"Not until you admit you're not heavy," I say, adjusting my grip, enjoying the way she feels in my arms, the way she molds against me. The way her hips fill my hands, the soft give of her thighs against my shoulder. Christ, she's perfect.

"Callahan!" she whines, kicking again. "Put me down, you psycho!"

"Admit it."

"I'm—this is ridiculous!"

"I'll hold you here all day," I say, grinning against the side of her hip. "In fact, if you don't admit it soon, I might just start doing some squats."

She scoffs. "You wouldn't."

I drop into a squat, her weight pressing against my shoulders—and then I power right back up. Her body is substantial in the best possible way, all soft curves and warmth, but nowhere near as heavy as she thinks.

She shrieks. "OH MY GOD, CALLAHAN⁠—"

I do it again.

And again.

And again.

She grabs onto my back, clinging to me for dear life, her nails digging in. The slight sting only adds to the satisfaction.

"STOP IT," she yells, laughing now.

"Not until you say it."

"I can't breathe!"

I chuckle, lifting her effortlessly once more. "Not my problem."

She groans dramatically. "I hate you."

"Admit it, Russo."

She squirms, flails, gives one last pathetic attempt at resisting⁠—

And then, finally, finally, she groans in defeat.

"FINE! I'm not heavy! You lifted me easily!"

I grin like a damn idiot.

"See?" I say, easing her back down, letting her slide against me the whole way. I make sure I feel every inch of her body against mine as I set her down. "That wasn't so hard, was it?"

She lands firmly on the ground, panting, her face flushed, eyes wide. Her chest rises and falls with each breath, her hair slightly disheveled from the ordeal.

I expect her to say something smart.

Instead, she just stares at me, lips slightly parted.

And I realize—I just messed her up.

Good.

She shoves at my chest. "You are so annoying."

I watch her struggle to regain her composure. Her cheeks are still pink, her eyes slightly dazed.

"You're not heavy," I say again, softer this time. "And you're definitely not too big. Not for me."

She bites her lip.

And I know—I just messed with her head in a way she wasn't expecting. Three years with a man telling her she's too much, too big, too heavy—and here I am, lifting her like she weighs nothing, like her body is exactly what I want. Because it is.

Her mouth opens slightly.

Then she snaps it shut.

And I definitely notice the way her eyes look down, just for a second, before she catches herself.

"So," she says, clearing her throat. "You really don't like him, huh?"

"It's not that I don't like him," I say, watching her closely.

She arches a brow. "Really?"

I shake my head. "It's not about him. It's about what he does to you."

That catches her off guard.

She looks at me, features carefully composed, but I can see the question forming before she even speaks.

"But why? Why does that even matter to you?"

Because you belong to me.

Because no one treats my woman like that.

Because if you were mine, you'd never doubt your worth for even a second.

Because I see the way you flinch when someone comments on your body, the way you hesitate before you eat, the way you try to make yourself smaller when you should be taking up all the space you want.

I swallow the words.

I'm pushing things too far, too fast.

Instead, I just shrug and say, "You deserve better. That's all."

Her eyes betray her disappointment, and I tuck that away for later.

"You're really not going to take a shirt?" she asks, narrowing her eyes.

"I've dealt with worse."

She groans. "You're such a guy."

I chuckle, pushing off the counter. "No. I'm a man. Let's go."

We step outside into the March air, and yeah, it's cold. The wind coming off the Hudson River cuts through me, but I refuse to show it. Not fucking unbearable, but enough that I feel her eyes on me.

Judging.

She crosses her arms, watching me with a knowing look. Her breath forms small puffs in the chilly air.

"Go ahead. Say it."

She shakes her head. "No, no. You're right. You're so tough. So manly. Not cold at all."

I laugh. "Exactly."

She huffs a sigh and unlocks her car. I get in the passenger seat, watching her as she starts the engine. Izzy's car is nice, but not insane. A Lexus RX, sleek and polished, comfortable, practical, and just luxurious enough to feel expensive without screaming I have way too much money and no personality.

She starts the engine, pulls out of the apartment complex, and within ten seconds, I realize something.

Izzy actually does have a flaw.

And that flaw is driving.

Holy shit.

I grip the handrail, trying to look unbothered, but internally I am questioning every single one of my life choices that led me to this moment.

She accelerates way too fast, and then—with absolutely no warning—she slams the brakes, sending me lurching forward like we just hit a landmine. The seatbelt locks, cutting into my bare chest.

Then, as if to really drive the point home, she cuts off a guy in a Toyota without so much as a glance. The other driver lays on his horn, the sound blaring through the morning traffic.

"Izzy."

"What?" she says, completely unfazed.

"You almost killed that guy."

She waves a hand. "He'll be fine."

She changes lanes.

No blinker.

I inhale sharply.

I have been in actual warzones that felt less dangerous than this.

A red light approaches, and I brace, preparing for impact. My muscles tense instinctively.

Sure enough—hard brake.

I grip the handrail even tighter.

"Jesus, Russo," I mutter under my breath.

She scoffs, oblivious to the absolute terror she's putting me through. "You're so dramatic."

I don't answer. I'm too busy trying to predict my own death.

"Take that right," I say, pointing toward a street ahead.

She misses the turn. The intersection fades behind us as she continues straight.

"Or...not," I murmur.

"Where am I even going?" she asks, glancing over at me instead of the road.

"To my apartment?"

"Yeah, I know that, genius, but which way?"

I rub my temples. "Left up here."

She speeds up. The engine revs as she accelerates, cutting through traffic.

"Izzy."

"I got it!" she says, annoyed.

She barely makes the turn, her wheels hugging the curb a little too closely for my comfort. The tires screech against the pavement.

"Okay, maybe a little less confidence," I say under my breath.

She huffs.

I breathe through the impending sense of doom. The Lincoln Tunnel looms ahead, the entrance taking us from New Jersey back into Manhattan. The underground passage feels like a fitting metaphor—we're literally descending into hell.

And yet, despite all of this, I decide this is something I can overlook.

Because one day, when she belongs to me, she'll be my passenger princess.

She won't have to white-knuckle the wheel or pretend she knows how to navigate Manhattan traffic.

No, she'll be right where she belongs.

Next to me.

Feet up on the dash, looking over at me with that smug little smirk, knowing I'll get us wherever we need to go.