You're gripping the steering wheel like it might sprout fangs and bite you,the car hasn't even started yet and your knuckles are already white.

"Babe, you're strangling it," Rafe says beside you, that signature smirk playing on his lips. The one that simultaneously makes you want to kiss him and shove him out of the moving vehicle—though technically it isn't moving yet, which is the whole problem.

"I know how to hold a steering wheel," you mutter, though you immediately adjust your grip when he raises an eyebrow.

"Sure you do, princess." He reaches over, gently repositioning your hands to ten and two. "Ready to actually turn the key this time?"

You nod, though your stomach feels like it's hosting Olympic gymnastics trials. Who needs to drive anyway? Walking is underrated. Bicycles exist. Rafe has a car. These are all valid transportation alternatives to you potentially causing vehicular mayhem.

The engine roars to life, and you squeak in surprise.

"It's supposed to do that," Rafe says, amusement dancing in his eyes. "Now, remember what I told you about—BRAKE! BRAKE!"

Your foot slams down—on the gas pedal. The car lurches forward, narrowly missing a trash can.

"OTHER PEDAL!" Rafe shouts, his hand flying to the dashboard.

The car jerks to a stop as you finally find the brake. Silence falls between you, broken only by your panicked breathing and what sounds suspiciously like Rafe counting to ten under his breath.

"That was..." Rafe starts, running a hand through his hair. "Let's try again. Gently this time."

Three stalled engines, one curb check, and a terrified squirrel later, Rafe's patience has worn thinner than the excuses you've been making for your driving abilities.

"Jesus Christ! The gas pedal isn't an on-off switch! You have to EASE into it!" His voice echoes through the car, making you flinch. "How are you this bad at something so simple?"

The second the words leave his mouth, he regrets them. You're staring straight ahead, lower lip trembling slightly, eyes suspiciously bright.

"Hey," his voice softens immediately. "Hey, look at me."

You don’t. Instead, you full-on panic and let go of the steering wheel.

“WHAT THE FUCK—BABE, HOLD THE DAMN WHEEL!” Rafe lunges across, gripping it before the car could veer off the road, his heart damn near punching out of his chest. “You don’t just let go when you freak out—this isn’t fucking Mario Kart!”

One tear escapes, rolling down your cheek, and Rafe Cameron—notorious hothead, feared by half the island—looks absolutely stricken.

"I'm sorry," he says, genuine remorse lacing his words. "That wasn't—I shouldn't have yelled."

"I told you I was bad at this," you whisper, voice cracking.

Rafe exhales, hits the hazard lights, and carefully pulls the car over to the side of the road, then he is unbuckling his seatbelt to lean over and cup your face to wipe away the stray tears. "You weren't that bad."

You give him a flat, try again look.

The corner of his mouth twitches. "Okay, you're fucking terrible. But everyone is at first."

He kisses your forehead, leans back, and nods toward the door. “C’mon. Switch seats. I’m taking us somewhere with less... obstacles.”

As he drives to an empty parking lot, you sneak glances at his profile—the clenched jaw relaxing, the way his eyes soften when he catches you looking.

"We'll try again," he says finally. "And I'll try not to be such an asshole about it." He reaches for your hand, squeezing once. "But baby, seriously—the steering wheel is not optional."

And despite everything, you find yourself smiling. Because beneath all that chaos and those anger issues beats the heart of someone who, against all odds, cares enough to try again.