Derek was sat in the left corner of the sofa, his feet firmly planted on the loft floor. Stiles lay with his head on Derek’s lap, humming contentedly as Derek’s fingers stroked through his hair.
Fingers that, suddenly, clenched tightly. Noticeably so.
“Okay, ouch, Sourwolf,” Stiles exclaimed, leaning away slightly. “What gives?”
Derek forced himself to relax, and resumed stroking Stiles’ hair.
“We’ve never talked about you moving in.”
Stiles’ breath hitched. Grimacing slightly, he made a conscious effort to even it out again.
“I’m not sure how to respond to that,” Stiles said honestly.
Derek snorted. “There isn’t a wrong or right answer, Stiles.”
“So…it’s a statement of fact?” Stiles asked cautiously, feeling an overwhelming need to tread carefully. It had taken 8 months for Derek to initiate this conversation – 8 glorious months of loving and being in love, fighting and making up again - and for damn sure Stiles was loathe to mess this up.
“Are you asking me to move in?” It was out there. It couldn’t be taken back. (Not that he wanted to take it back. Unless Derek wanted to take it back. Did Derek want to take it back?).
“Are you saying you want me to ask you to move in?” Derek frowned.
“Are you saying you don’t want me to ask you to ask me to – this is stupid.” Stiles sat up suddenly, dislodging Derek’s hand, and moving to the opposite end of the couch. “Let’s not half-ass it here, Derek. Are you asking me to move in?”
“Yes, I am. The sooner the better.”
Derek reached out to pull Stiles closer, only to be held off.
“I’m messy,” Stiles said abruptly.
Derek smiled faintly. “You’re not telling me anything new here.”
“I snore. Loudly.”
“So do I when I’m overtired.”
“I drool in my sleep.”
“And I steal the covers during the night.”
“I leave my breakfast bowls in the bathroom.”
“And I put them in the dishwasher.”
“I accidentally dye your laundry on a regular basis.”
“So I’ll start wearing all black again. It’s not a deal breaker, Stiles.”
Once again Derek reached out, and this time Stiles met him halfway.
“I want you to be sure. You can’t take this back, Derek.”
“I miss you before you even leave. I’m already anticipating you leaving. I miss seeing your clothes on the bedroom floor. My days feel weird when we don’t start them together. It hurts when you leave. Every time you leave. I hate that. I hate all of it. I want you here all the time.” Derek took a deep breath.
Stiles was silent for a moment. “When we’re in, we’re all in.”
“Stiles, we’ve always been all in,” Derek said softly. “Right from the start.”
Stiles moved closer, resting his head on Derek's shoulder, and his hand on Derek’s chest.
“Yes,” he said firmly.
“Yes?” Derek asked.
“Yes,” Stiles repeated.
They sat, enjoying the quiet of their decision.
“I also sing Tom Jones in the shower, complete with hip thrusts and shower-head-as-microphone awesomeness.” Stiles grinned smugly.
Derek groaned, and covered Stiles’ face with his palm, muffling the snorted laughter.