The house was lovely on the outside, Camellia found. Unfortunately, that didn't help with her hesitation.
She'd been standing here for a good few minutes already, hand poised to ring the bell or knock or just let the people inside know in any way that she was here.
But she'd been fifteen minutes early anyway, she reminded herself. It wasn't that big a deal to just… hesitate outside the door.
There was always the second-guessing these days; Camellia just wasn't sure if she'd been invited because they knew (or guessed) she had money because she was in the gallery; or maybe she'd just looked that lost and it was a pity-invite. What was worse? Pity or greed?
Camellia sighed and before she could decide to knock, the door swung open and a tall man stood there.
After looking behind her and then on either side of the house's entrance, the man focussed back on her. "…Hello?" he asked suspiciously, eyes squinting at her, nose red and eyes watery.
Flustered, Camellia's hand dropped and she was wringing them, peering up uncertainly at the man. He wore black business trousers and a white shirt, the top button undone, but his face is flushed which, along with the other symptoms and the visible sweat tells her he's likely sick.
"I-Yes. Hello. Sorry. I- Is- Is this the Burke home?"
More squinting, brows now furrowed, another suspicious glance around.
"It is. Why?"
"Oh for goodness' sake, Peter. I told you that I invited Camellia to dinner tonight. Now step aside, and let her in," Elizabeth's voice came from further inside the house, coming closer with every word and the man she presumed was her husband was swatted with a dishtowel.
The man's face had cleared, and he held up his hands as he stepped aside.
"Yes, sorry about that. Never know when someone's running a con on you," he said with a smile, still giving the area behind her a suspicious glance.
"I- Ye-Yes?" A con? What kind of people were this? Was this like the mafia or something? Why would someone run a con?
"Come in," Elizabeth told her with an open, friendly smile, but Camellia's hackles were now raised. She had no intention of getting kidnapped – again – or someone trying to rob her. She didn't think Elizabeth was like that, but people did crazy things for love.
It was her turn to look suspiciously at the man in the door, and this time Elizabeth laughed.
"Oh, I will have to tell Mozzie about this," she says, giggling.
"El? Tell Mozzie about what?" Peter asks suspiciously, closing the door, side-eying Camellia again, looking like he's having trouble focussing on her. "You do seem rather familiar. Do I know you from somewhere?"
Camellia gaped, mouth opening and closing for a second – both at the laughing hostess and her rather off-putting husband who may or may not be a mafioso or some other type of criminal.
"What my husband is conveniently forgetting to tell you," Elizabeth says, voice ringing with laughter, wiping little tears away from the corner of her eyes, "is that he works in the FBI."
"Oh," Camellia said quietly, shoulders dropping as she relaxes again. Honestly – not anywhere near her guesswork but makes so much more sense now.
"Now I know where I know you from – the Bachelor auction a few years ago!" He tells her, snapping his fingers at the realisation, before descending into a series of sneezes.
Camellia blinks. "Why were you at that auction?" she asks, glancing at Elizabeth to see if the woman's offended that her husband just boldly told people he'd been cheating on her.
Elizabeth giggles more. "Definitely telling Mozzie and Neal about this," she says quietly, before turning to Camellia.
"He was there undercover," she tells her after another pause, "one of the women there was a Black widow."
"A black widow?" she finds herself asking. Logically, Camellia knows that the way her life's run, she's unaware of a lot of things other people know – missed out on a decade of Muggle education and learning, and hadn't been indulged even before then given how she was not allowed to watch television, or have a library card or any of the plethora of things others deemed normal.
Really, she's happy she knows what the FBI and Mafia is, but her lack of knowledge raises its head at the most inopportune moments. Naivete only covers so much.
"A woman who marries rich men and they die shortly thereafter under mysterious circumstances," Peter explains seriously, leading her into the dining room.
"Speaking of," he continues, "how did you get into that auction? You're quite young to be rich enough. And I think you're the woman who bid ten grand on a date with-" he pauses momentarily, before continuing slowly, "one of the bachelors."
Camellia blinks. Is he really accusing her of being a black widow?
"Inheritance," she tells him curtly, stepping around him, as he coughs, shaking with the force behind them. She remembers him now – at the auction she'd thought he'd been funny, just for his fumbling and nervousness. There's none of that now, just an interrogation – always a good way to bring her hackles up. Camellia never had a good way of dealing with authority figures.
"You're quite young. When did they die?"
Elizabeth obviously heard this as she is bringing one of the dishes through from the kitchen.
"Peter Burke!" she says in reprimand, carefully lowering the dish onto the dining table, before guiding Peter to his chair, a hand lying concernedly on his forehead despite her frustrated glare.
Camellia ignores her and jumps in before Elizabeth can continue.
"When I was a year old. So, unless you're saying I was a really murderous – and exceptionally skilled – one-year-old, you're barking up the wrong tree. And my godfather died when I was fifteen, killed by his cousin, for the crime of not joining the murderous gang led by the man who killed my parents. Satisfied?"
He does at least have the decency to look shame-faced – and Elizabeth looks furious, but is still careful around her clearly sick husband.
Exhaling sharply, Camellia forces herself to relax.
"Look, I won't say it's okay, because, frankly, I came here for dinner with a friend, but I understand the caution. I won't hold it against you, so long as we start over."
"Yes- And I am sorry," he tells her. "I'm working on a case just now where someone's infiltrating a family by pretending to be someone else. I take my work home sometimes – but I shouldn't have interrogated you like that. I apologise."
Camellia relaxes genuinely this time. Very few people have ever deemed her worthy enough of an apology – and certainly not adults. Being able to admit that they were wrong is a very positive – and rare – character trait, and definitely someone she doesn't mind getting to know better, even after that rather dramatic introduction.
"So, FBI? What's that like? I'll be honest and say I don't actually know what it is you do," she tells him, as she sits down at the table. Camellia is honestly amused to see the couple in front of her exchanging silent glances loaded with messages and she has no doubt that Peter is going to be hearing a lot later on from his wife.
"Oh, sorry – before that," Elizabeth interrupts when they hear a whining noise from the side door. "We've got a dog, Satchmo. He's a sweetheart, a golden retriever. I've kept him out because I hadn't asked if you're allergic or afraid of dogs, but if you don't mind, I'd let him in."
"That's okay," she tells her, laughing slightly, "I love dogs." It's honest – or mostly honest. She's still a bit on the backfoot with pitbulls and tiny, aggressive dogs – remembering the hours spent in a tree, the bitemarks still on her ankle – but having dealt and lived with werewolves, it's honestly very low on her list of fears. Especially considering her work now.
"Oh, good," Elizabeth lets him in and a blur of yellow, tail waving excitedly, rushes in to greet the lady and master of the house, earning a few pets before coming to investigate her.
The smile is entirely involuntarily, and she pushes her chair away, sinking to the floor to be at a better height.
"Hello, boy," she tells him quietly, letting him sniff her for a moment, before his tail starts wagging again, pressing against her for more affection. Huffing out a quiet laugh, Camellia scratches by his ear with one hand, the other petting his chest and neck. The dog snuffles happily, tail sweeping the floor in his excitement as he sits down beside her.
"Oh, you're a beauty, aren't you," she whispers, the dog's tail waving faster at every whispered praise. "So pretty."
It's nice to see a dog who is genuinely happy for once – and well-fed, after the poor little darlings she's taken into her shelter, this is a beautiful delight.
"Who's a good boy?" she asks, smiling widely and the dog lets out a quiet bark, pressing his head further into her hand and she laughs softly, only to blink in surprise when she's interrupted by a quiet throat-clearing. Both Burke's are looking at her with soft eyes and wide smiles and Camellia blushes incandescently.
So much for better second first-time impressions. They clearly think she's adorable now, rather than a fully functioning adult.
"Dinner's ready," Elizabeth says softly and Camellia nods quickly.
"Yes, of course. If I could just – do you have somewhere I could wash my hands?"
There's a tinge of amusement, lips twitching as Peter nods. "Yes, more than one, even. The closes is the sink in the kitchen over there," he tells her and she nods quickly, happy for the small reprieve to gather herself and amused to find Satchmo following her, brown eyes wide and fixed on her, clearly hoping for more affection.
"Later," she promises quietly, planting a soft kiss on the dog's head before going to the sink.
They've barely sat down before the doorbell rings.
"What is it now?" Peters asks, clearly exasperated, dropping his cutlery again to answer the door.
"So how did you two meet?" Camellia asks Elizabeth curiously.
"Well-"
"Oh, what are you doing here?" the loud, exasperated voice of Peter can clearly be heard from the entryway and both woman blink, looking in the direction of the door.
Camellia stares, eyes wide, when she realises she knows that man.
He comes in, no hat this time but hair still artfully styled, removing the bowtie from around his neck.
"I'm just here to report," he tells Peter with a wide grin – one far too innocent to be believed. "Hello Elizabeth," he says, before his eyes settle on her and his eyebrows rises in surprise. "and Camellia – a pleasure to see you again."
Honest this time, she thinks, his smile has softened a touch when his eyes fell on her.
"And you, Neal. I didn't know you know the Burke's."
"Of course, you two know each other," Peter states exasperatedly, pinching the bridge of his nose.
"Welcome Neal. Would you like to join us?" Elizabeth asks, completely ignoring her husband. Neal throws Peter a quick glance, pauses on her for a second as well, before smiling at Elizabeth.
"Oh, I would love to. Thank you for inviting me," he tells her and receives a gentle squeeze on his shoulder from Peter's wife before she departs to grab another plate and cutlery.
"You do know he's an ex-con, right?" Peter asks her, throwing Neal another glare as he sits down. "And Neal – you could've given your report to Jones, you know that."
"And leave your wife out of the loop?" Neal asks, hand on his heart, looking genuinely offended at the accusation. Camellia giggles, shaking her head at his antics and blushes when he winks at her.
"So- what's an ex-con?" she asks when Elizabeth returns and receives three surprised looks in her direction. They all look at each other for a second – obviously another thing which is common knowledge for people who didn't grow up in cupboards.
"An convict is someone who was found guilty of a crime," Peter throws a pointed glance at Neal, "and was sent to prison. An ex-con is someone who was in prison because they were guilty."
"Ah," Neal says, satisfied grin tugging at his lips as he glances at Peter, "so someone like you then?"
Elizabeth's hand isn't quite fast enough and Camellia sees her grin before she can hide it, even as Peter huffs, looking pained and like his illness is getting worse.
"No – not like me. Like you," he says and Camellia uncertainly raises her hand, brining all eyes on her.
"Yes- sorry to interrupt, but I thought you were an FBI agent. Why were you in prison?"
The tale of Neal's crimes and subsequent assignment to the FBI's White Collar unit – and the internal corruption within the FBI – as well as their partnership and Peter's brief sojourn in prison take Camellia all the way through dinner.
"And currently they're investigating the man I told you about," Elizabeth finishes for them and Peter sputters.
"Honey- You can't, it's a current investigation," he tells her and Elizabeth shrugs.
"I already told her about it at the gallery, so it's too late anyway."
Neal's grinning openly at the marital disagreement and Camellia ducks her head to hide her own amusement. It's rather clear that Peter, for all his power at work, is rather defenseless around his wife. It's sweet – but also imminently amusing.
"Fine," he says, heaving a big sigh. "More paperwork for me," he adds, but waves for Neal to go ahead. After the sordid tale is divulged, Camellia frowns.
"So you need his real name?"
"Yes," Neal confirms, a questioning lilt in his tone, as he looks intrigued by where she's going with this.
Pursing her lips, Camellia hesitates for a moment – but she likes these people and they're good ones. She trusts them.
"I can find out his name," she tells them and finds three surprised eyes fixed on her. "I can tell anyone's name so long as I touch them," she tells them.
They exchange doubting glances as she and Neal assist Elizabeth with the clean-up while Peter is leaning heavily against the side of the couch, looking likely to drop off any moment.
"Touch them how?" Neal asks, eyebrows raised.
"Skin contact. Handshake's enough."
"Uh-huh," Peter says, sounding disbelieving and she can't fault him – there's no magic in this world, never mind a Master of Death, legend or otherwise. How do you explain seeing a soul?
"Look, you lose nothing by me coming in with Elizabeth," she tells him.
"Unless you're working with him."
"Haven't we already been over this?" Camellia asks, tired of Peter's suspicious nature, despite understanding why.
"And what do you get out of it?"
"I- Another guy off the streets? More time with some advice from your wife?" Camellia shrugs. It's the right thing to do, she thinks, but doesn't know how to say. What that man is doing to the father and sister, that isn't right – not to mention the actual son, wherever he's being kept.
It's clear none of them believe her, but given that everything has turned up negative so far, they appear willing to indulge her while pursuing their own inquiries instead.
"If it's that big a deal, I can arrange to meet the Wolcott's on my own," she tells them with a shrug.
"It's fine, I'll take you with me, tomorrow," Elizabeth says.
Camellia has no doubt that Elizabeth doesn't believe for a second she will somehow obtain the information, but that's alright – so long as she can help, it doesn't really matter whether they believe her beforehand or not.
Unfortunately, however, the Burke's and Neal have all withdrawn themselves after her vaguely stated belief in the supernatural. Camellia barely withholds a sigh. They're nice to her still, but the exuberance and happiness, the inclusion that was there before, is missing. The occasional brushes against her elbow or smile from Neal is gone.
Understanding that she's overstayed her welcome, Camellia excuses herself and leaves, after arranging a time to meet up with Elizabeth the next day.
"Jareth Peterson," she tells Neal and Elizabeth at the door on the way out. Both blink, surprised. "Twenty-eight," she adds.
"How do you know that?" Neal asks, looking suspicious.
"I told you," she says with a shrug, leaving them both behind.
Camellia is not as surprised as she should be to be picked up a little while later by the FBI with a warrant to have her hotel room and farm searched. She lets them – magic will allow her to restore everything and the valuable things are protected by magic anyway. They leave her for a little bit in the interrogation room before the man who picked her up – Jones – sits down with her.
She's let go after twenty-four hours, with their apologies and just smiles at them. To be honest, it's barely a blip on her radar and she kind of likes that these people actually investigate and take others seriously.
Yawning and stretching, breathing in the fresh air (or as fresh as it gets in New York), Camellia nearly takes a step back in surprise when she realises Neal is in front of her with the smaller bald guy with glasses.
"Shake his hand," Neal half-tells, half-asks her and she sighs, but does as he's asked.
"Pleasure to meet you, Theodore Winters," she tells him, only for the man to pale and become frantic. She gives Neal a displeased glare.
"Look, I'm sorry about your friend and about saying this out loud. I didn't realise your name was secret."
"But how can you know that?" Theodore asks and Camellia sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. She's never done well keeping her temper in when sleep-deprived.
"I just do," she finally says, when it doesn't look like Neal will explain.
"Any more demonstrations required, Mr. Bennett?" She asks the ex-con and when both remain quiet, she nods firmly and leaves them to go around the corner, out of view from the cameras to disapparate.
Both hear the crack and come around the corner, expecting a gunshot only to find an empty dead-end alleyway and no sign of the woman who had just gone in there.
"Interesting," Neal says quietly, eyes flitting across the walls and footpath for any hint of how she managed to disappear so completely.
"Interesting?" Mozzie gapes. "She knows our names – our real names? This doesn't concern you?"
Neal looks contemplative for a moment before he laughs slightly, shaking his head.
"Curiously enough, it really doesn't," he confesses. "But I do want to know how she does that."
"Please don't let this be another Kate," Mozzie mutters, rubbing his forehead tiredly.
"I don't think so," Neal says absent-mindedly, kneeling on the ground for a closer inspection of the footpath.
"You never do," Mozzie sighs. "Fine. I'll investigate."
"You think you can find out what the FBI can't?" Neal says teasingly as he stands up and Mozzie scoffs.
"Please. The suits couldn't find their way to water if they were on fire. By this time tomorrow, I'll know what kind of toothbrush she uses, and what kind of skeletons she has buried."
Neal grins.
"We'll see."
"Neal – I need a diversion," comes the hushed voice of Mozzie from his phone and Neal almost-sighs, waving at Peter to say he's taking his lunch break early.
"Where are you?" He asks hurriedly.
"At her house."
"Whose house?"
"Whose do you think?" comes the condescending, rapid-fire response, still managing to be quiet, somehow and Neal sighs.
"I'll get her out," he promises and hangs up only to dial the number he's long since memorised from the report file on the investigation into her headed by Jones.
"Hi Camellia. This is Neal. I am very sorry for ambushing you yesterday and I was hoping you would be available for a lunch nearby?" – "Alright, how about a cup of coffee, then? As an apology for doubting you?" – "See you soon."
He quickly sends a text to Mozzie to let him know it's done, before making his way to the café. He's barely sat down before he hears that crack again, quieter though this time, and moments later Camellia ducks into the café, eyes scanning the patrons before she lands on him and her eyes light up, a smile curving her pretty lips up.
Camellia, Neal has to admit, is not what he expected from a rich heiress – lady? Her hair is glossy (if rather messy), her eyes an effervescent shade of green, but mostly what surprises him is all the behaviours which speak of a less-than-ideal childhood. The trouble navigating social niceties despite her being upper class, the way she eyes people and ducks or flinches from touch, the way she always keeps an eye on larger men around her, the way she tenses when someone's behind her, how small she is – the scars on her suggest this is due to more than just genetics, although that last one is a bit more supposition than fact. But he's seen her sleeves slide up more than once, noted the scars, in addition to the one at the back of her hand, her neck and forehead. None of it speaks well of whoever raised her, giving how old they look, but something he and Sara already noted during their dinner with her and which has only become more prominent in the short time he's spent with her over the last few days – is that she's undeniably kind.
He hopes that Mozzie doesn't find anything to the contrary, because Neal already genuinely likes her. But he's grown wise enough not to let everything rest just on his intuition, he tells himself, as he pulls out the chair for her and she looks at him in surprise, wide-eyed, cheeks flushing as she ducks her head and gently sits on the chair, looking pleased and just as surprised as she did at the dinner with Sara – like it's the first time someone's held the chair out for her, giving her common courtesy. Neal normally finds this kind of naivete somewhat off-putting – or, to be more precise, not something he wants to taint by exposing them to the real world he lives in – but with her, it's adorable and endearing and he doesn't doubt that she's likely seen as much – or worse – than he has, but not seen any of the gentle kindness it has to offer.
"I wasn't expecting this," she confesses quietly, still blushing, tapping the menu nervously as she throws him another glance.
"How's Sara?" she asks after a moment.
"Ah," Neal starts, blinking rapidly for a second, realising it hadn't come up until now. "We broke up."
"Oh," she says, looking genuinely surprised, "I am so sorry," she adds, lips turned downward, brows furrowed, sounding upset on his – their? – behalf. "You seemed like such a great couple."
"We were," he says honestly, a small smile on his lips. "But, well, ex-con and insurance investigator for stolen art – there was always going to be an expiration date on our relationship."
Something he'd thought, at times, they'd overcome, but hadn't been able to in the end.
"Sorry," she repeats, then hesitates. "I- So- the weather's nice, right?" she adds with a tone of desperation and Neal chances a glance outside at the gathering thunderclouds, the rain pouring down and pelting against the window and raises a sardonic eyebrow. She winces, clearly embarrassed and flustered, and Neal finds himself laughing.
"I can't tell if you're just as bad as when we first met or even worse," he says, still chuckling.
"Yeah- well, at least I didn't bring up your parent's murder," she retorts quickly, snorting quietly.
"Touché," he admits easily.
They're interrupted by the waitress and both place their order quickly. Neal smiles again, quickly, when she orders a hot chocolate – with extra whipped cream, please – but Camellia has clearly noticed it, and is already frowning at him.
"What? I like hot chocolate. Chocolate's like magic given form and makes everything better."
It's adorable, how defensive she has become just over her chosen beverage. He doesn't even try to his smile anymore.
"How could I possibly argue with that?" He asks, still smiling, and watches her huff, frustrated, the blush on her cheeks only serving to highlight the pink of her lips and brightness of her eyes. Camellia isn't exceptionally beautiful – not enough to stand out in the crowd, given her scars and diminutive size – but she is rather pretty and very alluring up-close, when her eyes sparkle, a blush lights up her face or she smiles. Every emotion is written across her face, eyes narrowed in anger, lips pressed together tightly or in laughter, eyes wide and lighting up, lips parted in honest enjoyment. Her focus and full attention on the people around her is captivating but mostly, he likes how quick-witted she is, how she flourishes with a compliment and freely given affection, how she just seems to be kind. Like when she rescued him from the auction, for no reason other than that she could.
"How does that work? The way you know someone's name?" He asks and she pauses for a moment, blush disappearing slowly as she scrutinises him before deciding to answer.
"I'd say I can see your soul, but that's a trite answer, and not quite true." She hums contemplatively, giving her thanks to the waitress when she's given her drink, before focussing back on him.
"It's like an impression. It's like your identity's impressed into my mind – like a fistful of information about you, just shoved at me, like it's always been there. The name, mostly, and a bit about- hm, how do I say this? Your being? Like, who you are? Not your emotion or something like that, but I can tell if you're kind, or honest, or mischievous." She exhales sharply. "Sorry, it's hard to describe. It sounds like emotions, but it's more like the essence of you. Not what you're feeling now but what kind of person you are, yeah? So, touching that Jareth guy? I could tell he was greedy and had little qualms hurting people to get what he wants. Touching Mozzie, or you, the most predominant thing I can tell you, about both of you, is that above all else, you're loyal. That, in my books is worth a lot."
Camellia hesitates for another moment, before correcting herself quietly. "No, it's worth everything."
Neal stares; he knows he's staring, knows he should be either switching topics and engaging her on a safer topic to make her feel at ease or pressure her to find out more. But he can do neither.
Loyal is not what most people would guess about him – maybe Peter and Mozzie, but anyone else?
How does this work? Is he really ready to believe that she can somehow tell this about someone? Maybe she deduced it from the auction, the fact that he told Sara and invited her to join them on the 'date'? But it seems deeper, somehow. How could she know Mozzie's real name was Teddy or Neal's real last name?
He blinks again, releasing a sigh, and reminds himself to focus on the con – keep her here, while Mozzie investigates.
Giving her one of his best dazzling smiles, he asks "so, now that you know what I've done since we met, what have you been doing these last few years? Did you ever find your niche?"
People love talking about themselves, something every con artist knows, and Camellia is easy to manipulate for the very reason that she trusts him already, and is honestly delighted that he's showing interest. The guilt pangs inside of him, but it's always been hard to separate the two sides of his life – he is genuinely interested but he also needs the diversion.
When their lunch hits the one and a half hour mark and she excuses herself to the bathroom, Neal uses the opportunity to give Mozzie a quick ring – he should have been gone within half an hour, triple that time means either something's seriously wrong or he found something.
"Mozzie – what's taking so long?"
"I can't get out!"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, that I can't explain it, but I can't leave with anything on me. I can only leave the house if I leave everything behind."
"We're not stealing from her," Neal bites out quickly, surprised at his own anger, "Leave it behind and leave the house," he advises him, but then hears the loud crack on Mozzie's end.
"Mozzie?" he asks quickly, quietly, already getting ready to leave at a moment's notice, but then hears her voice on the other end of the phone.
"Ah," she says, her voice sad and disappointed. "I thought that's what this was about." A quiet exhale.
"You may leave with what you took," she tells Mozzie and then steps closer, obviously noticing the phone.
"Neal, I paid for lunch already. I believe the date is over now that you got what you wanted."
He hears Mozzie's excuses and footsteps, a door closing as he leaves.
"What just happened?"
"I don't know," Mozzie says, "she just came around the corner from one of the rooms, saw me and you heard the rest."
"But she was just here," Neal says, still looking at the bathroom door from which she hasn't emerged yet. The window in the men's room at least is too small for a person to fit through – he expects the women's will mirror the layout. And even disregarding that- "the house is twenty minutes away by car. She hasn't been gone for more than two."
Mozzie is silent on the other end.
"I don't know, Neal. The door was open, but leaving was like running into a wall until she gave me permission."
Neal checks that the bill had indeed been paid before leaving the café, still on the phone.
"Magic is real and there's a government conspiracy to suppress evidence of its existence?" Neal throws out there, remembering her comment on chocolate, still bemused on how to explain any of this.
Mozzie snorts.
"More like alien- Oh, oh, I got it. You saw her and I saw her. It's shapeshifting technology. Anyone can look like anyone! We should think of a passphrase – Oh, no! It's teleportation! The government has teleportation technology! Quick, ask the suit!"
Neal's smirk is amused as he makes his way to the FBI, luckily enjoying a break in the rain as he is on foot. He wonders if Camellia will let him explain – then promptly wonders how one explains that, yes, hey, no hard feelings, I just had my friend break into your home to investigate. He wasn't there to steal even though it looks like that's what he ended up doing.
Neal sighs and faces an annoyed, still sickly, Peter the moment he steps out of the elevator, barely managing to stop himself from swearing. Today's not the greatest day.
He hates that he disappointed and took advantage of Camellia, and now is going to be reprimanded for the lengthy lunch break. This day is just not breaking his way.
Thanks for reading this. Would love to see what you think - please review :)