Chapter 72 Chapter 72
Chapter 72 Chapter 72
Tito’s POV
I woke up the next morning with that thick, fuzzy feeling in my head, the kind that tells you something happened the night before but not enough for your memory to properly cooperate. I blinked up at the ceiling, still half wrapped in my blankets, and only when the silence of the house settled around me did I realize something was off.
Damien was gone.
Selene too.
No faint humming from her downstairs, no pots clinking, no Damien shouting something unprovoked from across a hallway. The house felt unusually still, almost like it didn’t know what to do with the absence of their noise.
I sat up slowly, my joints protesting from sleep, and rubbed my eyes. For a moment, I wondered if Damien leaving without a word was a good or bad thing. But then again, what did I expect? A goodbye note? A mixtape?
“Tito,” Kendrick’s voice carried faintly through the hallway. “Breakfast.”
I dragged myself out of bed, splashed some water on my face, and headed downstairs. The smell hit me first—warm, buttery, mildly sweet. Pancakes. A hint of cinnamon too. My stomach practically applauded.
Kendrick stood by the stove in simple grey joggers and a black tee, flipping something on a pan with the most casual confidence, like this was something he did every day without a second thought. He didn’t look up when I walked in, but a faint smile tugged at his lips.
“Help yourself. It’s still hot.”
I looked at the counter, blinked, then looked again.
The food was… beautiful. The plating alone looked like something a food blogger would photoshop then upload with the caption elegance in simplicity.
I turned to him, a brow raised. “You made this?”
“Yes?” He glanced at me, confused. “Am I not allowed to?”
“No, it’s just—” I sat down, cutting into the pancakes. “You cook? Like, properly cook?”
“I went to culinary school before college,” Kendrick said, casually as though he hadn’t just revealed something that shifted my entire understanding of him. “Mostly because my sister…”
He trailed off. His jaw tightened for a second, and he flipped another pancake, his movements stiffer.
I waited. The silence stretched thin. I tried to nudge it gently.
“Your sister…?”
Kendrick shook his head once, a quiet, decisive motion.
“It’s nothing. Eat.”
He didn’t look at me. And I didn’t push, even though curiosity crawled at the back of my mind like a trapped bug.
Breakfast went on in a strange kind of quiet, not uncomfortable, but definitely weighted. When I finished, Kendrick stood, dusting his hands on a towel, then looked out the window.
“Your mom should be back by the end of the day,” he said, checking his watch. “Her flight lands at six.”
My heart warmed a little. “Thank you.”
He nodded. “Also… I was wondering if you wanted to start your driving lessons today.”
I choked.
Like actually choked.
Kendrick rushed over, handing me water, and I took it with watery eyes, fanning myself. “Driving lessons?” I sputtered. “Today?”
He laughed. It wasn’t loud, but the warmth of it eased some of the embarrassment heating my cheeks.
“You forgot about the car, didn’t you?”
“Maybe,” I muttered, covering my face. “There has been kind of a lot happening.”
“I figured.”
When I finally peeked at him, he had that smug curve at the corner of his mouth. I scowled, but it only made his smirk deepen.
“Which car again?” I asked, trying not to sound too eager.
“You’ll see.”
That got a smile out of me—one I didn’t fight.
Later that afternoon, we stood in the garage, and I felt like my lungs had abandoned me entirely. Kendrick grabbed the white covering and pulled it off with a dramatic flourish he would never admit to doing on purpose.
My car gleamed under the lights—sleek, elegant, powerful, and very much real. The kind of car people stared at in movies and whispered about in traffic.
I couldn’t breathe.
“You’re kidding,” I whispered.
Kendrick shook his head. “Nope.”
He dangled the keys toward me, and my hand refused to move. I just stared at them like they were a detonator.
“Well,” he raised a brow, “take it.”
“Just like that?” I croaked.
“Yes,” he said, amused. “Just like that.”
He chuckled, stepping closer. “Tito, it’s just a car. You’re not diffusing a bomb.”
“I might as well be.”
He rolled his eyes and very gently placed the keys in my palm.
The metal was warm.
My chest tightened unexpectedly, and that familiar sting pricked behind my nose. I swallowed thickly, staring at the car again, thinking of all the times I’d prayed for things to get better, how hard my mother worked, how many times we scraped by, how many nights I’d spent hoping for something—anything—that felt like a future. And here I was, holding keys to a car I could never have imagined owning, being taught by someone who’d risked everything to bring me home.
“Hey,” Kendrick said softly, stepping beside me. “You good?”
I nodded, wiping at my eyes before anything escaped. “Yeah. Sorry. I just… it’s a lot.”
“I know.” He didn’t touch me, but the warmth in his voice was enough. “Come on. Let’s start.”
He led me to the driver’s side, instructing me to get in. My hands trembled a bit, but I managed. The seat hugged my body, the new leather smell making everything feel surreal.
“Okay,” he said, sliding into the passenger seat. “First lesson: breathe.”
I exhaled shakily.
“Good. Now put the key in.”
I fumbled embarrassingly but eventually got it in place. He smiled, patient.
“Turn it gently.”
The engine hummed to life, and the sound vibrated straight through my chest.
“Nice,” Kendrick murmured. “Now, mirrors.”
He guided me through adjusting the side mirrors and rearview, explaining angles, blind spots, and how everything should line up. His voice was low, steady, like he knew exactly when to slow down his words so I didn’t panic.
“Now the pedal,” he said. “Just a little tap. Not enough to move.”
I pressed lightly, feeling the hum of power beneath my foot. My pulse picked up again.
“You okay?” he asked.
“I think my soul left my body for a second.”
He chuckled. “You’ll be fine. Now, gear shift. Put it in reverse, but don’t move yet.”
He showed me how to hold the gear, how to shift without yanking, how to feel the click rather than force it. The entire time, his voice stayed calm and firm, explaining every little detail so clearly that I found myself relaxing, inch by inch.
We practiced moving the car an inch forward. Then an inch back. Then braking without throwing both of us into the windshield. Kendrick praised every little improvement, corrected my posture, reminded me to breathe, and somehow made something terrifying feel almost doable.
“Perfect,” he said after a while. “Not bad for your first time.”
“Not bad?” I scoffed. “I’m a prodigy.”
“Sure,” he deadpanned.
“You’re so rude.”
He smirked. “Ready for the road?”
I froze.
“Today?” My voice cracked.
“Not far. Just a short drive down the main road. You don’t have to go past second gear.”
I swallowed.
My hands tightened on the wheel. My heartbeat echoed in my ears.
Was I ready? Absolutely not. Was I going anyway?
Apparently yes.
Kendrick leaned back, arms folded, waiting.
I inhaled slowly.
“Okay,” I whispered. “I’m ready.”
He smiled—small, proud, and dangerously encouraging.