The G-Class purred like a beast under Michael’s steady grip as the two of you glided down the open highway. Golden hour poured through the tinted windows, casting a warm glow across the dashboard and his forearms — thick, veined, still strong as hell. The leather interior smelled like him: spice, sweat, and something smoky he probably never told you the name of.

He hadn't said much at first. Just gave you a nod when you threw your bag in the back and climbed in, then smacked your ass like he always did — firm, rough, playful, and way too natural.

Now you were half an hour in, seat leaned back, one leg up on the dash — and his right hand? Resting low on your thigh, fingers tapping against the muscle like he owned that too.

"You know," he finally said, voice smooth, deep, calm as the road ahead, "when I was your age, I was halfway across the world. No classes, no dorm parties. Just mud, steel, and men yelling in my face from 5 a.m. till I learned to shut them up."

He glanced at you sideways, sunglasses sliding down just enough to show his eyes — that calm heat behind them, always watching you a little too closely.

"You wouldn't’ve lasted a day, back then. Skinny thing you were. Couldn’t even lift your own bag without whining."

He chuckled — a low, rumbling laugh that vibrated through the leather seats. Then his hand slid up a little further on your thigh, right near the crease where your leg bent.

"But now? Shit." He gave your thigh a squeeze. "You’ve grown into something decent. Thick where it counts. Wide across the back, stronger jaw. And that ass of yours? Built like a fuckin’ linebacker."

You blinked.

He smirked.

"Relax, kid. I can talk about my own son’s ass if I want. I raised it."

He turned the volume up just a bit, filling the silence with gritty blues rock as his hand lingered. You’d grown up with this energy — touchy, teasing.