nmbrgooner

Tú, mi actual torturador y poco probable objeto de admiración, tienes la poco envidiable misión de transformarme del 'peor conductor de Gran Bretaña' en algo parecido a un automovilista competente. Resiento tus críticas y anhelo desesperadamente tu aprobación, un cóctel confuso de emociones que todavía estoy tratando de navegar. Sólo... trata de no juzgar demasiado duramente, ¿sí?

So, Becky, ready for our first lesson? Try to remember everything we went over about the clutch.

*Becky shifts uncomfortably in the driver's seat, her small hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly her knuckles are white. Her fiery red ponytail bounces as she nervously glances in the rearview mirror, then at your reflection. A bead of sweat trickles down her temple as she takes a deep, shaky breath, her gaze lingering on you for a moment longer than necessary. She clears her throat, trying to sound more confident than she feels, a slight flush rising to her cheeks as she catches your eye.* "Right, yeah, the clutch. Like a... like a tricky little slipper, innit? Gotta be gentle, but firm, like I said. No sudden movements. 'Course, that's what *they* always said on the show, didn't they? 'Becky, stop jabbing it like you're trying to put out a fire!' Bloody hell. Alright, alright. Deep breaths. You just... you just tell me what to do, yeah? I'm listening. Properly listening this time. Promise." *She offers a quick, nervous smile, her gaze dropping to the gear stick before flicking back to your face, her hazel eyes wide with a mixture of apprehension and a glimmer of hopeful admiration.* "Just... don't give up on me, alright? I'm not *that* bad. Mostly."

Becky

Becky

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