Chapter 14 #2
I growl, the sound rumbling up from deep in my chest. “Just one punch. Small one. He’d barely feel it.”
She rolls her eyes, but her fingers tighten on my bicep. “Pretty sure your version of a ‘small punch’ would put him through the wall.”
“That’s the idea.”
“Thorne.” Her voice softens. “We won. He lost. And now everyone knows exactly what kind of person he is.”
She’s right. The crowd that had gathered to celebrate Lena’s victory is now watching Gabriel’s downfall with the exact same fascination.
His pristine reputation, built on smoke and mirrors and pretension, is crumbling in real time.
His team has already dispersed, distancing themselves from the scandal.
The judges look on with barely concealed disgust.
It’s a complete destruction.
And while I’d still prefer to crush his windpipe with my bare hands, I have to admit—this is better. This will follow him forever. He’ll never work in this city again.
As security escorts him out, he tries one last desperate appeal, looking directly at Lena. “You don’t understand—I had to! Your bakery is a joke! The name alone—who calls a bakery ‘Moist’? You don’t deserve to be here! You don’t—“
The doors close behind him, cutting off his pathetic tirade. A beat of awkward silence follows, then, like a switch flipped, the celebratory mood returns. People crowd around Lena, offering congratulations doubled by sympathy, outrage on her behalf, praise for her grace under pressure.
I stand back, watching, a silent sentinel at the edge of her spotlight. She handles it perfectly—gracious but not falsely humble, accepting victory without gloating over Gabriel’s fall. She’s meant for this. For recognition. For success.
When we finally escape the convention center, the sun is setting, painting the New Vegas skyline in shades of gold and crimson.
Lena is buzzing with energy the whole way back to Moist. She talks too fast, too animated, hands flying as she describes the moment the judges handed her the feature offer—a full spread in Monstrous Eats, the most prestigious monster-run food magazine in the city.
“This is huge, Thorne,” she says, bouncing slightly as she unlocks the bakery door. “Do you know what this means? It means visibility. It means people will take Moist seriously. It means—“
“That I’m going to have to deal with a lot more foot traffic in the courtyard,” I mutter.
She rolls her eyes. “Oh, poor you.”
I grunt. “Don’t expect me to be nice to your customers.”
She flashes me a bright, mischievous grin. “Thorne, you’re never nice.”
I scowl. “Exactly.”
She laughs, pushing the door open.
The bakery smells like home.
Warm. Familiar. The lingering scent of butter and yeast and toasted sugar curling into the air.
She moves behind the counter on pure instinct, already prepping something, her hands moving in a rhythm I know by heart now.
The trophy sits on the counter, catching the last rays of sunset through the front windows, but she’s already focused on tomorrow’s bread, tomorrow’s pastries, tomorrow’s work.
The victory doesn’t change who she is or what she loves.
It’s this—her certainty, her purpose—that I admire most.
And before I can talk myself out of it, I say—
“I’ve been coming here every morning before you open.”
She pauses, mid-scoop. Looks up.
I grunt, shifting my weight. Too late to back out now.
“For the pan de sal,” I clarify. Then, after a beat, I add, “...And for you.”
Lena just stares.
Then, very softly, her mouth curves.
Not teasing.
Not smug.
Something gentler.
Something real.
“I know,” she says, resuming her work, but there’s a new rhythm to her movements. “You’re not as sneaky as you think. The flour dust on your shoes gives you away.”
I blink. “You knew?”
She shrugs, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “Who do you think has been leaving the extra pan de sal out? The bread fairy?”
A strange warmth spreads through my chest, settling somewhere behind my ribs. All this time, I thought I was stealing moments in her space before she arrived. But she knew. She was making extra, just for me.
“You could have said something,” I grumble, but there’s no heat in it.
“And miss the chance to see you sneak around like some bread-obsessed ninja? Never.” She grins, setting down her scoop and wiping her hands on her apron. “Besides, I figured you’d tell me when you were ready.”
She steps closer, reaching up to brush something—flour, probably—from my shoulder.
Her touch is light, casual, but it sends a jolt through me that’s anything but.
I stand perfectly still, like a tree that’s suddenly discovered it has roots, like moving would somehow break whatever is happening between us right now.
“So,” she says, her voice softer than I’ve ever heard it, “I guess we make a pretty good team.”
I grunt, but it comes out different. Less gruff. More... something else.
“Guess so,” I manage.
Her hand lingers on my shoulder a moment longer before falling away. I miss it instantly, which is ridiculous. Completely irrational. Absolutely true.
“Thank you,” she says. “For rebuilding the display. For believing in me. For not murdering Gabriel, even though I know you wanted to.”
“Still do,” I mutter, and she laughs.
The sound wraps around me like one of those ridiculous warm, sweet pastries she makes—the ones that melt on your tongue and make you forget you’re supposed to prefer protein. I want to capture that laugh, bottle it, keep it safe somewhere. Which is, again, ridiculous. I don’t do ridiculous.
Except, apparently, for Lena Reyes.
“You know,” she says, turning back to her work but keeping her eyes on me, “I couldn’t have done any of this without you.”
I shake my head. “You would’ve found a way. You’re stubborn like that.”
“Maybe,” she admits. “But I wouldn’t have wanted to. It wouldn’t have meant as much.”
And just like that, she’s stripped me bare. Cut through all my defenses with a few simple words, the way she always does. No one else gets away with that. No one else even tries.
No one else is Lena.
I watch her measure flour with practiced precision, her movements as familiar to me now as my own.
Her bakery—no, her home—wraps around us like a living thing, warm and welcoming and full of possibilities.
My chest feels strange. Too full. Too tight.
Like something’s growing there that doesn’t quite fit yet.
“I’m going to have to rethink my entire grumpy landlord persona,” I say dryly. “Now that everyone knows I helped build a dessert display.”
She grins. “Don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me. I’ll tell everyone you threatened to evict me if I didn’t let you help.”
“That’s actually not a bad cover story.”
“See? I know you.” She points at me with a flour-covered finger. “Better than you think.”
And she does. That’s the terrifying, wonderful truth of it. She sees past the horns, past the scowls, past every wall I’ve built. She leaves extra bread for a Minotaur who pretends not to want it. She knows exactly who I am and stays anyway.
I step closer, into her space, and she doesn’t back away. Just looks up at me with those dark, knowing eyes.
“This is our victory,” I say, the words coming out rough but true. “Not just yours. Ours.”
She nods, her smile softening into something that makes my heart stutter in my chest.
“Ours,” she agrees.
And for the first time in my life, that word doesn’t sound like a trap. It sounds like freedom. Like home. Like something I’ve been searching for without knowing it.
I reach out, brush a smudge of flour from her cheek, marveling at how small, how delicate, how fierce she is. How she can contain so much life in such a compact form.
And in that moment, I know with absolute certainty—
This feeling, this moment, this us—
I’m never letting it go.