Page 61 of Moist!

chapter five

LENA

One Week Later

I have three types of flour in my hair, butter smeared on my elbow, and a Minotaur glowering at me from across the workbench like I’m the bane of his existence.

Which, to be fair—I probably am. But in my defense, this is fun.

Thorne, however, looks deeply, personally offended by the way I am handling his sacred wood.

“Reyes,” he says, voice gruff with disapproval.

I blink up at him, all innocence. “Yes, dear?”

He scowls. “Stop touching the sander.”

“But I wanna help,” I say sweetly, hand hovering dangerously close to his equipment.

“You’re not helping,” he grits out, crossing his massive arms. “You’re causing problems on purpose.”

I grin. “That’s my specialty.”

He sighs like a man being tested by the gods. “Move.”

I do not move.

Instead, I grab the sander dramatically, press it to a random plank of wood, and immediately regret all my life choices when the thing roars to life and vibrates out of my hands.

It smacks into my shoulder, then hits the floor with a loud BZZZZT?—

Thorne catches it mid-bounce, one-handed, like it weighs nothing.

Then he stares at me.

I stare back.

Neither of us speak.

Then—slowly, deliberately—he sets the sander back onto the bench, folds his arms again, and tilts his head.

“Well,” I say weakly, “that was unfortunate.”

Thorne does not blink.

I clear my throat. “See, this is why I work with dough and not power tools?—”

“Out,” he says.

I gasp. “You’re kicking me out of my own dessert display?”

He picks up a two-by-four like it’s a toothpick. “Yes.”

“But I brought you dinner!”

That makes him pause.

I knew it.

Thorne is a creature of habit. He pretends to be all stoic and uninterested, but I’ve seen the way he hovers whenever I bring food over.

“You’ll like this one,” I say, sweetening my tone as I pull out a neatly wrapped package from my tote bag. “Promise.”

Thorne narrows his eyes.

I unwrap the package.

His nostrils flare.

I bite back a smug grin.

Because no matter how grumpy and bull-headed he is, the man has no defenses against a good meal.

And I have weaponized that fact. The man may act like he’s made of stone, but his stomach betrays him every time.

When I suggested bringing dinner tonight so we could work late on the display, he grunted what I chose to interpret as enthusiastic agreement. Now, as the rich aroma of freshly baked empanadas fills his workshop, I can see his resolve crumbling.

“What is it?” he asks, trying to sound disinterested and failing spectacularly.

“Beef empanadas,” I say, unwrapping more of the package with deliberate slowness. “Ground beef, potatoes, peas, carrots. My lola’s recipe. She always added extra garlic.”

Thorne’s eyes follow my hands. “Smells...acceptable.”

I snort. “Such high praise.”

He looks at the food, then at the mess I’ve made of his workshop, then back at the food.

I can practically see the calculations happening behind those dark eyes.

“Fine,” he finally says. “You can stay. But no more tools.”

I beam at him. “Deal.”

Fifteen minutes later, we’re sitting on the floor of his workshop, halfway through a plate of flaky beef empanadas and warm, buttery pandesal.

Thorne eats like he’s in a competition.

I watch, mildly horrified, as he demolishes four empanadas and an entire bag of pandesal like it’s an appetizer.

“Okay, I have questions,” I say, tearing off a piece of bread.

Thorne grunts, mouth full.

“Your diet,” I say, gesturing to him. “It’s, like, all protein, all the time.”

Another grunt.

I squint at him. “Do you actually eat anything that isn’t steak?”

He pauses, considering.

Then—a shrug.

“Oh my gods.” I gasp. “You don’t, do you?”

He takes another massive bite of empanada. “Meat is efficient.”

I reel. “Efficient? ”

“Protein, iron,” he says, chewing. “Fuel.”

I stare at him in horror.

“You’re telling me,” I say slowly, “that you willingly live a life devoid of pastries.”

A pause.

Then, finally, a begrudging “I eat them sometimes.”

I narrow my eyes. “But you don’t love them.”

His gaze flickers, just slightly. “They’re...fine.”

I gasp, clutching my chest. “Thorne. That’s the worst thing you’ve ever said to me.”

He huffs, setting down his plate. “Reyes?—”

“No, you don’t understand,” I say, gripping his forearm like I’m about to lead him to salvation. “You can’t just say pastries are fine. That’s a crime.”

My fingers wrap around his arm, and I’m momentarily distracted by how solid he is beneath my touch. The man is built like a fortress. All dense muscle and warm skin.

Thorne sighs through his nose, the way he does when he regrets all his life choices.

“You are deprived,” I say solemnly, pulling my hand back before I can dwell on how nice his arm felt. “And I am going to fix you.”

He blinks. “What?”

I point at him. “Tomorrow. I’m bringing a selection of pastries, and we are going to find you a favorite.”

“I don’t need?—”

“No, no, no.” I shake my head. “We’re doing this. For your soul.”

He exhales. Deeply.

But I see it—the way his mouth twitches, the way his shoulders relax, just slightly.

He doesn’t want to admit it, but he likes this.

He likes being here, eating with me, bickering over food.

I tuck my legs underneath me, popping another bite of pandesal into my mouth, and watch him .

And for the first time, I let myself admit something I shouldn’t.

I like this, too.

The food between us creates a bridge that wasn’t there before. It’s comfortable, this shared meal on his workshop floor, surrounded by sawdust and wood shavings and the blueprints we’ve been arguing over for days.

“So,” I say, changing the subject before I can think too hard about why I enjoy his company, “the base structure.”

Thorne nods, reaching for the sketches he’s made. “Three tiers. The bottom needs to be wider for stability. Each level connects with these supports.”

He points to the design, his large finger tracing the lines with surprising delicacy.

“I want each tier to represent a different place,” I explain, scooting closer to see the blueprint. “The bottom is home—the Philippines. Purple ube cake, coconut elements. The middle tier is the journey—bright, surprising flavors. And the top is the destination—something new and unexpected.”

Thorne considers this, his brow furrowed in concentration. “We could incorporate different wood textures for each level. The bottom could have carved patterns that echo Filipino designs.”

I stare at him, slightly stunned.

“What?” he asks, noticing my expression.

“You—you researched Filipino designs?”

He shrugs, looking almost embarrassed. “Basic research. For the project.”

My heart does a ridiculous little flutter. “That’s really thoughtful.”

He grunts, turning back to the blueprint. “It’s just practical.”

But I can see the faint color rising up his neck, and it makes me unreasonably happy.

We finish eating, and Thorne stands, gathering the plates. “Back to work. No tools.”

I pout. “But how will I help? ”

“You can hand me things,” he says firmly. “From a safe distance.”

I roll my eyes but follow him back to the workbench. I watch as he measures and marks a piece of wood, his movements precise and deliberate. There’s something hypnotic about the way he works—focused, methodical, every action serving a purpose.

It’s the opposite of how I bake, where I’m all intuition and spontaneity.

“You’re staring,” he says without looking up.

“I’m observing,” I correct. “Professional curiosity.”

He snorts. “About wood?”

“About you,” I say before I can stop myself. “I mean, about how you work. It’s different from baking.”

He glances up at me, expression unreadable. “How?”

I lean against the workbench, careful not to disturb his materials. “When I bake, I follow recipes, sure, but there’s a feeling to it. You have to know when the dough feels right, when to trust your instincts. But you—” I gesture to his precise measurements. “You’re all about exactness.”

Thorne considers this. “Wood doesn’t forgive mistakes.”

“Neither does baking, sometimes,” I admit. “But there’s more room for improvisation.”

He returns to his work, but I can tell he’s thinking about what I said.

“That’s why you’re good at it,” he says after a moment. “The improvisation.”

I blink, surprised by the compliment. “Did you just say I’m good at something?”

He rolls his eyes. “Don’t make me regret it.”

I grin, watching as he carefully sands a piece of wood. The way his large hands handle such delicate work is fascinating. For someone so imposing, he has remarkable control.

“Can I try again?” I ask, pointing to a small piece of wood. “Just sanding. No power tools.”

He gives me a look .

“Please?” I wheedle. “I’ll be careful.”

He sighs, then hands me a piece of sandpaper. “By hand. Gentle pressure. Go with the grain.”

I accept the sandpaper solemnly, like it’s a sacred object. “I won’t let you down.”

He glowers at me.

I grin and start sanding, trying to mimic his movements. It’s harder than it looks—finding the right pressure, the right angle. But after a few minutes, I start to get a feel for it.

“Not terrible,” Thorne concedes, inspecting my work.

I beam at him. “High praise from the master.”

He shakes his head, but there’s that twitch at the corner of his mouth again. Almost a smile.

An hour later, the workbench is covered in sawdust and blueprints, and I am officially banned from handling power tools.

Which is rude, but fair.

“You could’ve lost a finger,” Thorne says, inspecting my absolutely tragic attempt at sanding a curved piece.

I roll my eyes. “I think it adds character.”

He gives me a look.

Then, out of nowhere—he flicks a bit of sawdust at me.

I blink. “Did you just?—”

He shrugs, completely unbothered. “Dust happens.”

Oh. Oh, this means war.

I reach for the nearest bag of flour that I brought for my baking demonstration.

Thorne’s eyes widen.

“Reyes,” he warns.

I grab a handful of flour and chuck it at his face.

It explodes on impact, dusting his entire upper body in white powder.

For a full second, there is silence.

Then—slowly, deliberately—he wipes a hand down his flour-covered face and stares at me.

I grin .

He reaches for the bag.

I scream.

I try to dodge, but I am small, and he is fast.

And before I know it, I am absolutely covered in flour.

I gasp, outraged. “You cheated!”

He arches a brow. “You started it.”

“I am a delicate baker,” I say, gesturing to my disaster of an apron. “You are a beast of war.”

His mouth twitches.

I see it.

And before I can overthink it, I point at him. “I knew you could smile.”

He rolls his eyes—but he doesn’t deny it.

The workshop is a mess. We’re both covered in flour, and the carefully laid out blueprints are now dusted with white powder. But standing here, watching Thorne try not to smile as flour clings to his horns, I can’t bring myself to care.

“This display better win,” he mutters, brushing flour from his shirt. “After all this.”

“It will,” I say confidently. “We’re an unstoppable team. You with your precision, me with my?—”

“Chaos?” he suggests.

“Improvisational creative energy,” I correct primly.

He makes a sound that might almost be a laugh.

I freeze, staring at him.

“What?” he asks, suddenly self-conscious.

“Nothing,” I say quickly. “Just...Didn’t know you could make that sound.”

He scowls, but there’s no heat behind it. “Don’t get used to it.”

I smile, tucking the memory away. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

As we start cleaning up the flour mess, working side by side in comfortable silence, I realize something that should probably worry me more than it does :

I am really, really looking forward to spending the next few weeks with my grumpy Minotaur landlord.

And for the first time, I think he might be looking forward to it too.

Or at least, he’s looking forward to the pastries.

Which, honestly? Is a good enough place to start.