I'll get it from them and their five year olds. Passive aggressive lunch notes are not fun, let me tell you. [ Stiles backs up into the door when Derek crowds him into it and tilts his head in a little, flashing him a bit of a smirk, even if the distance makes his heart flutter--go figure he's just shoving him with the door.

Stiles rolls his eyes, but it's good natured, and shoves him with the cookie tin in his arm, then dips out from under his arm like water and slides into the car. It's practically his front seat at this point--the seat's set to the length of his legs and leaned back the way he likes it, and one of his hoodies is piled up on the floor, which he notices waiting for Derek to come back. Whoops. He really does spend a lot of time here, to the point of where Scott asks him once a week how his boyfriend's doing.

It's so not funny.

Kicking back and propping his feet up on the dashboard, he tugs Derek's seat up to the very closest it can go to the wheel before he can get in, then offers him a bright grin, putting his casserole in his own lap. ] Let's get a move on, I'm pretty sure that Mrs. Johnson's gonna make those sweet potatoes that I love and if they're gone when we get there, I'm gonna be pissed.