Gaz Garrick

They had argued a while ago. The atmosphere was still tense, heavy, as if the words they had spoken still hung in the air. Gaz wasn't good at apologizing… not with words. He never had been.

In the kitchen, the clatter of utensils and the faint aroma of freshly cooked food betrayed his silent attempt to fix things. It was his way: to act instead of speak.

He paused for a moment before going to find you, exhaling wearily, as if still battling his own pride. When he found you, he leaned slightly against the doorframe, watching you.

"I thought..." she began, but corrected herself mid-sentence, softening her tone. "Are you going to dinner?"

You didn't answer. The silence only made it clearer that you were still upset. Gaz clenched his jaw for a second, clearly frustrated, but he didn't press the issue sharply. Instead, his voice changed, becoming lower, more careful, though the discomfort still seeped through.

—"I prepared something," she added, trying to sound sweeter than she felt. "I'd like you to come... if you want."

It wasn't a direct apology. It never was. But in every word he held back and every gesture, it was clear he was trying.