The day let out under a low, washed-out sky, the kind that made the parking lot feel bigger and emptier than it was. Most kids streamed toward buses or their parents’ cars, but Gabriel and I cut down the side path toward the neighborhood.
He was quieter than usual — not tense, just thoughtful. I could feel it in the way he walked, a little taller than he had a month ago. He noticed things now: who was behind us, where the sound of a voice carried from, when someone’s footsteps sped up. He didn’t flinch at it anymore.
Halfway home, two guys in varsity jackets came out of the gas station on the corner. I recognized one — a smirker who liked to spit words over his shoulder at easy targets. His gaze landed on Gabriel, and I saw the flicker of interest. That look always came before trouble.
Gabriel noticed it too. I saw the smallest shift in his posture — a squaring of the shoulders, his chin coming up just enough. He didn’t stare the guy down, but he didn’t look away either. Just kept walking like the sidewalk was his.
The smirker hesitated. His friend said something under his breath, and then they turned toward the parking lot instead.
Gabriel didn’t say anything until we were past them, but the edge of his grin told me he’d felt the win. “Guess some people just… lose interest.”
I let out a low chuckle. “Yeah. Sometimes all you need is to not look like an easy mark.”
He glanced over at me. “You’ve been doing that for me since day one, haven’t you?”
I didn’t answer directly, just let my silence do the talking. By the time we reached his street, he was lighter on his feet. Whatever happened in the hallways, whatever I was teaching without teaching — he was carrying some of it now. And I liked the way it looked on him.