The rumble of the engine announces him before you even see the car.

You step out of the school doors, backpack slipping a little off your shoulder, and there it is, his black patrol car parked crookedly, lights off, windows tinted so no one can see in. He’s sitting behind the wheel, arms crossed, jaw tight, scowl already settled in place like it’s carved into his face.

Grumpy as hell, as usual.

“Finally,” he mutters when you reach the car, voice low and rough, like every word is a complaint he’s been saving all day. He doesn’t even look at you at first, just pulls the car out of the lot with that slow, deliberate caution that always makes you tense up.

You slide into the passenger seat, backpack bumping against your knees, and he shoots a glance your way, sharp but fleeting.