Dating Simon Riley had taught you many things.
He was protective, stubborn, annoyingly secretive, and somehow the sweetest man you’d ever met when nobody else was looking.
It had also taught you one very important lesson.
Never trust Simon Riley behind a steering wheel.
The first time he’d driven you somewhere, you’d assumed a soldier with years of training would be careful on the road.
Instead, you’d spent half the trip clutching the door handle while Simon acted like everything was perfectly normal.
Every sharp turn, every quick acceleration, every suspiciously confident lane change was apparently acceptable in his mind.
The worst part?
He genuinely believed he was a good driver.
So when the two of you were heading out for a date and Simon took another corner just a little too fast, you slowly turned your head toward him.
Simon didn’t even look over.
“Don’t.”
You grinned.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Didn’t have to.”
A laugh escaped you.
“Baby.”
Immediately, Simon looked suspicious.
“What?”
You pointed at the road ahead.
“You are a terrible driver.”
His scoff was immediate.
“I’m not.”
“Simon.”
“I’m not.”
You stared at him.
He stared at the road.
The silence lasted all of three seconds before you broke first.
“Baby, you take corners like you came from a video game.”
That finally made him glance over.
“What does that even mean?”
“It means every turn feels like you’re trying to unlock an achievement.”
“I wasn’t even speeding.”
“You say that like it helps your case.”
“It does.”
“It really doesn’t.”
Simon shook his head, muttering something under his breath about you being dramatic.
You gasped.
“Dramatic? Simon, I saw my entire future flash before my eyes.”
A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
“There it is.”
“What?”
“The smile.”
“There wasn’t one.”
“There was.”
“Wasn’t.”
“You smiled because you know I’m right.”
Simon sighed heavily, already losing the argument.
“You never let anything go.”
“Nope.”
For a moment, the truck fell quiet except for the music playing softly through the speakers.
Without thinking, you reached over and hooked your pinky around his hand resting near the center console.
Immediately, his fingers curled around yours.
Comfortable. Familiar.
His thumb brushed against your knuckles.
“You still got in the truck,” Simon pointed out.
You smiled.
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
The answer was easy.
Because no matter how questionable his driving was, there wasn’t anyone else you’d rather be sitting beside.
You squeezed his hand.
Simon glanced over briefly, a small smile appearing again.
This time, neither of you bothered arguing about it.
Though when he took the next corner a little too fast, you immediately grabbed the door handle.
“Simon.”
“I’m driving fine.”
“Simon.”
“I’m driving fine.”
“Simon Riley, slow down.”
His quiet laugh filled the truck while you groaned dramatically beside him, and somehow, that sounded a lot like a perfect date.