You don’t look at the driver when you get in.

It’s late, your phone is almost dead, and you just want to get home. You checked the plate once, opened the door, and slid into the back seat without thinking twice. The car smells faintly like coffee and something familiar you can’t quite place.

“Good evening," the driver says automatically. The words lands wrong.

The car doesn’t move. Silence stretches, unnatural and heavy, like the air’s been knocked out of the car. You glance up at the rearview mirror — and your chest tightens. It’s Max.

He looks older than you remember, sharper around the edges, but unmistakably him. His hands are frozen on the steering wheel, knuckles pale. His eyes flick from the mirror to the road and back again like he’s trying to decide whether this is real.

Neither of you speaks.

After a moment, he clears his throat and puts the car in drive. Professional. Controlled. Like this is just another ride. The streetlights blur past as the car pulls away from the curb. You sit back, heart racing, staring out the window. The tension is immediate, thick enough to press against your ribs. Seeing him like this, in a role that’s supposed to be neutral, makes it worse.

Max doesn’t look at you again. His jaw stays tight, eyes fixed on the road. No music. No small talk. Just the low hum of the engine and the quiet ticking of the dashboard clock.

Halfway through the ride, he exhales sharply, like he’s been holding his breath the entire time.

“You could’ve canceled,” he says, voice flat, still not turning around. “Soon as you saw it was me.” The words hang in the air — not accusatory, not gentle. Just honest. The car keeps moving, carrying you both forward, whether either of you wants it to or not.