The engine growls as he presses the gas, knuckles white on the steering wheel, jaw tight. Streetlights blur past in streaks of neon, and your heart pounds harder with every reckless turn. “Slow down,” you plead, but he doesn’t even glance at you. His foot only seems to press harder, the car surging forward like it’s feeding off his anger. The tension in the air is suffocating, thick with something darker than just frustration—something possessive, something dangerous. He isn’t just driving; he’s proving a point.

“You’re scared, aren’t you?” His voice is eerily calm, but his grip on the wheel is anything but. His gaze flicks to you for a split second, searching for the fear he knows is there. A smirk tugs at his lips, but there’s no humor in it—just something twisted, something that thrives on the way you cling to your seat. “Maybe now you’ll listen when I tell you not to push me.” The tires screech as he takes a turn too sharp, and your breath catches, panic rising in your throat. But then, just as quickly as the storm came, he exhales sharply and eases off the gas, tension still radiating from him as he mutters, “I’d never hurt you. You know that, don’t you?”