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Colt leaned forward over the bar, elbows planted, voice low and deliberate.
“Do it.”
Ryland stared at him like he had spit on his face. “I’m not going to do it.”
Behind Colt, Jody took a slow sip of her margarita through the straw, eyes gleaming with a particular kind of mischief. “Coward.”
“Jo!” Ryland’s voice cracked with genuine betrayal.
Jody didn’t even pretend to look sorry. She kept the straw between her teeth and spoke around it. “I’m serious. That guy has been peeping at you the whole night.”
Colt nodded once, decisive. “And he’s hot.”
Jody considered, then conceded with a little tip of her glass. “And he’s hot.”
Ryland dragged a hand down his face. “I am not going to do it.”
Colt rolled his eyes so hard it was almost a full-body movement. “Come on, Ry. It’s literally just a kiss.”
“I’d rather choke on this-” Ryland leaned in and sniffed the small glass Colt had slid toward him earlier. His nose wrinkled. “what even is this, Colt? It smells like ethanol.”
Colt pushed the glass closer with two fingers. “Just drink it. I’ll do you some good.”
Ryland turned the full force of his most pitiful expression on Jody. “Please.”
She shook her head without hesitation. “Nu-uh. He made me drink one. Now it’s your turn. Cheers, love.”
There was a long, defeated pause. Then Ryland sighed, wrapped his fingers around the glass, and knocked it back in one go. The liquid hit the back of his throat like liquid fire. He gagged, eyes watering, and slammed the empty glass down harder than necessary.
“The fuck is that?!”
Colt’s laugh exploded out of him. He turned to Jody, delighted. “Oh shit, he cursed! I haven’t heard him curse since college. He’s all proper now.”
Ryland’s eyes narrowed to slits. “I will kill you.”
“You’ll be fine,” Colt grinned, then tipped his chin toward the room behind them. “He’s looking again.”
Ryland immediately hunched over the bar, one hand half-covering his face like that might make him invisible. “No he’s not.”
Jody peeked around Colt’s shoulder, squinting through the dim light and the shifting bodies. After a second she leaned forward, voice dropping. “He totally is. Straight at you. Laser-focused. It’s kind of off-putting, actually.”
Ryland rubbed both hands over his face, frustrated. “I’m not going to do it. No way. What if he’s just looking at me so he can beat me up or something?”
Jody’s nose scrunched in distaste. “He’s doing fucky eyes at you.”
“I’m not doing it!”
…
Somewhere between the third round of drinks something in Ryland finally snapped.
He leaned back against the bar, legs spreading as fixed his gaze on the man across the room.
“I’ll do it.” His voice came out loud and decisive, slightly slurred around the ‘D’.
Colt’s entire face lit up. “Oh shit, for real?”
Ryland pushed off the stool. The world tilted a little, but he caught himself. “Fuck it. I’m going to do it.”
He started walking. Behind him, Colt and Jody whooped and clapped encouraging. Their cheers followed him only a few steps before they both realized, with growing horror, that he was not heading toward the right person.
“Ryland!” Colt barked.
Jody threw both arms into a giant X, shouting, “Abort mission!” over the music.
Ryland didn’t stop. Determination (or alcohol) had locked his course. He crossed the sticky floor, weaving between people who barely noticed him, and came to a halt in front of a lone figure leaning against the wall. The man held a half-finished beer and was mid-sip when he sensed someone standing too close. He glanced up, brows barely drawing together.
“Hi,” Ryland said, a little breathless, then he leaned down and planted a loud, deliberate kiss on the stranger’s cheek, complete with an exaggerated *muah* that somehow cut through the noise of the bar. The man’s bottle nearly slipped from his fingers. His eyes went wide.
Before either of them could fully process what had just happened, Colt was there, grabbing Ryland by the back of the shirt and yanking him away.
“I am so sorry, man! he’s wasted,” Colt said quickly, already dragging Ryland a few steps back. Then, under his breath, sharp and furious he hissed “Wrong fucking guy.”
Ryland blinked at him, expression soft and unfocused. “You said hot guy.”
Colt pointed across the room with a rigid finger. “I meant that hot guy.”
Ryland followed the gesture. The man Colt indicated was taller, broader, gym-rat kind of big, dark-haired, and currently looking vaguely disappointed. Ryland studied him for a long second, head tilted.
“Ew.”
Colt dragged a hand down his face. “I can’t believe you. Let’s go before you get your ass beat.”
“You said hot guy!” he whined.
“Ryland. Home. Now.”
Colt got a firm grip on his brother's arm and started hauling him toward the exit. Ryland pouted the entire way, feet dragging just enough to make the whole thing look like a reluctant toddler being removed from a playground, but he let himself be walked away all the same.
Behind them, the wrong man still stood against the wall, one hand lightly touching his cheek, looking thoroughly confused about what had just occurred, heart beating fast as he watched Ryland being dragged away.
…
Driver hadn’t wanted to come.
The younger guys from the garage had worn him down. They’d been nothing but welcoming since the day he’d started, always saving him a seat at lunch, always including him in the easy banter that filled the shop even though he really didn't much, and the guilt of turning them down one more time had finally outweighed his preference for quiet evenings and early nights. So he’d let them drag him out, telling himself it would only be an hour or two. He could survive an hour or two.
He hated it the moment they stepped inside.
The club was a living thing of noise and light: bass that rattled in his ribs, bodies packed too close and moving too freely. The air smelled of sweat, spilled liquor, and something artificially sweet that clung to the back of the throat. For the first hour they stayed together, then, one by one, the others drifted until Driver found himself alone at their table, nursing a beer that had already gone warm in his hand.
He lasted only a few minutes before the looks started. A solitary man occupying an entire table in a place this crowded drew attention. Feeling selfish and increasingly exposed, he abandoned the table and retreated to the far wall, where the crush of people thinned and the music became a duller roar. He leaned back against the cool concrete, shoulders settling into the relative quiet, and simply watched. People-watching was safer and fun to do.
A sudden rise in noise near the bar pulled his attention. Voices cut through the music, he glanced over, body tensing out of habit, and caught the brief flash of a couple gesturing emphatically at someone cheerfully. He raised his bottle for another sip of lukewarm beer.
That was when the stranger appeared.
One moment the space in front of him was empty, the next, a man stood close enough that Driver could smell the sharp edge of alcohol on his breath. He hadn’t seen him approach. The realization sent a quick, instinctive spike of readiness through him, shoulders tightening, weight shifting as if the situation might turn physical any second.
“Hi,” the stranger said.
Before Driver could answer, or even fully process the greeting, the man leaned in. Soft lips pressed against his cheek, warm, startlingly gentle. The contact lasted only a second, but it landed with the force of a train, making the skin of his cheek collide with his molars. Then the stranger pulled back and finished the gesture with an exaggerated, theatrical *muah* that somehow cut through the club’s noise.
Driver froze.
His fingers loosened around the neck of the bottle; he felt the glass shift dangerously before his grip tightened again by pure reflex. His mind blanked, it scrambled for context. He blinked once, slowly, still locked in place, as the stranger’s face remained close enough that Driver could see the faint flush across his cheekbones and the slightly unfocused shine in his eyes.
Movement behind the stranger broke the spell. Another man was already closing the distance, expression tight with urgency. He grabbed the first man by the collar of his shirt and yanked him backward with enough force that the stranger let out a soft, startled sound of protest.
“I am so sorry, man! he’s wasted,” the newcomer said, already steering his charge away. Driver could only blink at them as they moved, watching the second man’s frustration climb with every step.
“You said hot guy!” the first man complained, the words slurred but clear enough to carry. He twisted against the grip on his shirt, still looking back over his shoulder.
Driver felt heat rise under his skin, climbing from his neck to his face all the way to his ears in a slow wave.
“Ryland. Home. Now.”
Ryland.
Driver repeated it silently, once, then again, as the two figures disappeared into the shifting crowd. The ghost of the kiss still lingered on his cheek, he pressed the pads of his fingers against it . After a long moment he let out a quiet breath and, almost without meaning to, smiled. Just slightly.
…
Two weeks of the same routine had not delivered the result Driver had hoped for.
He returned to the club every night. A location and a name. That was the entire trail he had. In a city where he still barely knew the main streets, connections were nonexistent, so he fell back on the only methods available to him. Old school. Kind of.
First came the digital search, hours spent scrolling through profiles under every variation of “Ryland” he could think of, jumping between platforms, opening tagged posts and story archives from the club’s own accounts. He hated every minute of it. Putting any part of himself online had always felt reckless, a kind of exposure he instinctively rejected. Seeing other people’s lives laid out in polished fragments only deepened the discomfort, it was stupid. Dangerous to just share your entire lifefor the world to see.
None of the faces matched the one that had leaned in close enough to kiss his cheek and then vanished. By the end of each night the search left him more irritated than informed.
So he went back to the physical approach.
Every evening he ordered the same beer, carried it to the same stretch of wall, and stood there while the lights cut across the room and the music pressed against his ribs. He tried to recreate the conditions of that first night as exactly as possible, as if precision alone might summon the stranger again. After fourteen nights the hope had thinned. Maybe the man avoided social media the same way Driver did. Maybe he rarely went out. The possibility that they shared that quiet, private instinct only made the ache sharper. Something about Ryland had settled under Driver’s skin with unsettling speed. It reminded him of Irene, of how quickly feeling could turn into something that hollowed a person out. Part of him had begun to think it might be better if he never found the man at all.
Tonight the club was quieter. A weekday crowd meant fewer bodies and lower volume, a small mercy. The beer in his hand had gone warm and flat after two hours of standing still. Driver kept his eyes mostly on the floor, fingers tapping absently against the neck of the bottle while his mind circled the same useless questions. Phone books still existed, didn’t they? Could he be there?
A sharp, panicked voice cut through the relative calm.
“Shoot- abort, abort!”
Driver’s head lifted at once. His eyes found the source of the voice near the bar: a flash of blond hair moving fast toward the exit. The recognition hit him like a physical blow. Breath locked in his throat.
A second voice followed, confused and trailing. “Why Grace panicking?!”
Driver set the bottle down on the nearest empty table without looking and started after them. His pulse jumped hard enough that he could feel it in his neck.
“I’ll explain later, Rocky! we need to go,” Ryland said, the words tight with urgency. Then he glanced over his shoulder.
Their eyes met.
Ryland made a choked sound, something halfway between surprise and pure flight instinct, and broke into a near-sprint for the door. His friend followed, still visibly bewildered.
“Wait-” Driver managed, already moving faster.
He never reached them. His hip slammed into the corner of a table hard enough to send a bright flare of pain up through his side and into his ribs. The table scraped several inches across the floor. By the time he recovered and looked up, the exit was empty. Ryland was gone.
Driver shoved the table aside, ignoring the bartender’s sharp protest, and pushed through the door with enough force that he stumbled into the cooler night air. He scanned both directions of the street, heart still hammering. Nothing. No blond hair, no familiar silhouette disappearing around a corner. Only ordinary people walking under the streetlights.
Later, stretched out on the couch in his dark apartment, Driver stared at the ceiling and replayed the moment on a loop. The way Ryland’s eyes had widened, the sound he made as if afraid of him, the speed with which he had fled. It had been him, there was absolutely doubt, but the second their gazes locked Ryland had run like the sight of Driver was something to escape. To be afraid of.
A heavy weight settled low in Driver’s chest.
Maybe the kiss had meant nothing. The man had been drunk that night; Driver remembered the unfocused shine in his eyes, the exaggerated *muah*, the way his friend had dragged him away with an apology. Maybe it had been pure impulse.
But he had called him hot.
Driver covered his face with both hands and groaned into the quiet of the room. He hated this. He hated the way feeling had crept back in without permission, the way a single name and a soft mouth against his cheek could reopen something he had spent years trying to close. It was happening again, and the worst part was how little control he seemed to have over it.
Sudden realization hit him.
Grace. The other guy had said Grace. Nickname? Last name?
Driver stood and scanned the apartment. He’d tossed his phone somewhere the second he walked in. After a short search he found it on the kitchen counter. He unlocked it, sat back down on the couch, and typed the two words into the search bar.
Ryland Grace.
Results loaded. The top hit was an old news piece about a UNESCO incident. He frowned and opened it, a photo filled the side of the article, Ryland, face tight with anger, arm raised as he pointed at something off-camera. The expression was so different from the flushed, tipsy man who’d kissed his cheek that Driver couldn’t help smiling.
He saved the picture.
Dr. Ryland Grace. Molecular biologist. Interesting.
He kept scrolling. Eventually he found an abandoned Instagram account from about six years ago. The man in the few clear photos looked younger. There weren’t many pictures of him, two at most. The rest were quiet slices of everyday life. Most posts had three likes or fewer. One account, though, had liked nearly everything. Driver frowned, chewed on the toothpick he’d stuck between his teeth to calm his nerves and tapped the name.
A verified profile opened, decent following. The man in the photos looked different somehow, broader but it was Ryland.
Stuntman? That was ironic. Besides he didn't peg him as one, maybe he was getting rusty at reading people.
And he had a girlfriend. A director, according to the captions. She looked nice in the pictures they shared.
Driver locked the phone and set it face-down on the table.
…
Fernando’s towel came flying without warning.
Driver caught it mid-air before it could smack him in the face, the fabric still faintly warm from wherever it had been. He looked up, expression neutral, and found Fernando already watching him with narrowed eyes.
“The fuck is wrong with you?” Fernando asked, leaning a hip against the car Driver had been inspecting. “You’re quiet. And that’s saying something, because you talk like they charge you per word.”
A small smile tugged at the corner of Driver’s mouth despite himself. “I’m fine.”
“The hell you are.” Fernando crossed his arms. “Spill.”
Driver felt the familiar resistance rise in his chest. He rarely offered more than the barest outline of his life to the guys at the garage. They knew the surface facts, an orphan, no diploma, probably a shit load of childhood trauma, and they had the good sense not to dig deeper. He preferred it that way. Distance was safer. The past had a habit of catching up when people got too close.
Fernando studied him for a long moment, head tilted, then his face broke into a sudden, knowing grin.
“Ah,” he said. “You like someone.”
The wrench nearly slipped from Driver’s fingers. He tightened his grip and kept his eyes on the engine bay.
“You do,” Fernando laughed, delighted. “Who’s the lucky lady?”
Driver bit the inside of his cheek. The word came out quieter than he meant it to.
“I don’t really know him.”
Fernando didn’t even blink. The grin only widened.
“Oh, so what? Was it drunkenly love?” he teased.
Driver’s discomfort sharpened. He wiped his hands on the towel with more force than necessary.
“He was the one drunk,” he said. “He kissed me.”
Fernando’s eyebrows shot up. He gave Driver a light shove to the shoulder.
“You dog!” The laughter in his voice was open and uncomplicated. “Did you ask him for a date yet? You already look half-charmed.”
Driver shook his head. “I didn’t get his number. He left right after the kiss.” He hesitated, then added the part that still sat heavy in his chest. “I found his social media. He has a girlfriend.”
Fernando’s expression sobered at once. He shook his head, the teasing gone.
“Oh, that’s fucked up, kid.” He reached out and gave Driver a solid clap on the back. “Sorry, man. You’ll find someone better.”
Driver only nodded, eyes already returning to the open engine in front of him.
Not likely.
…
He had left the profile alone after the first night, but the conversation with Fernando kept circling back. Something about it refused to sit right. The names didn’t line up the way they should. The face in those carefully lit images had never quite matched the one that had leaned in close in a noisy club two months ago.
So Driver opened the app again.
He typed the username carefully this time, noticing with fresh attention that it was different from the name he had heard called across the club floor. The grid loaded. He scrolled slowly, studying every frame. This man felt like a stranger. Nothing in the set of his shoulders or the way he held himself recalled the slightly unsteady, soft-mouthed stranger who had said “Hi” and then pressed a theatrical kiss to Driver’s cheek.
Driver switched back to the abandoned Instagram account from six years ago. Younger face, simpler photos, almost no selfies. Then he returned to the verified profile and compared them side by side until his eyes began to ache, it was the same face but something was different. That was when he noticed the thin colored ring around the profile picture. A story had been posted.
He tapped it.
Laughter spilled out of the phone’s speaker, bright and unrestrained. The camera focused first on a man who looked thoroughly irritated, arms crossed, jaw tight. More laughter off-screen. Then the camera swung, and for a disorienting second Driver thought he was seeing the same face twice.
Another Ryland.
“If you guys don’t hear from me,” the voice behind the camera announced cheerfully, “Ry murdered me and dumped my body in acid.”
“Colt! Stop recording me!”
“I’m not,” the first voice yelled back. A beat of silence. Then, lower and clearly delighted as the camera turned back to the annoyed man. “Now I am.”
The second man, Ryland, unmistakably beautiful Ryland, lunged toward the lens, pushing it aside. The image blurred into motion and cut out.
Driver sat very still, the last frame frozen in his mind.
Twins.
Or something close enough that the resemblance had fooled him completely. The verified account belonged to Colt, Ryland’s twin brother. Which meant the Ryland who had kissed him, the one who had fled the club the moment their eyes met, might not be spoken for after all.
A quiet, cautious hope stirred under his ribs.
He considered messaging Colt directly. The man clearly hung out with Ryland well enough to film him, they seemed to get along. Driver opened the profile again and pressed the message button.
A small gray notice appeared beneath it.
*You can’t message this account unless they follow you.*
He exhaled through his nose, long and slow, and locked the phone.
At least one thing had rested on his mind and poor, stupid heart. Ryland Grace might be single.
…
The morning rush at the Starbucks around the corner from the garage had already reached its peak by the time Driver stepped inside.
It was his turn to collect the usual order: black coffee for most of the guys including himself, one oat-milk whatever for the youngest apprentice, matcha latte for Fernando funny enough.
The line stretched from the counter all the way to the glass doors, bodies pressed close on every side. The air smelled of burnt espresso and sweet syrup. Conversations overlapped in a constant low roar. Driver stood with his shoulders slightly hunched, trying to take up as little space as possible while he waited for his name to be called. His fingers found the edge of his jacket and began their familiar restless motion, rubbing the worn fabric between thumb and forefinger.
One of the buttons was missing. He had noticed it that morning when he put the jacket on, torn clean away, leaving a small ragged hole in the dark material. Probably caught on something in the shop the day before. He rubbed at the torn edges again, more out of habit than any real hope of fixing them.
“Rocky!”
The barista’s voice cut through the noise.
Driver’s brow furrowed. The name landed with a strange, delayed familiarity, though he couldn’t place it at first. A short man stepped forward with an easy, wide smile, accepted the cardboard carrier of drinks with a cheerful “Very thankful,” and turned toward the exit.
Recognition hit Driver a second later.
Two months ago. The club. The blond man bolting for the door while this same short figure trailed after him, confused and calling out.
Driver moved before the thought had fully formed. He followed the man outside into the cooler morning air and reached for his shoulder.
Rocky jumped so hard the carrier nearly slipped from his hands. He spun around completely, face open with startled confusion.
“Sorry,” Driver said quickly, taking a half-step back. “You just- do you know Ryland Grace?”
Something in Rocky’s expression shifted at the name. The wariness softened into bright recognition.
“Grace? Yes, Grace's my friend!” He smiled again, genuine this time. “Who is asking?”
Driver hesitated. “I- he doesn’t know me.”
The warmth drained out of Rocky’s face almost immediately. Driver saw the change and cursed himself for the blunt honesty.
“We met at a bar,” he continued, voice lower, “and he left very sudden.”
Rocky studied him for a long moment. When he spoke again, the tone had gone flat and cold.
“Must have reason.”
Driver felt the discomfort settle heavier in his chest. He tapped his fingers against his palm once, twice. “Could you, could you maybe give him my number?”
Rocky’s eyes narrowed. He took his time looking Driver over from boots to face, measuring something only he could see.
“No.”
The single word landed harder than Driver expected.
“Rocky doesn’t trust you,” the shorter man added, already turning away. “Good bye.”
He walked off without looking back, the carrier of coffees steady in his hands, leaving Driver standing on the sidewalk in the thin morning light, still half-stunned by how quickly the brief connection had closed.
…
He had regretted the yes almost the moment it left his mouth.
Standing among the cluster of parents outside the middle school, Driver felt every inch the outsider. Oil still marked the front of his shirt in dark, irregular streaks; he hadn’t thought to change before leaving the garage, and now the fabric felt like a neon sign announcing that he did not belong here. A few of the waiting adults glanced his way more than once. He kept his hands in his pockets and tried to look like a man who had every right to be there, even though he knew the opposite was true, he was simply a stranger who had agreed to collect someone else’s child.
The request had come from one of the guys at the shop. A last-minute conflict with a dentist appointment for the younger sibling, and Driver had said yes without hesitation. He liked Olivia. She was sharp, endlessly curious, and when she waited at the garage after school she would perch on a stool and talk about whatever science topic had captured her that day at school. Listening to her always reminded him of Benicio. That alone had been reason enough to accept.
He checked the time on his phone. Almost dismissal. A few early students were already drifting out in ones and twos. Driver squinted toward the main doors, scanning faces until the bell finally rang and the building began to empty in a noisy wave of backpacks and raised voices. He tapped his fingers against his palm while he searched.
Then he saw her.
Olivia emerged in the middle of an animated conversation with a teacher whose face was still turned away from the street. She was gesturing with both hands, clearly mid-explanation, when her eyes landed on Driver. Her whole face lit up. She waved once, hard, and then broke into a full sprint, leaving the teacher mid-sentence.
“Driver!”
He had to take two steadying steps backward as she barreled into him, arms wrapping around his middle with the force only an excited middle-schooler could generate.
“Hey,” he managed, one hand settling briefly on her shoulder.
“Are you driving me?” she asked, already bouncing on her toes.
He nodded.
A man’s voice cut in from a few feet away, polite but firm. “Sorry, but you’re not Olivia’s par-”
The sentence died.
Driver looked up and froze in the same instant.
Ryland Grace stood in front of them.
Two months of searching, of lingering in the same club, of quiet, half-ashamed scrolling through old photographs, bordering on stalking the man just for the pure chance of get to know him and the man was simply here, framed by the afternoon light outside a middle school, looking just as startled as Driver felt.
Olivia, oblivious to the sudden silence, beamed up at both of them. “He’s my friend! Driver works with my dad. He has a super cool car.”
Ryland’s gaze stayed locked on Driver’s face. The earlier shock hadn’t fully left his expression.
Olivia kept going, already turning toward her teacher with fresh excitement. “You should see it! Can we give Dr. Grace a ride? He doesn’t have a car.”
“Olivia, I don’t think-” Ryland started, voice low and nervous.
“Sure,” Driver said, interrupting him.
The answer left his mouth before any second thought could stop it.
Ryland blinked. “There’s no need. I have my bike-”
“We’ll put it in the back.”
“Yeah!” Olivia grabbed the edge of Driver’s jacket and tugged. “C’mon, Dr. G, you have to see his car!”
For a moment Ryland looked like a man calculating every possible escape route. Then Olivia’s expectant face tipped the scale. He exhaled, the sound quiet and resigned.
“Let me get my bike.”
…
Olivia leaned forward from the back seat, voice bright with excitement.
“Then we spun harder when we got our arms closer,” she explained, hands already demonstrating the motion in the small space behind the front seats.
Ryland had tried to claim the back seat when they first loaded the bike, but Olivia had been firm: adults belonged up front, and that was where you got the best experience of Driver’s car. She had won the argument with the effortless confidence of a child who rarely lost them. Now she sat behind them like a small, enthusiastic narrator.
Driver hummed in quiet acknowledgment, eyes on the road. He wasn’t adding much to the conversation, but he was listening with the same steady attention he always gave her. A faint half-smile had settled on his face without him quite realizing it.
“It’s called conservation of momentum,” Ryland offered after a moment. His voice was careful, still edged with the discomfort of being in the passenger seat of a near-stranger’s car.
“Yeah!” Olivia’s enthusiasm only grew. “Centripetal force, Newton’s first law of motion!”
“That’s right!” Ryland’s laugh came softer this time, warmer. He twisted in his seat and reached back to high-five her. The movement brought him closer to Driver for a brief second. Driver’s gaze flicked sideways almost against his will, and the sudden proximity sent an unwelcome, steady thump through his chest.
Olivia’s phone rang before the moment could stretch. She answered it with a cheerful “Hello?” and immediately launched into conversation with whoever was on the other end. Ryland settled back into his seat, eyes fixed straight ahead through the windshield. The easy animation from a moment earlier had vanished. His posture was careful again, shoulders held a little too still.
Driver noticed. The guilt arrived quickly and settled heavy in his stomach. He had seen how reluctant Ryland had been outside the school. He could have been firmer with Olivia, could have let the man collect his bike and leave without being pulled into this strange, charged silence. Instead he had said “sure” too fast, and now Ryland sat beside him looking like he would rather be almost anywhere else.
“Dri,” Olivia called from the back.
Driver’s eyes flicked to the rearview mirror, then returned to the road. He gave a small nod to show he was listening.
“My dad asked if you could drop me at my house. My mom got off early.”
“Sure.” Driver glanced sideways at Ryland, the question already forming. “Do you-”
“I don’t mind,” Ryland said before he could finish. He turned just enough to smile at Olivia in the back seat, the expression gentler than anything he had directed at Driver so far. “We can drop Liv first.”
…
Olivia was out of the car the moment the wheels stopped.
She scrambled over the seat the second Driver pulled it forward, threw her arms around his middle in a quick, fierce hug, then turned to wave energetically at Ryland before sprinting up the short walkway to her front door. Driver stayed where he was, one hand resting on the open door frame, until she pushed the door open and her mother’s face appeared briefly in the gap. The woman lifted a hand in thanks. Driver returned the wave, waited until the door closed, and only then climbed back into the driver’s seat.
The silence that settled between them felt different now that the back seat was empty.
“Sorry,” he said as he put the car in gear. “For the detour.”
“Don’t be.” Ryland’s smile was small but genuine. “She loves you. So you’re this Driver she kept talking about. I honestly thought you were a cartoon or something.” He gave a short, uncomfortable laugh.
Driver’s mouth curved. “Is it the name?”
Ryland winced. “Yeah. Sorry. I’ve just never heard of anyone actually named Driver.”
“It’s a nickname.” Driver’s fingers tapped once against the steering wheel as he pulled back onto the road.
“Oh.” Ryland chuckled, the sound lighter this time. “That makes sense.”
Quiet stretched again. Ryland shifted in his seat, restless. Driver kept his eyes on the street ahead and worried the inside of his cheek until he tasted metal.
“Dean,” he said.
Ryland turned. “Pardon?”
“My name is Dean.”
“Oh.” A beat of silence, then Ryland laughed soft, surprised, almost delighted. “It just… it makes so much sense.” He grinned. “It really fits you.”
Heat rose under Dean’s skin. He kept his gaze firmly on the road.
Ryland drew a slow breath, as if bracing himself.
“I’m just going to say it.” He angled his body toward the driver’s side. “I’m sorry about that night. I was really intoxicated, and my brother and his girlfriend were being dumb.”
Dean eased the car to a stop at a red light and turned to look at him fully.
“I didn’t mind.”
Ryland blinked. “Huh?”
“I, uh-” Dean’s fingers resumed their quiet tapping against the wheel. He faced forward again as the light held. “I’ve kind of been searching for you since then.”
Ryland stared. “What?”
“I apologize. I know it’s weird. I just… needed to find you.”
The light flipped green. Dean pressed the accelerator gently. After a moment Ryland spoke again, voice edged with sudden realization.
“By any chance, did you run into a short but very, very mean guy at a Starbucks?”
Dean’s soft laugh surprised even him. “Yeah. Rocky, right?”
Ryland chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “I am so sorry. He told me he was rude to you and felt awful about it afterward.” He fidgeted with the edge of his sleeve. “Can I still have it?”
Dean glanced over, confused.
“Your number?”
Dean blinked once, then nodded without hesitation. “Yes. Of course.”
Ryland settled back into the seat, a small, quiet smile settling on his face.
“Good.”