Chapter 12
thorne
DONUT GIVE UP
The drive back to the bakery is a wasteland of silence. Lena stares out the window, her profile a study in defeat, her shoulders curved inward like she’s trying to make herself smaller.
It kills me to see her like this—hollowed out, emptied of that spark that makes her so painfully, beautifully herself.
I’ve spent months pretending she’s a thorn in my side when the truth is, I can’t imagine my world without her in it now.
And I’m not about to let some pretentious asshole with a sugar sculpture take her from me—take this from her.
When we arrive, she fumbles with her keys, dropping them once before managing to unlock the door. I want to help, to take them from her, but I know her pride is already bruised raw. Instead, I stand back, letting her do this one small thing for herself.
The bell above the door chimes as she pushes it open—that cheerful sound now a mockery of the heaviness hanging between us. She steps inside and just... stops. Like her body has forgotten what to do next. Like whatever invisible string was holding her upright has been cut.
I watch her shoulders rise and fall with a deep breath. She doesn’t turn on the lights. Doesn’t move toward the kitchen where she always goes first. Just stands there in the half-dark, her silhouette small and still against the faint glow of the streetlights filtering through the windows.
I close the door behind us, the click of the lock unnaturally loud in the silence. The bakery smells the same as always—sugar and butter and yeast—but there’s something bitter underneath now. The scent of her disappointment, maybe. Or my rage.
I can’t stand it anymore—this stillness, this surrender. I cross my arms, lean against the counter, the edge digging into my back. “So that’s it?”
She doesn’t turn around. “What?”
I jerk my chin toward the mess of supplies she still has piled on her worktable. The ingredients she’d been prepping all week. The extra pastries wrapped carefully in plastic. The backup decorations she made “just in case.”
“You’re just gonna quit?”
She lets out a sharp, bitter laugh that scrapes against my ears. “What else am I supposed to do, Thorne? Everything’s ruined.”
“So fix it.”
Now she turns, her eyes flashing with something—anger, finally, instead of that terrible emptiness. “Are you serious? I don’t have time. The competition is tomorrow. Even if I could redo everything, I don’t have a display. That took weeks to build, and now it’s—“
She cuts herself off, pressing the heels of her hands to her eyes, her voice cracking on the last word. I hate seeing her like this—fractured and raw. But at least this is something. At least this is fight.
I soften my voice, just slightly. “You still have all your recipes. All your work.”
“It doesn’t matter.” She drops her hands, shaking her head. “Even if I could recreate everything overnight, I have nowhere to put it. The display was the foundation of the whole concept. Without it—“
“I’ll build you another one.”
“You can’t just—“ She stops, staring at me like I’ve grown a second head. “That’s impossible.”
“No,” I say firmly. “What’s impossible is some smug asshole thinking he can get away with destroying something you love.”
She turns away, moving to the worktable where her supplies sit abandoned. Her fingers trail over a bag of flour, a container of purple ube powder. “You don’t understand. It was perfect, Thorne. What we built together was perfect. And now it’s gone, and there’s no way to recreate that in one night.”
And I get it. I get why she’s giving up.
Because she’s tired.
She has spent her entire life fighting to be seen, to be taken seriously, to prove herself in a city where no one gave her a damn thing.
And tonight?
Tonight, someone took that from her. On purpose.
And she thinks that means it’s over.
She thinks she’s alone in this.
She isn’t.
I push off the counter, crossing to her in three strides. “Go get some rest.”
She frowns up at me, confusion creasing her brow. “What?”
“I’ll fix it.”
She lets out another humorless laugh, shaking her head. “Thorne, you can’t—“
I step closer, my voice firm, certain. “I will.”
Because this isn’t over.
Not for me.
Not for her.
And sure as hell not for that smug bastard who thinks he can sabotage my girl and get away with it.
Lena blinks, her gaze searching my face. “You’re serious.”
I cross my arms. “Have I ever not been serious?”
She opens her mouth. Pauses. I can see the war in her expression—the hope she doesn’t want to let herself feel warring with the crushing disappointment of the day. The trust she wants to give me fighting against the fear of being hurt again.
“You can’t recreate what we had,” she says finally, her voice small. “It was too complex. Too detailed.”
“I don’t need to recreate it,” I tell her. “I just need to build something that will showcase your work. Something strong.”
“In one night?”
“Yes.”
“That’s insane.”
I nod. “Most things worth doing are.”
She studies me for a long moment, her dark eyes searching mine. I don’t look away. I let her see everything—my determination, my anger at what happened to her, my absolute certainty that I can do this.
Finally, she exhales, rubbing her temples. “Okay.”
Just that.
Just okay.
And that’s enough.
She hesitates like she wants to say something else. Thank me, maybe. Or tell me I’m crazy. But instead, she just gives me one last look—half disbelief, half something softer—before turning away.
“I’ll be upstairs if you need anything,” she says, already moving toward the door that leads to her apartment.
I nod, even though her back is to me. “Get some sleep, Reyes. You have desserts to make tomorrow.”
She pauses with her hand on the doorknob, and for a second, I think she might turn around. Might come back and kiss me, or argue some more, or just look at me with that smile that makes me feel like I could lift a mountain.
But she just nods once and slips through the door, closing it softly behind her.
The second she’s gone, I roll my shoulders, exhale deeply, and get to work.
I pull out my phone, make a few calls. I text my supplier—the one who owes me a favor after I built his daughter’s wedding arch on two days’ notice. I message the craftsman who keeps exotic woods in stock for emergency commissions. I call in every marker, every connection, every debt owed.
Because Lena Reyes is going to compete tomorrow.
And her display is going to be fucking magnificent.
The hours blur. I don’t count them. Don’t need to.
Time becomes irrelevant when measured against what matters—her dream, her work, that light in her eyes that dimmed tonight.
I drag the worktable to the center of her kitchen, clear a space large enough to build something new.
My muscles burn with the effort, with the rage still simmering beneath my skin.
Good. I can use that. Channel it into something constructive instead of doing what I really want—hunting down that smug bastard Gabriel and showing him exactly what happens when you mess with someone I care about.
I grab my tools from the truck. Saw, hammer, plane, chisels. The familiar weight of them in my hands centers me. Grounds me. These tools have built beautiful things before. They’ll do it again tonight.
The supplies arrive within the hour—favors called in, debts collected. Exotic hardwoods, hardware, fresh stain. The craftsman who delivered them takes one look at my face and doesn’t ask questions. Just nods and says, “Good luck.”
I spread everything out, assess what I’m working with.
The original display was intricate, layered with meaning and detail.
Cultural motifs that took weeks to research and carve.
We don’t have weeks now. We have hours. But maybe that’s not a bad thing.
Maybe this display can say something different.
Something more immediate. More powerful.
Measure twice, cut once. The old carpenter’s rule. But tonight, I’m measuring once and cutting with absolute certainty. No time for second-guessing. No room for error.
I salvage what I can from the wreckage Lena brought back—a few carved pieces that escaped the worst of the damage.
The rest is contaminated, the stink of rancid oil penetrating deep into the grain.
Whatever that asshole used, he chose it deliberately.
Cruel and calculating, making sure nothing could be saved.
It makes my hands shake with fury as I sort through the pieces. I set down my tools for a moment, press my palms flat against the workbench, breathe deep.
Focus. Channel that anger into precision.
I start with the base—wider than before, more stable. Strong enough to support everything without a wobble. I use walnut for this, its rich, dark color almost black in the dim light of the kitchen. It speaks of earth, of foundation, of things that endure.
The air fills with the scent of wood dust and varnish, the steady rhythm of hammering, the slow scrape of sandpaper over fresh-cut edges. I work like I’m possessed.
Because I am.
Because I am so goddamn furious that someone dared to take this from Lena.
Because I saw the look in her eyes when it happened.
The display won’t have the intricacy of the original. Can’t. Not in the time I have. But it can have power. Impact. I build upward, creating three tiers like before, but with cleaner lines, sharper angles. Less ornate, more bold. A display that doesn’t ask for attention, but demands it.
I carve a simple pattern into each tier—an homage to the Filipino sun in a simple geometric pattern. A motif of growth, of climbing, of rising. From the lowest level to the highest, the pattern evolves, becomes more complex, more confident.
More bold.
Just like her.
I think about Lena as I work—about the first time I saw her, standing in my office with that rental application, all bright eyes and stubborn chin.
How she looked at me without flinching, without the hesitation most humans show around Minotaurs.
How she said the name of her bakery with such pride, daring me to mock it.
I think about how she fights—for her space, for her dream, for every customer who walks through her door. How she transforms flour and sugar into memories, into comfort, into art that melts on your tongue.
She deserves this chance. This spotlight. This moment to show what she can do.
And if I have to work until my fingers bleed to give it back to her, I will.
The hours crawl by. My back aches. My eyes burn. I ignore it all.
Around four in the morning, my hands start to cramp.
I flex them, pushing through the pain, refusing to slow down.
The second tier is taking shape—maple this time, lighter than the walnut base, creating contrast. I sand it until it’s smooth as silk, the grain catching the light in rippling patterns.
By five, I’m starting on the top tier. Cherry wood, rich and warm, with a natural reddish glow that seems to pulse with life. I carve this one more delicately, adding details that echo the texture of her desserts. Swirls like frosting, ridges like pastry. A canvas for her creations.
I don’t stop.
Because she deserves this.
She has spent her whole life fighting for herself.
So for once, I’m going to fight for her.
I finish the last connection just as dawn breaks, the pale light filtering through the bakery windows.
I stand back, assessing my work with critical eyes.
It’s not as intricate as the first display.
Not as delicate. But there’s something right about it.
Something that feels like her—and like me. Like us.
It’s solid. Elegant. A display that says look at me and try to doubt me. I dare you.
I dust off my hands, rolling my shoulders to ease the stiffness that’s settled there. Every muscle in my body aches with fatigue, but I’ve never felt more accomplished. More certain.
The stain is still drying in places, the wood still warm from my hands. But it’s done. It’s ready.
I step back, take one last look at what I’ve created. Then I climb the stairs to her apartment, my footsteps heavy with exhaustion but my heart lighter than it’s been in hours.
I knock on her door. Wait. Knock again, louder this time.
She opens it, blinking sleep from her eyes, hair a wild tangle around her face. She’s wearing an oversized t-shirt and shorts, her feet bare on the wooden floor. She’s never looked more beautiful.
“Thorne?” Her voice is rough with sleep, her eyes widening as she takes in my appearance—covered in sawdust, probably looking like I’ve been through a war. “What time is it?”
I don’t answer. Just jerk my chin toward the stairs that lead down to the shop.
She stares at me for a long, silent moment. Something shifts in her expression—wariness giving way to curiosity, maybe even hope.
Then she brushes past me, heading down to the bakery. I follow, watching her back, the tension in her shoulders, the way she hesitates at the bottom of the stairs before pushing through the door.
She stops dead in her tracks when she sees it.
For several heartbeats, she doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just stares at the display that now dominates the center of her kitchen—three tiers of contrasting woods, flowing from dark to light, each surface smooth and ready for her creations.
Then she turns to me, her eyes shining with something I can’t quite name. Not quite tears, not quite joy, but something in between. Something fierce and grateful and determined all at once.
And in that instant, I know—
She’s not giving up.
Not today.
Not ever.
Not my Lena.