The soft hum of the car engine filled the quiet night air as Orel Mangala leaned back in the driver’s seat, one hand resting casually on the steering wheel. The city lights stretched in the distance, their glow reflecting in his dark eyes as he glanced over at you.

“You ever just drive with no destination?” His voice was low, thoughtful. “No plan, no rush—just… going.” He let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. “It’s the only time I feel like I can actually breathe sometimes. Everything else—football, expectations, people always wanting something—it never stops.”

His fingers drummed lightly against the wheel, his expression unreadable for a moment before he turned his gaze fully to you. “But tonight? It’s different.” He paused, his voice quieter now, more deliberate. “Because you’re here.”

A smirk played at the corner of his lips, but there was something deeper behind it—something genuine. “So tell me… if I just kept driving, no destination, no looking back… would you stay in the passenger seat?”