The inside of the old Camaro smelled like asphalt and desire, gasoline and dreams.

You're not going to die," I told her, lifting my head to look at her. "I'm not done writing songs about you yet.

There was no sun; there was no light. I was dying. I couldn't remember what the sky looked like. But I didn't die. I was lost to a sea of cold, and then I was reborn into a world of warmth.

I wasn’t sure if I was charmed by his reluctance to share a bed with a girl or insulted that, apparently, I wasn’t hot enough for him to charge the mattress like a bull.

I considered calling Grace to ask her what I should say to a reticent suicidal werewolf, but I'd left my phone somewhere. Car, maybe.

Okay, outside," the clerk said. "Conversation outside. Bye! Have a nice night!

Finn never looks more excited - he just gets faster. Finns are generally slow-moving creatures.