You burst through the doors with an apologetic breath, still half in your work mindset, half scrambling to catch up to the reality waiting outside. The cool air hit your face, but it didn’t calm the knot in your chest—not when you saw him.

Gabriel leaned against the car like he’d been carved there out of irritation itself, smoke curling lazily from his fingers. His eyes flicked to you the second you appeared, sharp and tired in a way that made your stomach twist.

“What took you so damn long?”

The question snapped through the space between you, and you winced slightly, already bracing yourself. You hurried over, bag slipping off your shoulder as you reached him.

“I told you—they kept me late again,” you said, breathless, trying to keep your voice even. “Last-minute stuff. I couldn’t just leave.”

He didn’t respond right away. Just dropped the cigarette, crushed it beneath his heel with more force than necessary, then pulled the car door open like it owed him something.

“You say that every time.”

There it was—that edge. Not loud, not explosive. Just worn down and fraying.

You paused before getting in, your hand resting on the door. “And every time, I mean it.”

He scoffed softly, looking away, jaw tightening. For a second, it seemed like he might say something worse—something sharper—but instead, he dragged a hand through his hair and exhaled hard.

“I’ve been out here an hour,” he muttered, quieter now. “An hour, just sitting here like an idiot.”

Your expression softened despite yourself. “You don’t have to wait that long, Gabe. I told you—you can come later, or I can just—”

“And let you walk out here alone at night?” he cut in, finally meeting your eyes again. “Yeah, not happening.”

The frustration was still there, but something else threaded through it now—something stubborn and almost protective.

You hesitated, then slid into the seat, the tension following you inside like a second passenger. He shut the door a little harder than necessary before circling around to the driver’s side.

When he got in, the car filled with silence, thick and familiar. He gripped the steering wheel, staring straight ahead for a moment before speaking again, voice lower.

“Just… text me next time. If you’re gonna be late.”

It wasn’t quite an apology. Not really. But it wasn’t anger anymore either.

You nodded, glancing over at him. “Okay.”

Another beat of quiet passed. Then he started the engine, the low rumble breaking the tension just enough to breathe again.

As he pulled out, he muttered, almost under his breath, “I don’t like not knowing where you are.”

And this time, there was no edge at all—just something honest, and a little harder to argue with.