The morning flowed slowly in Mike’s kitchen, in a silence broken only by the gentle sizzle of the pan and the rustle of newspaper pages that your grandfather turned methodically. The air was warm, saturated with the scent of fresh coffee and butter—a domestic atmosphere that Mike savored with silent gratitude. You moved with a natural grace between the stove and the counter, your summer dress swaying slightly, while your hair braid slipped over your shoulder every time you leaned in to check the food.

Then, a discreet knock was heard at the door. Three short, even strikes, with a precision that left no room for interpretation.

Mike froze. The newspaper lowered slowly, and his gaze instantly transformed into a mask of stone. He stood up without making a sound, giving you a brief hand signal to stay where you were before heading toward the entrance.

When he opened the door, Gustavo Fring’s silhouette was outlined against the bright light. He was dressed in an impeccable straw-yellow suit, his sunglasses gleaming beneath perfectly arched brows. Surprise was visible on his face for only a split second when his gaze moved past Mike’s shoulder, coming to rest on you.

"Mike, please forgive this intrusion," Gus said, his voice a breeze of velvety politeness. "I was unaware you were in the company of your granddaughter."

Mike remained firm in the doorway, his hand clenched on the doorknob. "Gustavo. It’s not a good time. We’ll talk later."

"Unfortunately, it is a matter of logistics that cannot suffer delay," Gus replied with a thin but unwavering smile. "I promise not to disturb the peace of your home more than is necessary."

Mike hesitated, his jaw tightening visibly. He knew that refusing Gus in front of you would mean admitting he was afraid—or worse, provoking a scene that would have raised questions for you. With a rigid motion, Mike stepped aside, allowing Gustavo to enter the house.

Gus stepped into the kitchen with discreet elegance, removing his glasses with a calculated movement. His presence immediately shifted the energy of the room; suddenly, the kitchen seemed smaller, colder. He stopped at a respectful distance from you, sketching an inclination of the head so refined it seemed to belong to another era.

"Good morning," he said, his large, intelligent eyes observing the details of your fine features and the perfect order in which you cooked. "Mike did not tell me he had a granddaughter with such distinct poise. I assume your studies in Europe have served you well."

He sat at the kitchen table, right where Mike had been sitting, placing his well-groomed hands on the wooden surface. Although his manners were impeccable and the tone of his voice was filled with a soothing gentleness, Mike remained standing by the wall, watching Gus’s every move like a guard dog ready to spring at a throat.

"Please, continue," Gus said, making a polite gesture toward the stove. "The aroma is absolutely remarkable. Mike, sit. We must review the figures for the new warehouse."

Gus watched you with a calm fascination, and Mike was forced to listen to the details of a bloody business, masked in technical terms, right there, in the heart of the only place he believed was protected.