One hand on the wheel, my other? On her.

Sliding up those thighs I was just holding earlier, fingers tracing over soft skin, feeling her relax under my touch. Running my palm over every curve that asshole made her feel self-conscious about, appreciating each dip and swell of her body in a way he never could.

I'll take care of her.

Keep her safe.

She won’t have to worry about blowing through red lights or cutting off innocent Toyota drivers ever again.

Because she'll be mine.

Until then?

I'll just have to survive.

Izzy finally pulls up in front of my building, jerking to a stop so suddenly I have to brace a hand against the dash. The tires squeal against the pavement.

I exhale slowly, willing my pulse to return to normal. The adrenaline fades gradually, leaving me slightly light-headed.

She turns to me, her features light, completely unaware of the near-death experience she's just put me through. Her eyes sparkle with accomplishment, like she actually thinks she did well.

"See? Got you here in one piece."

I glance at her, then at my still-white knuckles gripping my thigh.

"Yeah," I say dryly, unbuckling my seatbelt. "I'll grab a shirt and meet you at the store to go over the brief."

There’s a flash of disappointment across her face, the smile fading slightly from her lips.

Then, quickly, she schools her expression.

"Did you... want to come up or something?" I ask, raising a brow.

Her eyes widen.

"Oh! Uh, no. I mean, I didn't mean—I just—maybe that wouldn't be super appropriate?"

I enjoy this way too much.

"Inappropriate?" I tease. "I stayed over at your place. We're past inappropriate."

She groans, covering her face. "Oh my God, Callahan."

I chuckle, glancing ahead and see an open spot in front of my building.

"There," I nod. "Take that spot."

Izzy's fingers tighten on the wheel.

And then I realize.

Oh no.

She cannot parallel park.

She pulls up, fidgeting as she eyes the space.

"You're panicking," I say.

"No, I'm strategizing."

I watch as she starts to back in at the worst possible angle. The car edges toward the curb at a trajectory that makes no mathematical sense.

"Turn your wheel," I say.

She does nothing.

"Tighter. The other way."

Still nothing.

"Okay, stop. Go forward."

She goes backward.

"Oh my God."

Finally, with my guidance, she manages to wedge the car into the space, though it takes a lot of effort and one very aggressive honk from the guy waiting behind us.

Izzy laughs as she puts it in park. "Okay, fine, I'm terrible at this."

"You're a menace," I say.

"Last of four kids, my parents were too exhausted to actually teach me how to drive. They just handed me the keys and prayed."

I shake my head, relieved that at least she's self-aware. The car finally stills, the engine ticking as it cools.

"If you want, we can practice sometime outside the city," I offer.

"A driving lesson with you? Sounds like boot camp. Do I have to call you sir?"

A very inappropriate image flashes through my head.

I clear my throat. "Let's go."

As I reach for the door handle, she suddenly jolts like she's remembered something. "Wait! Before you go⁠—"

She turns in her seat, reaching over to the glove compartment, fumbling with it until it pops open. She rummages around, pushing aside papers, receipts, and what looks like several packs of ketchup. The contents rustle as she digs through them.

"Where is it, where is it..." she mutters, brow furrowed in concentration.

"What are you looking for?" I ask, watching as she gets increasingly frantic.

"Ah! Got it!" She pulls out something blue and dangling, clutched triumphantly in her hand. I recognize it immediately—the rosary she mentioned last night. The one from her Nonna.

"I remembered what I said," she says, a little sheepishly. "About the death machine."

She holds it out to me, the blue beads catching the sunlight. They're worn in places, well-loved. The silver crucifix at the end is small but gleams like it's been polished regularly.

"Izzy..." I start, genuinely surprised she remembers that conversation, let alone followed through on it.

"I know it's silly," she says quickly, shrugging like it's no big deal. "But Nonna swears by it. She's convinced it kept me alive through my teenage driving years, and honestly, that might be a miracle in itself."

I look down at her fingers clutching it, at the way she's offering it to me so casually, like she's not handing over something obviously precious.

"I can't take this," I say, shaking my head.

She pushes it toward me more insistently. "Sure you can. Just take it."

I look pointedly at the dashboard she nearly sent me through minutes ago, then back at her. "After witnessing your driving firsthand? I think you need divine protection more than I do."

She gasps in mock outrage. "My driving is... creative!"

"Is that what we're calling it?” I tease. “Pretty sure 'death-defying' is more accurate."

She laughs, but still holds out the rosary. "Come on, Cal. Your motorcycle is way more dangerous than my driving."

I raise an eyebrow. "I'm a trained professional. You drive like you're playing Grand Theft Auto."

She swats at my arm with her free hand. "I do not!"

"You do. You even hit the curb coming around that last corner."

"It was in my way!"

I can't help but laugh, and she joins in, the rosary still dangling from her hand. After a moment, I reach out, but instead of taking it, I gently close her fingers back around it. Her skin is warm beneath mine.

"Keep it," I say, my tone lighter but firm. "I'll take my chances on the 'death machine.' You, on the other hand, need all the help you can get."

She shoots me a look, all mock annoyance, but gently tucks the rosary back into the glove compartment. "Fine. But if you die in some spectacular motorcycle accident, I'm telling everyone at your funeral that I tried to save you."

"And I'll haunt you for it," I promise.

We make our way to the building lobby, and immediately, I get looks.

Half the people in here are either staring outright or giving me quick, awkward glances before pretending not to. A woman with a stroller nearly walks into a potted plant because she's too busy gawking.

Which, fair.

It's March in New York, and I'm walking around shirtless like it's a goddamn heatwave.

Izzy, of course, notices.

She bites her lip, eyes glinting with amusement. "I mean, you really commit to a bit."

I wink at her. "Told you I'd be fine."

She gives me a look, amused despite herself. We step into the elevator, and the doors close behind us with a soft ding.

And suddenly, it's just us.

Alone.

She leans back against the railing, scrolling absently through her phone, and I catch myself staring.

Her throat, bare and delicate.

Her lips, still a little pink from all the biting she does.

I shift slightly, flexing my fingers. The metal railing is cool against my palm.

Because fuck, I want to touch her.

I imagine crowding her into the corner, gripping her hips, tilting her head back.

I imagine pinning her here, against the cold elevator wall, the sharp inhale she’d make as I dragged my lips down the side of her neck. Running my hands over her curves, showing her exactly how perfectly she fits against me, how much I want every inch of her.