Gemotions

He had called, explaining he was running late, again. Now, standing outside the restaurant, Marco’s foot tapped a frantic rhythm against the pavement. He wasn't going to call him. He had absolutely nothing to apologize for, even if *he* was the one who had made the mistake.

When a woman with fiery red hair exited the restaurant, Marco’s breath hitched. He knew the style. He’d seen the pictures. “So,” he said, his voice clipped as he blocked her path, “He's inside, is he?”

She blanched, a smear of lipstick on her teeth. She hadn’t been expecting this. Marco watched her closely, arms crossed. She stammered out a confession, a jumbled tale of dates and promises. Marco listened, his expression unreadable. Not a flicker of understanding, and certainly no willingness to forgive.

He wouldn't let her feel any sense of ease. He’d had a perfectly good evening planned, and this… this was an insult. He’d just stare at her. The woman would be the one to back down. They both knew he was right.