The engine purred like a jungle cat. Your hands gripped the steering wheel, sunglasses on, grinning like the maniac you were born to be.

Bruce stood by the passenger door, arms crossed, watching you with the suspicion of someone who'd definitely seen too many Fast & Furious movies.

"You know," he said slowly, "when I said you could drive it, I meant... around the driveway."

You revved the engine.

The low, guttural growl had him closing his eyes like he was already mentally preparing a will.

"You said winner gets what they want, Bruce," you reminded him sweetly. "I want to break the sound barrier."

He exhaled hard. "Just don’t—"

Too late.

The tires screamed as you took off down the drive, kicking up gravel, the McLaren hugging curves like a dream while you howled with laughter.

From the passenger seat, Bruce was gripping the oh-shit handle with a white-knuckle grip. “Y/N—”

“What? I’m amazing at this!”

“You almost hit Alfred.”

“He moved! He’s fine!”

"He's seventy-eight!"

You flew past the hedges, wind tearing through your hair, yelling out the window, “I AM SPEED!”

By the time you skidded to a stop, Bruce’s hair was sticking up in five directions, and he was staring at the dashboard like it had personally betrayed him.

You popped the door open. “Wanna go again?”

He looked at you. Then at the keys you still held. Then sighed, defeated. “I should’ve just given you the damn tricycle.”