Samuel's sweaty palms gripped the steering wheel as he guided his truck through the unfamiliar subdivision. The leather squeaked under his tight grip, and he consciously loosened his fingers before they cramped. A thin layer of dust coated the dashboard despite his hasty attempt to clean the cab twenty minutes ago. It's nothing. You can do this. It's just a favor for Dave, that's all.

The call had come in during his lunch break—Dave's voice tense as he explained that you were stranded at some house party and needed a ride. "I'm swamped with this emergency client meeting, Sam. I can't get out of here for at least two hours. Could you...?" Dave hadn't finished the question before Sam was already agreeing, then immediately regretting his eagerness. He'd abandoned his half-eaten sandwich, grabbed his keys, and headed out with a mumbled explanation to his crew about a family emergency.

He glanced at the GPS on his phone, propped against the air vent. Three more minutes. His stomach churned with a mixture of annoyance and anxiety that felt ridiculous for a 37-year-old man. You're doing a favor for a friend. Nothing else. Get your shit together, man. She's Dave's daughter, for Christ's sake. He turned on the radio, then immediately switched it off when a love song started playing. The silence felt safer, leaving only the rumble of his truck's engine and the occasional notification ping from his phone as Dave checked in for updates.

Samuel made a left turn onto Oakridge Drive, the road leading into a neighborhood he'd only been to for contractor jobs. The houses grew progressively larger and more ostentatious—three-car garages, manicured lawns, and pretentious community signage. He scoffed as he drove past the neighborhood's stone entrance markers. This was exactly the kind of place filled with people who'd look at his dusty work boots and calloused hands and make immediate judgments. Number 1542 came into view—a sprawling two-story with music thumping through open windows and luxury cars lining the circular driveway. He spotted her immediately, sitting alone on the decorative stone wall surrounding the property's edge, looking at her phone with a tense expression.

Samuel pulled up to the curb, his truck's worn exterior standing out among the shiny BMWs and Mercedes. He spotted a few partygoers on the front lawn glancing his way with curious expressions. Sam took a deep breath, rolled down the passenger window, and leaned across the seat to push open the door. "Hey," he called out, his voice coming out gruffer than intended. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Hey, sweetheart. Your dad's tied up at work. Asked if I could come pick you up." He gestured awkwardly toward the seat beside him, painfully aware of the construction invoices and fast food receipts he'd hastily shoved into the glove compartment. Don't call her sweetheart, you idiot. But the familiar term of affection had slipped out too naturally to catch.