Glen

Glen has an unspoken but ironclad rule in the kitchen at Prickly Dessert: no raisins. They hang in the air like the scent of vanilla—you can't see them, but everyone can smell them.

When an intern timidly asks on his first day, "Can we add raisins to muffins? It's a classic," Glen doesn't even look up from the frosting—he just shakes his head briefly, "No. Don't even suggest it." The intern hesitates, "Well, there's a good, soft kind..." Glen sets the bowl on the table a little harder than necessary and looks straight at him, "I said no. We don't work with raisins. Period." And there's so much metal in that "period" that no one dares argue.

This rule comes up again and again at staff meetings. One of the managers starts saying, "Guests love raisins; they write in the reviews..." Glen immediately snaps back, "Then let's offer them something else. We have dried apricots, we have dried cherries, we have orange zest. But not raisins." He doesn't explain, doesn't justify himself, doesn't engage in lengthy reasoning. He simply stands his ground, as if it's not an ingredient, but a principle.

Sometimes he even argues with Tim himself about this—and this is the most sensitive point. Tim, knowing how much Glen cares about details, once gently remarks, “Listen, maybe one small dessert? With raisins, but separately, with a note…” Glen jumps up, as if he’s been hurt: “No, Tim. Don’t. We’ll make it delicious without it.” Tim frowns slightly, as if he wants to object, but sees something stubborn and quiet in Glen’s eyes—and doesn’t insist. And Glen, more calmly, adds, “I just don’t want it. I don’t like the way it behaves in the dough. It gets soggy, ruins the texture. It’s not our style.”

And this "not our style" is where the truth lies. Glen would never say out loud, "Because Tim has allergies, and I still remember how he choked." He doesn't want Tim to feel like a burden, doesn't want to be seen as a problem to be avoided. For everyone else, it's simply the chef's culinary stubbornness: Glen has his own tastes, his own standards, he doesn't like raisins—period.

But in private, Glen knows: it's not about taste. It's about that day at school, about the red marks on Tim's neck, about how terrifying it was to watch someone you've known your whole life suddenly unable to breathe properly. And now, whenever someone brings up raisins again, Glen doesn't argue—he defends them. Quietly, without fanfare, without unnecessary words. He simply doesn't allow this ingredient into his kitchen, because to him, it's not just a dried fruit, but an alarm signal he no longer wants to hear.

And if Tim does tease him, "Oh, come on, maybe just one cupcake?" Glen just snorts, rolls his eyes, and mutters, "Don't even ask. I'd rather invent ten new creams than bother with raisins." And there's so much seriousness in this joke that Tim smiles, nods, and doesn't insist anymore—because he knows that behind this stubbornness lies not whim, but genuine, quiet concern.

It was midway through ninth grade. The cafeteria was having a "sweet day": plates of buns towered on the counter, and almost every one had dark flecks of raisins. Glen was in high spirits: he felt like just doing something nice for someone would instantly brighten their day. He bought two buns—one for himself and one for Tim. Tim was always forgetting about food, and Glen considered a couple of minutes of Tim simply munching without grumbling a small victory.
"Here, you haven't eaten at all today, I saw," Glen held out a bun with a wide, slightly awkward smile. Tim paused for a second, as if about to refuse, but then waved his hand, "Okay, thanks," and took a bite.
Glen didn't even understand the first anxious seconds. Tim seemed to cough, running his hand over his neck as if his collar had become too tight. Then he scratched his cheek, then his neck again, and that panic appeared in his eyes when the body seems to stop obeying. Glen suddenly noticed red spots appearing on his skin, and Tim leaned forward slightly, as if trying to take a deep breath.
"Tim? What's wrong?" Glen's voice was too loud, and several of the boys turned around. Tim didn't answer, only gripped the edge of the table and exhaled, "My throat... feels like it's constricting." At that moment, for the first time in his life, Glen felt fear become physical: cold, heavy, interfering with his thinking. He couldn't afford to lose his head, because losing his head meant wasting time.
He remembered every detail of that evening: the smell in the hospital corridor, the dim light of the lamp above the couch, the way the nurse calmly but firmly told him what to do. And how Tim's breathing finally became even, and his face less deathly pale.
When it was all over and the doctors declared the danger averted, Glen exhaled as if he hadn't for hours. But something heavy and sharp remained inside—the realization that one small, seemingly kind mistake could cost too much.
From that day on, Glen became obsessively attentive to everything related to Tim's food. He learned how to read ingredients, learned to ask the chefs for details, and if he saw anything suspicious on the menu, he immediately asked. He didn't just remember the word "raisins"—it was as if it had been burned into his memory like an alarm.
Now, when someone at the Prickly Dessert casually suggests adding raisins to the new dessert, Glen shakes his head and says calmly, but so firmly that no one dares argue: "No. We won't. It's not an option for me." And those words ring not with stubbornness, but with an echo of that school day—and the promise he made to himself at his hospital bedside: never again to put Tim in danger, even accidentally.

The day Tim forgot his lunch and Glen gave him his. It was in seventh grade. Tim was terribly embarrassed to ask anyone for a sandwich and sat in the cafeteria, pretending to be engrossed in his textbook. Glen noticed this, silently pushed his lunch container toward him, and said, "Eat it, or you'll grumble all class." Tim initially refused, but Glen insisted—and from that moment on, it was as if an unspoken agreement had developed between them: if one was struggling, the other simply offered a hand, without further ado. Later, this memory became something of an internal guideline for Glen: taking care of Tim wasn't a heroic feat, but the normal, right thing to do.
That very last school year, when Glen secretly worried about Tim. Tim had become especially withdrawn then: he studied too much, tried to be perfect, as if he were afraid that if he did even one thing wrong, no one would notice him anymore. Glen saw this and wanted to support him somehow, but he didn't know how. One day, he brought a small hedgehog keychain to school—just like that, "so it wouldn't be so boring." Tim smiled a little sheepishly and put the keychain in his pocket, and Glen remembered that smile for years to come. For him, it was the moment when he realized: sometimes the most important thing is simply letting someone know they're not alone, even if it's just a small, funny keychain.

After-school walks, when they'd walk home and argue about everything. Tim loved to discuss logic and "how things should be according to the rules," while Glen would urge him to "let's do it the other way around and see what happens." They'd argue about which route was shorter, the fairness of grades, or whether it was even worth taking extracurricular activities. Tim would grumble, Glen would laugh, and in this hubbub of arguments, they seemed to be testing whether their friendship could withstand any discrepancies. These walks were a space for them to be themselves: Tim to grumble and doubt, Glen to joke and dream.
Their first "dessert" together was a jam sandwich, which Glen tried to turn into a signature dish. Even in high school, Glen loved to complicate things. One day, he triumphantly announced he was cooking a "masterpiece" and assembled a sandwich from bread, jam, and a pinch of cinnamon he'd swiped from the cafeteria. Tim eyed the creation skeptically, but ate it, and later even commented that "the cinnamon was surprisingly appropriate." For Glen, this was a small revelation: it turns out that everything doesn't have to be perfect; it's enough for someone nearby to say, "You know, this isn't bad." This was the beginning of his love for experimenting in the kitchen—and the confidence that there was someone who wouldn't laugh at his ideas, but would help refine them.

The "Prickly Dessert" café is a cozy spot where a warm autumn atmosphere greets you from the moment you step inside. The interior features warm shades of ochre, terracotta, and brown, as if bathed in the soft light of the September sun. Wooden tables with a light patina, chairs with velvet seats, and clay jars and baskets of dried flowers line the shelves.

The main highlight is the hedgehogs: their silhouettes are carved from wood and hang above the counter, the walls are decorated with watercolor sketches of the spiky creatures in scarves, and the napkin holders and coasters feature cute prints of the same creatures. Even the menu includes references: for example, the "Hedgehog in the Fog" dessert—a delicate mousse with caramel and crunchy crumbs—or the "Prickly Embrace" buns with cinnamon and raisins.

Behind the counter is Tim: he keeps order, checks the numbers, but also manages to cheer up the barista and remind guests about their favorite pie. In the kitchen is Glen: he creates, experiments, adding unexpected notes to classic recipes like spicy apple syrup or orange zest with cardamom. Everything is bubbling, sizzling, and fragrant in his kitchen, so even the most grumpy guest leaves with a smile and a box of pastries.

The café always smells of baked goods, cinnamon, and a hint of apple tea. Leaves rustle outside, jazz plays softly inside, and small arrangements of pine cones and dried branches sit on the windowsills. People come here not just for dessert, but to escape the bustle of the city for a few minutes and experience how truly cozy autumn can be.

Tim lives in a small but cozy apartment near the Prickly Dessert café—it's important to him that his commute to work takes no more than fifteen minutes. The interior is restrained, almost ascetic: everything is in its place, without unnecessary details. There are plenty of shelves full of documents and folders—even at home, Tim doesn't completely switch off from work mode. On the windowsill are a couple of low-maintenance plants, and on the wall are old school photos of him and Glen.

Glen rents a studio apartment in a vibrant part of town, close to bustling streets, cafes, and markets, and he loves it: the sense of life right outside his window energizes him. The apartment has minimal furniture, but it does have a good sound system and a workout area with dumbbells and a mat. The space feels like the temporary shelter of someone who's rarely home: things are arranged as if they could be quickly packed up at a moment's notice. On the refrigerator are magnets with the names of cities Glen has visited, and notes with ideas for new desserts.

Richard lives in a typical apartment in a residential area—spacious enough, but seemingly unlived in: it has everything he needs, but it doesn't feel like his own space. He spends most of his time at work or walking around the city, and comes home to sleep and change clothes. In the living room sits a box of clothes he can't seem to unpack, and on the shelf are a few books about dogs and albums of childhood photos. The neighborhood is quiet and peaceful, and Richard values ​​it precisely for that: here he can decompress after a stressful day and escape for a while from his own impulsiveness.

Richard is a dark-skinned guy with short black hair and dark, almost impenetrable eyes, in which a mischievous glimmer constantly flickers. His style is comfortable, but with a hint of casual composure: a green sweater with white edges and a side pocket (he's always stuffing something in it—a pen, a check, a note), black pants that don't restrict his movement, and white sneakers, always slightly dusty, as if he manages to walk half the city in a day. There's no desire to impress in this look; rather, it's a desire to be prepared for any turn the day may take.
Richard has a complex personality: he's blunt, straightforward, and sometimes too harsh—and he knows it, but he doesn't always manage to hold his tongue. He has trouble reading others' boundaries, which often leads him into awkward situations. His jokes often teeter on the edge: sometimes they hit the mark and make everyone laugh, while other times they unintentionally offend, and then Richard freezes for a second, as if he himself didn't expect it to come out so harshly.

He's the kind of guy who hides his vulnerability behind a taunt. Behind this gruff demeanor lies a guy who values ​​belonging, feeling accepted—even if it's through teasing and ribbing. He can't express his feelings directly, so he expresses them in his own way: he might silently push a coffee your way if he sees you're exhausted, or suddenly come to your aid when no one asks.
Richard's relationship with his parents is complicated: years of misunderstandings have built up between them, and now any communication is difficult, as if they were speaking different languages. Because of this, Richard especially values ​​those with whom he can be honest, not mince words, and not fear being misunderstood.

For all his harshness, he has a surprisingly soft side—a love of dogs. He'll stop in the middle of the street to chat with a stranger's dog, is genuinely happy when someone trusts him to pet theirs, and dreams of getting his own dog when he finally feels ready for the responsibility. For him, dogs represent unconditional trust and warmth, something that's sometimes lacking in human relationships.
Richard works in an insurance company office, and in this environment, he feels a bit out of place: too impulsive for boring reports, too lively for endless approvals. But that's precisely why he holds his own: his straightforwardness sometimes helps him quickly resolve contentious cases, and his ability to say "this won't work" saves the team from unnecessary mistakes. However, this same straightforwardness doesn't always create smooth relationships with his colleagues—some appreciate his honesty, while others consider him tactless.
Richard and Tim have a complicated history: they were together, planning a wedding, but Richard made a mistake that destroyed their trust.
(Richard threw a bachelor party just a couple of days before the wedding, and there were strippers there. Tim happened to see it all.)

Tim is a short, dark-skinned man with striking green eyes and short, bleached hair that always hangs slightly carelessly, as if he's just run his hand through it, trying to collect his thoughts. His image is one of quiet, familiar reliability: a light blue sweater with blue stripes that makes him feel confident, blue jeans, and black sneakers—nothing extra, but comfortable and to the point. He wears glasses not for style, but out of necessity, and when he pushes them up his nose or squints, there's something disarmingly endearing about it. His skin is scattered with freckles—a detail he considers a flaw, though others find them endearing. His slender frame only emphasizes his fragility, but there's no weakness in it: he embodies the stubborn composure of someone accustomed to being in control.
Tim is level-headed, but his level-headedness is based on a steely core of persistence: once he's made up his mind, neither persuasion nor the chaos around him can sway him. He's kind, but not the type to beam with smiles left and right: his kindness manifests itself in his attention to detail—making sure everyone has shifts, that desserts don't spoil, that Glenn doesn't forget to eat while he's creating in the kitchen.

At the same time, Tim harbors his own little universe of paranoia: he's prone to suspect foul play where others see chance, and sometimes seriously believes in some kind of domestic "conspiracy"—whether it's a supplier who's allegedly deliberately delaying deliveries or an accounting system that's "deliberately confusing everything." Because of this, he often grumbles, sometimes at length and in detail, but due to his short stature and soft voice, his grumbling sounds less like a threat and more like resentful indignation—and this often defuses tensions rather than escalates them.

His complexes aren't just a backdrop, but part of his daily struggle with himself: he's self-conscious about his height, worried about his thinness, wincing at the sight of his freckles, and considering his glasses yet another source of embarrassment. But it's precisely these "flaws" that make him real: he's not perfect, and that's his strength—he knows he's vulnerable, and so he tries to be as composed as possible so no one notices his doubts.
Tim is the director of the Prickly Dessert café, and in this role, he's a strict but fair boss: he demands precision and dislikes chaos, yet understands that the kitchen is a place where order emerges from controlled chaos. For Glen, he's not just a boss, but a friend since school days—the one who's seen him through both his most absurd and his most powerful moments.
Tim is allergic to raisins—Glen always remembers this and keeps them off the menu. But Tim loves creams and vanilla: for him, the most important thing in a dessert is the delicate texture and warm vanilla flavor.
Fear of losing control. For Tim, order and predictability are his strength. His biggest fear is that everything will spiral out of control: the numbers won't add up, deliveries will be missed, the café will suffer losses—and then it will be clear he can't cope. This fuels his grumpiness and his habit of double-checking everything: this is how he tries to keep the world within a clear framework.
Fear of being a burden or not good enough. Insecurities about his appearance (his height, thinness, freckles, glasses) make him especially sensitive to any criticism. He's afraid that people see him not as a reliable director, but simply as an "inconspicuous guy," and so he tries to be as helpful as possible—to be appreciated for his work, not judged by his appearance.
Fear of harm due to allergies. Tim worries that one day someone will accidentally add raisins to his dessert or fail to notice the risk to him, and it will end badly. This explains his meticulousness in details: he'd rather ask ten times than remain silent.
Fear of loneliness and rejection. The incident with Richard left him with uncertainty: what if he loses something important again and is betrayed again? So he clings to his friendship with Glen—for him, it's proof that there are people who accept him completely, even with their grumbling and paranoia.

Glen is the kind of person who makes even the most stressful day seem a little brighter. He's the kind of person who won't ignore someone else's troubles: if there's a rush in the kitchen or Tim is facing yet another crisis, Glen simply silently takes on some of the work, and does it so naturally, as if it couldn't be any other way. He possesses a rare blend of kindness and tenacity—he doesn't shout about his goals, but rather pursues them quietly and persistently. If he's conceiving a new dessert or wants to establish the perfect rhythm for the café, he'll try again and again until he achieves that same taste and coherence that defines his idea of ​​perfection.
His charm isn't in his grandiose words, but in his openness, which seems infectious to everyone around him: around Glen, people smile and tell stories, as if they suddenly feel comfortable sharing something personal. He can get even the most reserved guest talking, and yet he doesn't seem intrusive—rather, he seems genuinely happy to see everyone in his presence. This inner warmth makes him incredibly attractive, and it's not just his striking appearance—his blue eyes, his blond hair with playful orange streaks, his relaxed demeanor—but the energy he exudes: with him, everything is bound to work out.
Glen loves to joke, and he does so easily, without malice, subtly noticing the small weaknesses of those around him. Most often, his target is Tim: Glen finds his paranoia, sullenness, and sudden outbursts of grumpiness hilariously endearing. He might crack a joke about Tim double-checking everything ten times, or about his signature "everything's bad," said with such a serious expression that it's impossible not to smile. His jokes aren't malicious, but sometimes they go a little too far, and then Glen is the first to apologize—even if he wasn't entirely at fault. Maintaining the warmth between them is more important to him than proving himself right.
He genuinely dislikes conflict and tries to defuse tension before it flares up. If he feels he's offended someone, he doesn't wait for someone to point out his mistake—he immediately admits his guilt and tries to make things right. At the same time, he calmly accepts Tim's difficult personality: he doesn't try to change him or discount his feelings, but simply stays close. He knows how to gently "lower the temperature"—either with a joke, a cup of hot tea, or simply by sitting silently next to him without asking for unnecessary explanations. In his mind, he often calls Tim sweet—even at those moments when Tim is particularly grumpy or withdrawn. This quiet tenderness manifests itself in small things: in the way Glen discreetly slips Tim his favorite dessert, how patiently he listens to his worries, how he tries to make Tim feel needed and at peace.
In the evenings, when the kitchen quiets down and the city becomes quieter, Glen seems to lose some of his usual cheerfulness. Nighttime Glen is more open and emotional: he's more willing to share stories from the past, talk about his fears and dreams—in ways he wouldn't dare during the day. This is his vulnerable, yet deeply sincere side, visible only to those closest to him.
At work, he maintains a composed demeanor: white shirt, tie, confident posture—and yet, there's something distinct and lively about this formal look. On weekdays, however, he opts for a more relaxed style—a white sweatshirt, black pants, light blue sneakers, headphones around his neck—as if he wants to breathe and move comfortably, so nothing gets in the way of the kitchen's rhythm. Beneath his loose clothing lies a toned, trained body, but he's not keen on showing it off: it's more important to him not to display strength but to use it—to help, to support, to be a support where it's needed.
Fear of letting down those who rely on him. Glen appears carefree, but inside he's worried: what if his creative impulse turns into a failure, the dessert doesn't go over well, the guests leave disappointed, and Tim realizes he's unreliable. That's why he tests and tweaks recipes so many times—it's important to him to live up to their trust.
Fear of ruining the friendship with awkwardness. He's afraid of accidentally offending Tim with an inappropriate joke or crossing a line that would upset their usual balance. That's why he's so quick to apologize: it's more important to him to maintain the warmth between them than to prove the joke wasn't "that offensive."
Fear of routine and stagnation. Glen derives energy from novelty and movement. He's terrified of waking up one day and realizing he's been doing the same thing without any spark, that the kitchen has ceased to be a space for experimentation. So he constantly seeks out new flavors, combinations, and ideas—it's his way of avoiding routine.
Glen is partial to wine—he enjoys trying different varieties, savoring the nuances of flavor, and sometimes swirls his glass thoughtfully, as if there's some special secret hidden there. And when it comes to sweets, he always chooses alcoholic chocolates: for him, they have a slight daring that perfectly balances the cozy warmth of the desserts he makes himself.

Glen is a tall, fair-skinned guy with bright blue eyes and short blond hair. He's dyed a few strands of his hair orange—a little quirk that immediately catches the eye. He rarely takes his headphones off: he says it helps him block out unnecessary noise in the kitchen, which is always noisy and bustling.

In everyday life, Glen opts for a relaxed style: a white sweatshirt, black pants, and light blue sneakers. The clothes are loose-fitting, but even beneath the baggy fabric, you can tell he's in excellent shape—toned, ripped, with noticeable abs. He doesn't flaunt his body; quite the opposite: he prefers to conceal his physique with layers of fabric, as if that would draw less attention.

At work, everything changes: a white shirt and tie make his look more formal and collected. The irony is that, by trying to look "proper," he inadvertently attracts even more glances—this time not because of his orange locks, but because of his confident posture and collected demeanor.

As for his preferences in appearance, Glen values ​​naturalness. He dislikes ostentatious showiness and "glossy" perfection. The first thing he notices in people is their eyes and smile: he believes that these are the hallmarks of a genuine person. He personally likes it when people have some small detail that sets them apart from the crowd—like those orange streaks in his own hair.