I woke up with the kind of nerves you feel when you're about to walk a high-fashion runway in front of your ex's new girlfriend.
Except instead of a runway, it was the concrete jungle of the condo parking lot; instead of stilettos, I'd be wearing designer sneakers; and instead of strutting, I'd be attempting to move a two-ton piece of machinery.
At 7:00 a.m. With Cairo.
Who, by the way, had reiterated his one holy condition before we parted ways last night: "Keep your mouth zipped during the maneuvers."
To which I had nodded and agreed with all the sincerity of a girl who had absolutely no intention of keeping that promise.
Because, hello? I was terrified! I couldn't just shut up.
I am not emotionally stable enough for that kind of silence.
The quieter it gets, the louder my anxiety screams.
He was structurally wrong for assuming I knew how to execute radio silence.
So there I was, at exactly 6:57 a.m., standing next to my red car like it was a dragon I was supposed to tame.
I was dressed for war—my hair pulled back into a clean, low ponytail, my lips barely glossed, and a plain white tee that I borrowed from my own closet because I literally do not own ugly clothes.
Cairo appeared exactly on the dot.
He wore all black.
Of course he did.
He looked like someone who'd rather be anywhere else on Earth.
His coffee was in one hand, car keys in the other, and that usual sleepy, expressionless stare was aimed directly at me.
"Ready?" he asked.
"No," I said honestly. "But I'm here, which structurally counts for something."
He sighed, the sound heavy in the cool morning air. "You remember what we talked about?"
"No talking," I recited like a reluctant child in detention.
He opened the driver's side door for me anyway. "Let's go."
I slid into the seat.
The dashboard, the gear shift, the pedals—everything inside the cabin suddenly looked like specialized weaponry.
"Okay," he said, settling into the passenger seat beside me, filling the space with that woodsy, clean cologne of his. "Foot on the brake. Engine start."
"Wait," I said, my hand hovering over the button. "What if the car goes flying?"
"It won't."
"But what if it's like... secretly fast? Like it has an alter ego?"
"It's not. It's literally on Park."
"Just making sure. Some cars have trauma, Cairo. Maybe it's haunted. Maybe I—"
"Elara," he said firmly, turning his head to look at me. "Quiet."
I bit my lip, shut my eyes, and pressed the brake.
Then I hit the start button.
The engine purred awake like a soft, well-behaved demon.
"Okay," he continued, his voice incredibly calm. "You're going to shift to Drive. Your foot stays firmly on the brake. We'll move slowly."
I nodded. "Copy that, Captain."
Then I inhaled, look at him, and blurted, "I'm scared."
He closed his eyes in defeat. "Elara..."
"I am scared!" I said louder, gripping the steering wheel like it was a lifeline in a storm. "What if I crash into the cement pillar? What if I accidentally do a Fast & Furious drift and we flip upside down?!"
"You won't."
"How do you know that?!"
"Because you're literally crawling. We're moving slower than a bad internet connection."
"But I can still die, Cairo! Do you want that on your conscience? Do you want to be the last person I see before my final breath?!"
He muttered something under his breath.
Possibly a prayer.
Possibly a curse.
"Stop talking," he said again, his jaw tightening slightly. "You said you'd be quiet."
"I lied! I'm panicking!"
"Elara."
"Fine! I'll be quiet."
Silence.
One beat.
Two beats.
And then I whispered, "But I'm really scared."
He exhaled loudly, gripping his own knee as if to ground himself from throwing himself out of the moving vehicle.
We inched forward.
Like, literally crawled.
"You're doing fine," he said, staring straight ahead at the garage wall.
"I'm not."
"You are."
"I think my palms are sweating so much they short-circuited the steering wheel."
"Steering wheels don't short-circuit from sweat."
"Then why do I feel like it's judging my lifestyle choices?"
"Elara, breathe."
I did.
For exactly five seconds.
Then: "Did I just move one inch?"
"Yes."
"Can I stop now?"
"No."
"I hate this. I wanna go back to 2009 when my only problem was finishing my Barbie sticker album."
"Elara—"
"Do you think you'll survive if I crash into that wall?"
"You're not crashing into anything."
"But I could! The mathematical possibility exists! Like, maybe that wall's destiny is to meet my bumper and—"
"Okay!" he snapped, his voice cutting through my monologue. "Elara, stop."
I slammed my foot down on the brake.
Hard.
The car jerked to a complete halt.
I stopped talking—not because I wanted to, but because my voice caught in my throat and I realized I might actually puke from pure stress.
He turned to look at me then.
Slowly.
His eyes weren't annoyed anymore.
They were… worried.
"You're actually terrified," he said.
It wasn't a question.
It was a soft realization.
I nodded quickly, my bottom lip trembling just a tiny bit. "Terrified."
He didn't say anything for a long time.
He just reached over across the center console, his hand brushing against mine for a split second, and turned off the engine.
The sudden silence in the car felt warm.
Safe.
It wasn't judgmental anymore.
"Let's just sit here for a minute," he said softly.
I blinked at him through the dim garage lighting. "You're not mad?"
"No."
"But I talked. You said no talking."
"I underestimated how loud your panic could be."
I let out a wet snort. "You mean how dramatic."
He looked at me, his expression softening into something unreadable. "That too."
We sat there for a bit.
Not moving.
Not speaking.
The hum of the car's ventilation system was the only sound between us.
Then he said, "You know, you don't have to do this today if it's too much."
"But I want to," I said quickly, looking at him earnestly. "I really do. I don't want to be dependent on drivers forever. I want to grow up."
He nodded slowly. "Then we'll take it slow. You don't have to get it perfect on the first try."
I looked down at my hands, still tightly laced around the wheel. "I just... don't like failing."
His voice dropped an octave, smooth and steady. "Failing doesn't mean you're a failure."
I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye. "Did you read that on a motivational mug?"
"No," he replied, his eyes locked onto mine. "I read it on your face."
Oh.
Suddenly, the suffocating panic in my chest deflated, just a little. Just enough to let me breathe.
"Okay," I whispered, wiping a nonexistent tear. "Let's try again."
"Talk less?"
"No promises."
He gave me that half-annoyed, half-fond look that made my stomach do weird things. "Let's go."
We actually made it out of the parking lot.
Barely.
And when I say barely, I mean I was gripping the wheel like it was the last limited-edition Dior bag on Earth, and Cairo was visibly reconsidering all his life choices, including but not limited to moving into this building.
"Left," he said calmly.
I swung the wheel completely to the right.
"Elara!"
"I panicked! Left and right are a social construct, Cairo!"
He groaned aloud but didn't grab the wheel from my hands, which I considered a massive act of faith.
Or extreme stupidity.
Eventually, we navigated our way to a quiet, wide suburban street with minimal risk of me crashing into children, walls, or my own pride.
"Okay," Cairo said, pinching the bridge of his nose like he was one wrong signal away from spontaneous combustion. "You're going to ease your foot onto the gas. Just a little."
"What if it jerks?"
"It won't jerk."
"What if it zooms?!"
"It won't zoom."
"What if a stray cat appears out of nowhere and I have to save it and I swerve and we both die and—"
"Elara, please, for the love of everything holy, just press the gas."
I did.
I tapped the pedal.
And the car rolled forward smoothly.
Gracefully.
Like a pristine swan on luxury wheels.
"OH MY GOD, I'M DOING IT!" I screamed, bouncing in my seat.
"You are," he said, his tone so dry he could've been a desert.
"I'm a driver! I'm a citizen of the road! I AM SPEED!"
"Stop screaming."
"I can't! I'm emotionally overwhelmed!"
"Elara—"
"CAIRO I THINK I'M GOING TEN. I'M GOING
TEN!!!"
He squinted at the digital dashboard display. "You're going six."
"I AM A LEGEND."
We drove in what felt like majestic, slow-motion glory. I imagined onlookers clapping on the sidewalks, babies pointing at me in utter awe, angels singing a chorus overhead.
In reality, a local tricycle easily overtook us, and the driver gave me a deeply concerned look through his rusted window.
"Okay," Cairo said, cutting through my fantasy. "Now you're going to practice parking."
"Like... real parking?"
"No, imaginary parking, Elara."
"Okay, I don't appreciate your tone."
"Just find an empty spot by the curb. Turn slowly. Align the car."
"What if I mess up?"
"Then we try again."
I exhaled a massive breath like I was a bomb specialist about to cut the red wire.
My hands were shaking, my upper lip was sweating (which, excuse me, was incredibly rude of my pores), and my brain was operating on airplane mode.
But I turned the wheel, adjusted the mirrors, reversed a little, and—
THUMP.
We hit the concrete curb.
I gasped so loud I nearly swallowed my own soul. "OH MY GOD. I KILLED IT."
"You hit a curb."
"I KILLED THE CURB!"
"Elara, it's solid concrete."
"IT HAD A FAMILY, CAIRO. CONCRETE HAS FEELINGS TOO!"
Cairo slowly leaned forward and rested his forehead against the leather dashboard.
"Okay," I said, breathing heavily, clutching my chest. "Should we pray? Or light a candle? Maybe I should step out and say sorry to the curb—"
"Elara, please. Get out. We're switching seats."
"No! I can do this! Let me try again!"
"You're crying."
"I cry during insurance commercials, Cairo! This means nothing!"
He stood up from his seat, walked around the front of the car, and opened my door. "Out."
"No."
"Elara—"
"No! Let me redeem myself! This is supposed to be my hero origin story!"
"You hit one curb at three miles per hour."
"Exactly! ONE! That is a statistically small number in the grand scheme of vehicular disasters!"
He didn't say anything.
He just stood there, holding the door open, looking down at me with an expression that was terrifyingly patient.
I pressed my lips together in a tight pout.
"Fine," I said, unbuckling my seatbelt with aggressive flair. "But I want food."
"What?"
"I want food. I just emotionally crashed into a public structure. I deserve sustenance."
Cairo blinked, entirely thrown off. "So you want... breakfast?"
"Yes. You owe me that. It's written in the fine print of the Driving Student Bill of Rights."
"There's no such thing."
"There is now. Also, I think I'm having a severe blood sugar crash."
"You ate two gourmet cinnamon rolls before we left the unit."
"Exactly! A sugar crash!"
He looked like he wanted to argue, like he had a whole logical defense prepared, but then he just… gave up.
The tight line of his shoulders relaxed. "Fine," he said, waving me over to the passenger side. "We'll eat."
Ten minutes later, we were at a tiny, rustic café near the corner of the block.
The kind of place that smelled like toasted bagels, expensive espresso beans, and subtle ambition.
We sat at a small wooden table by the window.
He ordered a black coffee, obviously, and I ordered a rich hot chocolate topped with dynamic marshmallow art because I needed emotional support in a ceramic mug.
The waitress walked up and gave him a polite, starstruck smile.
Then she looked at me—giving me the exact look you give someone who just stumbled off a high-speed roller coaster and was legally not okay.
"Long morning?" she asked routinely.
"She hit a curb," Cairo supplied instantly.
I slapped a hand dramatically over my chest. "You don't have to expose my legal record like that!"
"It's not exposing you. You narrated the entire collision while it was happening."
"I was processing the trauma!"
The waitress tried desperately not to laugh, biting her lip as she left us at our table.
I took a slow, comforting sip of my hot chocolate and sighed heavily. "So... on a scale of one to public hazard, how bad was I?"
"You weren't bad."
I squinted at him through the steam of my mug. "Liar."
He shrugged, leaning back in his chair. "You were loud. You were dramatic. You were exactly five decibels away from getting us pulled over by a noise complaint."
"So… I was just being me."
He smiled faintly—a genuine, small curve of his lips that actually reached his eyes. "Basically."
I poked at my pancake with a fork, looking out the window at the red car parked perfectly by the curb (thanks to him). "Do you think I'll ever be... you know, normal? Like a normal driver who doesn't apologize to the infrastructure?"
Cairo looked at me then.
Not in that judgmental, distant way he used to look at me in the elevator, but like he was assessing a very rare, chaotic variable.
Then he said, "No."
My jaw dropped. "Excuse me?!"
"You won't ever be normal," he said smoothly, taking a sip of his black coffee. "You'll always be this... hurricane in designer jeans."
"I highly resent that characterization."
"You shouldn't. That's why you're you."
I blinked.
My voice got stuck in my throat.
"Also," he added, looking out the window, "normal is boring."
"Oh," I said, my heart doing that stupid, uncoordinated flip again. "Well then—wait, was that a compliment?"
He didn't answer.
He just kept drinking his coffee, but the tips of his ears were slightly pink.
Which obviously meant yes.
By the time we left the café, I was feeling a little less shaken.
Cairo offered to drive us back to the condo complex, and for once, I didn't argue because my emotional bandwidth was entirely depleted.
Inside the quiet cabin of the car, I hummed a dramatic tune, tapping my manicured nails against my knee. "So, would you officially say I'm your worst driving student ever?"
"You're my only driving student ever," he replied, keeping his eyes on the road.
"So... technically both my best and worst."
"Exactly."
"Would you do it again? Tomorrow?"
He glanced at me for a split second as we entered the condo's driveway. "Do I have a choice?"
"No. Absolutely not."
"Then yes," he said softly. "We'll do it again."
I grinned widely, clapping my hands. "Yay!"
He didn't smile back, but he didn't roll his eyes either—which, in the complex dictionary of Cairo's emotions, was basically the exact same thing.
Let the driving arc continue.