Back downstairs now, Rhymin' begs that the limo driver travel "a little faster," and in the back of the car, he puts an arm around Trista and continues to outline their impending night of passion: "We're taking the phone off the hook and locking the deadbolt. They won't be able to get us out." Entering the suite, Rhymin' and Trista mutter various permutations of "wow," Trista's exclamations underscoring her appreciation of her aesthetic surroundings, Rhymin's a soaring tribute to the fact that he can't believe he's actually about to get laid on national television. The candles are lit, the wine is poured, and Rhymin' lays his hand out on one of the many deco-according-to-Ikea tables, whispering reverently, "I'm the luckiest guy in the world." In interview, he tells us, "I'm not falling in love anymore. I'm submersed in it." And...smacky kissing. Should we be watching this? Because I'm not V.C. Andrews and this recap isn't that book your creepy older cousin or a precocious camp friend or maybe Russ had stuffed between a mattress when you were in grade school, so I can't recap it. I can't write a sentence that begins, "Trista's hand runs down Rhymin's sweater and around his back, fiddling with the..." No. No "fiddling." I'm sorry. This is their private moment, and I'm not invited. Finally, decorum steps in, and the W's "Do Not Disturb" sign swings into view as the cameras pull back and Rhymin' finally gets to use that sentiment that's been building up since so very long ago when the day first became so hard: "Oh, crap, that was fast. I'm so sorry. This almost never happens." It's gottta be time to blow Seattle; it's gotten less hard for Ryan now, and it's Space Needle no more.