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Stiles waits out front of the school, grinning and bouncing on his toes. He’d finally turned 18, which means that he and Peter don’t have to be discreet anymore. A normal person might have just relaxed and let things happen, but neither he nor Peter were exactly normal.
Lydia pauses next to Stiles on her own way out and gives him a look. “What’s got you so keyed up?”
Stiles hears the engine before he sees the car. “Wait for it,” he says, grinning.
The Shelby 1000 Cobra—sleek, brilliant blue, engine growling like a werewolf—prowls into view, neatly darting around more mundane cars and stealing a spot at the curb that someone else was definitely signaling for.
Heads turn. People stop walking to look. Stiles could swear folks hold their breaths when the driver’s side door opens. Peter steps out gracefully, a smug grin curving his lips, and comes around to lean back against the passenger side door.
Stiles laughs before heading straight to him. “Are you pleased with your entrance?”
“It’s almost perfect,” Peter says, and raises an eyebrow.
Snickering, Stiles nevertheless leans in and kisses him.
With tongue, just in case any onlookers were trying to fool themselves.