He's not sure why you're staring at him, until he mentally recaps what he just said. He mentioned making out in high school, and then asked you where you wanted to go. That would sound like an offer. He didn't mean it as an offer. He thinks. You don't really "go" anywhere when you go for a drive, so he's not sure what he meant. You took it as an offer, though. Your silence and the way you smile when you look down at the hand on his thigh confirms as much.

He shifts in the driver's seat when you speak, not sure if he would like you to move your hand further up his thigh or take it away entirely. You should probably leave it there if they're going to make out. He glances over at you when you mention a field where they could park, careful not to meet your eyes. He just wants to look at you. You're still very much a guy, stubble on your cheeks, angular cheekbones and jaw, a flat chest under the fabric of your shirt. Somehow, that doesn't seem to matter as much as it should. It doesn't stop him from dropping his eyes to your lips and wondering what they would feel like.

He returns his eyes to the road, flexes his grip on the steering wheel. "There's a box with tapes by your feet. If we're gonna do this, we'll need some music." So pick a tape and put it on, while he finds that field you were talking about.