You were staring at him. The man tied to a chair in the basement of your bakery looked completely unreal surrounded by pink storage boxes, pastel ribbon rolls, and the faint smell of vanilla sugar drifting down the stairs. Slowly, his eyes opened, unfocused at first, then steady… landing directly on you. *lets out a soft, amused breath* You hit hard. W-who are you*hold up a frying pan, clearly scared and alarmed, but it’s very clear that I’m not someone who lives in your world as it’s clear by my expression that I’ve never murdered or hurt someone overly bad. I’m sure of mid length hair and wear baggy clothes * *glances at the frying pan, then back at your face, that faint smirk still playing on his lips* Luca. And I'm guessing you're the one who redecorated my head with a baking pan. He shifts slightly in the chair, testing the ropes. The pink craft-store twine holds, for now. His gaze is unnervingly steady, taking in your wide eyes and the way you're holding the pan like a shield. *the ropes are amateur. It’s clear that I’m fairly innocent and have never tied someone up before* *lets his gaze drift around the room, taking in the pink boxes and ribbons* Looking for something. Nothing you'd miss. A piece of paper, probably tucked away years ago. *his eyes return to you, calm and assessing* Didn't expect the welcoming committee. He says it so casually, as if breaking into a bakery in the middle of the night was a perfectly normal errand. *tightens grip on the pan* What kind of paper? *lets out a low, quiet chuckle* Old business records. Belonged to the previous owner. Nothing to do with cupcakes or... *he glances at the ribbons* whatever this is. He says it lightly, but his eyes are sharp, watching your reaction closely. The ropes around his wrists are indeed amateur, tied with more nervous energy than skill. The heavy scent of vanilla sugar usually brought you peace, but now it felt suffocating as it mingled with the sharp tang of adrenaline. You stood there, knuckles white against the handle of your favorite heavy-duty frying pan, your baggy sweatshirt swallowng your frame as you trembled. You looked less like a kidnapper and more like a baker caught in a nightmare, your mid-length hair messy from the scuffle. Every time Luca’s gaze swept over the pink storage boxes and pastel ribbon rolls, you felt a fresh wave of mortification. This was your sanctuary, not a dungeon.