Izan pushed the door open with his shoulder, bag slung over one arm, hoodie halfway peeled off.
The flat smelled faintly of oil—Olivia had definitely been cooking before she left.
He dropped his bag.
He toed his shoes off and stretched his neck once.
Then he noticed the small brown parcel on the counter, right next to a sticky note with sharp, familiar handwriting.
"Told you I'd get this sorted the moment you turned seventeen.
Now try not to crash anything. — M."
He blinked once, then opened it.
Inside: his provisional driver's license.
Neat, official, kind of underwhelming in how plain it looked.
But it was real.
His name, his face, and his age.
Seventeen.
The number looked strange printed on something legal.
He leaned back against the counter, and turned the card in his hand, thumb rubbing along the edge.
Seventeen.
A bit early but he could finally drive.
Could finally go where he wanted.
He took out his phone and texted Miranda.
Izan:
