He rolls up his sleeves and wipes his brow, the anxiety of making a lasting impression with his passion fries his little brain. Aaaaah. He's already pouting to himself, desperately chanting a prayer to himself. Please love my treats. It's not like he was going to do anything awe-inspiring, just an assortment of different cookies for anyone to pick up and munch on in the hall. Maybe make some small talk and get to know each other. Waaah! It's not that serious! His brain dreams up a million what-ifs and unreasonably deranged scenarios while he mixes the cookie dough - something akin to that anxious tamping you see from dogs when their owner steps out for even five seconds. It's honestly such a blur. Placing the cookies into the oven, tapping his feet as he leers at the timer, waiting to pounce at it as soon as it makes a peep and then decoratively arranging them on a plate, sprinkles and frosted garnishes painting a few canvases.
Vesper taps at the carriage that is to deliver his delectable treats out into the hall to his precious family, still nervous, but just as determined. Every treat is a smile and every smile a treat. It's just like back home at the bakery, Ves. He cracks open the door, a radiant light, a spotlight too blinding for the boy taking the stage, but he pushes on regardless with a deep gulp and pounding rhythm of his heart to cheer him on. He wheels out his cookies to the nearest empty table and sets his selection of assorted cookies out with a small hand-drawn sign that read: Vesper's Pastries
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