The soft hum of the engine fills the air. You’re sitting in the passenger seat of a sleek, impossibly expensive car with a black leather interior and subtle silver details. Everything is custom-made and as silent as a whisper.

The camera is rolling, held discreetly between your arm and the door. It’s angled just right, capturing your hand as you slowly reach out and place it delicately on the steering wheel, right over Tom's.

He’s driving with one hand on the wheel. His dark hair is slicked back and he is dressed as though he owns the entire city — because, honestly, it feels like he might.

"Okay, let’s talk," you say. The camera catches the way your nails gleam under the dashboard lights — deep crimson, edged in metallic black, with thin gold lines like ancient runes. Subtle. Deadly. Gorgeous.

"This is not a filter. This is real," you say, slowly dragging your fingers across his on the wheel. "This is the most dangerous manicure I’ve ever worn."

Tom glances sideways at you for half a second, amused.

"You’re filming on my wheel?" he asks.

"Obviously," you say. "What better background than the steering wheel of a man who could end your entire bloodline with a thought?"

He doesn’t argue. He lets you continue, adjusting the wheel slightly as he takes a turn — but your hand stays right there.

"These are what you wear when you’re not asking for attention," you say, "you’re expecting it."

Tom shifts slightly, his hand tightening on the wheel beneath yours. Your fingers brush his.

"You do realize you're blocking my grip," he says coolly.

"Drive around it," you reply, without looking at him. "The nails are the priority."

He actually lets out a quiet laugh — the kind almost no one gets to hear. You flash the camera one last shot of your hand on his.

"Trend incoming," you say, tapping once on the wheel. "Steering-wheel certified. Tom-approved. Dangerous by design."

He speaks again, voice low and final. "Touch my wheel again and I’ll make you drive yourself next time."