Well, they veered from joking about road head to having a heartfelt conversation, so it only makes sense that they would swerve right back. Playfully, Wilhelm pushes at Jesper's chest to keep him corralled in the passenger seat.

"If you give me, like, two minutes, I can just park the car, idiot." That's a pet name, for the record, the way he says it. Then his smile softens. "You know I'm here for you, Jes."

He isn't sure where their temporary road has led them, but they're in a forest. No buildings in sight — the trees even block out the familiar silhouettes of the Horizon's grander structures, which stand against the sky. Slowing down, he pulls in closer to the trees and creeps and jerks to a stop. Puts it in park, kills the engine. Leaves the keys in the ignition. Even as he clicks off his seatbelt, the road sinks back into the ground and the trees crowd more densely around them in answer to his unspoken wish for privacy.

It takes some maneuvering and some cussing, but soon Wilhelm has wriggled into Jesper's lap. He runs his hands down his chest, touch light like a whisper and heavy like honey. He rests their foreheads together.

"Let me take care of you," he murmurs.