All Things Considered [🗸]

20. red velvet

"SO, IF YOU COULD deliver these orders right about now, that would be great, Dion."

Venus Ortiz's voice punctures through the air, her arm carefully nudging Dion's as they package boxes of pastries in these grossly adorable mint-colored boxes. Dion's motions are precise, and he's nodding and talking to Venus as he finishes each box.

It's almost an art.

From where I'm seated, I lean forward in the stool that resides in front of the counter—eyes flicking between Dion and Venus, watching as Dion places boxes under either arm. His eyes scan the front desk, mind visibly trying to figure out a way to carry the rest of the boxes.

Rising to my feet, I meet his gaze, nodding toward the boxes spread across the table. "I could help you out with the deliveries."

"Yeah?" Dion asks, eyebrows rising as I make my way over to the front desk to grab some of the delivery boxes.

"Yeah," I reply, glancing toward him before my gaze flicks away. The bonfire was a shit-ton to think about. For one, Dion and I never actually achieved our goal of showcasing our fake relationship. I ended up listening to Dion's voice and unloading all the shit that happened with Devin onto him.

For a whole three hours, we didn't engage in verbal assault with each other. Strange as fuck.

Shaking the thoughts away, I trail after Dion—out of the bakery doors and into the soft breeze that greets us outside. 

Dion purses his lips, hand shielding his face from the sun as he scans the parking lot, slipping a key out of his pocket and making his way to the other side of the lot, where an orange light eagerly responds in the distance.

I fall into step with him, slightly slowed down by the weight of the boxes. Dion seems at ease, though. He's in his natural environment, slapping a white visor with Gran's logo onto his head. 

We make our way past the parked cars, and Dion eventually slows to a stop when we approach a minivan. It's a blinding white, and the terrifying, signature cupcake of Gran's is plastered onto the center.

"Venus usually drives when we go on these delivery runs," Dion says, unlocking the trunk of the van and meticulously placing each box into the space in the back. I make my way over to where he stands. 

He's in a polo shirt and jeans, sneakers tapping the pavement. The icing on top is the cupcake visor placed onto his head. Without it, the outfit could be passable—but the demon-esque cupcake on the front of Dion's visor is impossible to ignore.

I can't prevent the snort from escaping my lips.

"You look dumb as hell," I say, and Dion side-eyes me from where he's standing, eyes shooting daggers.

"Thanks," Dion chirps, "you were my inspiration." He places the last box in the trunk and makes his way around the passenger's seat side of the van. My lips part but Dion seems relatively unfazed as his shoes breeze across the pavement.