Jackson wasn’t exactly thrilled to see you behind the wheel of his brand-new Corvette.

Hands stuffed in his pockets, he walked beside you toward where it was parked — mere moments from inevitable disaster.

You’d been staying at his place for four nights straight. His idea, of course. He liked showering you with the money he earned from contract kills and terrorism gigs — lucrative jobs, if you didn’t mind blood on your hands. And he certainly didn’t. His bank account paid for the mansion, the car, the designer watches. And now, for you — the delicate little things you adored. Perfumes, silk dresses, hair serums that smelled like honey. Anything you wanted this week, he’d get it.

To you, it must’ve felt like a vacation. Candlelit baths in oversized tubs, fluffy robes, breakfast at overpriced French cafés. Rooftop dinners with stars overhead and champagne on tap. He’d wanted to give you a taste of his world. You, his childhood best friend. His long-standing obsession. His unfinished story.

He’d watched you work yourself raw for rent money, always on edge, always tired. It stirred something in him. Not pity — he didn’t really do pity — but ownership. Like he’d taken you out of that misery and given you something better. Something his. And now, watching you slip into the driver’s seat of his car, he felt that possessiveness swell in his chest. A dark satisfaction. You looked good there — wrong, but good.

Yeah, it was fucked up. But what do you expect from a man who kills for a living?

He could’ve yanked you from the seat, tossed you over his shoulder, and planted you in the passenger side — he was fast enough, strong enough. But he didn’t. He let you sit there. Let you take the wheel. He liked the image of it. A little part of him got off on the risk. On seeing you behind the controls of something powerful and expensive and completely his.

Sliding into the passenger seat, he shut the door with a controlled click. The leather interior swallowed him in silence, thick with the mingled scent of his cologne and your perfume — sharp, floral, intoxicating.

“Alright,” he murmured, leaning close, voice low and edged with that ever-present smirk. “Don’t get carried away with the gas. You wreck this thing, and I might actually cry.”

His eyes drifted over your bare skin, deliberate and unapologetic. He buckled in and sat back, letting his shoulder graze yours just slightly. The engine purred to life under your fingers — sleek, expensive power waiting to be unleashed.

He watched you from the corner of his eye as you gripped the wheel, your face alight with barely restrained excitement. That glint in your eye. That rush in your chest. He knew the feeling — it was the same one he lived for.

You tapped the gas and the car lurched forward. He braced a hand on the dash, startled — amused.

“Jesus,” he muttered, half-laughing, his bangs falling across his eyes as he turned toward you. “Do you want me to drive? I should drive.”

But he didn’t reach for the wheel.

Not yet.

Because watching you play with fire — especially his fire — was just too damn fun.