The Jeep lets out a muffled cry that Stiles chooses to wholeheartedly ignore. He already knows what will happen if he decides to get out of his car in the middle of a rainy night with no living soul in sight. He’s not going to become a statistic for mysterious disappearances his dad will have to investigate. It’s not even as though he is paranoid. He’s just being realistic.
With a resigned sigh, he turns the key in the ignition and presses the gas pedal. There is a loud crash and for a brief glorious moment Stiles actually believes that his car has started again, because it is moving forward, if even just a little.
Seconds later, he realises that some asshole has just rammed into his behind. Indignant, he forgets all about his previous musings over statistics and gets out of his car. Soaked in seconds, he slams the door a little harder than strictly necessary and stomps over to the obvious culprit. He notices the broken windshield with barely disguised delight, but then stops in the middle of his tracks and does a double take, because he knows this car.
He must stare a bit too long, because the next thing he knows, he is tackled to the side. There is an unfamiliar smell of perfume surrounding him and then some brunette chick is baring her teeth at him. Stiles frowns, utterly fucking lost. He thinks he hears someone yelling. There’s a hot tingly feeling in his shoulder and he’s out.
When he regains consciousness, his clothes are clinging uncomfortably to his skin and Derek Hale is looming over him like he hasn’t been gone for the past six months and therefore made Stiles’ life just a tad more miserable by it. Stiles blinks confusedly and reaches out to poke at Derek’s stubble, because somehow there’s more of it and he’s disorientated. “Yo, Derek.”
Apparently that’s not an appropriate thing to say, because Derek’s admittedly magnificent eyebrows draw together in a stern line and Stiles is overwhelmed by a need to touch and smoothe them out. So he does.
“Stiles?” Derek asks, voice wavering as though Stiles’ name is one of those edible paper sheets and he’s afraid it’ll break if he pushes a bit too forcefully.
“Did you really just wreck my Jeep?” Stiles asks, because he, unlike hallucination Derek, has priorities. And it must be a hallucination, because why else would Derek be in Beacon Hills? As far as Stiles remembers he’d been so eager to leave that he’d not even said goodbye like a decent friend. Then again, he wasn’t sure they were friends in the first place. He’d sent a couple of texts after Derek left. One when he’d been concerned about Theo being unreliable and another when Stiles had turned eighteen. Derek had replied only to the first, though in fairness, the latter had been barely legible as Lydia had insisted on a proper party for him -- a party that meant a bizarre amount of fancy cocktails and more people he actually knew. Stiles had been utterly wasted by the end of it, so he couldn’t be blamed for sending vague longing texts to people he knew weren’t interested in them.
“She bit you!” Derek points out and Stiles frowns at him.
“The perfume lady?” Stiles asks, propping himself up on his elbows.
“She was an alpha werewolf, Stiles.”
“Was?” There’s something about the words that spark the parts of Stiles’ brain that usually draw conclusions, be they wrong or not. Derek eyes shifts uncomfortably from Stiles to the dead body right beside them and oh. Stiles isn’t even surprised.
“It’s only a flesh wound.” He insists, waving his hand dismissively. He’s already been bitten by all sorts of things. A couple of dogs at the veterinarian clinic. A venomous snake when he was eight (admittedly a nasty incident). A wendigo just a couple of months ago. It’s not like he cannot handle a tiny bite. He stretches his shirt collar until he can actually see the bite. By the looks of it, it’s not even that deep. He jabs at it in mild fascination. It does feel a little sore, but it’s nothing he can’t deal with. “I’ll get some saline and put a bandaid on it.”
“Stop prodding it,” Derek snaps, slapping Stiles’ hand away from his shoulder and Stiles huffs. It’s his shoulder. He’s allowed to touch his own body parts.
“Don’t you have bigger issues to worry about?” He demands, pulling his shirt back in its place, because that’s enough indecent exposure for one day. Especially in front of Derek.
“Bigger issues?” Derek asks, eyes still fixed on the spot on his shoulder.
“Yeah, bigger issues.” Stiles sighs and snaps his fingers in Derek’s face. “The dead alpha werewolf whose powers you just inherited? Her murderous pack that will undoubtedly want revenge? Scott?”
“What about Scott?” Derek asks and sometimes Stiles just doesn’t understand how this man’s still alive.
“Two alphas on one territory…” Stiles points out and Derek shrugs.
“Oh, I wasn’t going to stay for long.” Derek says, taking a step back and squinting at the wolfy corpse barely two feet from them. Stiles thinks he must be desensitized to this sort of thing by now, because he just doesn’t have the energy to complain.
“No, of course not.” Stiles says dryly and turns to inspect the damage done to his car. Turns out his Jeep has managed to survive the crash only with some minimal damages. There’s a minor scratch on the body, which is a decidedly better outcome than the large dent on Derek’s Camaro. Stiles can barely hide his smirk, but he figures he does it well enough, because instead of focusing on that, Derek keeps pressing him about the bite.
“You’re not feeling any… urges?” He asks as though the whole concept of Stiles being just fine is ridiculous.
“Maybe an urge to punch you in the face,” Stiles snaps and for some strange reason Derek smirks at that.
“Let me drive you home,” Derek suggests and Stiles agrees, mostly because he thinks Derek should be held responsible for somehow. As he settles on the passenger side of the Jeep he attempts to come up with many horrible things that would inconvenience the man, but he’s feeling a bit hazy again and all he manages is to mutter some vague hopes that Derek’s ceilings would leak.
“Was that Derek?” his dad asks in a bemused fashion as Stiles lets himself in, making sure his hoodie’s covering the bit of gnawing done to his shoulder. It’s not like he has to lie to his dad anymore, but it isn’t as though he’d ever felt all that guilty about it and by now it’s more of a habit of self-preservation than trying to keep others safe. Stiles is pretty sure that makes him a horrible person.
“No,” He lies, dropping his keys onto the kitchen table and turning on the kettle with much more force than strictly necessary. He retrieves a mug from one of the cupboards and when he turns around, his dad is looking at him with a quirked brow.
“So it was Derek,” the sheriff decides and Stiles just sighs. “I didn’t know he was back in town.”
“He’s not. In fact, he’s leaving soon,” he says in what he thinks is a cheerful manner. Stiles doesn’t want him around anyway. He’s had him for five minutes and already he’s managed to turn Stiles’ life upside down. No, he’ll be better off without him.
“I thought you liked him these days.” his dad says, alarmingly seeming as though he is trying to figure out some great puzzle. There is no puzzle. There’s only two corner corner pieces behind the shelf when the puzzle’s been thrown into trash long ago. Around six months to be more specific.
“Well, yeah, when he’s not around.” Stiles says, annoyed. His dad lets out a small chuckle and Stiles stops rummaging through the tea packets. Looks at him in mild horror, because his dad looks fond and nostalgic and whatever he’s thinking of, it cannot be good.
“Why don’t you invite him over for dinner tomorrow,” his dad suggests and alright, Stiles can admit it. He’s definitely screwed up. He types a quick ‘Call me asap!!’ to Scott and goes to bed, vowing to never ever lie to his dad again.
By the following morning the rain hasn’t stopped and Stiles only ventures outside because he wants to gloat about not becoming a werewolf to Derek’s face in person. There is also the unadvised dinner invitation, but that’s not the priority, ok? The important part is that Derek is wrong and Stiles wants to see his face when he tells him so.
He passes a bakery on his way and after some consideration he decides it’s only polite to get Derek some breakfast if he’s planning to destroy the man’s world view so early in the morning. Muttering under his breath, he makes a stop there and gets the new bacon flavored cupcakes they’ve been pushing recently and some coffee as a precaution. He doesn’t really know what Derek is like in the mornings, but this can only work in his favor.
He reconsiders his whirlwind decision at least four times by the time he gets to the Preserve. Derek has parked his car next to the Hale house and Stiles nearly passes it in favour of the house, except when he pauses to admire the bashed in windshield again he notices Derek curled up on the back seat, fast asleep. His breath catches a little and stops in his tracks. He has to remind himself that the doubled heartbeat is merely because he is startled and not because he finds the sight endearing in any way. Except… somehow Derek with his hair mussed up, damp and his nose buried in his leather jacket, presumably to block out the wind, does something to him.
Gathering himself, he leans close and taps on the window. Derek sits up in the blink of an eye, knocking his head against the roof of the car with a loud thud. Stiles doesn’t bother to hide his smirk as he opens the door.
“Scoot over,” he says, prodding at Derek’s legs until he scowls and draws them up close to his body. Stiles drops onto the seat and closes the door behind him, handing Derek his coffee and a share of the baked goods. Derek rubs the back of his head gingerly as he stares, lips parted, at Stiles like he’s seeing him for the first time. After the initial shock, however, he removes the lid of his coffee cup, sniffs at it and takes a careful sip. Stiles smiles smugly.
“Thanks,” Derek says, sounding a little uncertain. It’s not too surprising, considering he’s still a bit bleary eyed and fantastically ruffled. He does not look ready to deal with whatever Stiles can throw at him, which is why he decides to jump right in.
“My dad invited you to dinner. He thinks we’re having some sort of a torrid love affair.” Stiles offers, balancing his coffee cup between his thighs and selecting one of the cupcakes. Derek seems to consider this, lips pursed as he investigates the contents of the carton box.
“Why?” he asks, brows furrowing slightly.
Stiles glances up at him. Shrugs. “I don’t know. He has strange theories sometimes.”
“Did you tell him about last night?” Derek asks, absently scratching at his stubble and Stiles can’t quite drag his eyes away.
“Not really, no.” he admits, picking at his cupcake and frowning.
Derek hums under his breath and mimics Stiles by steadying his own coffee between his thighs as well, except he manages to pull it off much better simply by virtue of having a really nice pair of thighs. “Let me see the bite,” he says and reaches out to hover his hands around Stiles’ shoulder.
“You just want to grope me,” Stiles says with a smirk and bites into his cupcake. It is unexpectedly nice, if not a little bizarre.
“Touching your shoulder is hardly groping.” Derek says with his trademark scowl and that is enough for Stiles to yank down his shirt collar and his hoodie to show off his decidedly marred skin.
“Go on then, big guy.” Stiles says with a wink that Derek seems too busy to notice.
“I don’t understand.”
“There’s a shocker-” Stiles begins, because he’s determined to make this conversation as difficult for Derek as humanly possible. The man huffs, but shows no other signs he’s heard Stiles.
“You cannot be immune to a werewolf bite.” Derek says as though the fact that Stiles still has teeth marks on his skin has somehow personally offended him. Stiles is pretty certain Derek has never wanted to see him as a werewolf. It is more than likely that Derek is merely too caught up in his convictions to accept it, which is just as well, because that means Stiles’ original goal of proving him wrong has been a massive success. Mulling over it, Stiles fails to keep track of his surroundings. Suddenly there are long fingers sliding over his bare shoulder and it’s just a little too intimate for Stiles to not get worked up about it. If Derek’s not careful, Stiles will spend the next couple of months obsessing over the details of their relationship. He doesn’t want to. He’s already done it once, twice, too many times for it to be beneficial in any way. In an attempt to distract himself, he focuses on the conversation instead.
“Lydia is a banshee. You’re… something.” Derek says with a determined scowl.
“I figured I might be from the interest Peter showed in biting me,” Stiles shrugs, covers himself up again and picks up his paper cup. “And anyway, more than half of this town’s population is involved in some sort of a supernatural freakshow. I’m not that- what?”
Stiles stops his musings at the startled look Derek is giving him. “Peter did what?” Derek demands, nearly knocking over his coffee and Stiles goes to right it, realising just a moment too late his hand is quite literally between Derek’s legs. He withdraws it quickly, feeling like an idiot.
“He offered me the bite back when he was still an Alpha.” Stiles says, happy to guide Derek’s train of thought away from his unadvised movements. “You didn’t know?”
“No. I didn’t.” Derek says, biting into a cupcake and chewing thoughtfully. “Is this bacon?”
The dinner prospects are amended by Scott finally picking up his phone. Stiles has not been looking forward to it as he doesn’t exactly relish the idea of spending his evening, being cross examined by both Derek and his dad, so the addition to their little get-together is more than welcome.
He updates Scott on the basics over the phone while he does the shopping and in a delightful change of pace he gets a more optimistic response. Exceedingly optimistic, in fact, because Scott seems to drop whatever it is he’s doing and announces he’s coming over right now. Stiles has never been more glad to have such a great friend.
They work together on the dinner, Stiles doing most of the work, while Scott keeps getting distracted by all the new information. Stiles doesn’t mind. At least he can air his frustrations without being judged to hell for it.
“So, do you think he’ll stay in town for a bit?” Scott asks, gripping a half peeled potato in one hand and pointing at Stiles with the knife he’s holding in another. Frowning, Stiles extracts the knife from Scott and sets it on the counter.
“As long as it takes for him to figure out whether I’m dangerous or not, I suppose.” Stiles offers with some reluctance and Scott scrunches up his nose in empathy. Stiles figures Scott knows exactly how annoying Derek’s scrutiny can be. “Oh crap, I think I forgot the tomato sauce.” Stiles sighs, looking through the bag of groceries.
“It’s okay, bro, we’ll eat these dry,” Scott sticks to his characteristic optimism while Stiles goes through the fridge, hoping to find a replacement, because while Scott may find it in himself to enjoy a dinner consisting only of boiled potatoes, Stiles certainly cannot.
Interestingly, there is a can of tomato sauce sitting right there that hasn’t gone out of date just yet. Stiles lets out a small sound of victory, because finally, he has a tiny bit of luck. Scott drops the halves of his peeled potato into the pot, grabs the can from Stiles before he can find an opener. Stiles quirks a brow at him, lips twitching uncontrollably when uses a claw to get the thing opened.
“It’s quicker this way,” Scott shrugs and then grins slightly, “I’m sure your boyfriend would agree with me.”
“I’m never telling you anything ever again,” Stiles says and throws a potato at him.
Some time later Stiles’ dad gets home from work and not long after Derek gets there as well, looking grumpy and fresh from a shower. It is a little strange having the four of them in the same room together again, but apart from the few more uncomfortable queries from the sheriff, the dinner goes rather smoothly… until Scott and Derek rat him out and the truth about the previous night comes to light. The sheriff’s disappointed, yet resigned and Stiles assures him it’s because he hadn’t wanted to needlessly worry him. There is a certain edge to him that tells Stiles they’re going to have a heated argument about it afterwards, but he figures it could have been much much worse. They manage the dessert almost without an incident, though neither Stiles or Derek manage to refute the misconception his dad seems to have about the two of them dating, which Scott finds hilarious and treacherously encourages. Stiles is busy planning twelve kinds of murder in his head when the sheriff asks, “So, Derek, aren’t you thinking of settling down?”
Astonished, Derek glances at Stiles as if looking for a translation. Stiles shrugs his shoulders and Derek turns to Scott who merely hides his snickers behind a spoonful of cream. Derek scowls and in an intriguing turn of events says, “I have been considering it.”
Stiles grits his teeth and focuses instead on the rhythmic sound of the leaking tap.
He finds Derek back at the Hale house, curled asleep under the stairs and wonders. It hasn’t stopped raining since the night Derek arrived and unsurprisingly, the entire house is flooded. Sighing, Stiles ignores the pleasant twist in his stomach, kneels down next to him and strokes his arm until Derek blinks sleepily at him.
“I thought you were done with the Harry Potter performance arts.” Stiles says and thinks he imagines the twitch of Derek’s lips. “Couldn’t you have rented a nice dry room somewhere?” He asks, because the sight is sort of devastating and Stiles really thought they were past this. Past sulking about in abandoned buildings and whatnot. Derek is resembling a wet kitten and it does nothing but encourage certain warm feelings Stiles really shouldn’t be having.
“No, the ceiling’s leaking.” Derek says and Stiles just doesn’t fucking get it.
“Yes, the ceiling is leaking.” He agrees, helping Derek into a sitting position and wiping the damp strands from his face in an altogether revealing manner, before he can consider how terrible of an idea that is to let Derek know about the feelings he may or may not be harboring. It might be because Derek is already staring at him, eyes wide, that there is no particular reaction to the gesture. “And you should say somewhere where it isn’t.”
“That’s not- Have you looked at the weather forecast?” Derek asks and Stiles can’t quite make out whether he’s upset, annoyed or merely contemplative.
Derek doesn’t reply. Instead he fumbles with his phone for a little while before shoving it in Stiles’ face as though it explains everything. Stiles squints at the screen; watches tiny animated icons of the Sun turn around themselves in bafflement. Then stands up and snorts. “Oh my god, Derek, just take a look outside. Stop following this crap. You’re a born alpha werewolf -- aren’t you supposed to be one with nature or something?”
“That’s the point, Stiles. It’s not natural.” Derek says, scowling, clambering up himself and Stiles wonders whether the man’s finally lost it.
“Yeah, it is. Everything’s fucking soaked, dude.” Stiles gestures wildly at their surroundings, stuffs Derek’s phone back in his hands and seriously considers walking away from this conversation.
“I don’t even have running water in this house and my faucets are dripping! How exactly would you explain that?” Derek demands, eyes flickering between Stiles and the screen.
“Magic,” Stiles says, rolling his eyes, but Derek freezes and narrows his eyes at him, suddenly all challenge. “What?” Stiles asks, shifting his feet, feeling a little uncomfortable under Derek’s piercing stare.
“The other day you said you hoped my ceilings would leak,” Derek says slowly, unable to entirely mask the accusatory tone of his voice. Stiles just scowls at him.
“Oh, come on, Derek. That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard from you. I can’t just make things happen by sheer force of will.”
“You could with Mountain Ash!” Derek insists fiercely. Groaning, Stiles stalks out of the room, Derek hot on his heels.
Twenty minutes later they barge into the veterinarian clinic, both fuming and soaked to the bone.
“Derek thinks I’m a Jedi,” Stiles announces apropos of nothing and Dr. Deaton merely looks between the two with a mixture of blatant amusement and confusion.
“Hello, Derek.” he says in his usual mild manner and Stiles really hopes that is him acknowledging Derek being back in town, not him taking Derek’s side from the get go.
“Stiles takes offence to being called a witch.” Derek elaborates with a shifty side-glance at him, which annoys him even further.
“You can’t just decide I’m a witch and then burn me at the stake. It’s the twenty first century, asshole.”
“I didn’t just decide-”
“Yeah, you did. That’s just what you do. You jump to conclusions and then try to eliminate the threat, screw the consequences. Remember Lydia? Or Jackson?” Stiles demands, jabbing a finger at Derek’s chest. “This is exactly why you failed so much as an alpha. Where is your evidence?”
That turns out to be the wrong thing to ask, because the next moment a water drop lands straight on Stiles’ nose. Derek, folds his arms and glares at him expectantly. “That’s not- My hair’s wet!” Stiles huffs, gaping rather like an affronted fish.
“Yes, why is that?” Derek asks and the smug fucking look on his face is just too much to handle.
“Shut up! I wish you’d have a cloud over your head, at least then I could-” Stiles stops right in the middle of the thought, because there’s a dark shadow forming above Derek’s head and for fuck’s sake, the bastard’s fucking right. Oh god.
A few days later, Stiles realises the little nagging feeling at the back of his mind is actual guilt and figures he should probably do something about it. Not that he necessarily wants to. He is still a little upset about the whole witchy ordeal, but after discussing things with Lydia, he finds he has a new resolve. She is surprisingly supportive in her own bossy way.
“I’ll remind you that I didn’t have anyone to turn to when I was bitten.” she says, flipping her perfect strawberry blonde hair over her shoulder, “In fact, the lot of you were doing your best to conceal it from me. Frankly, I think you’re getting the good end of the stick.”
“Lydia, I make ridiculous things happen,” Stiles says, tipping his head back and closing his eyes, because in the few days he’s been aware of his abilities, he’s managed to screw things up fantastically. He’d think it was hilarious, except he’s the one causing it. “I’ve no clue how to control it.”
“Cheer up, at least you’re not the one finding dead bodies,” she says and steals the last of his fries. “Just figure it out. Anchor yourself like the rest of them. Don’t go around wishing rainclouds over people’s heads.”
He scowls at her and she smirks. Stiles thinks she might be enjoying herself a bit too much. After all, for all this time she’s been the odd one out and now he’s landed himself in this mess as well.
“Do you have an anchor?” Stiles asks as he sips on his Coke, suddenly intrigued by the concept. Lydia frowns. Shakes her head a little too fiercely.
“Aha!” Stiles cries victoriously, pointing a finger at her and making far too large spectacle of them in the crowded fast food restaurant. “You do! Out with it.”
Lydia crosses her arms and pouts. “It’s not really important,” she says and Stiles grins widely, far too mirthful for her liking, it seems.
“So, it’s immensely important.” he points out, wheels turning. Lydia narrows her eyes and seems to consider him for a moment.
“I’ll tell you what it is if you go and apologise to Derek.” she offers eventually and Stiles scowls at her.
“That’s manipulative.” He points out, snatching his fries from Lydia’s reach.
“So is that.” Lydia says, directing a pointed look at Stiles’ fries.
“Touché.” he sighs, sliding the whole plastic container in front of her with a rather sour look on his face.
“Just tell him you’re sorry, is it that difficult?” she demands, seeming to delight in the free access to Stiles’ food.
“Sort of?” He says, dropping his face in his hands, “He accused me of being a witch.”
“You are a witch,” Lydia points out, rather reasonably.
“I know,” Stiles groans and steals Lydia’s drink. “This is ridiculous.”
“Sure,” Lydia agrees and pretends not to notice Stiles downing all of her Sprite. It’s the nicest thing she’s ever done for him. “You should still apologise to Derek.”
“I know, but… he was such a jerk about it.”
“It’s Derek,” She huffs and finishes the last of his fries. Stiles doesn’t even feel a sense of longing. “What did you expect?”
“Scott was nice about it,” Stiles sighs, running a frustrated hand through his hair.
“If Scott’s reactions are your standard, you’re aiming too high.” she tells him as a matter of fact and then points a finger at him, “You conjured a raincloud that follows him about, Stiles. Of course he’s being a jerk.”
“I hate it when you’re right.” Stiles says miserably.
“I’m always right.” Lydia says, looking almost as smug as Derek had the other day.
“Alright, I’ll talk to him,” Stiles says eventually, narrowing his eyes at her.
“And the anchor thing, Lyds? Deal’s a deal.” he grins widely at her and suddenly she looks like she’s about to cry.
“Jackson.” She says, sounding petulant and Stiles cannot help but be affected by this confession. Rationally thinking, he should be upset, seeing as he’s fancied her for such a long time, but the heartfelt warmth surprises him.
“I’ll talk to Derek,” Stiles promises and Lydia offers him a tentative smile.
He gathers his courage a couple of days later; drives to the Hale house with a new purpose. He tells himself he is doing this because he made a promise to Lydia and she would never speak to him again if he would decide not to make good on it, but deep down he knows there is a whole other reason.
Derek yanks open the door, almost ripping it off its hinges, before Stiles can even get to it. He looks miserable and thoroughly soaked, but none of that gathers much sympathy in Stiles. Instead he has a sudden urge to kiss him senseless, but something tells him it would not be appreciated. Especially when he cares so little for the actual inconveniences.
“If it makes you feel any better, it was supposed to be a metaphor,” Stiles offers haughtily as he pushes past him, inside the house. Derek doesn’t look all that impressed with his statement, but Stiles cannot pretend to be all that shocked.
Derek indulges him -- at least enough to let him in and without further ado, Stiles drops onto his worn sofa, flinging an arm over his face. “I’m sorry.” he says, although it sounds as though he is still a bit unconvinced he should be the one apologising. “I know you hate witches,” Stiles says, dragging his fingers through his hair in frustration and eyeing the dark cloud hovering above Derek’s head with certain distress, “But I didn’t do it on purpose, and I think it’s a terrible idea, trying to kill me just because I don’t have a handle of it yet.”
“What. I am not trying to kill you. Why would I ever...?” Derek scoffs, and Stiles thinks he’s never been more pleased in his life.
“I can’t really wish this away, Derek.” Stiles tells him, folding his arms defensively over his chest. “Technically, it’s because I don’t want to.” he adds, because he’s trying to be honest here even if it gets his neck broken or his internal organs removed.
“That is the worst apology I’ve ever heard.” Derek notes and sinks onto the sofa next to Stiles. For a brief moment the proximity is actually pretty sweet, but then he realises any contact is going to involve a great deal of rain.
“Oh well, at least you get one.” Stiles points out and then scowls. “Anyway, I’m not done yet.”
“No, of course not.” Derek says dryly.
“Shut up. The point is, Derek, that you’ll be off the second this thing’s gone, because you’ve figured me out now. And well, turns out I’m just as boring as the rest of this town.” Stiles sighs and tips his head back, closes his eyes, because it is easier that way. “So while I sort of hate you for letting me get used to having you around again, I kind of wish you would stay.”
Derek is quiet for longer than usual and Stiles thinks it’s going to be one of those heartbreaking moments where he doesn’t even get a fucking reply. Stiles cracks one of his eyes open to glare at him.
“That was pretty heartfelt.” Derek notes, bumping Stiles’ knee with his own. “I think I could live with that.”
“There's more where that came from.” Stiles says and offers a hesitant smile.