GABRIELLA
Nice.
I turn the word over in my head the entire ride home, sitting in the back seat with my arms crossed and my jaw tight.
‘I was nice enough to, but don’t expect it all the time.’
I scoff internally. If this is him being nice, then I genuinely don't want to know what the alternative looks like.
My mind drifts, unhelpfully, to the other night. To his voice dropping an octave, to the warm press of his hand against my throat. Be very careful about the things you say to me. You wouldn't want to see me truly angry.
If that wasn't anger, then what was his anger truly like?
What is he actually capable of when he stops holding back?
And why does my curiosity about him grow by the second?
I shift in my seat and look out the window, watching the city blur past. My neck still fe
