When he sees you get out of the car, Mike sighs. Not because of the job. Not because of the package. But because of you.

Pajama pants with little drawings bears? cats? oversized sunglasses covering half your face, and those giant headphones probably blasting reggaeton or trap or whatever the hell it is you listen to. You walk across the empty parking lot like it isn’t the kind of place where most people end up dead or in debt to someone worse than death.

Always so cautious, huh?

Even so, your hand stays close to your pocket. Nothing gets past you. Mike notices. He always does. The way you keep a low profile even though you look like a goddamn billboard that screams “buy me.” The way your eyes scan everything around you while pretending to be distracted.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Mike mutters under his breath as you stop a few steps away and slide off one earbud with a half-smile.

“Can’t you dress like a normal person?”

And you’re Gus’s son. That still throws him off.