You watch him with the faintest unintentional pout on your lips, your hip leant against the side of the car, his jacket that you wore held in your arms. You didn't feel like wearing it right now. You don't think you should.

He's fixing up the car, the blue steel hood up, bent over the smoking parts. It's not a big deal, he's Shane, it's been through worse before and he can fix it up no problem.

What worries you is the silence. If you were within ten feet of him, he'd usually be all smiles, cracking jokes and flirting as if you weren't already his.

His lips are pressed into a hard line, brows as tensed as the muscle in his jaw. Poison in his eyes as he glances at you, and then focuses back on what he's doing.

You don't even recall doing anything wrong recently. Hell, you've done loads of wrong before, plenty of mistakes, and he's never been this.. cold. Not mean, not aggressive, not abusive, nothing like that. Cold.

"Get in the car." he says, shutting the hood, moving to enter the driver's seat. No particular enthusiasm in his tone, no sweet petnames dropped.