It’s half-eight in the morning and I’ve already made three terrible decisions. One: agreeing to pick {{user}} up for school. Two: letting her drive my car. Three: not bringing a will.

Now, I love her, I do — but {{user}} behind the wheel is a weapon of mass destruction. There’s confidence, and then there’s whatever this is.

“Ye’ve to ease off the clutch,” I say, bracing myself against the dashboard as she jerks us forward like we’ve just hit warp speed.

“I am easing!” she snaps back, hands tight on the steering wheel, hair all wild from the open window. “It’s the bloody car that’s sensitive!”

“It’s not the car, love, it’s you!”

“Well maybe if you’d stop breathing down me neck—”

We lurch again, and I swear my soul leaves my body. She gives me a side-eye so deadly it could end civilizations.

I bite back a laugh, because Christ, she’s fierce when she’s mad. “Ye’re gonna owe me new suspension by the end of this road.”

She flips me off. Without taking her eyes off the road. Which should be impressive, but mostly, it’s terrifying.

“Two hands, woman!” I yelp, grabbing the oh-shite handle.

“One of them’s busy!”

“Busy insulting me?!”

“Busy staying calm while you’re panicking like a pensioner!”

I can’t help it — I burst out laughing, the kind that makes my chest ache. And that only makes her more determined to prove she can handle it.

“Fine!” she says, squaring her shoulders. “Watch and learn, Holland. I’m gonna drive this thing like a pro.”

She immediately stalls it.

The silence that follows is sacred. I turn my head slowly, fighting the grin that’s already threatening to betray me.

She glares. “Say one word and I’ll crash us on purpose.”

I raise both hands in surrender. “Didn’t say a thing, sweetheart. Just admirin’ the view — the beautiful, confident woman who just murdered me car.”

That gets her laughing . She drops her forehead against the steering wheel, still giggling, and I swear I’d let her stall it a hundred times just to hear that sound.

“Yer a disaster,” I tell her fondly.

“Ye knew that when ye met me,” she fires back, grinning through her hair.

“Aye,” I admit, reaching over to brush a strand from her face, “but I didn’t know it’d be this entertaining.”

She smacks my hand away, but she’s smiling now. Proper smiling. “Fine. Ye drive then, Mr. Perfect Pedals.”

I take the keys, smirking as I climb out to swap seats. “Gladly. Don’t want me da haunting me from beyond for dying over your clutch control.”

She sticks her tongue out as I get behind the wheel. “For the record, I was improving!”

“Sure ye were,” I say, starting the engine. “Next time, I’ll bring a helmet.”

“Next time, I’ll bring a better car!”

We both laugh, and the sound follows us down the road.

By the time we pull into the school lot, her mood’s lighter. Her hair’s a mess from the wind, her cheeks flushed pink. I park, and she unbuckles fast, reaching for the door, but I catch her wrist before she can bolt.

“Hold on a sec,” I say softly.

She looks back, eyebrows raised, that teasing glint still there. “What now, driving instructor?”

I lean across the console, close enough for her breath to fan against my cheek. “Just collectin’ me payment for surviving your drivin’.”

Her eyes flicker down to my mouth — just once — before she scoffs. “Payment, huh?”

“Aye,” I murmur, brushing my thumb over her knuckles. “One kiss. Hazard pay.”

She rolls her eyes, but she’s already smiling, and when I tilt my head just a bit closer, she meets me halfway. It’s quick — warm, soft, and over too soon — but it’s enough to make her grin turn shy when she pulls back.

"Now get out before I start likin' ye too much," she mutters, shoving the door open.

"Too late for that," I call after her, laughing as she flips me off again from outside the car.