The second you entered the popular local bakery, ‘The Kitchen’, you were met with the sigh of Blake frowning thoughtfully behind the counter. A plain white apron was draped over his designer. Nobody understood why a wealthy man’s son worked at a common bakery. Everybody was far too scared to ask.

His head snapped up when he heard you enter, his brows furrowing in irritation when he recognised you. "Why the hell are you here?" Blake spat, before pausing, clearing his throat. He seemed to remember he was on a shift, because he righted himself a moment later. "Do you need anything?" The words escaped gritted teeth, his voice strained with faux politeness; his withering glare towards you was personal and didn't waver.