Summary:

Scott is lucky, apparently. Ilya suggested picking him up in a sports car—he’d get tossed in the trunk with the rest of the baggage. Shoved in the back of Shane’s practical British whatever the fuck, knees bumping Ilya’s seat, headrest not adjusted for his height, Scott’s having flashbacks to growth spurts in mom vans driven by church volunteers. 

“How is our princess, hm?” Ilya ducks over to look at Scott in the rearview, and Scott already has a middle finger ready for him. 

“It’s damsel, Ilya,” Shane corrects. 

“Not helpful,” Scott interjects. 

...

It's only a week. Scott can survive a week, can't he?