The Sick Patient
The universe had a cruel sense of timing.
Elena checked the time on her phone again—4:19 PM. She was supposed to be at the studio in exactly twenty-six minutes for final blocking. Makeup wasn't done. Hair barely held together. And the one thing that should've been reliable—transportation—was currently dead on the side of the road, steaming like it had been cooked alive.
Naomi stood in front of her Honda Civic, hood up, hands on her hips, squinting into the mess of wires and heat like a detective trying to crack an unsolvable case. The car made a strange popping sound and hissed again.
"…I don't think it's the starter this time," she said.
Elena dragged a hand down her face. "Do we even know what it is?"
"No. But I know it's personal."
Elena let out a strained laugh and paced toward the edge of the sidewalk, glancing up the road as if a miracle might appear from traffic.
"It was fine this morning," Naomi added, defensive. "Maybe a little sputter near the light, but nothing fatal."
"You said the same thing the last time it died," Elena reminded her.
"That was situational. This is betrayal."
Elena opened her phone, thumb hovering over her contacts. She shouldn't be this stressed—this was just a small campus performance. Just other universities and local faculty watching. Just something she'd trained for since she was twelve. No big deal.
She took a breath, tapped the screen, and sent a message before she could talk herself out of it.
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Elena (4:23 PM):
> Are you busy?
Alexander (4:24 PM):
> Not particularly. What's up?
Elena:
> Naomi's Civic gave out again. I'm supposed to be at the studio in twenty minutes. Could you maybe… help?
Alexander (4:25 PM):
> Location?
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He arrived ten minutes later in his familiar matte-black WRX, the low rumble of the engine more soothing than it had any right to be. The car glided to a stop behind the sad, overheated Civic.
Alexander stepped out with that usual calm presence—black long-sleeve rolled to his elbows, faint smudge of grease across his forearm like an unintentional signature.
He didn't say anything right away. Just looked at the Civic. Then at Naomi. Then at Elena.
"…Let me guess," he said dryly, lips twitching at the corners. "The patient relapsed."
Elena blinked, then let out a snort. "You remember this car?"
"I don't forget my most hopeless cases."
Naomi leaned against the fender with a groan. "Hopeless?! Don't talk about her like she's not here."
Alexander smirked. "She's barely conscious."
"I gave her coolant last week," Naomi muttered. "And new wipers."
"Was that for visibility or morale?"
Elena covered her mouth with her hand, laughing harder than she should've. The tension in her chest eased a little.
"I already shipped this thing to Diego once," Alexander continued, crouching to peek beneath the car. "Pretty sure he did an exorcism and everything."
"She was doing fine," Naomi said, defensive. "Then we passed a Chick-fil-A and she started smoking."
Alexander stood up, wiping his palms on his jeans. "Sounds like emotional trauma."
Naomi gave a long, drawn-out sigh. "Fine. I'll call the tow. Again. Go, Leni. You've got that rehearsal thing, right?"
Elena nodded. "Final blocking."
"Go," Naomi said, waving her off. "Just tell Nina the Civic died heroically."
Elena turned to Alexander, unsure for half a second. "You sure you're okay giving me a ride?"
He opened the passenger door without a word.
That was answer enough.
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The ride started in silence, but the good kind.
The WRX purred beneath them as they pulled away from the curb, sunlight slanting through the trees, glinting off the windshield. Elena watched the street roll by, fingers nervously tapping against her dance bag.
She glanced at him. "Thanks for coming. Again."
He gave a quiet shrug. "You asked."
"That doesn't mean you had to."
"Doesn't mean I didn't want to."
The words sat there for a moment.
Not heavy. Not charged. Just… real.
Elena let out a breath and leaned her head back against the seat. "I hate being late. It messes with my head."
"You're not late yet."
"Barely."
"Then you're fine."
Another pause.
"I think I'm just wired for chaos," she admitted. "Always expect something to go wrong."
"You plan for disappointment?"
She nodded.
"I get it," he said, eyes still on the road. "That's why I build everything myself. If it breaks, at least I know why."
She studied him for a second. "Is that why you don't talk much?"
He didn't answer right away.
Then: "Talking's easy. Saying something that means something? That's harder."
Elena looked down at her hands.
"Yeah," she said. "I know what you mean."
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When they arrived at the studio, music was already echoing faintly out the open double doors. Dancers moved like shadows across the tall windows, some stretching, some warming up. The energy in the building was electric—tense, but focused.
Elena unbuckled. "I really owe you."
He shook his head. "We're not keeping score."
She lingered with the door open, fingers tightening slightly on the handle.
"Can I ask you something?"
"Sure."
"Why do you help so easily?" she asked, almost too quiet. "You don't even hesitate."
He turned to her, eyes steady.
"Because you ask like you don't expect anyone to say yes."
That hit her deeper than it should've.
"…And if I started expecting yes?"
Alexander paused.
"Then maybe you'd start letting people show up before it's too late."
She blinked, then smiled—soft, small, and honest.
"I'll think about it."
"Do that."
And with that, she stepped out, the door shutting behind her with a quiet click.
She didn't look back until she reached the steps.
But when she did, his car was still there.
And he was still in it.
Waiting, just long enough to make sure she made it through the door.