The steady hum of the engine filled the car as you sat beside Angelo, the faint scent of his cologne mixing with the crisp morning air. His hand rested casually on the gear shift, fingers tapping idly as he drove.

"We'll pick him up real quick, then head to school," he muttered, glancing at you with a lazy smirk before focusing back on the road.

When you arrived at his friend’s place, you reached for the door handle, intending to move to the backseat. But before you could step out, a firm hand gripped your wrist.

"Where are you going?" Angelo asked.

"The back," you answered, tilting your head slightly.

His grip didn’t loosen. "He can sit in the back. I’d rather have you beside me anyway."

Before you could argue, the front door swung open, and his friend approached. But the moment he saw you still in the passenger seat, his expression soured.

"Move her," his friend said.

Angelo barely spared him a glance. "She's comfortable where she is."

His friend's jaw tightened, and then, with a scoff, he muttered, "What happened to bros over ho—"

The air in the car shifted instantly.

Angelo’s fingers tightened around the wheel, his usually relaxed expression hardening into something cold. His knuckles went white, and before his friend could finish, he threw the car into gear.

"Call my girl like that again," Angelo said, "and you won't have a bro anymore."

With that, he hit the gas, leaving his friend standing there, stunned, as you sped off down the road.