Derek drags him over the low divide into the backseat of the jeep. Stiles kicks out scrabbling but goes.
Derek is on him, huge and looming over him, pinning him down to the plastic. His teeth are at Stiles's throat, and when he speaks it's even more of a growl than usual. Stiles keeps meaning to escape but all he's really doing is pressing up against Derek, rubbing against Derek, making more friction between them as he kinda-sorta-struggles.
He doesn't fully understand what's happening but he isn't sure it should be happening so he tries to forestall it, flailing.
Overhead Derek smiles with sharpening teeth. "I hoped you'd fight," he says. "Knew you would."
So Stiles stops immediately and Derek slides in closer and Derek is heavy between his thighs and – shit, had that been the plan all along? Is there a plan unfurling? He keeps waiting for Scott to jump out with a camera and a hail of "Surprise! Gotcha! Totally gotcha! Totally, totally fucking gotcha!" but when Scott doesn't arrive Stiles puts his head back because Derek is nosing at his ear and there's nothing else for it.
Jesus fucking Christ, Derek Hale is on top of him and breathing at his neck, and Derek can hear his heart, how it's leaping in his throat and doing the meringue. Derek's tongue is tasting his pulse-point.
"Jesus Christ," says Stiles. "Jesus Christ." Jesus Christ doesn't show up either and Scott still isn't there leaping out with a camera, but Derek puts his hands on Stiles's hips and pushes him more firmly into the seat. He grinds against Stiles so Stiles can feel all the many primed muscles that make up Derek's big strong looming body and Derek's big strong –
"Whoa, okay, okay," Stiles tries again. "Okay. Whoa. Can we – can we talk about this maybe a little? A smidgen of speech, if you will."
Derek shrugs, and in sitting back to make the motion catches the seam of his gray wife-beater and draws it up over his head. Stiles has seen him shirtless lots of times before but usually it's very different: usually Derek is bleeding, not plastered half-naked over him looking like an underwear model. Derek is plastered half-naked over him looking like an underwear model.
He puts his hands out to push him back but Derek is even heavier than he looks, and Stiles is left pressing at his chest and ridiculously large arms and against the fine cut of his abdomen. Derek doesn't budge but Stiles keeps on pressing. He slides his hands around, trying different angles.
"I'm not sure there's anything to talk about." Derek lifts a dark eyebrow. "You've been looking at me for months, but you weren't ready before. Now I see that you are; and it's a day and a half to the full moon, and I'm tired of waiting."
"I've been looking-" Stiles protests. "You're the one who looks! You're the looker!" That comes out wrong, but Derek isn't listening to him anyway, Derek has his fists bunched in the fabric of Stiles's t-shirt, and Derek says, softly but urgently, "Take it off or I will."
Yeah so that shouldn't be sexy, but it is, and it sends a sparked shiver up through Stiles's body and starts to short-circuit his brain. He drops his jaw about a yard and stares at Derek because holy shit this is really happening; his shirt is starting to tear under Derek's nails and growing impatience.
Stiles sits up halfway and struggles out of the shirt, all elbows and ungraceful about it. He's built pretty well from incessant lacrosse drills but there's not much to write home about, enough girls have told him that. At the pool and the beach and stuff.
Derek's eyes...it's cliché, but Stiles is flushing bright red, because Derek's eyes completely devour him. There's no other word for the way they start at his scalp and trace down, lingering at his arms and shoulders and belly, settling at last on the cut vee of hipbone that disappears beneath his waistband.
Derek's tongue darts out, wetting his lips, and Stiles echoes the gesture before he can stop himself. His lips feel very dry and he's breathing fast, and he can't stop staring at Derek's mouth.
Derek's mouth says, "You're pristine, Stiles. You smell clean. I'm going change that. Do you understand me?"
"Change the way I smell," Stiles parrots back. Then, "No. No, I'll have to get back to you on that. Derek, I think I should probably call someone. Probably someone's waiting to hear from me-"
Derek has composed his expression and canted his head, and he interrupts easily. He says it with the ease of laying out a mission plan. He drops low and says it in Stiles's ear, his teeth grazing the delicate pink shell of flesh.
"I'm going to fuck you," Derek says. "I'm going to take you, mark you up the way you've been wanting me to. Fill you up," says Derek. "Change the way you smell. You'll smell like me to anyone who matters."
Stiles can't help it, his entire body jerks under Derek's in reaction, and though he needs at least twenty clauses in Derek's statement examined in further depth he can't seem to make his noises into a coherent response. He makes a sound that's too much like a squeak for comfort and swallows five or six times, his Adam's apple working double-time. "I—oh." Stiles starts. "You-"
Derek's teeth are very white, and they show over the curve of his lip as he smiles. His smiles are rare, and almost as scary as his scary-faces, as unpredictable. Then his hands with quick fingers are on Stiles's belt, threading the tongue through loops and undoing it, pulling down his zipper, Derek breaking all the rules about safe touching now.
Derek says, "Tell me you don't want this, Stiles. Tell me you haven't been looking at me. Tell me and we'll stop." His smile goes wider, with more teeth, as they wait for a protestation that doesn't arise.
"I saw you look," says Derek. "I've been waiting."
Stiles can't not groan, and when he groans Derek takes him in hand, Derek actually has his closed fist around Stiles's cock, and he's so hard already it's embarrassing. Then it's a lot more embarrassing because Stiles actually hears himself say "Derek, please, I-" instead of what he'd intended to say, which was "Hrrghh," and he arcs up against Derek's weight keeping him pinned. The look on Derek's face gets fiercer and he strips them both down to actual naked with brisk efficiency. Someone else who's not him takes off Stiles's clothes and it's Derek Hale doing it.
It's dark on the side of the road but they're very close together not to mention lacking clothes and when Derek climbs back over him wearing nothing at all Stiles says, "Oh, my god," because everything about Derek is huge, and he hardly needs a light.
Derek is straddling him, and his cock is long and thick and beautiful and terrifying. He's half-hard and even like that is impressive, and if he's half-hard that meant that he, Stiles, had done that; at least he'd been involved; he'd contributed somewhat; and before he knows what he's doing he reaches out and closes his hand around Derek's cock, aiming to finish the job.
Derek growls, but Derek growling is nothing new, not like Derek's awesomely big cock in his hand, so Stiles doesn't let go. He thinks about how he best likes to hold his own dick and adjusts his hold on Derek accordingly. His wrist moves tentatively at first, but Derek is already responding, growing under Stiles's grip. It's the hottest thing he's seen, let alone gotten to participate in, and he goes on stroking Derek's cock with increasing confidence. Derek rocks against him. Hasn't stopped growling.
Honestly this is pretty great, Stiles could do this all night, this is chill and stuff, but then Derek is pulling away and he moves faster than Stiles can credit, opening and closing the glove-box, checking every pocket.
Underneath the front seat he finds the lube that Scott had stashed and Stiles had kept because, hey, what cool guy didn't drive with a little lube? Derek palms it and settles back, and there's a glint in his green eyes, and Stiles thinks: this guy is about to fuck me.
Stiles's brain catches up somewhat sluggishly and he says, "Derek. Derek, hey, wait. Think about this, friend wolf."
He's squirming and he's not sure if the movement is meant to throw Derek off or edge his own thighs apart. He decides it's the latter because Derek doesn't waver and Stiles keeps spreading his legs an inch or two further every time he shudders, which is a lot.
Derek's reply comes by way of both dark eyebrows heading for his hairline as he straddles Stiles. "I've thought about it plenty," he says, which holy fucking fuck shit fuck. Stiles opens his mouth and closes it and opens it.
Sure okay yeah he's sending mixed signals but everything is screwy and then there's the clicky plastic sound of Derek uncapping the lube. It's in his hand, slick and shiny, and then it's on his fingers, shiny, clever fingers, and then –
Stiles gasps around the first finger, there's nothing else for it. His leg kicks out and his hips come up, only Derek is above him, and it is Derek's finger sunk in deep.
"God almighty," Stiles mutters. His cheeks must be lit up like a Christmas tree and his jaw clenches. "Warn a guy, wouldn't you?"
Derek grins sideways, and that's all the warning he gets for two of Derek's fingers, which twist and seek and don't stop moving. Stiles bites his lip, thinks there must be blood. Says, "I can't. Can't. It's too much-"
"Shh," says Derek, quiet against his ear, and he lifts up a little to blink at Siles. There foreheads are close and almost touch. "You're doing fine. You're doing good. Look-" And Stiles looks, and both of Derek's fingers, paired, are pushing smoothly into him.
Stiles stares with quivering thighs, then back up to Derek. "Yeah. I. Uh-"
Most of his repertoire in this exchange has been a series of words strung in at what he hopes is the right sequence. Derek's fingers feel big and new and strange in him, but not bad, definitely not that. If he can maybe get the tilt of his hips just right, it would even be –
Derek's fingers reach purposefully, and Stiles makes a small, frantic sound he tries to swallow and can't. Derek looks at him while he makes it, and then Derek's fingers slowly refind their path. The third time Derek hits his prostate, balanced above with a knowing look and no shirt whatsoever, Stiles whines, "Okay. Okay, again. Point proven. Derek, my Lord—"
and Derek keeps fingering just right in him, so good that Stiles would suspect him of showing off except that Derek's pale gaze is focused, watching the slide of his hand up and in.
After a while of letting that happen – while he lets it happen some more – Stiles bites out, "You could probably-"
and Derek says, in the same breath, "I'm going to," and they look at each other. They look at each other a lot, but never like this, without any clothes between. For once their staring is uninterrupted. Stiles has changeable eyes but at their best they're like tigerseye and he turns that gaze on Derek now. There is no one else here but them. Scott isn't coming with a camera, at least not if he knows what is good for him.
"Like this?" Stiles asks, and he couldn't have said where he got the cheeky tone if he tried, since he was trembling. "Or should I roll over?"
Derek's grin has gone feral. "We'll get there," he promises. "You're right where I want you to be."
Stiles blinks and looks up at that. He sees the peeling felt and paint inside the jeep first, and then he feels Derek gathering him closer, and hears the heat in Derek's tone. Derek is very strong and it's easy enough to wrangle Stiles's limbs into a more proper alignment.
He holds himself up with one flexed bicep and settles between Stiles's legs, and the heavy weight of him is concentrated there; then Derek pulls his fingers free and slides his hand into the buzz-cut of Stiles's hair, the same fingers. Stiles's eyes are big and watch him do it.
"Yeah?" asks Derek, and Stiles can't help but think well isn't that sweet of him to check in, but Stiles is thinking at minimum 50,000 thoughts a second here and not many of them stick as they flash by. Derek is suspended over him sweating and totally gorgeous with the lack of shirt and the sweat making him glisten, his inky-dark hair and his eyes even bolder than usual, his gaze all jacked-up, like he's on something. Like he's on Stiles -
"Yeah," breathes Stiles. Derek's answering expression isn't entirely a smirk, but it's wolflike enough, and then all Stiles thinks about is cock, cock cock cock cock cock, because Derek's cock has replaced Derek's fingers, pushing in almost all at once to substitute for the loss.
Stiles watches him, and tries to make his legs go wider apart, and he cries out when Derek goes deeper. Derek balances over him, trying to press in increments, though sometimes his hips jerk and more of him goes forward. Stiles is making a lot of noise and he's not sure if he should but he knows he can't stop, and anyone expecting him to stop making noise at inopportune moments hasn't been taking notes all semester. Derek doesn't seem to mind, anyway: Derek is watching Stiles's changing face as he thrusts in, quietly focused.
Stiles slips his knees over Derek's shoulders when Derek ducks down and indicates it, and oh that's better, and Derek comes into him more. It hurts like a righteous bitch at first but Stiles takes it sweating, and when it starts to feel okay he locks his ankles and tightens his muscles around Derek, and then it's much, much better, it's so totally better than anything that's merely okay.
Then Derek is sliding all the way and Stiles helps, tugging at his own knees, made into an arc against Derek, moving to encompass him. Derek is flush against him, stretching him wide, Stiles's body protesting and begging for more with every breath. Stiles has his head tucked under Derek's chin and he doesn't know what to do there so he does what Derek did to him, smells at Derek's throat, scents him out. Derek smells like musk and charcoal and sex with Stiles. Sex with-
Derek feels so big Stiles is sure he's in up to his teeth, fucking with Stiles's head as was his wont. But they did it, they had done it, Derek's monster dick is in him, it's all the way in, and this is an accomplishment of epic magnitude. This could have its own celebratory pep rally.
"Wow," says Stiles. It is physically and emotionally improbable for Stiles Stilinski not to give a running narrative at such a crucial physical and emotional juncture, so he says, again, "Wow. Am I right? I can't believe I actually-" He wants to say a lot of things: lost my dude-virginity to a dude; lost my virginity to Derek fucking Hale, fuck; actually have all of Derek Hale's considerable cock in my ass; let this happen; didn't think this would ever really happen.
Instead he closes his mouth because Derek says, "Stiles. We've only just started," and he pulls out with a swivel of his hips and then is in just as deep again, driving Stiles across the faux-leather of the seat. "I'm going slower with you tonight than I will. You need to get used to me. I appreciate that." Stiles appreciates that too on a level but all he can hear is Derek saying than I will, like they're already future-tense when Stiles is barely making it from one minute to the next.
Especially because Derek says, "But it's getting hard to hold back," and his hands fit along the outside of Stiles's thighs, fingertips digging in hard. His nails are sharp but there isn't the threat of wolf-nails, just Derek's grip making red-blue-purple marks. Mark you up the way you've been wanting me too, he's said to Stiles, in the world's most persuasive monologue outside The West Wing.
Stiles feels himself moan, his body declaring now without asking, and Derek tilts forward into the sound, all of his weight following. "Do that again," Derek murmurs, repeating the same roll of his hips first once, then twice, then finding a rhythm sliding up into Stiles. "Make that sound again."
He opens his mouth but nothing comes out until Derek starts to fuck him harder, concentrated now, no more fucking around but the fucking ha ha. Ha. Stiles makes a sound now, a kind a dying-whale wail, and Derek thankfully ignores him, has his hands fastened close around Stiles and is thrusting into him with gathering momentum.
Stiles puts his head back and his hips up, his toes tangling behind Derek's neck. Then they're clenching as Derek goes even deeper, like there's not enough of Stiles to be had; and Stiles is kind of freaking out and he has his hands on Derek, his hands are on Derek's back.
He readjusts and guides him with minute touches of pressure, so that Derek is even better held in place; and Derek shifts around with him and says, "Fuck, you're tight. You're so fucking tight," and Stiles can't tell from the look on his face whether that's good or bad because Derek only looks hungry, and hungry could go either way. But Stiles's toes curl when he looks up at Derek and Stiles will be able to say, casually, at dinner parties, Yeah, I've had toe-curling sex, who hasn't?
He realizes that Derek is saying something overhead and strains to catch up. "-talking more."
"What?" says Stiles. He's having difficulties with English again as he earns friction burns from their incursions against the seat.
"You should be talking more," Derek repeats, pointed, looking a little annoyed at having to do so, like Stiles had done it on purpose. He draws almost entirely out, giving them a long moment that Stiles almost ends by clutching at his shoulder, but Derek ends as he pushes back in lazily, making him feel every returning inch.
"Huh," says Stiles, when he can combine words. "Most people find my live commentary to be my most unbecoming feature."
Derek shrugs, lifting a natural quarterback's shoulder. "Got used to it, I guess."
"What do you want me to say?" demands Stiles. "Should I be keeping a play-by-play of my deflowering? Do you want to hear about the swooning in my bosom?"
Derek's fine, sharp features flash above him as his teeth edge out, and for a heart-stopping second Stiles thinks that he's angry; but lips cover teeth, and Derek only smiles.
"Maybe," he says. "Start telling it, and I'll tell you," he says.
Stiles is rarely if ever at a loss for words. There's few things he can be counted on for and words are always amongst them. But this feels like being shoved onstage at Shakespeare's Globe theater naked and told to improvise. Bare-assed naked and stuffed full of werewolf cock. Stiles says, smartly, "Me?"
"You," Derek confirms. And Stiles thinks: he likes it when I talk, he actually likes it though he won't say he likes it. Stiles thinks, maybe in its own insane way it was best to be doing this for the first time with Derek, who expected him to run his mouth, who weirdly wanted it. Who would want Stiles's nervous snark in bed? He'd thought about it a lot. He'd drawn up charts and infographics. What sort of person would want him going oops, there it is at the sight of genitalia or edging out of a t-shirt awkwardly, all elbows. No human in their right mind would want that. So yeah, he'd been pretty spot-on.
He slows himself down a little, tilts his chin to look up at Derek looking down. For the first time since Derek grabbed him by the scruff of the collar as he went over the seat and pulled, Stiles feels like he understands, like he can be still long enough to appreciate what's happening to him and not just react. He closes his eyes a long moment, and Derek holds himself in place, skin to skin; and when Stiles opens his eyes, Derek is watching him, waiting for him.
Derek knows something has changed, by the way Stiles relaxes and lets out a breath, and the way Stiles's hand palms down his side, and then Stiles shifts and moves up against him for the first time, pulling Derek into him, taking Derek with a snap of his hips.
Derek blinks over fathomless eyes, and Stiles says, "You feel good, okay, man? I don't know what you want me to say." He pushes back once more. Derek has asked for words so he gives him them. Insane words. "I wish you – I wish you f-fuck me like you said you would." His shoulder jerks, has a life of it's own. "Like you said before."
That gets Derek's eyes to go all intense, and he looks at Stiles unsmiling. He's not not smiling, but he's not smiling either. His eyebrows draw together, a darkly furrowed line, and he looks like it's serious, the topic at hand; even the stubble on his cheek is pronounced.
Derek says, "On your hands and knees?"
And it's not difficult to imagine because Derek is already moving in him to the oldest rhythm but still the imagined scene of it makes Stiles tense up everywhere, makes him shiver, and Derek's expression gets even more fierce.
Derek says, "Why? Tell me, Stiles."
Stiles knows what fish feel like. Stiles tries again to breathe and when it finally works he keeps clutching at Derek since Derek hasn't shaken him off yet and he admits, "Thought about it. I've thought about it, okay?"
"Yes," says Derek after a beat. "That's okay."
He has his hand at the base of his dick and he's tugging back on himself, and this time he comes all of the way out of Stiles. Stiles makes a negative sound, like that wasn't the thing to do, negate, negate, but Derek is sitting up away from him. The night air is breezy and the absence of his body heat and his hard, relentless dick hits Stiles like a blow. Maybe he won't talk about that part.
Because Derek wants him to talk. Derek's arms with their defined muscles come around him, and urge him over, and Stiles turns under the touch. Derek resettles over him, Derek covers him and says, "Tell me what you saw when you pictured it. I want to know." His fingers start at the top joints of Stiles's spine and trace their way down, trailing sharpening nails.
Stiles breathes, with difficulty, but it's easier without Derek's enormous eyes watching his every move, easier with Stiles's head hanging low, his body arranged on hands and knees like he'd envisaged a few too many times in the shower and while driving and sometimes in the study carrel at the library and after dinner and.
"I-" Sties stutters to a stop, but Derek is resting patient and motionless against him, waiting, so Stiles restarts. "I thought maybe I'd be like this," he tells the armrest of the jeep, while he tugs in an errant thigh and squeezes his legs shut. The jeep has heard enough of his fantasies as-is; this is hardly new. He doesn't blush. "And you, you – you'd be over me, like you are now, only-"
Derek shoves a leg between Stiles's and puts pressure against just the right leg and guides it firmly into place, hooks it with surety under his own. Only like that, Stiles thinks.
Derek leans down and seals himself over Stiles – first the ribbed lines of his abs do, then the breadth of his chest, and finally his arms with their superhuman strength. His arms hook over, and his hands inch over Stiles's hands to seize the fabric of their shared seat.
When they're gripping in tandem, Derek reaches back to start his way back in, and Stiles forgets everything about his favorite shower scene except, "Like that, yeah, like that," which he thought he might say theoretically and does; and, "Derek, oh my god." He thought he'd left that one behind but it's never far.
Derek thrusts back in, and Stiles finds it's easier in this position, not like he'd thought about in fantasies but with the reality of Derek's unceasing energy and unstoppable cock, he can take him better like this. Stiles thinks that, thinks unstoppable cock, and his mind blinks out a space; rockets back to earth as Derek keeps his ground and keeps himself in Stiles.
"And then?" Derek prompts. Stikes risks a glance over his shoulder, and. How are Derek's teeth so while? The man had to eat, and Stiles has seen him drink coffee and chew through people.
"I dunno," Stiles has to admit. On his hands and knees he feels like he's doing pretty well, but it's still kinda amateur to acknowledge that whenever he thought of them like this, he'd hardly thought much past Derek grabbing and sexing him up. The mechanics had never been entirely, precisely clear, just the imagery, and Stiles usually came before much else could happen in his mind's eye.
Not like now. Not with Derek now, who holds at his bent hips, and starts to lay out the pattern to best fuck him by.
After he starts, Stiles says, "Oh, my god-" one more time but if Derek is listening he doesn't show it. He's smooth motion against Stiles, into Stiles, in his element; Stiles looks while he can focus and Derek's eyes are closed, his muscles shifting with tension, his lower body locked up with Stiles's and rocking there, relentless, restless.
He'd asked for this but it's almost too much to take, down on his hands and knees, Derek a priming weight above him and all of Derek stretching him to the limits. Still Derek's trying to keep himself restrained, only it's not working right, and it's getting hard to breathe, and there's actual fog steaming up the windows from their shared body heat.
"Move, damn you," whispers Stiles. So Derek moves.
He remembers sweat and warmth and delicious friction. He remembers Derek at the depths of him. He remembers Derek grabbing, yanking him close, thrusting for years; he remembers Derek's mouth on his neck, and how Derek's teeth had lingered there, like they considered what a bite would be like. He remembers Derek moving away, and putting his lips into Stiles's hair; Derek running his tongue along the seam of scalp, shocking his short-hairs forever.
Finally Derek's mouth settling where his neck dipped into shoulder, settling for making a bruising, lasting mark. Stiles remembers Derek coming into him, again and again and again, and again, again, until Derek came; remembers the way Derek rode him and what Derek said when he came which he'll keep to himself thank you very much and the way Derek felt going off like that.
Derek doesn't pull himself out, Derek reaches around for Stiles's dick and has it in a sure hand.
Stiles can't stop moving against him, straining back, since Derek's still half-hard, back to the beginning, and then Derek drops his weight against him, his hand stroking Stiles, sure and assured.
Stiles doesn't collapse under the press of him – Stiles holds, and then he's coming with a cry, catching himself on his elbows when he'd really rather collapse. He comes so fucking hard he understands the thing now about seeing stars, there are stars behind his eyelids when he closes them, and there are stars in Derek's black hair when Stiles looks at him. Derek's hand is finishing up with his dick, teasing the last of it, and Stiles pants and then he breathes and then he breathes zen breaths from one to five so he doesn't completely freak the fuck out and stark shrieking about it.
Derek can't hold himself in forever and when he eases free, he falls against the cushion of the seat, facing sideways, and it's too easy for Stiles to drop next to him, there's nowhere else to go in the world.
They lie like that for a while considering orgasms and then Derek says, looking smug when Stiles dares to glance back, "I was careful tonight like I said I'd be,"
and he's about to speak on when Styles says it for him. "Next time, you won't be," he says for Derek. Derek can feel the goosebumps that sweep over Stiles's skin. Stiles turns around under his arm and they're naked against each other, face to face and limb to limb. Careful and not.
"I'll be ready," Stiles says, with a certainty that surprises himself, and when Derek is bent low, considering this, he purses his lips, and Derek leans in, and Derek's ever-questing tongue quests.
Then Derek is kissing him, mashing him to pleather, making Stiles one with the jeep. Derek Hale is kissing him and it's quiet outside the passenger window, no sign of the apocalypse except for this. Stiles accepts it and whatever zombies arise as a result and kisses back.
Kissing is almost weird, almost harder, than fucking. They struggle with it, lips and teeth and tongues, seeking equilibrium. They miss the mark on that because Stiles has never been so enthusiastic, throwing himself into it. Kissing gets more awesome the longer it goes on, he finds out. He'd always suspected this to be the case but now he has proof, a growing body of evidence. Derek doesn't need to know it's his first real kiss along his first real everything else but it is.
Instead Stiles thinks about the way Derek is shaped against him, and about how Derek's mouth is wet and warm and parted just so, so he slips his tongue inside. His tongue fits inside.
Derek hadn't been expecting that but he's welcome, Stiles feels the ungainly feeling of feeling himself wanted, and then Derek's tongue meets his. The thing about tongues is that they are a hell of a lot more effective and expressive than words are, and Stiles's tongue ends up telling Derek's too many things.
Stiles pulls away gasping. Derek's breathing is easier, but he's staring at him with big eyes, and Stiles has made Derek Hale's lips bright with blood from the act of making out, which should come with some sort of trophy and also be photographed for official documentation.
They keep looking at each other like they usually do and like they've never done before, and since there isn't anything left to say, they kiss in the backseat of the jeep until the next time.