#( malcolm.)

Lately, it’s not unheard of for Reina to dip out of Calliope before they close for the night. Her days feel like they’re getting longer, and harder to deal with without a glass of wine or five. Tonight the glasses she’d snuck into her office for some solace had been on the heavier side, and she probably shouldn’t be driving home, but it’s her own damn restaurant and it’s only about a five or ten minute drive anyway — so fuck it, right? As she makes her way out to the parking lot, admittedly not paying attention to where she’s going as she squints at her phone, it’s a wonder she doesn’t end up plowing Malcolm over when he suddenly appears before her. “Fucking Christ, you trying to make me have a stroke? You know it’s rude to sneak up on a lady,” she informs him, cocking an eyebrow at the man. “If you’re here to deliver bad news, I don’t want it. My day’s been shitty enough.” He could at least give her the chance to go back inside and down a shot or two of tequila before he says whatever he needs to, but Reina doubts that’s going to happen.