Late Night Drives

"Love isn't always fireworks. Sometimes, it's driving through quiet streets with your person, teasing each other with smiles, music, and moments that feel like forever."
— Unknown

Siphosethu Zulu

The streetlights painted soft golden lines across the car dashboard as the night wrapped itself around us like a blanket. The city had quieted down, slipping into the kind of peace that only came after midnight. I had one hand out the window, letting the breeze kiss my fingers, while Katlego drove like he had nowhere to be — because to him, the destination was never the point. I was.

His left hand rested on the steering wheel, while his right reached over to gently hook around my pinkie, occasionally squeezing like he needed reassurance that I was still there.

"I could drive like this with you forever," he said softly, stealing a glance at me. His face glowed under the dash lights, the kind of glow that made your chest ache because it felt so rare and good and true.

I smiled, brushing my thumb against his. "Forever is a long time."

"And yet, I still think it's too short if it's with you," he replied, that signature Katlego grin tugging at his lips.

My heart — my actual, beating heart — did the absolute most in that moment. A tiny flip. A full Olympic routine.

I rolled my eyes, blushing. "You're lucky you're cute. Otherwise I'd be throwing up right now."

He laughed. "You're always threatening to puke when I get romantic. I think you're just afraid to admit I'm your soft spot."

"You're a soft spot," I corrected, teasing. "Not the soft spot."

"Okay, okay," he nodded, taking a turn with one hand, eyes still on the road. "Then what's the soft spot?"

I leaned over, brushing a kiss on his cheek. "The way you look at me when you think I'm not paying attention."

His grip on the wheel tightened. He didn't say anything for a moment — just exhaled like he'd been holding that air for years.

"You're dangerous, Siphosethu Zulu."

"I try," I whispered, leaning back into the seat.

We stopped at a traffic light, and he reached behind the seat, rummaging for something. "I was gonna wait until we got to your place, but... I'm not patient anymore."

I watched, confused, as he pulled out a tiny envelope and a neatly folded soccer t-shirt — his t-shirt. His jersey.

Number 10. Moeketsi.

My breath caught. "Kat..."

He handed it over, a little shy this time — like the confident, charming boy suddenly vanished and left behind this gentle, bashful man. "This Saturday. Match day. Two VIP tickets. One for you, one for whoever you trust not to scream louder than you. Preferably someone who won't flirt with me in the stands."

I chuckled, unfolding the envelope and staring at the sleek black and gold tickets inside. VIP. Not general. Not guest. VIP.

"Why me?" I asked quietly, pressing the shirt to my chest.

He looked at me, right then — full, unblinking, raw.

"Because I play better when I know you're watching," he said. "Because when I score, I want to run to the crowd and know exactly where to look. Because every time I lace up those boots, I want to make you proud."

I didn't speak. Couldn't. The love sat too big in my throat.

I stared at the shirt. It smelled like him — fresh laundry, a little spice, and something boyish that always made me lean in just to breathe more.

"I'm wearing this shirt to bed tonight," I finally said, teasing again to lighten the mood.

He raised a brow. "Oh? So you can dream about me scoring a hat trick?"

"So I can dream about you cooking instead of running around in shorts."

He clutched his chest, pretending to be hurt. "Wow. The betrayal."

I giggled. "I'm kidding. I'll be the loudest one screaming your name."

He turned toward me as the light turned green. "Say that again?"

"I'll scream your name."

"Oh, now you're making my thoughts go places."

"Kat!"

He laughed so hard he had to pull over. We sat there, parked on a quiet street, two fools in love with nothing but streetlamps and soft R&B filling the air.

"Keep the tickets safe," he said after a while. "And wear the shirt Saturday, okay? I wanna look at the stands and see you in my name."

I looked at the name stitched on the back: Moeketsi. And I felt it deep.

He didn't just want a girlfriend — he wanted a witness. Someone to cheer when he rose and hold space when he fell.

And I? I wanted nothing more than to be exactly that.

*********************

I got home close to midnight, still clutching the jersey like it was sacred. I didn't even turn on the lights when I walked in — I just stood in the middle of my room, heart buzzing, thinking, Did that really just happen?

Then I reached for my phone.

Me:
You awake??? I have TEA. Not even tea — lava. Explosive lava.

Nthabiseng replied in record time.

Nthabi:
Girl. It's midnight. If you're pregnant, just tell me now. I won't judge.

I cackled, sliding under the blanket with the jersey still pressed to my chest. I typed fast.

Me:
Not pregnant, wena. But Katlego just gave me two VIP tickets to his game this Saturday. And his jersey. HIS. ACTUAL. JERSEY.

It took a few seconds before her reply came in. And then:

Nthabi:
You're lying.

Nthabi:
YOU'RE LYING.

Nthabi:
WAKE ME UP AND VIDEO CALL ME RIGHT NOW.

I didn't hesitate. A second later, her sleepy face popped up on my screen, bonnet and all, eyes wide like I'd told her Beyoncé invited me to a private party.

"Show me the shirt," she demanded.

I held it up. Her gasp was so dramatic, I thought she'd faint.

"Moeketsi. Number 10? GIRL."

"I know," I whispered, still smiling like an idiot. "He said he plays better when I'm there. When I'm watching."

Nthabiseng blinked. "This boy's in love. Like... not high-school 'I like you' love. Real stuff. Do you know what it means for a man — an athlete — to give you his jersey?"

I shrugged. "He said he wants to look at the stands and see me wearing his name."

She pressed her hands over her mouth. "Sipho... my chest. My lungs. My left knee."

We both giggled like kids.

"And he gave me two tickets," I added. "One is obviously for you."

She froze. "Me?"

"Duh. Who else would I scream with? Who else would sneak snacks in their bag and wave at the cameras like a WAG?"

Her eyes softened. "I love you. But not as much as I love the drama this man brings into your life. I'm wearing lashes to that match. We're showing up like front-row girlfriends."

"You're not his girlfriend, though," I said, laughing.

"But I'm your best friend," she said proudly. "And that makes me at least 15% girlfriend by association. He better score. I'll be screaming even if the ball misses."

I laughed so hard my stomach hurt. That was Nthabiseng — chaos, glitter, and loyalty in one package.

We spent another hour on the phone planning what we'd wear, which lipgloss lasted longest, and how we'd practice our camera faces in case they showed us on TV. Eventually, I lay back on the bed, Katlego's jersey still wrapped around me like a hug, and whispered to Nthabi, "I think this might be real."

"What?"

"This... me and him. I think it's real."

There was a pause, and then, in the softest voice, she said, "It is. And I love that for you."

And that's how I fell asleep — smiling, loved, and wearing the name of the boy who saw me like I was everything he'd been waiting for.