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"It's got a good safety rating," Derek mutters, ears pink.
Stiles makes an effort to stop laughing.
"Extra cup holders for every seat," he agrees, looking the Toyota's interior up and down. "Soft-rock Pandora station preset on the radio. Room for a car seat. It's like Crowley's Aston Martin from Good Omens, except instead of Freddie Mercury, any iPod left in the car will inevitably fill itself with Nickelback songs."
"Shut up," Derek says, glaring at the complicated and completely unnecessary GPS system and wondering if he should forego safety for a cooler option, like a Vespa. Fucking Stiles. At least this car has a decent-sized back seat, he thinks, and immediately pretends he didn't. "And put on your seat belt."
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“So it’s not even about getting to correct someone,” Stiles says. “You just needed a break from your long-winded family.”
Derek rolls his eyes.
“That’s obviously not what I’m saying. Eli! That’s not what I’m saying.”
“I know,” Eli says, from his room, and Derek nods, and says, “He knows.”
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There’s an AirTag in the trunk of Derek’s car.
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