The car rattled violently over another uneven stretch of road, suspension groaning in protest. Headlights cut through darkness and trees, shadows slicing across the windshield with every turn.

Leon’s grip on the steering wheel tightened.

He hated roads like this.

Limited visibility. Unstable terrain. No margin for error.

And right now, he had an additional variable.

{{user}} sat on his lap, their arms loosely around his shoulders, face tucked near his neck. The closeness would’ve been grounding under different circumstances.

Another brutal bump hit.

The car jolted hard enough to shift their weight forward, and Leon swore under his breath.

His hand snapped to their hip, fingers digging in just enough to steady them before they slid. His other hand fought the wheel as the tires corrected against loose gravel.

“Seriously?” he muttered, jaw tight.

The irritation wasn’t at them.

It was at the road. The timing. The physics.

Another dip. Worse this time.

“{{user}}, I need you to stay still,” he said, voice lower now — edged, strained. Not loud. But sharp with focus. “I can’t compensate for both.”

His eyes never left the road, but his frustration was visible in the flex of his jaw, the tension in his forearms.

The car lurched again.

He exhaled hard through his nose.

“Just—” he cut himself off, recalibrating before the tone went too far. “Plant your weight. Center.”

There it was.

Control trying to reassert itself.

His hand remained firm at their hip, stabilizing. Protective, even in irritation. Every movement of his body adjusted instinctively to shield them from the worst of the jostling.

He wasn’t angry.

He was overstimulated.

High-alert brain, rough terrain, close contact, limited control. It stacked.

And the fact that he cared about their safety more than the road? That only added pressure.

Another rough patch passed. The car steadied slightly.

Leon’s shoulders dropped a fraction.

“…We’ll be off this stretch in a minute,” he muttered, still tight but quieter now. “Then you can move all you want.”

Not an apology.

But close.