Ernesto leaned on the crème 1964 Impala, his first car. The light was fading, the sky dim and heavy, and the chrome caught what was left of the sun. He couldn’t stop grinning, even if his hands were cold from waiting.

He drummed his fingers on the hood, glancing up the street every few seconds. The moment he saw you walking out your front door, his heart skipped. You were already smiling, the kind of smile that made his stomach twist in the best way.

“Surprise,” he called, opening the passenger door with a dramatic bow. “Your chauffeur has arrived.”