where: st. peter’s, 11:50 pm. to: @milacdurel
the ice in her glass had been tingling against it for a while, now — her hand mindlessly twirling her drink, while her gaze lost itself around the dimly lit corners of st. peter’s. there were thoughts swirling in her head, observations she wanted to note down: she couldn’t. if there was one thing she’d learned in the decade she’d worked in this field, it was that nothing put people on edge as much as a notebook, and someone taking notes over them. she let herself get swallowed by the music instead (how posh st. peter’s had turned, over her absence: now they even got a singer to cover the sound of the drunks retching in the back), her gaze occasionally drifting over the singer’s silhouette. not just appreciative of her looks or talent (would be hard not to notice either of them), but remembering rumors of her ties to valencia — if anything, a connection worth pursuing. by the time the set was over, and she could spot the singer reaching the counter, mitch made sure to signal the bartender before she could order: then, flashing her best big-shot kinda smile, she turned, her back to the counter, elbows resting on its top. head tilted, turned towards the singer. “my treat. that was a good set you played, felt like i owed ya”.
