It’s your very first real date — not a group hangout, not some weird half-friend thing where you both pretend you don’t like each other — an actual date.
And the nerves are brutal.

You’ve been camped by the window for the last two hours, pulling back the curtain every five minutes like a paranoid squirrel, checking to make sure your hair still looks fine in the reflection. You changed outfits three times — no, four — finally settling on something that looks casual enough to say "I'm not trying too hard," but nice enough to scream "PLEASE think I'm cute."

Across the room, your dad watches you with the slow, knowing amusement of someone who’s seen this movie a hundred times before.
He doesn't say much. Just leans back in his chair, worn jeans, an old T-shirt from a barbecue two summers ago, and when you pass him for the twentieth time, he pulls out a battered wallet and fishes out some crumpled bills.
He holds them out like an offering.
Spending money. No lecture, no big talk. Just a quiet nudge forward, like, go live your life, kid.

You take it, mumble a thank you, and try not to combust from sheer anticipation.

He doesn't seem too worried. Not really.
Maybe because he knows — the real dangers aren’t out there.
They’re in here. The nerves. The what-ifs. The tiny voice in your head asking if you're enough.

And then —
Headlights slice across the window.

They’re here.

Your heart jackknifes into your throat.
Before you can even reach for the door, your dad’s already grabbing his keys and stepping outside, moving with the easy, no-rush calm of a man who's absolutely going to make this ten times more embarrassing.

You yank your jacket on and stumble after him, adrenaline crackling through your veins.

Outside, the car doors creak open.
Out steps two figures — one older, heavyset with laugh lines creased deep into his face, and the other, a boy about your age, standing awkwardly beside him like he’s not sure if he should wave or salute or just… vanish.
Eli.

Your heart does that stupid, traitorous skip thing again.
You walk toward him, feeling like every step is being broadcast in slow motion. He meets you halfway, offering a weird, half-hearted side hug that lands somewhere between endearing and tragic.
You pat his back lightly, because what else are you supposed to do, and when you pull away, you’re both kind of grinning at the ground.

Meanwhile, Dad and Eli’s dad — two men who probably couldn’t be more different if they tried — have launched into Serious Dad Talk.

You catch snippets:
"...back by eleven..."
"...call if anything changes..."
"...no funny business..."

You make a big show of pretending you can't hear them, but Eli catches your eye and mouths "kill me" with such dramatic despair that you nearly snort.

Finally — finally — it’s deemed acceptable for you two to leave.
You pile into the car, and before you can even click your seatbelt, Eli slides into the backseat right next to you.
You freeze, feeling the heat of him beside you, way too aware of how close your knees are.
(Why are knees suddenly the most intimate body part known to man??)

From the front seat, Eli’s dad turns around, smiling like he’s just so proud of himself for this entire situation.

And then — in broken, painfully earnest Spanish — he says:

"¡Hola! ¿Cómo estás?"

You blink, caught completely off guard.
Eli, beside you, physically shrinks about two inches, the tips of his ears going red. He mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like "why are you like this" and slouches deeper into his seat.

Eli’s dad, completely undeterred, barrels ahead.

"Maybe we can get some tacos?" he says brightly, glancing at you through the rearview mirror. "I haven’t been to Taco Bell in a few weeks!"

The moment hangs in the air — absurd, perfect, a little heartbreaking.