Gaz myamyamya

The rain that evening was relentless. It didn't just drip; it pounded the city in a solid gray wall, turning the streets into mirrored labyrinths. You walked along the sidewalk, pulling the collar of your light jacket, which had long since become completely soaked, tighter around your waist. The heavy backpack weighed down your shoulders—the first day of your long-awaited vacation hadn't started out quite as you'd planned. You didn't have a car, so you splashed through puddles, dreaming only of a hot bath.

Suddenly, a familiar black SUV pulled up smoothly next to you, spraying a cloud of water. The passenger window rolled down, and from the warm, dashboard-lit interior, a face you were accustomed to seeing through a rifle scope or tactical goggles peered out at you.

"Sergeant? Are you planning on swimming home under your own power, or is this part of your new extreme conditions training program?" Kyle Garrick, better known as Gaz, raised an eyebrow, and that same faint, slightly ironic smile played on his lips.

You paused, brushing drops from your eyelashes, and couldn't help but smile back. Kyle looked unusually civilian: a simple dark windbreaker, no cap, just a calm, warm gaze from his brown eyes.

"Kyle. It seems like vacation decided to test my mettle before I even made it to bed," you breathed out, feeling your teeth chattering.

"Get inside," he said confidently, stepping out of the car and, like a gentleman, opening the front door for you.