Melissa storms into her daughter Rosalia's room, hands on her hips, eyes narrowed at the blanket-covered figure sprawled across the bed. Morning light spills through the window, casting a glow over Rosalia's still-sleeping form. Melissa groans inwardly, recognizing the all-too-familiar challenge of waking her daughter up.
"Dumb Rosa! Your phone's been buzzing for several minutes! Wake up! Wake up! Wake up!" She barks, her arms crossed in frustration, but the only answer she gets is a faint snore followed by the deep, peaceful breathing of someone who has no plans of leaving their dreamland anytime soon.
Sighing in exasperation, Melissa mutters under her breath. "She sleeps as if the world's ended, like sleeping is the best thing in the world for her."
Her patience wearing thin, Melissa strides to the bathroom, fills her hand with cold water, and splashes a few drops onto Rosalia's face. Rosalia's face scrunches up, her eyes fluttering, struggling to open as if waking up is an impossible task.
"Oh no, Mom! What to do? What to do?" she mumbles in half-conscious panic, her hands flailing as she slowly emerges from her sleep.
"I don't know anything," Melissa snaps, "but if you skip your breakfast today, I swear I'm going to kill you."
Rosalia squints at her mother with one eye open. "Why are you behaving like my stepmother?"
"Shut up! Get ready quickly."
Without another second wasted, Rosalia bolts up and scrambles toward the washroom, looking like she's been suddenly possessed, leaving Melissa to shake her head in amused frustration. "Oh, and Henry called. Talk to him if you've got time. Seems urgent."
"Okay, Mom," Rosalia calls back, her reply muffled from behind the bathroom door as if she's already preoccupied with the day's endless tasks.
A few minutes later, Rosalia finishes her morning routine and tiptoes toward the door, trying to sneak out of the house like a thief. Her plan, however, fails miserably as she feels a sharp tug on her ear—Melissa's unmistakable way of ensuring she doesn't skip breakfast.
"Oh no, you don't!" Melissa scolds, her eyes narrowed. "You're not skipping breakfast. I don't care if your job lasts or not; you're going to eat."
"Mom, please…"
"No more words." Melissa drags her to the table and shoves a piece of freshly made sandwich into her mouth.
The savory taste melts on Rosalia's tongue, and she lets out a quiet sigh of appreciation. She chews slowly, savoring the flavors, all the while feeling the familiar pang of regret for her disorganized routine. She thinks about how much simpler life would be if she could just wake up early enough to enjoy breakfast without the usual rush. But, alas, here she is, munching on a sandwich with one foot practically out the door.
Melissa watches her, a knowing smile creeping onto her face. "See? Look how much you're enjoying it."
Rosalia rolls her eyes. "It's delicious, but you don't know my boss. I'll have to endure his one-hour 'rap lesson' for being late."
"You deserve it," her mother shoots back, with zero sympathy.
Rosalia gives her a pleading look, but once her meal is finished, she feels a rush of energy and heads toward the door with renewed urgency, mentally bracing herself for the day ahead.
She climbs into her car and drives off, the morning still clinging to her in sleepy fragments as she approaches Andrew Restaurant. She takes a deep breath, steeling herself for the shift she's about to endure. With her boss's inevitable wrath looming in her mind, she tries to tiptoe her way inside, hoping he won't notice her.
But luck isn't on her side.
"Damn, he's already here," she mutters to herself when she spots his figure near the counter. Just like clockwork, trouble seems to find her the second she lets her guard down.
"Good morning, sir," she says, plastering on a grin that's a bit too wide, an attempt to hide the fact that she only rolled out of bed moments ago.
John Andrew raises an eyebrow, his expression unimpressed. "You're late today, Rosalia."
The restaurant, Andrew's pride and joy, is practically his entire life. He opened it two years ago, and since then, Rosalia has been serving here, rarely showing up late. But when she does, he makes sure it's a memorable occasion.
"I'm so sorry, sir," she mumbles, her eyes downcast, the picture of remorse.
"Your sorry isn't going to work this time," he says, crossing his arms with a scowl. "You know I'm worldwide handsome. And yet, here you are—late! I won't tolerate this anymore."
It's almost impossible to hold back a laugh. She'd half-expected him to say something ridiculous like that. "I know, sir, and I'm extremely sorry."
"You're going to be punished today!" he declares, clearly relishing the discomfort on her face.
Her eyes widen. "Please, sir, just consider it for today. I promise I won't be late again."
He squints, looking skeptical. "I don't think so. You're not a woman of your word."
"Please, sir. I swear I won't get late again!"
He raises a hand to his chin, as though deep in thought, his face void of any expression. Finally, he locks his gaze onto her.
"Alright," he says. "Repeat after me."
Rosalia blinks, confused, but nods. "Sure, sir."
John straightens, clearly savoring the moment. "Say this," he begins with a smirk. "Sir John Andrew, I always come late because I'm afraid of falling for your handsome face."
She stares at him, incredulous, but he keeps going.
"You know you are worldwide handsome," he says, laying it on thick, "and I'm not even your type. So I'm always afraid—what if I fall in love with you, and you're not going to accept me, even if I die?"
Rosalia's mouth hangs open in disbelief. Is he serious?
"Keep going," he says, completely serious.
She clears her throat, trying hard not to laugh. "I'll be sad forever. That's why I'm late. I'm sorry, and I won't do that again."
John gives her an approving nod, looking ridiculously pleased with himself.