the box onto my workbench, dusting flour from her hands onto her apron, then looks up at me expectantly.

I fold my arms. “Reyes.”

“Thorne,” she counters, far too pleased with herself.

I glance at the box. “Bribery already?”

“Bribery?” She gasps, pressing a mock-offended hand to her chest. “That’s such a terrible thing to accuse me of.”

I arch a brow .

She sighs. Dramatically. “Fine. Yes. I’m here to ask for a favor.”

I don’t say anything, but my silence must be louder than words because she immediately barrels ahead.

“I got into the New Vegas Dessert Showcase.”

I blink, slow to process that one.

The New Vegas Dessert Showcase. The biggest culinary competition in the city. A week-long, high-stakes event where the best pastry chefs go to prove themselves.

It’s a big deal.

I know it’s a big deal.

But I’ll be damned if I let her know that I know.

“Huh,” I say, unimpressed.

Her eyes narrow. “Huh? That’s all you have to say?”

I shrug.

She groans, throwing her hands in the air. “Thorne, come on! This is huge! It’s the biggest competition in the city! If I win, I get a cash prize, promo spots in all the biggest food magazines, interviews?—”

I fight back a smirk as she waves her arms around, getting more animated by the second.

“And do you know what that kind of exposure does for a bakery like mine?” She doesn’t wait for an answer.

“It means I wouldn’t have to worry about foot traffic or if people are willing to try a human-run shop in an Otherkin city.

It means investors might take me seriously.

It means I could finally afford to hire staff instead of running myself into the ground every day. ”

She finally stops, breathless, then fixes me with a pointed look. “And if I get more business, that means I can pay my rent on time. Which benefits you, too, oh wise and mighty landlord.”

I huff a quiet laugh through my nose, shaking my head. “So this is about my money, then.”

“No, it’s about my money.” She crosses her arms, tapping her fingers against her sleeve. “Which, coincidentally, happens to be your money most of the time, too. ”

I stare at her for a long moment. Against my better judgment, I ask, “What do you want, Reyes?”

She brightens immediately, like she’s been waiting for me to ask. “Funny you should say that, Thorne?—”

I close my eyes briefly. Regret. So much regret.

“I need a dessert display,” she continues, pacing now. “Not just any display, but something that fits the theme.”

I exhale slowly, rubbing my temple. “Let me guess. Something ridiculous.”

She points at me. “Whimsical.”

“Which means ridiculous.”

“Which means visionary.”

I grunt. “What’s the theme?”

She stops pacing, turns to face me fully, then says, “Wanderlust.”

The word hits me strangely. Like a weight I wasn’t expecting.

Wanderlust. The desire to travel. To move. To never stay still long enough for the roots to take hold.

I know it too well.

She must see something shift in my expression, because her voice softens slightly as she explains.

“I want to create something that feels like movement. Like adventure.” Her hands move as she speaks, like she’s already shaping it in the air. “Something that makes people feel like they’re going somewhere, even if they’re standing still.”

I feel a tug in my chest that I don’t like.

Because I know exactly what she means.

A home that isn’t a place, but a feeling.

Something that carries the best parts of itself wherever it goes.

It’s too familiar.

Too close to what I’ve spent my whole life trying not to think about.

The restlessness that drives Minotaurs from their herds. The need to find our own territories, stake our own claims. How we circle and pace and never quite settle .

Until we do.

And then we never leave again.

For a second, I almost say yes right then.

But before I can, she slides the bakery box closer.

Her smile is pure trouble.

I scowl. “Really?”

She lifts the lid, revealing perfectly golden croissants, layers crisp and delicate. And when she slowly, deliberately, breaks one open?—

The scent hits me like a punch to the chest.

A swirl of deep purple ube filling, smooth and rich, its earthy sweetness melding with the buttery dough.

I go very, very still.

Because this?

This is not fair.

She must see the way my nostrils flare slightly because she smirks. “New recipe.”

I say nothing.

She tilts her head. “You sure you don’t want to help me?”

I glare at her. Then at the croissant.

Then, grudgingly, I reach for it.

Her victorious little noise makes my teeth grind.

But the moment I take a bite, I know I’ve lost completely.

It’s soft and flaky, the filling smooth and just sweet enough, the layers shattering perfectly between my teeth.

Gods.

I would run through the Labyrinth all over again if this was at the end of it.

I chew slowly, deliberately, then level her with a flat stare.

“You’re an evil woman, Reyes.”

She beams. “So I’ve been told.”

I sigh. Deeply.

“Fine,” I mutter. “I’ll build your damn display.”

She throws her hands up in victory. “Yes! I knew it!”

“But you’re helping. ”

“Done.”

“And if you change your mind halfway through and decide you want a floating, spinning, levitating monstrosity?—”

“Thorne,” she says solemnly, resting a hand over her heart. “Would I ever do that to you?”

I stare at her.

She snickers.

I sigh again, shoving another croissant into my mouth.

This is going to be a nightmare.

And I’m going to let it happen.

“So,” she says, hopping up to sit on my workbench—which she knows drives me insane. “I was thinking of a multi-level display. Something that feels like terrain. Like...mountains and valleys. Each level would showcase a different dessert, telling part of the story.”

I nod, chewing. It’s not the worst idea. Structurally sound, at least.

“And I want it to incorporate movement somehow,” she continues, swinging her legs. “Maybe parts that rotate? Or a waterfall element with sugar glass?”

I swallow. “You’re pushing it.”

“I’m dreaming big,” she corrects. “There’s a difference.”

“Not to my schedule.”

She waves a dismissive hand. “You don’t have a schedule. You have a workshop and a perpetual scowl.”

“I have clients,” I growl. “Paying clients. With deadlines.”

“I’ll pay you.”

“With what? More baked goods that you know I can’t resist? That’s not payment, Reyes. That’s manipulation.”

She grins. “Is it working?”

I glare at her.

“Fine,” she says, rolling her eyes. “Croissants every day for a month.”

“Pass.”

“Ube croissants. ”

I hesitate, then shake my head. “Not enough.”

She narrows her eyes, assessing me. “Weekly dinners. Homecooked Filipino food.”

Now she has my attention. I’ve smelled her cooking when she makes it for herself. The rich, savory aromas that drift up from her apartment and make my mouth water. Dishes I’ve never tasted but somehow know I would crave.

“For how long?” I ask, trying to sound bored.

“Duration of the project.”

I consider this. The competition is in three weeks. The build itself would take at least a week, maybe more depending on complexity. That’s a decent amount of meals.

“And your firstborn child,” I deadpan.

She snorts. “Bold of you to assume I’ll ever reproduce.”

“Fine. Croissants, dinner, and I set the parameters of the design.” I fix her with a firm look. “No last-minute changes, no ‘what if we just added one more thing,’ no ‘wouldn’t it be cool if’—none of that.”

She pouts. “That takes all the fun out of it.”

“That’s the point.”

She sighs, considering. “Okay, but I do get some input. It’s my vision.”

“Input, yes. Veto power, no.”

“Half veto power.”

“That’s not a thing.”

“Quarter veto power.”

I rub my forehead. “What does that even mean?”

“It means I get to veto one-fourth of your vetoes.”

“That’s...” I pause, trying to work out the logic. “No. That’s ridiculous.”

“Fine,” she says, crossing her arms. “But you have to at least listen to my ideas before you shoot them down. Actually listen. Not just grunt and say no.”

I consider this. It’s not unreasonable. “Deal.”

She sticks out her hand, and I take it cautiously. Her fingers are warm, slightly rough from years of working with dough and hot ovens. The contact sends an unwelcome jolt up my arm.

I release her hand quickly.

She hops off the workbench, leaving a small cloud of flour behind. “Great! When do we start?”

“I need to finish the Hendersons’ table first. Day after tomorrow.”

“Perfect,” she says, already backing toward the door. “I’ll bring sketches. And dinner. We can plan the whole thing!”

I nod, not trusting myself to speak.

She pauses at the door, that mischievous grin back on her face. “This is going to be fun, Thorne.”

“Fun,” I repeat flatly.

“Yes, fun. That thing normal people experience occasionally. You should try it sometime.”

“I experience fun.”

“Staring at wood grain doesn’t count.”

“It does to me.”

She laughs, and the sound is bright and sudden in my quiet workshop. “I’ll see you Thursday. Six o’clock. Don’t be late.”

“It’s my workshop.”

“And it’s my food,” she counters, and then she’s gone, the door swinging shut behind her.

The workshop feels strangely empty in her absence. Quieter, certainly. But also...flatter somehow. Less vibrant.

I shake my head, clearing it. This is a business arrangement. Nothing more. She needs a display for her competition, and I need...well, I don’t really need anything, which is the problem. I’ve let myself be bribed with pastries and the promise of home-cooked meals.

Ridiculous.

I turn back to the Hendersons’ table, running my palm over the smooth mahogany surface. The wood is cool beneath my touch, grounding me. This is what I do. This is what I know. Solid, tangible things that stay where you put them .

Not flighty bakers with flour-dusted cheeks and smiles that seem to reshape the air around them.

I reach for my sander, determined to focus.

But when I glance at the bakery box she left behind, I can’t help but grab another croissant. The buttery scent fills my workshop, mingling with the smell of wood and varnish. The contrast shouldn’t work.

But it does.

It works too well.

I take a bite, savoring it.

Three weeks. I can handle three weeks of Lena Reyes in my space, with her wild ideas and her food and her laughter that seems to bounce off the walls.

It’s just a project.

Nothing more.

I ignore the voice in the back of my head that calls me a liar.