I woke up to the sound of Cairo revving his car in my dreams again.
Except this time, it wasn't a dream. It was real. Very real. I could hear the soft vroom-vroom echoing from the garage floor like a masculine lullaby to my very single, very complicated heart.
Because guess what?
Car race day.
Yep. Car. Race. Day.
Also known as: "Support your man—but not your man—because you're still in that awkward pre-relationship limbo where you're technically just suitor and suitee (is that even a word?) but you're already lowkey invested and highkey delusional."
I opened my closet with one goal in mind.
Look like the chillest emotional support girlfriend to ever wear lip gloss.
I settled on an sexy top, denim skirt, and chunky sneakers. Casual, but intentional. Like, "Oh this old thing? I just threw it on after i cried in front of my mirror for twenty-seven minutes."
I grabbed my tote bag, checked if Red's baby wipes were still inside (yes, they were—I am that kind of emotional support), then made my way downstairs.
When i reached the parking lot, Cairo was already there.
In his racing suit.
Fixing his gloves.
Looking like a tall, brooding, fast-driving heart attack.
"Ready?" he asked, not even glancing at me, just sipping from his water bottle like he wasn't about to make my blood pressure spike.
I nodded, a little too quickly.
"Yup! Very ready. Emotionally, spiritually, physically—except for my metabolism, but that's a separate issue."
He smirked a little.
And okay, sue me, I felt victorious. Cairo barely smiled, so that smirk? That smirk was a public holiday in my emotional calendar.
We got into his black SUV—aka the car he drives when he's not driving a spaceship disguised as a racecar—and headed to the track.
The racetrack was chaotic in the way a perfectly controlled disaster is supposed to be.
Men in jumpsuits.
Tires stacked like weird donuts.
The smell of fuel, rubber, and masculine ego thick in the air.
I felt like i was in a Fast & Furious movie, except instead of Vin Diesel, I had Cairo—a man who looked like he hadn't smiled since the Aquino era, but somehow still managed to make my heart short-circuit every time he blinked.
He was already checking his car when i trailed after him like an overly enthusiastic puppy.
"Cairo," I said, pretending not to run out of breath after light jogging, "do you need water? Electrolytes? A fan? Emotional counseling? Maybe a scented candle?"
"No," he said flatly, adjusting something under the hood.
Wow. K.
Support girlfriend duties were hard when the man you were supporting was built like an emotional black box.
Still, I stood beside him and held his racing jacket when he took it off.
Like a hanger. A very pretty hanger with lip gloss.
I scanned the other racers, most of them looked like walking testosterone.
But none of them had my Cairo's vibe.
He didn't need to flex.
His silence flexed for him.
"Just don't die," I whispered as he got into his car.
He looked up, met my eyes.
"I won't die, Elara."
"Well, just in case, I brought baby wipes for your forehead when you win. Or, you know... if you crash and survive."
He didn't reply.
But the corner of his mouth twitched again.
I swear, that man had more facial expressions in the last 24 hours than in his entire life.
Three. Two. One. GO.
The race started like thunder—cars screeching, tires smoking, people screaming.
I tried to stay calm. Really, I did.
But my hands were clenched in prayer, and i may or may not have yelled "JESUS TAKE THE WHEEL!" once or twice.
Even though Jesus, presumably, was not part of the pit crew.
Cairo's car was beautiful in motion, like an angry cheetah on nitro.
He was leading.
And then—
BOOM.
Not a literal explosion.
But his car did a weird skid-turn-combo that made the entire crowd gasp.
Smoke.
Sparks.
The engine hissed like it had opinions.
My brain shut down.
"OH MY GOSH HE'S DEAD."
He wasn't. Obviously.
But i didn't wait for logic.
I ran.
In a skirt.
Across the racetrack like a telenovela extra who just discovered her long-lost twin was actually her uncle.
"CAIRO!"
He was already stepping out of the car, completely calm, not even a scratch on him.
"Why are you running?!" he asked, as if i was the one casually risking my life doing car pirouettes.
I collapsed on him in a hug.
Which he did not return at first.
Because again, emotionally constipated.
But then—
His hand rested gently on my back.
And he said, "I told you. I'm not going to die."
I sniffed. "You could've at least texted."
"I was in a car. Racing."
"Details."
He pulled back slightly, looked down at me.
"You okay?"
"NO," I huffed, tears threatening to ruin my eyeliner. "Do you know what it feels like to think the person you like just exploded in front of you?! It's like my heart did a somersault and landed on a thumbtack."
A pause. Then:
"You like me?"
Welp.
I forgot i hadn't admitted that part out loud yet.
Abort mission. Abort mission.
"Uh—I mean—like is such a… loose word. Like, 'Hey i like donuts.' Who doesn't like donuts? You're my donut."
Cairo blinked.
He sighed. "I lost."
"YOU WHAT?"
"I lost."
"…And you're calm?! Do you know what that car just did to my internal organs?! It's like my heart did a backflip and landed in a blender."
"I told you i wouldn't die."
"You didn't win either."
"No."
"You owe me a lifetime supply of hugs and donuts for the trauma."
He blinked. "Donuts?"
"Yeah. You're my reckless man-donut," I muttered into his chest.
-
Driving back to the condo, the silence was comforting.
Cairo had one hand on the wheel.
Then—quietly—he reached over and held my hand.
My actual hand.
Not figurative. Not metaphorical.
Literal skin-to-skin palm holding.
My brain short-circuited.
Wait.
WAIT. HOLDING HANDS?!
Weren't we still technically in the "suitor-suitée" phase?!
Weren't we supposed to be… behaving?
And then i looked at him.
Saw his profile. His calm face. His still-unknowable eyes.
Do I care? I asked myself.
Answer: No. I don't care. At all.
I squeezed his hand back.
If we were going to be confusing, emotionally unstable, undefined weirdos… then we might as well hold hands while doing it.
When we got back to his condo, he headed straight to the kitchen and started cooking.
Meanwhile, my eyes?
They immediately landed on his hoodie, lazily draped over the couch like it was waiting for me.
Calling to me. Whispering, "You deserve comfort, girl."
So, obviously, I wore it.
Because i deserve it.
I mean—if that bitchy-bitch Nadine could wear his clothes before, why can't I?
Actually, no. Not "why can't I"—I should. I'm supposed to.
I mean, I'm the one he's courting now. Right? Right???
Not that i technically have the right, okay—because we're still in that awkward suitor stage or whatever—but still. Spiritually? Emotionally? Aesthetic-wise?
I have more right than her.
And yes, I said what i said.
I sat at the kitchen counter, swinging my legs like a toddler on a sugar high.
"You know," I said, watching him dice tomatoes with unnecessary focus, "you could've told me i wasn't allowed to like you."
"You're allowed."
"So… you are my suitor?"
He glanced at me, serious. "I thought i was."
"Well," I said, reaching for the ketchup, "then can i kiss you?"
He froze.
I leaned forward anyway.
And kissed him.
On the lips.
Soft. Fast. Slightly messy, because i still had ketchup on my fingers. Whoops.
Then i pulled back just as quickly.
"Wait," I said, covering my mouth. "Oh my gosh—I forgot i was supposed to be explaining myself for accusing you of cheating yester. I'm so inconsistent."
Cairo—this confusing, cold, frustrating man—just laughed again.
"What am i going to do with you?"
"Probably install a seatbelt on your soul," I replied, picking at the rice. "I come with emotional airbags."
He snorted. I pretended i didn't love that sound.
And then—
Silence.
Not the comfortable kind.
Not the romantic kind either.
It was the kind that felt louder than a racetrack.
Like… post-kiss silence with someone who clearly has the emotional range of a parking cone.
I was still mentally replaying the kiss from earlier—on loop, in 4K, with dramatic slow motion and alternate angles—when i caught sight of Cairo.
Calm. Unbothered.
Casually wiping the stove like we didn't just share a potentially life-changing moment.
EXCUSE ME???
Sir.
Hello.
I just kissed you. With feeling. With intent. With possibly a little smear of ketchup.
And you're out here… cleaning??
Like nothing happened???
Make it make sense.
I stood up with an unnecessarily loud push of the stool, hoping he'd react.
He didn't.
Which was somehow worse.
"I should go," I said, grabbing my bag with the speed of someone who wanted to leave dramatically but also wanted to be stopped dramatically.
"Okay," he said, still not turning around.
…HUH?
Not even a "Stay, Elara"?
Not even a "Wait, kiss me again with less ketchup"?
I stomped toward the door. "Thanks for the food. And the... mild emotional trauma."
"I'll walk you out," he said finally.
Ugh.
Even his silence was hot.
We stepped into the hallway together. Cairo was right beside me—like, physically beside me, and emotionally three light-years away.
I turned toward him, dramatically, obviously, maybe with a bit of wind in my hair even though there was no wind.
This was it.
A goodbye moment.
Possibly with a longing gaze. Maybe a dramatic pause. Maybe even a reckless kiss, because apparently, I'm a woman of impulse now.
I leaned in.
He looked down.
Our faces were this close again.
Then—
DING.
The elevator doors slid open with all the subtlety of a plot twist i didn't ask for.
And standing there… was not Ari.
It wasn't the doorman.
It wasn't even my dignity.
It was her.
Tall. Regal. Composed.
Wearing a crisp linen blouse, holding her phone like it doubled as a weapon, and radiating the kind of composed menace only rich mothers and CEOs possess.
My soul left my body.
I froze mid-lean, like i could reverse time with stillness.
She blinked at us.
I blinked back.
Oh no.
Not her.
Not her her.
His mom.
The same woman i told—boldly, confidently, like I had a retirement plan—that her son was my future husband.
The same woman i mistook for his sugar mommy.
The same woman who saw me in red lipstick and a bigger lie.
Suddenly, Cairo wasn't beside me anymore—he took a discreet step forward, like he could somehow shield me from the consequences of my own mouth.
Spoiler: too late.
Her brows arched just a millimeter. "Elara, right?"
My entire throat dried up.
My spine liquefied. My IQ dropped to single digits.
"H‑Hi, Ma'am—Ma'am—Miss Cairo's‑Mom."
Fantastic. Just fantastic.
She smiled. Not kindly. Not coldly. Just… politely.
The kind of polite that says, I won't ruin you here, but you will be a full agenda item at brunch.
"I didn't realize you were still… here."
Still here?
STILL here???
Why did everyone keep saying it like i was mold?
Before i could respond with anything remotely intelligent, Cairo stepped up.
Then he saw his mom, of course because we're basically clinging each other earlier.
Then me.
In his hoodie.
Standing far too close for plausible deniability.
Cairo's eyes widened by exactly 0.3 millimeters.
And I, for reasons known only to the spirits of awkward timing, panicked and tripped sideways—slamming my shoulder straight into the door.
"Elara," he said, alarmed.
"Mama," he added, voice turning two shades more formal and three shades more terrified.
His mother folded her arms. "I see you have… company."
We both panicked.
Cairo: "She was just—"
Me: "I got lost!"
"You got lost in his condo building?" she asked, eyes narrowing just a little.
"Yes!" I said too quickly. "It's so confusing. The hallways, the doors, the—um—lighting. Very disorienting. Like a maze. But with more marble."
"I see," she said, tone making it clear that she saw everything and also believed none of it.
"You don't live here?"
"I—well—I live nearby," I offered, realizing too late that next door might not help my case. "Like… very nearby."
"Elara and I are neighbors," Cairo clarified, rubbing the back of his neck. "Her unit's just next to mine. She dropped by early for breakfast." That's a lie, because we both came from car race.
Her gaze dropped to the hoodie.
His hoodie.
I tugged at it weakly. As if i could vanish inside.
"You're wearing his clothes," she said, her expression unreadable.
My soul momentarily left my body.
"I spilled… hot soup. On mine. Spicy. Very tragic."
Cairo closed his eyes briefly, like he was praying for an asteroid to hit us.
She nodded once, slowly.
Then looked back at her son.
"Dinner tonight?"
"Yes, Ma."
And just like that, she turned and glided away down the hall like a judgmental swan on a mission to cancel me over brunch.
The moment she disappeared, I whipped around to Cairo and whisper-yelled, "That's your mom?!"
He blinked at me, completely unbothered. "You've met her before."
"Yes, but i didn't know she'd arrive straight from the depths of my karma the literal second I was about to kiss you!"
His lips twitched. "You were going to kiss me again?"
I smacked his arm. "Focus!"
He chuckled, so casually, like his mother hadn't just walked in on the prequel to my downfall. "You're fine."
"Fine? I look like a groupie who broke into your closet and forgot to leave."
"You look like Elara," he said, reaching out to fix the sleeve of his hoodie that was now drowning me.
The gesture was annoyingly sweet. Ugh.
I lowered my voice, suddenly aware of the panic buzzing beneath my skin. "Do you think she remembers what i said?"
He paused—long enough to make me spiral. "You mean the 'your son is my future husband' thing?"
His face contorted in a tiny wince. "Yeah… probably."
"Oh my God."
"She also asked if you were always this… expressive."
"Expressive like a threat, or expressive like a person?"
He smiled. The worst kind of smile. The soft, affectionate kind that makes you want to scream and melt all at once.
"Expressive like Elara. Which, again, is better."
So now i'm lying here, flat on my back, arms starfished dramatically across Cairo's bed like a tragic, overcaffeinated heroine in a YA novel.
Still wearing his hoodie.
Still reeling from the soft violence of his mom's eyebrow raise.
Half-ashamed. Half-giddy.
Somewhere between wanting to flee the country and wanting to rewind time just enough to finish that kiss—without an audience… or a spontaneous fashion critique from the woman whose approval i may never earn.
God help me.