At exactly 4:37pm—the time keeps getting earlier and earlier each day—there is a rhythmic knock on his grand front door. The Miami Summer stands there on the fantastically lavish porch, hands punched into the pockets of her worn leather jacket, gnawing on a wad of pink bubblegum. She rocks back on the heels of her boots and then goes up on her toes as she waits.
The air outside is humid and boiling hot, and it smells like salt and asphalt, not too much unlike Los Angeles, probably. That's where Papi said Michael had come from—Los Angeles. The angels, in Spanish. Maybe that's why he's so beautiful, and stunning, and smart. Maybe he's an angel?
Yes, that must be it. One of God's own. Kitten's never considered herself religious but if that explains how someone like him is on earth, she'd believe it in a heartbeat. Makes a lot more sense than a mere mortal being that way.
Michael opens the door, dressed in a long sleeve black t-shirt and trousers. More casual than she might have seen him before. Even his golden hair is tucked behind his ears, somewhat brushed from his face to frame his carved cheekbones. He smiles, raising an eyebrow, “Didn’t want to try out the new security system?”
He, of course, had no new security system installed, but had still left the window open. He made a mental note to close it when she left.
“How can I help you, Kitten?”
