Page 62 of Moist!

chapter six

THORNE

One Week Later

The second I hear her yelp, I move. It’s not a conscious decision.

One moment, I’m sanding down a support beam for her dessert display, and the next, I’m in her too-small kitchen, scanning for blood, broken bones, missing limbs—anything that would explain that sound that just punched through my chest like a physical blow.

Lena stands at the counter, completely intact, shaking out her hand with an annoyed little hiss.

“Damn it,” she mutters under her breath. “Stupid tray?—”

I grab her wrist before I can stop myself.

She startles, eyes flying up to meet mine. “Thorne?—?”

Her hand is small in mine, the heat of the burn radiating against my fingertips. Her skin is already turning an angry pink, and something inside me snaps tight.

“You burned yourself.” My voice comes out gruffer than I mean it to.

Lena rolls her eyes. “It’s nothing.”

I don’t let go. Because it is not nothing .

It’s a burn. It’s pain. It’s her in pain, and my body doesn’t know what to do with that information.

I drag her over to the sink and flip the faucet on, pushing her hand under the cool stream of water.

She sputters. “Excuse me, sir?—”

“You’re excused,” I grumble.

She scowls up at me. “You’re being dramatic.”

I ignore that. Because if I open my mouth, I might admit that seeing her flinch like that made my chest cave in.

Instead, I grab a chair, plant it in front of the sink, and push her down into it.

Lena blinks. “Thorne, I don’t need to?—”

“Sit.”

“I—”

“Sit.”

She huffs but obeys, keeping her hand under the water as I stride across the kitchen, rummaging through my bag.

When I return, I set down two bottles on the counter.

Lena leans forward, squinting. “Wait. Is that...lavender oil?”

I grunt, uncapping the bottle. “Good for burns.”

She stares.

Then, slowly, suspiciously, she asks, “And the other one?”

“DMSO.” I grab her hand again, gently patting it dry before tipping a small amount of the clear, slightly viscous liquid onto my fingertips. “This will stop the burn from sinking deeper.”

She watches me work, for once, completely silent.

I smooth the DMSO over the reddened skin, then dab a few drops of lavender oil over it, massaging gently. The scent rises between us—warm, herbal, calming.

Lena shifts slightly in her seat.

“You always carry this stuff?” she asks, voice softer now.

I nod, focused on her hand, the way it fits so easily in mine. “Burns don’t just stop hurting once you cool them down. They pulse under the skin. Sometimes for hours.”

She’s watching me now .

Not with teasing amusement.

Not with that sharp, challenging look she usually wears.

Just watching.

Like she’s seeing something she didn’t expect.

I clear my throat, finishing the last pass of oil over her skin. Then, I guide her hand under the cold water, rinsing the mixture off. “You’ll be fine. If it pains you at all, we’ll get another dollop of DMSO on it. Just don’t?—”

“Stick my hand directly on a hot tray again?”

I sigh. “Yeah.”

She grins. “Can’t make any promises.”

I grab a plate of cake she left on the counter, shove it into her free hand, and grumble, “...Eat your damn cake.”

She blinks.

Then—to my absolute horror—she starts laughing.

It’s not a mocking laugh. It’s worse.

It’s warm.

Like she thinks I’m something good.

And gods help me—I want to hear that sound again.

“You’re kind of sweet when you’re worried,” she says, and my entire body goes rigid.

“I’m not worried,” I lie. “I just don’t want you messing up your hands before the competition. We’ve put too much work into this display.”

She tilts her head, eyes narrowing slightly. “Uh-huh.”

“Eat your cake,” I repeat, turning away to hide whatever my face might be revealing.

“You can have some too, you know,” she says, voice still colored with amusement. “I made it for us to share.”

I glance at the cake. It’s a simple yellow cake with what looks like purple frosting. Ube, probably. She’s been experimenting with Filipino flavors for the competition all week.

Against my better judgment, I take the fork she offers.

“Just a taste,” I mutter.

Her smile is triumphant .

The cake is...perfect. Of course it is. Moist without being soggy, with a delicate crumb and just the right amount of sweetness. The frosting is smooth and rich, with that distinctive earthy sweetness that ube has.

I try not to make a sound, but she must see something in my expression because she beams.

“Good, right?”

I shrug, non-committal. “It’s acceptable.”

“Acceptable,” she repeats, rolling her eyes. “You know, for someone who claims to not care about pastries, you sure do eat a lot of them.”

“Only yours,” I say without thinking.

The words hang in the air between us.

Lena’s eyes widen slightly.

I freeze, fork halfway to my mouth.

What did I just say?

Her cheeks flush a faint pink, and she looks down at her plate. “Well. I’m...glad you like them.”

I clear my throat, setting the fork down. “The display should be finished by tomorrow.”

She blinks at the abrupt change of subject. “Oh. Already?”

“Three tiers, rotating center platform, carved details on each level,” I confirm, falling back on facts to steady myself. “The sugar glass will need to be added last, but the structure itself is ready.”

“That’s amazing,” she says, and there’s that warmth in her voice again. “I can’t believe how quickly you worked.”

I shrug. “It’s not complicated.”

“To you, maybe,” she says, setting down her plate. “To me, it’s like magic. The way you look at wood and just...see what it could be.”

There’s something in her expression that makes my chest feel too tight.

“It’s just wood,” I say gruffly.

“No,” she says, and suddenly she’s standing, moving closer to me. “It’s not just wood. Not when you touch it. ”

I swallow hard, acutely aware of how small her kitchen is, how little space there is between us.

“Reyes—”

“You know,” she says, tilting her head slightly, “I’ve been thinking about something.”

“Dangerous,” I mutter.

She smirks. “Maybe. But I’ve been thinking about how you carry burn treatment with you.”

I tense. “So?”

“So,” she continues, taking another step closer, “that means you get burned a lot.”

I shrug. “Occupational hazard.”

“Or,” she says, and her eyes are too knowing, “it means you care about being prepared. About helping if someone gets hurt.”

I don’t know what to say to that.

Because she’s right.

And I hate that she sees through me so easily.

“You’re not as scary as you want people to think you are,” she says softly.

I snort. “I’m a Minotaur.”

“Yeah, and?”

“Most humans find that intimidating enough.”

She rolls her eyes. “I’m not most humans.”

That, at least, is undeniable truth.

Lena Reyes is many things, but she is certainly not “most humans.” Most humans don’t stand toe-to-toe with a Minotaur twice their size and argue about cake.

Most humans don’t name their bakery “Moist” just to watch people squirm.

Most humans don’t look at me the way she’s looking at me right now—like she sees past my horns and bulk to something underneath.

Something worth seeing.

“No,” I agree. “You’re not.”

She smiles, and it transforms her face. Makes her glow in a way that feels dangerous to look at directly.

“Thank you,” she says, “for taking care of my hand. ”

“It’s nothing,” I echo her earlier words.

She laughs again, that sound that does things to my insides. “Now who’s being dismissive?”

Before I can respond, she rises up on her tiptoes and presses a quick kiss to my cheek.

I freeze.

Everything stops.

Her lips are warm and soft against my skin, and the contact lasts barely a second, but it might as well be an eternity.

She pulls back, looking suddenly uncertain. “Sorry, I?—”

I don’t know who moves first.

Maybe me.

Maybe her.

Maybe both of us at once.

But suddenly her lips are on mine, and my hands are at her waist, and everything else in the world ceases to exist.

She tastes like cake and something uniquely her, and I’m lost in it instantly. Her hands slide up my chest, over my shoulders, and I feel her fingers brush the base of my horns.

A growl rumbles up from my chest, unbidden.

She pulls back slightly, eyes wide. “Was that?—”

“Don’t stop,” I manage, my voice rough even to my own ears.

Her lips curve into a smile, and then she’s kissing me again, deeper this time, her fingers exploring the sensitive skin where my horns meet my skull.

I tighten my grip on her waist, lifting her slightly. She makes a surprised sound against my mouth, but then her legs are wrapping around me, and I’m backing her against the kitchen counter, pressing her against it as our kiss turns hungry, desperate.

My hands slide down to her thighs, holding her steady as she arches against me. The scent of her—vanilla and flour and something spicy beneath—fills my lungs, making my head spin.

“Thorne,” she gasps when we break for air, her forehead resting against mine .

I can’t form words. Can only breathe her name against her skin as I trail kisses down her neck.

“I’ve wanted this,” she admits, her fingers tangling in my hair. “For so long.”

I pull back, just enough to look at her face. Her cheeks are flushed, her lips swollen from our kisses, her eyes dark with want.

“How long?” I ask, needing to know.

She laughs, breathless. “Since you fixed my oven at 11 PM and cursed the entire time.”

I blink, surprised. “That was the second week you were here.”

She nods, biting her lip. “I know.”

“You hid it well,” I mutter, trailing my thumb across her lower lip.

“Did I?” She arches an eyebrow. “I thought I was being painfully obvious, what with all the baked goods and dinner invitations and flour fights.”

I grunt. “I thought you were just...like that.”

“Like what?”

“Friendly. Annoying. Persistent.”

She laughs again, the sound vibrating through her body and into mine where we’re pressed together. “Well, I am all those things. But I’m also very specifically into you.”

The words send a surge of heat through me.

“Good,” I say, my voice low. “Because I’m very specifically into you too.”

Her eyes widen, and then she’s kissing me again, her hands everywhere—my shoulders, my chest, my horns. Each touch sends sparks along my skin.

I want to devour her.

I want to take my time with her.

I want everything.

When we pull apart, both breathing hard, she looks up at me with a mixture of wonder and mischief.

“So,” she says, tracing a finger along the curve of my horn, “your place or mine? ”

I growl, the sound rumbling up from deep in my chest. “Mine. Bigger bed.”

She shivers slightly, and I can smell the spike in her arousal. “Good point.”

I set her down gently, suddenly aware that we’re still in her kitchen, with the half-eaten cake and the burn ointments still on the counter.

She sways slightly, steadying herself against my chest. “Just let me lock up.”

I nod, reluctantly stepping back to give her space.

As she moves around the kitchen, turning off lights and grabbing her keys, I watch her—the flush still high on her cheeks, the slight tremble in her hands, the way she keeps glancing at me like she can’t quite believe this is happening.

I know the feeling.

When she’s ready, she turns to me, her expression suddenly shy. “Ready?”

I hold out my hand to her.

She takes it without hesitation.

And as we walk out of her bakery and toward my apartment, her small hand warm in mine, I know with absolute certainty that whatever happens next will change everything.

I’ve spent my life building walls, creating structures, defining boundaries.

And in the span of a few months, Lena Reyes has walked through every single one of them like they weren’t even there.

Now, as I lead her up the stairs to my apartment, I’m about to let her past the final barrier.

And gods help me, I can’t wait.