Car race day.
Yep. Car. Race. Day.
Also known as: "Support your man—but he's not officially your man—because you're still stuck in that awkward pre-relationship limbo where you're technically just the suitor and the suitee (is that even a legal word?). But you're already lowkey invested and highkey delusional."
I opened my closet with one definitive goal in mind: look like the chillest, most effortless emotional support girlfriend to ever wear lip gloss.
I settled on a sexy top, a denim skirt, and chunky white sneakers.
Casual, but highly intentional.
Like, "Oh, this old thing? I just casually threw it on after I sobbed in front of my vanity mirror for twenty-seven minutes."
I grabbed my tote bag, checked if Red's emergency baby wipes were still inside (yes, they were—I am exactly that brand of emotional support), and made my way downstairs.
When I reached the basement parking lot, Cairo was already standing there.
In his full racing suit.
Slowly fixing his gloves.
Looking like a tall, brooding, fast-driving heart attack.
"Ready?" he asked.
He didn't even glance at me, just sipped from his water bottle like he wasn't actively causing my blood pressure to spike through the concrete ceiling.
I nodded, a little too quickly. "Yup! Very ready. Emotionally, spiritually, physically—except for my sluggish metabolism, but that's a separate legal issue."
He smirked a little.
And okay, sue me, but I felt instantly victorious.
Cairo barely smiled on a regular Tuesday, so that smirk? That smirk was a declared public holiday on my emotional calendar.
We got into his sleek black SUV—aka the car he drives when he's not piloting a literal spaceship disguised as a racecar—and headed straight to the track.
The racetrack was chaotic in the exact way a perfectly controlled disaster is supposed to be.
Men in jumpsuits were running around, tires were stacked like weird, greasy donuts, and the smell of fuel, burning rubber, and masculine ego was thick in the air.
I felt like I was an extra 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 administration, but somehow still managed to make my heart short-circuit every single time he blinked.
He was already checking his car when I trailed after him like an overly enthusiastic golden retriever puppy.
"Cairo," I said, pretending not to be completely out of breath after a five-second light jog, "do you need water? Electrolytes? A handheld fan? Emotional counseling? Maybe a lavender-scented candle to calm your aura?"
"No," he said flatly, adjusting a bolt under the hood.
Wow.
Okay.
Support girlfriend duties were incredibly hard when the man you were supporting was built like a titanium emotional black box.
Still, I stood proudly beside him and held his heavy racing jacket when he peeled it off.
Like a hanger.
A very pretty hanger with high-shine lip gloss.
I scanned the other racers in the pit lane.
Most of them looked like walking, breathing testosterone billboards.
But none of them had Cairo's specific vibe.
He didn't need to flex his muscles; his absolute silence flexed for him.
"Just don't die," I whispered as he finally buckled himself into the driver's seat.
He paused, looking up to meet my eyes through the helmet visor. "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 miraculously survive."
He didn't reply, but the corner of his mouth twitched.
I swear, that man had shown more facial expressions in the last 24 hours than in his entire conscious life.
Three.
Two.
One.
GO.
The race started like a clap of thunder—cars screeching, tires smoking, people screaming over the barrier.
I tried to stay calm.
Really, I did.
But my hands were clenched in violent prayer, and I may or may not have yelled "JESUS TAKE THE WHEEL!" once or twice.
Even though Jesus, presumably, was not part of Cairo's official pit crew.
Cairo's car was beautiful in motion, moving through the asphalt like an angry cheetah on nitro.
He was leading.
He was actually winning.
And then—BOOM.
Not a literal Michael Bay explosion, thank God.
But his car did a weird, violent skid-turn-combo that made the entire grandstand collectively gasp.
Smoke billowed from the tires.
Sparks flew.
The engine hissed like it had personal opinions about his driving style.
My brain immediately shut down. "OH MY GOSH, HE'S DEAD."
He wasn't, obviously.
But I didn't wait for logic to log back into my system.
I ran.
In a denim skirt.
Across the actual racetrack like a teleserye extra who just discovered her long-lost twin was actually her biological uncle.
"CAIRO!"
He was already calmly stepping out of the vehicle, completely unbothered, without a single scratch on his face.
"Why are you running?!" he demanded as I approached, as if I was the one casually risking my life doing vehicular pirouettes on live television.
I collapsed straight onto him in a massive hug.
Which he did not return at first.
Because, again, emotionally constipated.
But then—his large hand rested gently on the small of my back.
"I told you," he murmured against my hair. "I'm not going to die."
I sniffed, my face buried in his racing suit. "You could've at least texted."
"I was in a car. Racing."
"Details, Cairo. Details."
He pulled back slightly, looking down at my disheveled state. "You okay?"
"NO," I huffed, my tears threatening to completely ruin my waterproof eyeliner. "Do you know what it feels like to think the person you like just exploded in front of your very eyes?! It's like my heart did a double somersault and landed directly on a thumbtack."
A long pause.
The racetrack noise seemed to fade out.
"You like me?" he asked softly.
Welp.
Abort mission.
Abort mission.
I completely forgot I hadn't actually admitted that part out loud to his face yet.
"Uh—I mean—'like' is such a… loose, fluid word," I stammered, backing away. "Like, 'Hey, I like donuts.' Who doesn't like donuts? You're just… you're my personal donut."
Cairo blinked.
He let out a long sigh. "I lost the race."
"YOU WHAT?"
"I lost."
"…And you're this calm?! Do you know what that car just did to my internal organs?! It's like my heart did a backflip and landed straight into a blender."
"I told you I wouldn't die."
"You didn't win either!"
"No."
"Well, you officially owe me a lifetime supply of therapeutic hugs and actual donuts for the severe emotional trauma."
He blinked. "Donuts?"
"Yeah. You're my reckless man-donut," I muttered, burying my face back into his chest.
Driving back to the condo, the silence between us was surprisingly comforting.
Cairo had one hand firmly on the steering wheel.
Then—quietly, without a word—he reached across the center console and held my hand.
My actual hand.
Not figuratively.
Not metaphorically.
Literal skin-to-skin, palm-to-palm holding.
My brain is completely short-circuited.
Wait.
WAIT.
HOLDING HANDS?! Weren't we still technically in the strict "suitor-suitee" protocol stage?! Weren't we supposed to be… behaving?
I looked over at his profile.
His calm face.
His still-unknowable eyes focused on the road.
Do I care? I asked myself.
Answer: No. I don't care at all.
I squeezed his hand back tightly.
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 to start prep work for dinner.
Meanwhile, my eyes? My eyes immediately landed on his oversized grey hoodie, lazily draped over the couch like it was waiting for my arrival.
It was practically calling to me, whispering, "You deserve premium comfort, girl."
So, obviously, I put it on.
Because I absolutely earned it.
I mean—if that dramatic bestie Nadine could wear his clothes in the past, why couldn't I? Actually, no—not "why couldn't I."
I should.
I'm supposed to.
I'm the one he's actively courting now, right?
Right??? Not that I technically have the legal rights to his wardrobe yet, okay, because we're still in that awkward pre-boyfriend stage—but still.
Spiritually?
Emotionally?
Aesthetic-wise?
I have way more right than her.
And yes, I said what I said.
I sat at his kitchen counter, swinging my legs back and forth like a toddler on a massive sugar high.
"You know," I said, watching him dice tomatoes with an unnecessary amount of brooding focus, "you could've told me I wasn't legally allowed to like you."
"You're allowed," he said without looking up.
"So… you really are my suitor?"
He glanced at me, his expression turning serious. "I thought I was."
"Well," I said, casually reaching for the ketchup bottle on the counter, "then can I kiss you?"
He froze mid-chop.
I didn't wait.
I leaned forward across the counter anyway and kissed him straight on the lips.
Soft.
Fast.
Slightly messy, mostly because I realized too late I had a tiny smear of ketchup on my fingers.
Whoops.
I pulled back just as quickly, my eyes darting around the room.
"Wait," I said, covering my mouth in sudden horror.
"Oh my gosh—I forgot I was supposed to be explaining myself for accusing you of spiritual cheating yesterday! I am so incredibly inconsistent with my character arcs."
Cairo—this confusing, cold, frustratingly handsome man—just laughed again.
"What am I going to do with you?" he murmured.
"Probably install a safety seatbelt on your soul," I replied, nervously picking at a grain of rice. "I come with heavy emotional airbags."
He snorted.
I pretended I didn't absolutely love that sound.
And then—silence.
Not the comfortable kind.
Not the romantic kind either.
It was the kind of silence that felt louder than the racetrack engines.
Like… post-kiss awkwardness with a man who clearly has the emotional range of a fluorescent parking cone.
I was still mentally replaying the kiss from earlier—on a loop, in crisp 4K, with dramatic slow motion and alternate director's cut angles—when I caught sight of Cairo.
He was calm.
Completely unbothered.
Casually wiping down the stainless-steel stove like we didn't just share a potentially life-altering romantic milestone.
EXCUSE ME???
Sir. Hello? I just kissed you.
With deep feeling.
With clear intent.
With possibly a little smear of tomato ketchup.
And you're out here… doing household cleaning?? Like absolutely nothing happened??? Make it make logical sense!
I stood up with an unnecessarily loud, dramatic push of the barstool, praying he'd react.
He didn't.
Which was somehow infinitely worse.
"I should go," I said, grabbing my tote bag with the speed of someone who wanted to leave dramatically but also desperately wanted to be stopped with a movie-style monologue.
"Okay," he said, still not turning around from the sink.
…HUH? Not even a "Stay, Elara"? Not even a "Wait, kiss me again with less condiments"?
I stomped toward the front door. "Thanks for the food, Cairo. And the... mild emotional trauma."
"I'll walk you out," he said finally, turning off the faucet.
Ugh.
Even his basic compliance was attractive.
We stepped out into the quiet hallway together.
Cairo stood right beside me—physically inches away, but emotionally three light-years deep into outer space.
I turned toward him dramatically, obviously, ensuring a bit of imaginary wind hit my hair even though we were inside an enclosed hallway.
This was it.
The classic goodbye moment.
Possibly involving a longing gaze.
Maybe a dramatic pause.
Maybe even a reckless, spontaneous kiss, because apparently, I am a woman of pure impulse now.
I leaned in slightly.
He looked down at me.
Our faces were mere inches apart again.
Then—DING.
The elevator doors slid open with all the subtlety of a plot twist I did not legally ask for.
And standing inside the elevator… was not Ari.
It wasn't the building doorman.
It wasn't even my lingering dignity.
It was her.
Tall.
Regal.
Impeccably composed.
Wearing a crisp linen blouse, holding her smartphone like it doubled as a concealed weapon, and radiating the exact kind of high-society menace only wealthy mothers and fortune-500 CEOs possess.
My soul immediately left my physical body.
I froze mid-lean, hoping that if I stayed perfectly still like a lizard, I could reverse the space-time continuum.
She blinked at us.
I blinked back.
Oh no.
Not her.
Not her her.
His mom.
The exact same woman I had boldly told—with zero hesitation—that her son was my future husband.
The same woman I mistook for his glamorous sugar mommy.
The same woman who had previously seen me in smudged red lipstick and a giant web of lies.
Suddenly, Cairo moved.
He took a discreet, protective step forward, trying to shield me from the oncoming consequences of my own mouth.
Spoiler alert: it was way too late.
Her perfectly manicured brows arched just a millimeter. "Elara, right?"
My entire throat turned into a desert.
My spine is completely liquefied.
My cognitive IQ dropped to single digits. "H‑Hi, Ma'am—Ma'am—Miss Cairo's‑Mom."
Fantastic.
Just fantastic behavior, Elara.
She smiled.
Not kindly, but not explicitly coldly either.
Just… politely.
The specific kind of polite that says, "I won't ruin your life right here in the hallway, but you will be a major agenda item at my upcoming corporate brunch."
"I didn't realize you were still… here."
Still here? STILL here??? Why did everyone in this family say it like I was a patch of unwanted household mold?
Before I could respond with anything remotely resembling human intelligence, Cairo stepped up.
He looked at his mother, then at me.
In his hoodie.
Standing far too close for any plausible deniability.
Cairo's eyes widened by exactly 0.3 millimeters.
And I, for reasons known only to the chaotic spirits of awkward timing, panicked, tripped sideways over my own chunky sneakers, and slammed my shoulder straight into his front door.
"Elara," he said, genuinely alarmed.
"Mama," he added quickly, his voice turning two shades more formal and three shades more terrified.
His mother slowly folded her arms across her linen blouse. "I see you have… company."
The two of us panicked simultaneously.
Cairo: "She was just—" Me: "I got completely lost!"
"You got lost inside his specific condo building?" she asked, her eyes narrowing into lasers.
"Yes!" I lied way too quickly. "It's so incredibly confusing, Tita. The architecture, the identical doors, the—um—ambient lighting. Very disorienting. Like a labyrinth, but with more premium marble."
"I see," she said, her tone making it crystal clear that she saw right through me and believed absolutely zero percent of it. "You don't live in this building?"
"I—well—I live nearby," I offered, realizing approximately one second too late that living next door didn't help my case. "Like… very, very nearby."
"Elara and I are neighbors," Cairo clarified, rubbing the back of his neck in defeat. "Her unit is right next to mine. She dropped by early for breakfast." (Which was another massive lie, considering we had just spent the entire morning at a suburban racetrack).
Her gaze dropped directly to the oversized grey fabric engulfing my torso.
His hoodie.
I weakly tugged at the sleeves, wishing I could physically vanish inside the threads.
"You're wearing his clothes," she noted, her expression completely unreadable.
My soul temporarily checked out of the hotel of life. "I spilled… hot soup. On my original outfit. Very spicy soup. A complete culinary tragedy."
Cairo closed his eyes briefly, like he was praying for an immediate asteroid strike to end our misery.
She nodded once, slowly.
Then looked back at her son. "Dinner tonight, Cairo?"
"Yes, Ma."
And just like that, she turned around and glided away down the hall like a majestic, judgmental swan on a mission to cancel my existence over a salad.
The absolute millisecond she disappeared around the corner, I whipped around to Cairo and whisper-yelled, "That's your mom?!"
He blinked at me, completely unbothered. "You've literally met her before."
"Yes, but I didn't know she would manifest straight from the deepest depths of my bad karma the literal second I was about to kiss you!"
His lips twitched into a smile. "You were going to kiss me again?"
I violently smacked his arm. "Focus, Raceboy!"
He chuckled casually, like his mother hadn't just walked in on the prequel to my public downfall. "You're fine, Elara."
"Fine? I look like a manic groupie who broke into your closet and forgot to leave before sunrise!"
"You look like Elara," he said softly, reaching out to fix the oversized sleeve of his hoodie that was currently drowning my hand.
The gesture was so annoyingly sweet it made me want to scream.
I lowered my voice, the panic buzzing beneath my skin. "Do you think she remembers what I said at the restaurant?"
He paused—just long enough to make me mentally spiral into a new dimension. "You mean the 'your son is my future husband' declaration?" His face contorted into a tiny wince. "Yeah… probably."
"Oh my God."
"She also asked me later if you were always this… expressive."
"Expressive like a security threat, or expressive like a normal human being?"
He smiled.
The worst kind of smile.
The soft, genuinely affectionate kind that makes you want to melt into the floorboards. "Expressive like Elara. Which, again, is much better."
So now I'm lying here, flat on my back, arms starfished dramatically across Cairo's mattress like a tragic, overcaffeinated heroine in a young adult novel.
Still wearing his hoodie.
Still reeling from the soft violence of his mother's single eyebrow raise.
Half-ashamed.
Half-giddy.
Somewhere between wanting to legally change my name and flee the country, and wanting to rewind time just enough to actually finish that hallway kiss—without a live studio audience… or a spontaneous fashion critique from the one woman whose approval I may never, ever earn.
God help me.