Elena wiped down the kitchen counter with more force that necessary, the rag squeaking against the laminate like a protest.
She wasn't thinking about the Mustang.
Not really.
She wasn't thinking about the gleam of it under the morning light, or the way it seemed to sit there, smug and waiting, every time she glanced toward the window.
She wasn't thinking about him, either.
The way he moved. The way he looked at her like he already knew what would happen if he got too close.
No.
She was fine.
Totally fine.
She scrubbed harder, the muscles in her forearm flexing with the effort.
Out of the corner of her eye, through the window, the car sat like a black mark against the world—silent, still, patient.
Her throat tightened.
She tossed the rag into the sink, hands braced against the counter, head dropping forward.
This was stupid.
All of it.
She should've tossed the keys back at him the second he handed them over.
Should've told him she didn't want his gifts, his games, his... whatever the hell this was.
Instead, she'd frozen.
Stared.
Felt something coil low in her gut that she didn't know how to fight.
Elena squeezed her eyes shut.
She hated this.
Hated feeling...
off balance.
Exposed.
Hated how a man she barely knew had gotten under her skin without even trying.
The screen door creaked behind her.
Carmen's footsteps padded lightly across the kitchen.
"You know," she said, voice casual but way too pointed,
"there are easier ways to clean anger out of your system. Like, i don't know, a punching bag. Or tequila."
Elena didn't turn.
"Thought you were going out," she muttered.
Carmen shrugged, leaning a hip against the doorframe.
"Was gonna. Then i saw you ready to murder the countertop and figured i'd better stick around. Save some furniture."
Elena huffed out a breath that could almost pass for a laugh.
Almost.
"You wanna talk about it?" Carmen asked, softer now.
"No," Elena said.
But the word didn't have the bite she wanted.
Silence stretched between them.
The kind that wasn't really silence at all—
full of all the things neither of them knew how to say anymore.
Finally, Carmen pushed off the frame.
"Fine," she said, breezy and not-breezy at the same time.
"But you're not staying locked up in here all day. You're coming with me later. No arguments."
Elena didn't answer.
Just stood there, staring down at the chipped surface of the counter, feeling like she was standing at the edge of something she wasn't ready to name.
Outside, the Mustang gleamed in the sun.
And she hated that she couldn't look away.
The day dragged.
Elena threw herself into pointless chores—cleaning, folding, fixing anything that didn't need fixing—
but her hands kept clenching to fists, her mind buzzing louder than she could silence.
By late afternoon, Carmen slammed a cupboard door and spun to face her.
"Okay, no," she said, stabbing a finger at Elena.
"You are driving me insane."
Elena blinked at her, caught mid-scrub at the already spotless counter.
Carmen crossed the room in two strides, yanking the rag out of Elena's hands and tossing it into the sink.
"Come on," she said, eyes bright, mouth already curving into trouble.
"We're going out."
Elena sighed, scrubbing a hand down her face.
"I'm not in the mood for another bar crawl, Carmen."
Carmen rolled her eyes dramatically.
"Not a bar. Better."
Elena lifted an eyebrow.
"Define better."
A wicked grin spread across Carmen's face as she hooked her arm through Elena's and dragged her toward the door.
"You have a freaking classing Mustang sitting in the driveway," Carmen said.
"And we're just gonna let it gather dust?"
Elena froze on the porch.
Carmen tugged at her arm impatiently.
"Come on, grease monkey," she said, practically bouncing.
"Live a little. When was the last time you drove something just for the hell of it?"
Elena hesitated, glancing sideways at the car.
It sat there—dark, gleaming, powerfull—daring her.
Part of her twisted in protest—
the part that remembered where it came from, what it meant, whose ghost it carried.
But another part—
older, deeper—
the part of her that had spent half her childhood elbow-deep in grease and gears and speed—
that part stirred.
It wasn't about him.
Not tonight.
It was about her.
About remembering what it felt like to breathe without walls around her lungs.
She grinned—slow, reluctant, but real.
"Shotgun's yours," Elena said, tossing the keys to Carmen, who squealed like a kid on Christmas morning.
"Best. Day. Ever."
Elena laughed, real and reckless, as the piled into the Mustang, the doors slamming with a satisfying thud.
The engine roared to life under her hands, smooth and dangerous, and for the first time in days, she felt something like herself again.
Alive. Wild. Free.
And when she tore out of the driveway, tires screeching, Carmen whooping beside her—
Elena forgot everything else.
For now, there was only the night, the road, and the way the Mustang howled under the stars like it belonged to her after all.
They hit the backroads—nowhere important, just stretches of empty asphalt, the sky bleeding into gold and purple as the sun sank low.
The Mustang roared under them, a smooth, wild thing, and for the first time in days, Elena could breathe.
Really breathe.
She laughed—real, full—as Carmen fiddled with the ancient radio, slapping buttons until some classic rock station blared through the speakers.
They sang badly.
Yelled at cows.
They argued about who would win a street race—Elena's non-existent Dodge Charger of Carmen's imaginary motorcycle.
For a little while, the weight peeled off her chest.
For a little while, it was just them.
Elena and Carmen.
Grease and glitter.
Trouble and laughter.
Just the road and the engine and the kind of reckless freedom they hadn't tasted in way too long.
Later, parked on the shoulder overlooking the town below,
Elena tipped her head back against the seat and closed her eyes, smiling against the cool leather.
Carmen sipped a soda, kicking her boots up on the dashboard like she owned the world.
"So," Carmen said casually, like she hadn't been sitting on the question all night,
"are we just... not gonna talk about the very attractive, very mysterious man who basically gifted you a freaking Mustang?"
Elena groaned, dragging a hand down her face.
"Drop it."
Carmen grinned wickedly.
"Not dropping it. In fact, i'm throwing it higher."
Elena cracked one eye open to glare at her.
Carmen ignored it, leaning in like they were swapping dark secrets.
"Come on, Lanes," she said, voice dropping into a playful drawl.
"Strong jaw, dangerous eyes, broody in a hot way—and he gave you a car. I don't know what fairy tale you think you're living, but in mine, that means you're supposed to climb him like a tree.
Elena snorted a laugh she couldn't hold back.
"Jesus, Carmen."
"I'm serious," Carmen said, deadpan.
"If you don't want him, can i have him? I'll trade you my next date with Kyle the Accountant."
Elena shook her head, laughing under her breath.
"It's not like that," she said— but even as the words left her mouth, she heard the way they rang hollow.
Carmen didn't call her on it.
Just winked and tipped her soda in a mock salute.
"Sure. Totally not like that.
You just can't stop looking at his car like it's a loaded gun aimed at your heart."
Elena flipped her off lazily.
Carmen flipped her off right back, both of them laughing like they hadn't in months.
They stayed there for a while, windows down, the cool night air cutting through the leftover heat.
No big talks or heavy confessions.
Just the sound of the engine ticking as it cooled, the distant buzz of town lights below, Carmen humming something off-tune under her breath.
Elena leaned back against the seat, arms crossed loosely, feeling lighter than she had in days.
Eventually, Carmen kicked her boots down from the dash and looked over at her.
"You ready?"
Elena nodded, starting the Mustang again, the low rumble filling the silence between them.
They pulled back onto the road without a hurry, headlights carving a path through the dark.
Just two girls and a car that probably carried way more trouble than either of them wanted to admit.