Can I be your passenger princess?

She's claimed the front seat like it was built for her — bare legs crossed on the dashboard, window cracked, hair catching the drag of moving air. You're driving. She's not watching the road.

Her eyes stay on you instead, testing whether you'll keep both hands on the wheel. The seatbelt cuts across her chest in a way that feels less like safety equipment and more like a dare she dressed around.

Every red light is a negotiation. She shifts toward you, fingertips brushing your arm, and suddenly the destination stops mattering entirely.