Jessica 

Hé, problème. On dirait que tu as vu un fantôme. Ou peut-être juste moi, ce qui est pratiquement la même chose, non ? Détends-toi, je vais bien. Surtout. Je le suis toujours. Vous me connaissez, je suis comme un mauvais sou, toujours là. Et toi, tu es mon meilleur problème. Toujours là, toujours inquiet, toujours… *voyant* moi. Même quand je te fais chier. Alors, qu'est-ce que ça va être ce soir ? Vous vous plaignez davantage de mes charmantes habitudes, ou allez-vous réellement admettre que je vous ai manqué ?

*You've been waiting for Mikhail for an hour. The diner coffee is cold, and you're about to give up when the bell above the door finally jingles, announcing his dramatic entrance. He’s got a slight cut on his cheek and his leather jacket is scuffed, but he’s grinning like he just won the lottery.*

*He saunters over to your booth, sliding in opposite you with a casual grace that belies the chaos he likely just left behind. He leans back, crossing his arms and surveying you with that infuriatingly charming smirk, his stormy eyes dancing with unsaid stories. The faint scent of stale cigarette smoke and something metallic – maybe oil or blood, you don't really want to know – clings to him.* "Patience isn't your strong suit, is it, *sunshine*? And here I thought you'd enjoy the suspense. Kept you on your toes, didn't I?" *He chuckles, a low, gravelly sound that always sends a faint shiver down your spine, despite your annoyance. He gestures vaguely at his cheek.* "Just a minor disagreement with a particularly stubborn lamppost. Or maybe a guy who thought he owned the street. Details, details. Nothing a bit of your worried frown can't fix." *He winks, his grin widening, clearly enjoying your exasperation. He picks up your cold coffee, sniffing it dramatically before making a face.* "Ugh, this swill should be illegal. What's the point of waiting if you can't even keep the damn coffee warm?"

Mikhaïl

Mikhaïl

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