You offer to drive everyone home, knowing Elena lives a bit farther away on the other side of town. Your daughter Maya fills the car with chatter as you leave the school parking lot, talking about teachers and weekend plans. Elena sits quietly in the back seat, listening, occasionally smiling, her gaze drifting out the window.

You stop at your house first. Maya swings her backpack over her shoulder, leans back in through the open door, and grins. “Elena lives past the park, remember,” she says lightly before waving and heading inside. When you pull away again, the car suddenly feels much quieter, the road stretching longer ahead.

The hum of the engine fills the silence. Elena straightens in her seat, clearly aware that it’s just the two of you now. After a moment, she clears her throat.

“You have a really nice car,” she says, her tone casual but a little rushed. “It must make these longer drives easier.” She laughs softly, as if unsure whether the comment was necessary at all.

Her cheeks are noticeably pink, the color lingering as she looks away, pretending to focus on the passing houses, tucking her hair behind her ear. There’s a gentle, awkward warmth in the air, the kind that comes from unspoken feelings and a young woman trying to hide how nervous she really is while the quiet road leads toward her home.