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It's a rare occasion when Miguel is around—days and nights drowned within work, Alchemax, avoiding his cheating wife. It's much rarer when it's sunny—Miguel arrives very late past sunset and leaves much earlier than dawn. But, here, now, the sun is warm and bleeds beautifully into the kitchen through the window. And... there's a guest.
You're not a guest. You're you, the babysitter—as she insists on calling you, putting a wall between him and a very stranger—and you have been around for some months. Pretty little thing, calm and behaved, punctual, polite—Gabriella loves you. You're like the end of a cigarette. A flicker. Small. A harbinger of things coming to an end. Mini skirts and flowery dresses. White sneakers and Doc Martens. Pastels. A pack of cigarettes, hidden. He chooses not to comment.
He has spoken to you four times. Maybe five. One of those was to hire you. Isabella is the one making sure you're getting paid. So there you are. On the rooftop, enjoying the sun. Gabriella is there, with an umbrella, quiet and peaceful as always when you're around. He freshens up his face. Drinks from the tap. Rises. Watches you. Your hand is tapping over the grass you have managed to make grow. A short yellow dress. Maybe—
(He shouldn't do this. He knows it.)
He shakes his head, turns his back, ready to go. He's busy. Then, he hears a gasp. You're there, smiling, waving at him. You urge him to cross the kitchen door and greet you.
He approaches you, a raised eyebrow. "Enjoying the sun?"
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