Chapter Text
Grace noticed his new neighbor only had one change of clothes.
He had only seen him a few times—either while stepping out of the elevator as he was carrying his bike, or catching a glimpse of him entering the apartment at the far end of the hall just as he was heading out to school. Yet, in all those brief encounters, the young man was always wearing the same faded white shirt, marked by a huge brown stain on the lower front that seemed impossible to wash out no matter how many trips he made to the basement laundry room. Not only that, but Grace also noticed his pallor and how his profile seemed to grow gaunter as time went on. And the last time they’d shared the elevator, the young man had been incessantly chewing on a toothpick, his gaze lost in the distance.
Hunger.
So his new neighbour—a young man in his mid-twenties who worked nights judging by the times he left and returned home, was growing increasingly thin and seemed to own only one change of clothes—was clearly living in a precarious situation. It was also obvious that he was alone, with no support system whatsoever. Once noticed, the situation was hard to ignore, and Grace couldn't help but feel concerned—perhaps because the young man reminded him, in some way, of his own students and a past he didn't want to recall. Yet, he couldn't simply be direct about a delicate subject like that. Certainly, they lived in the same building and down the same hallway, but showing up at the young man's door to pry into his private life would be extremely intrusive. That would likely earn him a punch to the face, a restraining order and a bad reputation that could threaten his job.
In fact, an ordinary person would likely choose to ignore someone else who was going through hard times; in today's society, one was expected to think of oneself before any other human being. And Grace tried. He tried to ignore how the young man seemed increasingly consumed by hunger and his night jobs. It began to weigh on him—he kept looking to see if anything, however small, might have improved over time, only to find the exact opposite.
It didn't help that they ran into each other at the laundromat that night. The man ignored him after offering a polite "good evening," his gaze fixed on the machine where his only white shirt was spinning. Grace thought he was being discreet as he loaded his own laundry, but the way the man suddenly turned toward him with a piercing stare that made it obvious he wasn't.
"Do you have a problem with me?"
His voice was surprisingly soft. Grace nearly dropped his bottle of liquid detergent.
"N-no!" He exclaimed, looking away and stumbling into the laundry basket with his foot.
Oh fudge, he messed up. He was completely unprepared for what to say, how to approach the issue, and now he was a creep caught staring at the younger man. Grace cleared his throat.
"I'm your neighbour? From down the hall? I've seen you a couple of times.”
The man kept his eyes fixed. He was on high alert, as if Grace was about to assault him with the liquid detergent. "Is that why you've been staring at me?"
"It's just... you don't have any other clothes, do you?”
His neighbour visibly winced, and the washing machine let out a series of melodic beeps indicating that the load—or the shirt—was ready.
"I-I mean!” Grace stammered, realising how awful that sounded. "I've seen you wearing that same shirt a few times, and I have extra clot-"
"If you don't shut up, I'm going to smash your teeth in and shove them down your throat."
Grace fell silent; the young man grabbed his shirt and walked out of the laundromat.
It took him a moment to compose himself, as his hands had started to tremble. He had been threatened before at the academy, but those had been nothing more than bluffs—stupid attempts at intimidation when someone didn't get their way with their opinion—but this time, it was serious. That man, with his soft-spoken tone, would hurt him without a moment's hesitation. That’s what he got for trying to be a good person, a rational part of him chided. There were violent people in the world— with no manners and carrying trauma—who found it easy to threaten others without consequence. His neighbor could be all that and something even more dangerous. And yet, when he saw the man recoil at his words, the only person he was reminded of was Kevin.
Kevin had been what the other teachers labeled a "problem student" from the start of the year. Divorced parents, an unstable home life, daily trips to detention for running in the halls. Many teachers had wished him luck for having the boy in his class. But the kid wasn't the problem. No, Grace saw that what the boy needed was a distraction from his home life—a safe place, even if it was just school. He needed someone to understand him, to be patient with him. And Grace tried to make his classroom that place. "Kevin, don't run. Kevin, my hand is up. It's okay, I'll help you out with this.” And slowly, Kevin began to open up, to be less destructive in class, and even to joke around.
He just needed help.
So Grace took one of the least stained tote bags he owned and put some of his folded nerdy shirts and a pair of jeans; on top, he placed a box of his favorite cereal—bought that very day—and a few apples. He looked at the bag and added a carton of milk, too—after all, what else was his neighbour supposed to eat the cereal with? Water?—and, to top it off, a bag of Sour Skittles. Grace admired his handiwork. If the man hadn't threatened him, that tote bag would have made an excellent gift basket.
A peek into the hallway confirmed it was empty. He didn't know whether his neighbor had gone out or not, but he wasn't going to find out. Grace carefully set down the tote bag and hurried back to his apartment. From that moment on, there were two possibilities: either his neighbor found the bag, felt offended by its contents, and knocked on his door to make good on his promise, or the bag ended up in the trash in the alley next to the building. Either way, it was out of his control.
Luckily, he didn't run into the young man the next morning, or the morning after. In fact, it had been weeks since he had seen him, not taking in fact that Grace made sure the hallway was empty before rushing to the elevator with his bicycle; he would startle whenever someone else stepped in at the same time, drawing a few curious glances. Time passed, and there was no sight of him. He didn't see his tote bag lying in some alley, so perhaps it had been accepted. Or maybe his neighbour had moved out because he had a creepy guy leaving him clothes and food.
Grace sighed and tried to focus on the class. Usually when he conducted experiments, he did so in a controlled classroom setting, with safety measures and a fire extinguisher at hand depending on the chemicals involved. His own class was typically quiet, with Olivia keeping things in check should any issues arise. However, the principal had asked him to cover a senior class. And, as he was too busy trying to calm them down and get them to pay attention, it was already too late when he heard the fire alarm. He turned around, and before he could stop him, the boy opened the window and tossed out whatever he and his friends had managed to set on fire. The problem was that it landed right next to the bike racks. Amidst the shouting and panic, Grace managed to extinguish the fire.
The only thing that suffered in that accident was his poor bicycle—and perhaps his pride when the father of the student offered money to replace it. The damage wasn't that bad, he assured him; nothing that couldn't be fixed. There was an auto repair and parts shop about half an hour from Grover Cleveland, and Grace arrived pushing what was left of his beloved bike. He must have looked ridiculous standing there surrounded by cars while the owner—an older man with grease-stained hands—frowned as he examined the damage.
"I think it would be easier if you just replaced it. The fire most likely compromised the structure, and it would be too dangerous to use it.”
Grace lowered his gaze. "So there's no hope?"
Part of him was certain that would be the outcome. Perhaps he had been too optimistic. The man looked at him, shook his head, and finally sighed.
"Look, I’ve got a lot of cars and hardly any help here.” He pointed to the back of the shop and Grace automatically followed with his eyes, catching a shadow disappearing behind some cars. “The new guy I hired started last week and is a big help, but honestly, I’m swamped. As soon as we finish up with the cars, I’ll take a look at your bike, see what I can do. If there's nothing, have some contacts and I'll try and get you a new one with some discount.”
Grace brightened up."Really?"
"Yeah, but it’ll take a while."
They exchanged numbers, and the man promised to send a text when it was ready—or "whatever I can salvage." That was enough for Grace. It was nearly a forty-five-minute walk from there to his apartment. As he mentally calculated how to adjust his routine to include waking up, getting ready and taking the bus, something caught his eye. He stopped, spun on his heels, and stared at a car he didn't recognize.
How long had it been there? The car was new to the building’s parking lot, though the model certainly wasn't; it looked vintage, like something from a private collection. However, he didn't know much about cars, let alone specific models to give a detailed opinion about it. Perhaps it belonged to another new neighbor he hadn't met yet. Seeing the old yet well-maintained vehicle gave him a strange feeling as he thought of his own bicycle. He walked with his head down to the elevator, where he found himself face-to-face with his neighbor.
The man’s complexion had improved; his cheeks no longer looked gaunt, and his hair was neatly combed—a stark contrast to Grace's usual disheveled look and the light stubble on his face. It also seemed that his wardrobe had improved, as his new denim jacket was worn over a shirt that wasn't white. He looked better, as if life were smiling on him.
Good for him. So Grace positioned himself as far away as possible in the elevator, frantically pressing the button for his floor. The threat the man had made—delivered with such calm seriousness—kept playing over in his mind. Would he hit him right there? Maybe.There were no cameras, and they were alone. The only thing he had for defense was his bag. Grace felt his hands tremble, and his glasses slid down his nose; he was too nervous to adjust them properly, and they nearly fell off when the man spoke.
"Where's your bike?" he asked.
His hands were in his jacket pockets, so perhaps he didn't intend to knock his teeth out. Grace cleared his throat and swallowed hard.
"It was in an accident. One of the students set it on fire."
The other man raised an eyebrow, and Grace realized how bad that sounded when put that way.
"It was an experiment," he explained, trying to steady his trembling voice. "I’m a science teacher at Grover Middle School. And it went wrong. So... yeah..."
The elevator doors finally closed, and they began the slow, painful ascent.
"I can drive you in the mornings."
"What?" Grace turned, confused.
"As a thank you for the clothes and the food."
"Oh, that... look, I didn't mean to be rude." Grace rubbed the back of his neck, uncomfortable. "That time at the laundromat, I just wanted to help; I didn't mean to offend you or anything."
The man stared at him and nodded.
"I really didn't mean to—"
"I get it."
"Okay."
Finally, the elevator doors opened and Grace stumbled out, trying—unsuccessfully—to appear much more composed. The young man followed close behind.
"What time do you have to be at school?"
"Seven in the morning, but..."
"I'll drive you. You have five minutes."
Five minutes? Five minutes for what? A moment ago he’d been glad the young man seemed to be doing better, but now he didn't know how to feel about such an offer. It was a huge help—there was no doubt about that—, but he didn't want to be in the same space as the person who had threatened to knock his teeth out.
"I could take the bus..."
"I'll drive." the man interrupted, his voice firm.
"Okay."
They stopped in front of his door, and Grace realized an important detail.
"What's your name?"
"Driver."
Grace blinked. "Is that a nickname, or...?"
The man offered no further explanation, and Grace fell silent before opening his mouth again.
"I'm Grace, by the way. Ryland Grace." He extended his hand. "You can call me Grace."
"Grace." Driver nodded and headed toward his apartment, leaving him there with his hand outstretched.
"Okay." Grace muttered in the empty hallway.
That had gone fantastic.
At the very least, a few things had been confirmed: his neighbor hadn’t thrown away the bag, wasn’t going to smash his teeth in, and—apparently—didn’t actually hate him, since he had offered to drive him around for the next few days. But that specific time frame unsettled him. Five minutes for what? To get ready? To meet him in the garage? To get a ride to school? If he didn't make it in time, would he actually hit him then?
Grace didn't sleep well that night, which threw off his routine, and he ended up arriving just a minute before the time Driver had specified with disastrous bed hair. Just as he’d feared, the man was already waiting, leaning against his car. He was wearing a white satin jacket, and as he turned his back, Grace admired the large gold-embroidered scorpion on the back. He pulled a pair of leather gloves from his back pocket and slipped them on with fluid speed.
That's so cool, Grace thought. Everything about Driver was awesome. And it was true that things really did take after their owners. He didn't know much about cars, but it was obvious that this one was loved. It was clean and gleaming, and the interior smelled of leather. He was so nervous of ruining that he banged his forehead against the car roof as he tried to get in. Driver immediately turned his head in alarm, but Grace quickly slid into the passenger seat, ignoring the throbbing pain.
"You okay?"
"Yeah, yeah, it was nothing," he groaned, avoiding his gaze as his face reddened. "It's just... I haven't been in a car in a long time."
Grace fought the urge to cover his face at such a stupid excuse and simply fumbled to fasten his seatbelt. He shrank into himself, clutching his bag to his chest, afraid of touching the interior more than necessary. "I really can't thank you enough for the ride."
Silence. Grace drummed his fingers on the seatbelt and tried again.
"It's pretty cool. It's vintage?"
Driver hummed, tapping the steering wheel. His expression remained unreadable, his brow slightly furrowed. Oh no, he was already annoyed and they hadn't even moved. Grace just wanted to get out of there.
"D-did you know that sound waves are physical?"
His voice came out higher-pitched than he intended, but didn't stop. In less than thirty minutes, he delivered what would have been his morning lesson—minus the microphone and the sand—to his neighbor, who simply replied “I didn't know that,” before pulling up near the school.
"What time do you get off?"
"Around four, give or take? Do I have five minutes to see you outside?"
Driver visibly clenched his jaw, sending Grace into panic mode.
"I shouldn't have said that," He changed the gearshift and looked straightforwar. "I'll see you at four."
At least work and the kids made Grace almost completely forget his stressful transportation situation—until he stepped outside and automatically looked for his bike, remembering his strange arrangement with his neighbor. As he walked toward the school entrance, he harbored a faint hope that Driver might have forgotten their agreement and force him to take the bus. But there he was, hands in his jacket pockets. Even the way he stood was cool and Grace couldn't help but admire him. However, Driver didn't even return his greeting and polite question if he had waited long; he simply got into the car and started the engine.
For the next half hour, Grace tried to make conversation to ease the palpable tension, only to be met with curt, cold responses. When asked what he did for a living, he simply replied, "I drive," and kept his mouth shut for the rest of the ride, his eyes fixed on the road. Grace nodded to himself, clutched his bag, and launched into a brief monologue about the latest scientific article he had read, until Driver dropped him off at his doorstep and shut his own door without saying goodbye.
That was their painful, awkward routine. Grace talked, Driver stayed silent, and both were left in a tense atmosphere that the radio couldn't relieve. It would only be a matter of a couple of days—that was the only thought that brought Grace any comfort. Just a few more days. A week passed, and there was no news about his bicycle or its replacement.
On Thursday, he texted Marissa to say he'd be a little late. He wasn't planning on asking Driver for a ride downtown. It was enough that he helped him get to and from school; it would be shameless to ask for a ride. But apparently the universe hated him because just as he finished locking his door, Driver was inserting his key into his own door down the hallway.
"Going out?" he asked, his gaze scanning him and lingering on his fox-print cardigan.
"I, uh..." Grace hesitated, feeling strangely guilty, as if he'd been caught sneaking out. "I'm going to see a friend."
"I see," was all Driver said before closing his door.
Grace breathed a sigh of relief. Then Driver came out, sporting his jacket and leather gloves.
"Let's go."
"What?"
"I'll give you a ride."
"No, no need!" he exclaimed, almost pleading.
Driver simply walked past him and put his hand on the elevator door to keep it from closing, waiting for him.
It was torture.
He was torturing him.
This was his revenge for leaving those shirts, the cereal, and the sour Skittles. Grace felt like a hostage in that car: the thick silence, the man's expressionless face as he talked and talked, his simple “'What time do I pick you up?” before driving off without another word. And the most irritating thing about it was that Marissa never stopped smiling while he recounted everything.
"I can't take it anymore," he groaned, clutching his head; he could sense a headache coming on. "I can't—I really can't."
“Do you have a picture of him?”
Grace looked at her, annoyed. “No? Didn’t you hear the part where he said he’d break my teeth and shove them down my throat?”
Marissa clicked her tongue, trying to stifle a laugh. "What a shame, I wanted to see the charming young man."
"This isn't funny. Can you take this seriously?"
"Oh, I am. Believe me, I am."
She wasn't. She laughed even harder when Grace opted for a whiskey and another beer.
"You think you can manage on your own?" she mocked, watching him lean against the wall as they left the bar.
“Yes, now go, please. I don’t want you to humiliate me any more than you already have.” If she ran into Driver, the situation would only get worse.
And just like at school, the man in question was already waiting for him near the bar. He was ceaselessly working a toothpick around in his mouth; he opened the passenger door without saying a word—without even looking at him. Grace frowned, irritation rising as he remembered how Marissa had described him as charming. Sure, Driver was attractive, but charming? If staying silent the whole damn time counted as charming, then he was a perfect gentleman.
“Why are you doing this?”
The abruptness of his voice must have surprised Driver, because he finally deigned to look at him without a scowl.
“Why are you doing this?” Grace repeated, trying not to slur his words. He shouldn't have had that whiskey, but the alcohol was giving him courage. Driver lowered his gaze, as if carefully weighing his next words. “Well?”
The young man kept his head down. Grace noticed that he didn't seem so angry, so serious. That way, he looked a little lost, as if he had no place or purpose. He looked almost ashamed.
“That time at the laundromat... I shouldn’t have threatened you.”
Oh.
“You helped me out even after what I said to you.”
The softness of his voice immediately dispelled his anger, replacing it with a sense of sobriety. Grace hummed, remembering their awkward first meeting.
"It's okay. I mean, I must have come off as a weirdo, right? Noticing how you only had one shirt?"
"It was." Driver answered quietly and Grace nodded along, shame rising to his mouth. Or maybe it was the whisky.
"So all this..." he made a circular motion with his finger, "...is an apology?"
Driver nodded. Grace hummed again and relaxed into the car seat. Somehow, that acknowledgment made the awkward situation more bearable. At least his body no longer felt like it was in danger and needed to flee. Still, that didn't stop him from hating the silence, so he resumed his ceaseless chatter the moment Driver started the engine—a baseball game playing in the background. When he saw the apartment building nearby, an idea crossed his mind.
"You know, we can stop this. This whole 'apology ride' thing." He placed his hands over his chest. "I shouldn't have meddled in your life; you had every right to be suspicious of me.” He pointed towards Driver. “You threatened me, sure, but that’s water under the bridge, and I forgive you. So there’s no need for you to drive me anymore. What do you say?"
They pulled into the parking lot and Driver seemed to weigh the option. Please say yes, Grace pleaded silently, so they could go back to being awkward neighbors who simply exchanged nods of greeting. He decided to give it a little nudge.
"And, for what it's worth, I'm glad you're doing so much better." Grace gave him a sincere smile. "I'm really happy for you."
Driver stared at him, then at a spot midway up his face, and finally turned off the engine.
"I'll keep driving you."
Grace’s smile crooked a bit. "Cool."
He wanted to scream.
More than two weeks had gone by, and no news about his bike, whether it had magically been repaired or an inexpensive replacement had been found as the owner had promised. Grace sent a message asking if everything was okay and if he should pick it up to take it to another shop, but the owner said he needed more time. Someone else might have gone and taken the bike elsewhere, but he just sent a thumbs-up emoji. Three days after that message, Driver took a route different from the usual one and Grace stopped halfway to explain his theory about the Goldilocks zone and whether water was necessary for life. He looked back, confirming they were getting on the highway and heading toward the Golden Gate Bridge.
"Uh, where are we going?"
"You'll see," Driver replied.
"See what?" he pressed, but Driver kept his eyes fixed on the road.
Buildings blurred past, giving way to the ocean spanned by red girders as they crossed the bridge. Soon, they left behind the skyscrapers and the bay. The highway narrowed into a smaller road that eventually led to a parking lot, where a wooden kiosk cheerfully announced their location and the available hiking trails.
"Tennessee Valley Trail?"
"It's a nice spot." Driver got out of the car and stood next to the car, waiting for him to get out.
If this was part of the apology, it was having the opposite effect. When he first arrived in San Francisco and started working on Grover, everyone had recommended the Valley Trail several times—especially if he liked the fog. Grace did like the fog, but he hadn't had a car. Now he had one, along with a neighbor who wouldn't say a word and simply walked along the beach with him, occasionally skipping stones across the water. What was supposed to be a barely bearable, uninterrupted half-hour chat dragged on for nearly three hours. It was nearly nightfall when they returned to the apartment, and Grace had barely any voice or energy left—let alone enough to clean or cook—before collapsing onto the bed, exhausted and hollow.
And they didn't go there not once, or twice. No, almost every day after that Driver turned on the car’s blinker to take the exit, and Grace felt his stomach drop every time. His palms would start to sweat, and he could only manage a nervous smile before retreating into a scientific monologue in an attempt to fill those silences he hated so much. He kept talking non-stop, while Driver remained silent, offering no opinion. The least he could do was tell him to shut up if they bothered him that much, but Driver would turn off the radio if Grace opened his mouth, and keep driving in silence until they reached their building after dark.
At least he took them both grocery shopping. Grace noticed Driver picking out two boxes of the sweetest cereal on the shelf—something that made him narrow his eyes in curiosity. So, on the way out, he held out the package of candy he was carrying.
"Twizzlers?" he offered with a smile, one already in his mouth.
Driver glanced at the bag, then at his mouth, and shook his head. Grace nodded to himself, trying to ignore the awkwardness. It was as if the young man wanted to see him make a fool of himself; every time he tried to find some common ground, his efforts were abruptly shut down. By the time they reached the Malibu, Grace had finished the bag and let out a heavy sigh. He just needed to get home so his body could stop feeling like it was constantly in danger. Driver turned off the radio the moment he started speaking; for some reason, the ride began to feel longer than usual. His words felt slower and heavier, and he realized his eyelids were starting to droop. Too late, he realized his mistake had been eating all that candy; that, combined with the Malibu’s interior warming up in the afternoon sun and his chronic lack of sleep, left him feeling—hours later—like someone waking up from a coma. At first, Grace didn't know where he was. It was dim, lit only by horizontal LED strips on the ceiling. His glasses had slid halfway down his face, blurring his vision, and it took him a moment to recognize the inside of the Malibu. He jerked upright, and Driver glanced over at him, chewing on a toothpick. He had fallen asleep.
"Oh my God, oh my God, I'm so sorry," he stammered, dazed. He rubbed his face, trying to wake up, and his glasses fell somewhere inside the car. "Did I drool?"
"No."
The dry smear at the corner of his lips suggested otherwise.
"Why didn't you wake me up?!"
"You looked tired," Driver replied calmly, as if he hadn't spent hours sitting in the car waiting for him to wake up from his sugar binge.
He leaned forward and handed the glasses back. Grace apologized repeatedly, his face flushed, unable to meet Driver's eyes. Later, while brushing his teeth, Grace remembered that his seat had been reclined, but the other one hadn't. That meant he had been so deeply asleep that he hadn't felt the driver leaning over him to adjust it so he could sleep comfortably. He covered his face, mortified. He couldn't go on like this.
But finally—finally—the shop owner sent a message saying the bicycle would be ready that weekend. Grace headed over, practically skipping. Upon arriving, a familiar sight made him slow his pace until he came to a halt, tilting his head toward one of the parked cars.
He recognized that car.
He had suffered in that car.
Grace turned toward the only worker on sight, who was looking under an engine with a wrench in his hand.
"Driver?" he called out, and the young man lowered his head.
Unlike Grace, he didn't seem surprised to see him there.
"You work here?" he asked, flabbergasted.
Driver nodded and turned his attention back to the engine, as if the sight of him there wasn't strange.
"You said you drove." Grace said, almost accusatory.
"I do. For movie stunts as a side job. Mostly I'm here,” He pointed to his side with the wrench. "The owner told me he wasn't going to charge you for the time it took to find a replacement."
Grace narrowed his eyes in confusion and stepped into the workshop. That wasn't his bicycle. It had indeed been replaced, but a replacement wouldn't have undergone a deep cleaning and polishing, nor would it feature new handlebar grips, an intact seat, and clean pedals; even the tires and chain looked polished.
"It looks almost new." He stared at the new bell next to the handlebars and turned to Driver. "Did you fix it?"
The other man didn't take his eyes off the engine. "No, the owner did. But he showed me how; that’s why it took so long.”
“And he's not going to charge me anything?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
Grace crossed his arms and looked around, searching for the owner, but it seemed only Driver and he were in the workshop. It felt like a crime to just leave with that bike without paying a thing—and no one was usually that kind.
"If I wait for the owner, will he tell me it’s free, too?"
Driver paused his work and lowered his head just enough to look at him. He said nothing and everything.
"Is this part of your apology?"
Without answering, Driver turned to his toolbox and swapped out the wrench. Grace swallowed hard, a strange feeling suddenly washing over him.
"Did you know I brought my bike here? Is that why...?"
"Not exactly," Driver interrupted. "I was new here when you first came in, and I recognized you. But I was still holding a threat over you, and I didn't want to scare you off."
Oh, that first meeting truly had defined so much over his life in the last few weeks.
"How much did it cost?"
"Nothing."
"I can't accept it, okay?" Grace pointed at the bike. "I know it wasn't cheap, and you aren't..." He hesitated, not wanting to sound rude or provoke another threat. "I can take care of myself. You don't have to worry about me."
"I know. Still, it's free."
He realized Driver wasn't going to budge, no matter how much he insisted. Grace ran a hand through his hair, trying to stop feeling flattered by the gesture, by how considerate it was.
"Well... it's fixed now!”
Driver nodded at his obvious remark and returned to his work.
"So now you don't have to drive me around anymore."
"Why?"
Grace blinked, confused.
"It's easier if I drive you." Driver clarified.
"Y-yeah, but that was just while they were repairing it…or replacing it. Besides, I don't want to be a bother anymore."
"You never were."
"No, I'm sure I was," Grace tried to crack a smile. "I bother people."
Driver shook his head, grabbing a rag to clean his hands. "Not me."
They stood in a calm silence, looking at each other. Grace broke eye contact first, fidgeting the bell.
"I don't feel comfortable."
"Do I make you uncomfortable?"
Yes, he wanted to scream. "Don't I make you uncomfortable?" Grace retailed, a bit of resentment in his voice. "You never say anything when we're together. You just let me do all the talking!"
"Because I like listening to you."
"What?!"
"I like being around you."
Grace arched his eyebrow. "Thanks...?"
"And I don't let random people get in my car, let alone take them on rides."
Driver sat on the edge of a car with its hood up. Seeing him like that—relaxed and at ease—made Grace realize he was truly in his element. His jaw wasn't set, nor was his face expressionless; even his gaze had softened. Grace laughed, trying to release the tension in his chest.
"So, I’m special?"
"Yes."
Grace’s smile faded. Driver looked down and toyed with the oil-stained rag between his clean fingers. He continued playing with it until there was no more dirt to clean, and finally looked at him.
"Will you let me be your driver a little longer?"
It was almost a plea. A soft, well-mannered, and almost charming one. Grace swallowed, trying to ignore how his ears turned red.
"Okay." Grace replied, uncertain of what he was accepting.
Monday came and the new bicycle stayed in his apartment. But something had changed in their routine. Now Driver opened the car door for him—a gesture that made his cheeks flush. Grace chucked nervously.
"You don't have to do this."
"I want to." Driver said, like it was the most normal thing in the world.
Unlike the previous week, he wore a faint smile as he drove. Grace made no attempt to fill the silence, testing just how comfortable he felt with him. Surprisingly, it was bearable. His body didn't feel like he had to run away, and his hands stayed dry. It was strangely soothing just listening to the hum of the engine and the radio, and watching the buildings go by outside the Malibu’s windows.
Even so, he kept talking. Over the next few days he began to shift topics and speak more openly about his daily life. He moved his hands more, gesturing broadly, smiled often, and even pointed out his favorite spots as they drove past them as they made their way to Valley Trail. He cracked silly jokes and shared fun facts—like how butter was made during the Civil War. He even showed him his collection of knitted beanbags, especially the one shaped like Earth.
"It's lava."
Driver raised his eyebrow. "It's not."
"Okay, it isn't, but it is to the kids."
He frowned. "The kids think it's lava?”
"No, that's the game! It keeps them interested in learning new things. Like this," Grace stood up and tossed the bean bag; Driver caught it easily with one hand. "What’s the speed of light?"
Driver narrowed his eyes.
"Come on, we talked about this yesterday! You can do it!"
The man turned the bean bag in his hand, clearly unprepared for the pop quiz.
"It’s melting in your hands!" Grace urged him, which seemed to snap him out of it..
"You said it was..." Driver closed his eyes, concentrating. "186,000 miles per second?"
"Atta boy!" Grace exclaimed, raising his arms in victory.
Driver visibly caught his breath. His eyes—usually guarded and expressionless—sparked with something akin to joy before he blinked and looked down. A faint, telling pink flush crept up his neck, and he carefully clutched the bean bag in his hand.
"I think I get it now. It’s working on me."
Grace laughed, patting Driver's back. Curiously, upon their return, the building's parking lot seemed rather crowded that day. Despite finding another car in his assigned spot, Driver didn't lose the faint smile on his face and simply found another place to park.
"I had a good time."
"Me too," Grace replied sincerely.
They stood by his door as he fumbled to get his keys out of his pocket.
"I’m not doing anything this week," Driver said, hands stuffed in his pockets jacket, leaning against the door's frame. "Do you want to go for a drive or something?".
More?, Grace thought, confused. Hadn't they been doing that all week? If those weren't car rides, then what were they? He was tempted to point out the obvious but held back. That day, Driver had seemed happier than Grace had ever seen him; clearly, those car rides meant something special to him, and perhaps it was his way of saying he wanted to hang out. Maybe, like Grace, he wasn't good with people, and this was his way of connecting. So, he nodded.
"Sure, why not?"
Driver smiled back and wished him a good night. Except he didn't get one; an hour later, music started up—loud enough to make the walls shake. Grace tossed and turned, pressed the pillow against his face, and even tried to block out the noise with earplugs. There was only one explanation for such a racket: college students. It wasn't the first time the landlord had made the mistake of renting to them, and it was almost always the same reason he ended up kicking them out. That explained all the cars in the basement, too.
Grace groaned, rubbed his eyes, and started getting dressed. College students or not, they were all adults; they could have a civilized conversation about turning down the fudging music. He stepped out and froze when he saw Driver was also standing in the hallway, staring up at the ceiling. His mood brightened instantly.
"Hi!"
Driver turned and smiled back. "Hey."
"Looks like they're throwing a welcome party upstairs." Grace walked toward him, frowning at the ceiling with his arms crossed. "Apparently, they didn't get the memo about keeping it quiet after ten."
"I know. I can't concentrate on the engine."
Engine? So, even after working on cars all day, he brought his work home with him? He really loved cars. An especially loud vibration, followed by shouts of euphoria, interrupted his train of thought. Grace sighed heavily and put his hands on his hips; this wasn't going to end anytime soon. He looked at Driver and smiled.
"Want to get out of here? You know, we could go for that drive right now, since—technically," he checked his watch, "it's the weekend."
Driver chuckled.
"Yeah, why not? Let's go."
The best place they could find at that hour was a 24-hour diner. Driver ordered a slice of apple pie, and Grace got a milkshake. There was something delicious about eating high-calorie food at two in the morning. Grace lazily talked about teenage school drama his students had, and Driver simply listened, offering a smile from time to time. On the way back, Grace remained quiet, comfortable in the silence of the car—a first since he’d begun this strange relationship with his neighbor.
He gazed out the window, letting his head rest against the seat. He had never been out in the city at that time of night, not even as a student; he had always stayed in his apartment, studying, reading, or sleeping. It was a completely different world from the daytime—the cold, the stillness, the street-lights glittering like cold diamonds. They almost looked like stars. A city of stars. Grace smiled at the silly thought. Perhaps that was the reason Driver returned so late at night. It was quiet, just like him.There was no traffic, no people rushing through life; he felt so at peace that he didn't jump out of his seat when Driver took his hand and placed it on the Malibu’s gearshift before laying his own over it—his leather-clad fingers sliding between Grace’s in a grip that was gentle yet firm.
Grace froze, gaze fixed on the road as Driver continued to drive in silence, occasionally guiding his hand when it was time to shift gears. He was grateful that Driver was wearing his gloves, as his whole body had broken out in a cold sweat. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that—unlike him—Driver was completely calm.
This was no longer a casual outing; it was a date.
Oh fudge, oh fudge, oh fudge.
Grace wanted to let out a high-pitched scream to settle his nerves. He wasn't a stranger to dating or relationships; however, the memory of his last significant relationship was unpleasant, and this was the first time a man—someone younger than him to make matters worse—had shown a clear interest in him. He had experimented a bit with his sexuality in college, but after Linda, he had given up on finding a romantic partner, preferring to focus on proving a theory that defied scientific norms. After what happened at the UNESCO conference, he withdrew even further from such relationships. There had been just one instance of a single father showing interest in him, but Grace knew that students' parents were off-limits—and that had happened when he was still relatively new to the job. He was older now, and his temper had mellowed with time and...
Well, it wasn't exactly as if he were a catch, all things considered.
Grace couldn't understand why Driver would develop those feelings when he could have had anyone else. Many women smiled at him as they passed on the street. The waitress at the diner had sent clear signals, yet Driver had looked at her impassively until she walked away from their conversation. Besides, ever since he’d met him, Grace was certain Driver didn't trust men much—let alone feel attracted to them. That made him realize something else: what did he actually know about him? Aside from the fact that he liked driving—his nickname alluded to that—and, surprisingly, had a sweet tooth, what other information did he have? He didn't even know his real name. A bitter taste filled his mouth, washing away the lingering sweetness of the milkshake. He hadn't even noticed they had returned to the apartment parking lot and that Driver had let go of his hand in order to turn off the car.
"I liked it," he said, looking at him. Grace gave a small, crooked smile in return. "I'll walk you to your door."
"But we live on the same floor," Grace pointed out, smiling genuinely at the young man's attempt at humor; the other chuckled and got out of the car to open his door.
The party seemed to be over-that, or some other neighbour had called the police to shut it down-, and dawn was just a couple of hours away. Grace shuffled through his pockets for his keys as Driver waited patiently. And an idea came to his mind.
"Do you want to have breakfast with me? I'll make pancakes." That seemed to pique Driver's interest.
"I’d like that." He answered quietly with a sparkle in his eyes.
"Great! I'll see you at nine!"
Driver wished him goodnight before closing the door. Grace had a plan. Pancakes for breakfast—something sweet that even he could prepare without burning down his kitchen in the process—would give him the perfect opportunity to get to know him better, and perhaps find out a little more about the young man who apparently seemed interested in him.
A glance at his apartment made him toss his things aside and quickly start cleaning up what he could. By the time he had it looking decent, only an hour remained until dawn—an hour he spent lying down, staring at the ceiling in a futile attempt to get some shut-eye while his mind buzzed with thoughts.
Did Driver want a relationship with him?
Grace clutched the sheets to his chest, trying to calm his pounding heart. It wasn't normal for cool guy like Driver to say he liked being around him, to take him for drives, to have a faint smile when they were together or the way his hand had sought out his in the darkness of the car. The truth had been there ever since he insisted on driving him around, picking him up, and still spending time together even when his bike was working perfectly. But to be desired and feel like someone's first choice was a complete foreigner concept to Grace.
Why him? He was older, a middle school teacher, and there was a YouTube video out there showing the exact moment he’d ruined his academic career. And Driver was an attractive young man—nearly a decade his junior.
Maybe it was a crush?
That thought left him completely paralyzed. His genius brain connected the dots and immediately came with another realization that calmed him down. Yes, it was a crush. A sudden puppy crush, and crushes were fleeting! He himself had experienced something similar years ago with Tom Ryder—an actor who was popular at the time—, but it hadn't lasted more than a few months, especially after he found out what the man was like off-set. Driver must have been going through something like that; there was no other explanation.
It would pass, and they would remain good neighbors, maybe even friends.
And that thought shouldn't weigh so much on his chest.
"It'll pass." Grace muttered to myself in the darkness.
And it would be for the best.