Page 228 of A Taste of Vanilla

He stares at me before nodding, a smile forming on his lips.

It’s one thing for Warren to praise my talent as a baker. It’s entirely another for him to look at something I like doing, something I built, and see that it’s something worth respecting.

My eyes burn.

Absolutely not. I willnotcry over fantasy grain logistics.

Oliver, because he’s occasionally useful despite his best efforts, says, “Congratulations, everyone. We’ve found the least sexy way to discuss bread!”

“Speak for yourself,” Dev mutters, his feelings still a little hurt.

Marley is staring at me, her face soft in a way I know is no good.

The game continues.

It becomes less of a game and more of a guided tour. Marley tries to pickpocket a monk and accidentally steals a sacred spoon. Dev writes a ballad called The Yeast of Betrayal. Lisa adopts a stray mule named Moral Support. Olin refuses to join the party but provides road rations.

Warren’s character immediately inventories the rations and points out that Dev’s bard has packed three scarves and no bread rolls.

“Lorian sleeps under the stars,” Dev says at one point.

“He’ll get hypothermia,” Oliver muses.

“Not if he’s beautiful.”

We all stare at him.

“He’ll die beautiful,” Marley mutters.

The whole night goes just like that. Warm and ridiculous and full of something I can’t quite describe. Every time I reveal another piece of the map, Warren wants to know the lore.

He asks questions, and sometimes it feels like we’re the only two here.

A thought lands in my head with a click.

I’m not random. I’m not just bright colors and too many feelings and latte names that send Oliver into a coma. There are reasons for what I do. Systems I’ve built because no one handed me any. Worlds I drew because real ones kept making me feel too large for the room.

And I think sometimes imagination is structure.

“Halston,” Marley says.

I look up.

She points to the dice. “Are the monks attacking us or are you having a personal revelation?”

“Yes,” I say simply.

I clear my throat and return to the campaign with as much dignity as a woman can have. “The monks attack,” I announce.

Dev gasps. “With what?”

I smile slowly. “Rolling pins.”

Warren smiles. It’s huge, bright, and lights up the room.

Dev clutches his chest. “He smiles for bakery violence!”

Marley narrows her eyes. “I knew you were sick.”