In Hate With You [mlm]

the tenth disaster

For the third time this morning, my head hits the desk with a hard thump. The pile of marking by my side isn't getting any smaller, and I can hear Hannah sighing from across the room.

Her chair creaks as she stands up, and her footsteps pad against the carpeted floors as she nears me.

"You can't spend your day like this," she comments, nudging my elbow.

"I didn't sleep well. Nightmare," I mumble into the table. She nudges me again, and I glance up.

"Go to the bakery down the road and pick up a cup of coffee. I'll start on your marking," she decides, taking pity on me.

I thank her with my eyes, tugging my jacket over my shoulders and picking up my wallet. She just smiles, picking up a few of the papers from my desk.

As soon as I step outside, the cool morning air washes over me, energy springing through my skin. The bakery isn't far - it's one Hannah has recommended to me before - and about five minutes after leaving school, I'm already outside.

Built into a corner, the bakery would be unnoticeable if it wasn't for the golden yellow paint that adorns the front of the shop, shimmering in the morning sunlight.

'Angel Bakery' is written in cursive on hardwood signs, adorned by doodles of angel wings, and little hearts. Hanging plants curl over the words, looping along the wooden signs.

Windows carve a wall of glass into the side of the building, painted with swirls of colour and white chalk. On the windowsills, local art is propped up, price tags dangling from the corners of each frame and sculpture.

With a smile tracing my lips, I push open the door.

The smell of chocolate brownies greets me like a warm blanket, and I sigh, happily.

I glance around, my eyes tracing the interior. Posters of different people - from famous jazz musicians to rockstars - cover the back wall, and beneath them, racks upon racks of records. A record player is set up by the counter, and the gentle hum of music breathes against my ears. In another corner, beanbags and soft chairs are arranged in a circle, with two bookshelves creating a barrier from the rest of the shop.

The main body of the shop is covered in sofas, chairs and tables, each varying from the next in design, shape or size. Some American-style booths are dotted around; a mix of gold leather seats and old wooden tables. I chuckle under my breath when I see a church pew in the middle of the room, covered in rainbow blankets with a pride flag dangling from the ceiling.

Along the final wall, rows upon rows of cakes, biscuits, sweets and breads are laid out, all of them begging to be eaten.

A few people are scattered around the bakery; some flicking through records, or books, others dunking biscuits in hot drinks. I step up to the counter, eyeing a thick slice of Millionaire's Shortbread.

"James?" I look up at the familiar voice, my eyes widening.

Dante's hair is knotted back into a bun, his tan hands kneading at a piece of dough lying on the counter. For once, his ring isn't encircling his index finger, and I glance up to see it hanging from a chain around his neck. His amber eyes are soft, attentive, and I can feel them tracing over the bags under my eyes and the redness staining my skin.

"Oh- um, hi, wow," I splutter, rubbing a hand along the back of my neck. "Sorry, I look a bit of a, uh, mess today."

"Are you okay?" He asks, concern filtering through his gaze. His assault on the bread stops, and he rests a hand on top of the glass counter.

"Yeah, I'm fine." His eyes narrow, but he doesn't push it.

"What would you like?" He asks instead, a smile caressing his face.

"Black coffee, please," I decide, my fingers shifting restlessly on my leg at the thought of my coffee.

"Haven't you had one already this morning?" Dante watches me disapprovingly.

"No," I say, my eyes honest. He raises an eyebrow. "I promise!"

With a reluctant sigh, he turns to prepare my coffee, the tattoos scrawled across his hands shifting as he works. My eyes drift away from him as the music fades and the man who was in the lift with Dante moves over to change the record.

The opening notes tinkle across the room - Springsteen, I think - and Dante laughs. I jump at the noise, my eyes widening with shock. He shouts over to the man in Italian, and he shoots Dante a glare.

"Sorry about that," he tells me, sitting my coffee on the counter. "Enzo is obsessed with this album. It's the only one he ever plays."

I grin at his face, alight with happiness. My hand curls around the mug and I lift it to my lips to take a sip, but my eyes don't leave Dante.

He's already moving around the bakery again, slipping cookies and brownies and slices of Millionaire's Shortbread into a paper bag. After putting the bag on the counter next to me, he walks over to the man he called Enzo, his cute dimples carving holes into his skin.

I watch them chatting as I finish my coffee, eyes fluttering shut as the caffeine rushes through me, waking up my sleeping brain.

Dante is beside me as I finish, pushing the paper bag towards me.

"I noticed you were eyeing up my Millionaire's Shortbread; consider it your payment for babysitting," he explains, refusing the money I have in my hand.

"Thank you," I murmur. A pink flush highlights the tips of his ears, and a smirk twists at my lips. "You look cute," I comment. His eyes widen, and he steps back, shifting his weight from side to side.

"I'm not...cute," he says, his nose crinkling like the word tastes wrong on his tongue.

"If you can say it about me-" He flinches, and I break off my sentence. "What's wrong?"

He ignores my words, focusing back on the dough lying on the counter. Any trace of happiness is gone from his face.

"Thank you for coming to Angel Bakery. Have a good day." His voice is monotone, and I frown.

"Dante-"

"You should go," Enzo tells me, as Dante walks to the back of the shop with the dough still in his hands.

Behind me, somebody clears their throat. I curse under my breath, my eyes following Dante, but I move away from the counter.

"Thank you, for this," I indicate the bag of baked goods, and Enzo smiles.

"Give my brother some time, and he'll come to you." I raise my eyebrows, but Enzo is already busy with the next customer.

And then I remember Hannah, alone in my classroom, marking my assignments. Maybe if I give her some of my cookies, she'll forgive me?