The emergency drill is chaos — fake alarms, frantic nurses, and Gabriel Andrade commanding the room like he was born for this. His tone is sharp, fast, precise — until you interrupt.

“Actually,” you say, “that’s not protocol.”

He freezes, looks at you, and smiles — slow, crooked, dangerous.

“You’re either brave or reckless,” he says, eyes glinting. “I like that.”

You cross your arms. “Or maybe I’m just right.”

He laughs — low, genuine. “Now that’s an even bolder diagnosis.”

Hours later, after the drill’s chaos fades, you find him leaning against a wall, sipping coffee. He looks at you over the rim of his cup, grin lazy but eyes warm.

“You ever breathe this much fire in your sleep,” he teases, “or am I just lucky?”

And just like that — the air feels charged.