Page 66 of Moist!

THORNE

Three Weeks Later

I never thought I’d get used to sharing my space with anyone, let alone with the whirlwind that is Lena Reyes. But here I am, perched on what has somehow become “my stool” in the corner of Moist, watching a line that stretches out the door and wraps around the block.

The magazine feature hit three weeks ago, and the place hasn’t been empty since.

Lena darts between the counter and the kitchen, flour perpetually dusting her cheeks, that wild smile never leaving her face even as she works harder than ever.

This is what success looks like on her. Not exhaustion, but pure, undiluted joy.

It’s mid-afternoon, the usual lull between the lunch rush and the after-work crowd. Which means I only have to glare at three people instead of thirty to maintain my corner sanctuary. The regulars know me by now. The Minotaur in the corner. The landlord. The boyfriend.

That last one still feels strange on my tongue. Not bad. Just...unfamiliar. Like trying on clothes that fit perfectly but aren’t your usual style.

I watch a young ogre couple carefully select a box of pastries, their massive green hands surprisingly delicate as they point at each option.

The girl—barely out of her teens, her tusks still growing in—keeps glancing over at me, then whispering to her boyfriend.

He nods, and I know exactly what they’re saying.

“That’s him. The one from the article. Her Minotaur.”

I should hate it. Being known. Being seen. Being someone’s.

Instead, I find myself almost...proud? Is that the word? This strange warmth that fills my chest when I hear people talk about Lena’s success, about how a human baker has somehow created the most popular monster-friendly bakery in the district.

“Thorne!” Lena’s voice cuts through my thoughts. She’s beckoning me from the kitchen door, a smudge of chocolate on her chin. “I need you!”

I rise, ignoring the curious stares that follow me as I make my way behind the counter. This is new, too. Having permission to enter her domain. Being wanted there.

“What did you set on fire this time?” I ask as I duck through the doorway.

She swats my arm. “That was one time this week, thank you very much.”

“It’s only Tuesday.”

“Details.” She waves a dismissive hand, then points to a tray of something golden-brown and flaky. “I need your opinion on these.”

I eye the pastries warily. “What are they?”

“Just try one,” she insists, pushing the tray toward me.

I pick up the smallest one, inspecting it closely. The pastry is shaped like a crescent, layers upon delicate layers visible at the edges. It smells like butter and something spicy-sweet that I can’t quite identify.

“It won’t bite,” she says, eyes dancing with amusement .

“With your creations, one can never be sure,” I mutter, but I take a bite anyway.

The pastry shatters perfectly between my teeth, releasing a wave of flavors that hit my palate one after another.

First, the rich butteriness of the dough.

Then, a sweet, earthy filling that I recognize as ube—her signature flavor.

But there’s something else too—a warm spice that builds slowly, not overwhelming but impossible to ignore.

Cinnamon. But not just any cinnamon. This is the good stuff, the kind that costs more per ounce than gold, with a depth and complexity that makes the cheap powder taste like sawdust in comparison.

I close my eyes involuntarily, savoring the combination.

When I open them, Lena is watching me intently, her bottom lip caught between her teeth.

“Well?” she asks, a hint of nervousness in her voice that seems out of place for someone who just graced the cover of the most prestigious food magazine in the monster world.

“It’s good,” I say simply.

She narrows her eyes. “Just good?”

I take another bite, considering. “The balance is perfect. Sweet but not cloying. The cinnamon complements the ube instead of fighting it.” I pause, searching for the right words. “It tastes like comfort. But interesting comfort.”

Her face lights up. “Yes! That’s exactly what I was going for!”

This is our new routine. She bakes. I taste. I give her my honest opinion. Not that I know much about baking, but I know what I like. And somehow, my blunt assessments have become valuable to her.

“What are you calling it?” I ask, reaching for another one.

She smacks my hand away playfully. “Not yet! These are just the test batch. I’m still tweaking the recipe.”

I grunt, licking the last crumbs from my fingers. “Seems perfect to me. ”

“High praise from the guy who once told me pastries were ‘fine.’” She grins, turning back to her workstation.

I watch her move around the kitchen, completely in her element.

This is what drew me to her from the beginning, though I’d never have admitted it then.

The absolute certainty with which she approaches her craft.

The joy she takes in creating something with her hands.

It reminds me of my own work with wood, but where I am methodical and precise, she is intuitive and bold.

“I need to hire help,” she says suddenly, measuring flour without looking at the cups. “I can’t keep up with demand anymore.”

“About time,” I reply. “You’ve been working sixteen-hour days for weeks.”

She sighs, blowing a strand of hair from her face. “I know. It’s just...this has been my baby for so long. Hard to let someone else in.”

I understand that better than she knows. “You’re not letting go. You’re growing.”

She glances up at me, surprise in her eyes. “That’s actually really insightful.”

I shrug. “I have my moments.”

She laughs, and the sound still does things to me that I can’t quite explain. Makes me feel lighter. Makes me want to be the cause of it again and again.

The bell above the front door chimes, signaling more customers. Lena glances at the clock, then at the fresh batch of pastries cooling on the rack.

“Mind watching these while I handle the front?” she asks, already untying her apron.

“You trust me alone with your kitchen?” I raise an eyebrow.

“No,” she says cheerfully. “But I trust you not to let anything burn down because you know you’d have to rebuild it.”

She’s not wrong.

I settle onto a stool by the workstation, keeping an eye on the timer she’s set. Through the doorway, I can hear her greeting customers, her voice warm and excited as she describes the day’s offerings. The sound of her bakery thriving is oddly satisfying.

Three timers, two customer rushes, and one near-disaster with a sheet of parchment paper later, Lena returns to the kitchen with a mysterious box in her hands.

“What’s that?” I ask, eyeing it suspiciously.

“Something special,” she says, setting it down in front of me. “For you.”

I blink. “For me?”

She nods, suddenly looking almost shy. “Open it.”

I carefully lift the lid, revealing a single pastry nestled on a bed of dark purple tissue paper.

It’s similar to the one I tried earlier, but larger, more intricately shaped.

The edges are crimped in a pattern that reminds me of the designs I carved into her display for the competition.

The top is brushed with a glossy caramel glaze that catches the light, making the whole thing shimmer.

“I’m calling it ‘The Minotaur’s Heart,’” she says softly. “Flaky pastry filled with cinnamon-ube cream and topped with caramel glaze.”

I stare at it, something thick and unnamed clogging my throat.

“You named a pastry after me?” My voice comes out rougher than I intended.

She nods, watching my reaction carefully. “It’s going on the permanent menu tomorrow. Unless you hate the idea?”

“No,” I say quickly. “I don’t hate it.”

What I don’t say—can’t say—is how much it means to me. To be seen this way. To be immortalized not as something fearsome or dangerous, but as something worthy of being savored. Enjoyed. Sought after.

I pick up the pastry, turning it in my hands, noting the care put into every fold, every crimp, every brushstroke of glaze.

“The shape,” I say, noticing it for the first time. “It’s not just a crescent. ”

She smiles. “It’s a horn. Your horn, specifically. The curve is exact.”

I look closer, and she’s right. The pastry mimics the exact curve of my left horn—the one that’s slightly more pronounced than the right.

“You’ve been studying my horns,” I tease, trying to lighten the sudden heaviness in my chest.

Her cheeks flush slightly. “They’re very distinctive.”

I take a bite, and it’s even better than the test version. Richer, more complex, with a hint of something I didn’t taste before.

“What else is in here?” I ask around a mouthful.

“Cardamom,” she says. “And a touch of salt in the caramel. Sweet and a little savory. Like you.”

I nearly choke. “I am not sweet.”

“Keep telling yourself that, big guy.” She pats my arm. “You’ve taste-tested thirty-seven experimental recipes this month without a single complaint.”

“I complained about the durian.”

“Everyone complained about the durian. That’s not the point.” She leans against the counter, looking up at me with those eyes that see too much. “The point is that you’re here. Every day. Helping me build this place into something special.”

I finish the pastry, savoring the last bite. “The bakery was always special. You just needed the right audience to notice.”

She steps closer, rising onto her tiptoes to kiss a crumb from the corner of my mouth. “And you? What audience did you need?”

I look down at her—flour in her hair, determination in her eyes, that smile that hasn’t dimmed despite the long hours and constant work.

“Just you,” I admit. “I just needed you to notice.”

Her expression softens. “I notice everything about you, Thorne. Even the parts you try to hide.”

I should be terrified by that. By being seen so completely. Instead, I feel something like relief .

“So,” she says, nodding toward the empty box. “What’s the verdict on The Minotaur’s Heart?”

I pretend to consider it seriously. “Acceptable.”

She laughs, swatting my arm. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” I remind her, echoing her words from weeks ago, “you’re still here.”

“Always,” she promises, and the simple word holds more weight than any elaborate vow.

I pull her into my arms, careful of my horns in the confined space of her kitchen. She fits against me perfectly, her head tucked under my chin, her warmth seeping through my shirt.

“Always,” I agree, the word foreign but right on my tongue.

The timer dings, breaking the moment. Lena sighs dramatically, pulling away.

“Duty calls,” she says, grabbing oven mitts.

I watch her open the oven, releasing a wave of heat and the scent of freshly baked bread. My stomach growls in anticipation.

Some things never change. But as I settle back onto my stool, ready to taste whatever she pulls from the oven next, I’m grateful for the things that have.

The bakery with the terrible name. The woman who refused to be intimidated by me. The feeling of belonging that I never thought I’d find.

And if the price of all that is occasionally smacking my horns on doorways and awnings? Well, that’s a price I’m more than willing to pay.

Thank you for reading Moist for Her Minotaur. This story will be expanded in its second edition and released in December 2025.

It will be the first story in the new series, Monsters of New Vegas.