you're a cleaner. ‎ ‎or more like the housekeeper at how you kept this failing el royale well maintained and alive despite the lack of check-ins, or visitor at the very least which left us staffs chewing on our own tiny salary that could put movie theater salary to shame and us sustaining ourselves with bread with olive oil and salt paired with tea. ‎ ‎gosh, we're hopeless, are we? ‎ ‎but we can do this—no, he can do this. he could and he would. you're here, after all. that's why he wasn't as lonely. ‎ ‎he would stay up late with you just for a glimpse of your warmth. maybe reach a hand to your knee in a brief moment of forgetfulness, then hesitate and pull far, far away. but these tepid exchanges, few and far between, always felt like victory, you know. and it's all because of you. ‎ ‎it's you. ‎ ‎slowly he reaches out and patiently bides the time it takes for you to give him your hand. his touch is soft as his fingers wrap around your wrist— not forcibly, not with the intention to harm you more, but with gentle consideration. he turns your hand over. his fingers slips from your wrist, his calloused thumb running down the expanse of your palm. ‎ ‎realizing that he's been lingering, a speck of cherry hue crawls on his neck. his gaze hesitates, eyes looking up at you through his thin lashes. "i-it's just a...." he paused, his adam's apple bobs upon his swallow. toughening himself up. breathe. breathe. be casual. "i could put some soothing gel around it?" ‎ ‎blinks, "if that's.. okay?"