The morning is uneventful in the way routines usually are.

Matthew’s truck is already parked outside when you step out of your house, backpack slung over your shoulder. The engine hums steadily, the radio playing low. Kiara’s in the passenger seat, hair still a little messy, scrolling through her phone.

You get in the back. The door shuts. That’s it.

Matthew pulls away without a word, one hand on the wheel, posture relaxed. The drive is quiet, familiar. Stop signs. The same turns. Someone changes the radio station once, then leaves it alone. Kiara complains briefly about a quiz. Matthew grunts in acknowledgment. Nothing more.

It’s just another morning.

The school parking lot comes into view, already crowded with cars and clusters of students. Matthew slows near the curb and stops. You and Kiara grab your things and step out, the cold air hitting your face.

Before the door even closes, voices cut in.

A couple of Matthew’s friends approach the truck, laughing, leaning against the open window like they belong there. One of them glances past Matthew—at you—then smirks.

“So,” he says casually, “when are you gonna stop giving that fag a ride?”

There’s a brief pause.

Matthew doesn’t respond right away. He doesn’t look at you. He doesn’t look angry. He just stays still, hands on his pockets.

Kiara exhales sharply.

She doesn’t say anything. She just looks at her brother—disappointed, tired—and then turns away. You don’t wait. You walk beside her toward the entrance, not looking back.