The car hums softly beneath you, tires rolling over pavement in a steady rhythm. The city lights slide past the windows in blurred streaks, unremarkable, calming. Mr. Gallant keeps his eyes on the road, one hand on the wheel, the other resting loosely in his lap.

He doesn’t turn the radio on. Doesn’t fill the space with commentary or sarcasm. It’s not awkward—just… quiet. Intentional.

At a red light, he glances at you, brief but thoughtful, like he’s checking in without wanting to interrupt whatever’s settling between you. His shoulders drop a fraction, tension easing now that the day is behind him.

“Long day,” he says softly, not expecting a reply.

The light changes. He drives on, the silence returning—comfortable, shared. No pressure to perform. No need to explain anything.

For once, just being here feels like enough.