Stiles is the first one who turns up—and he’s flushed and sweaty and panting. His shirt clings to his torso, the V-neck of the tee reveals his collarbones, and Derek tracks how little beads of sweat collect between them. It’s—obscene.
“You’re early,” Derek eventually manages but steps aside to let him in. Stiles lifts the hem of his shirt to wipe away the sweat from his face. Derek takes in the sweep of dark hair that travels from Stiles’ navel into the waistband of his pants. He doesn’t know how exactly he keeps it together but he does. Stiles turns around pushing his fingers through his hair, leaving it all tousled and unruly.
Stiles rolls his eyes. “Chill, dude, you said eleven thirty. It’s eleven,” he mocks with raised eyebrows. “I was hoping to find you in high spirits so you would let me use your shower?”
“No but you can use the garden hose.”
Stiles stares at him. “See that would be funny if you actually had a garden hose.”
“I had one installed, just for you.”
“Aw, you’re so considerate.”
“You better appreciate it.”
“Your courting techniques are something else, man.”
Derek lifts his eyebrows at Stiles and Stiles grins back widely. God, he has no idea what he’s doing to Derek, it’s insane. He just shakes his head, flinging the towel he brought from the kitchen over his shoulder.
“If I tried to court you, you’d know,” Derek retorts, making his way back into the kitchen. Stiles trails after him. His breathing has even out in the meantime and the flush has disappeared from his face. Derek can see the lean muscle through the shirt, his defined biceps and the sinewy forearms. Stiles has grown so much into himself since they first met. He seems much more comfortable in his own skin now, although he still flails a lot. And he’s still the sarcastic little shit he’s been when Derek met him and Scott a couple of years back. Derek figured it’s a Stiles thing and it’ll be always part of him; it shouldn’t be so endearing.
Stiles snorts. “Oh yeah?”
“It would blow you away,” Derek deadpans, and Stiles laughs, loud and outrageously cheerful; Derek absorbs the sound greedily.
“I’d probably pass out. Or drool. Possibly both,” Stiles says gleefully. Derek shoots him a look. “Dude, don’t look at me like that, you started it.”
“Stop sweating all over my kitchen and go shower,” Derek orders gruffly. He grips the towel on his shoulder to keep from reaching out to Stiles. “You stink and you’re gross.” If only.
Stiles flips him off cackling like a mad man before he disappears up the staircase. Derek listens to him
padding around upstairs while getting some change clothes out of one of the drawers. Every pack member has a drawer in Derek’s loft filled with change clothes in case they go after some nightmarish creature. In case it ends bloody but they have to appear clean somewhere so no one notices, they shower and change at his place. It doesn’t happen as often as it used to anymore.
Derek tries to tune Stiles out but it’s easier said than done considering he has nothing else to do than to wait for the others to arrive and Stiles—well it’s hard not to listen to Stiles.
“Yo, Derek!” he hollers from upstairs.
“What?” Derek yells back, rolling his eyes at Stiles’ shouting. As if he wouldn’t hear him if he talked quieter.
“Where are your clean towels?”
“They’re in the laundry,” Derek answers. “Just use mine.”
“What if I don’t want to use a towel you already used on yourself?”
Derek groans quietly to himself. This is one hundred percent unadulterated Stiles right there, driving Derek up the wall. He’s most likely doing it on purpose too, because for some reason he enjoys being a pain in Derek’s ass.
“You still have the option of blow-drying,” Derek says and facepalms immediately at the unintended innuendo. He’s just lucky no one else of the pack is here for this.
“Is this an offer or a promise?” Stiles asks, amusement clear in his voice.
“It’s a threat,” Derek offers.
Stiles laughs; a sound that skitters down Derek’s spine and ignites little sparks in his chest. He can’t remember when the last time was a single sound made him feel so good.
“Sure thing, big guy,” Stiles replies. He starts whistling a melody that’s unknown to Derek, and then a door shuts, and Derek has a hard time trying to keep his mind away from Stiles stripping out of his clothes.
He’s saved from picturing mind-melting images of Stiles—naked, in his shower—when the others arrive, led by Lydia; behind her trails Jackson who balances a plate with tiny but artfully looking cupcakes on one hand and a bowl filled with salad on the other. Jackson looks like he’s in actual pain—it’s his default expression whenever he forced to join pack activities. No one mentions to him that they know he secretly enjoys this as much as everybody else.
Lydia greets him with a short, “Derek,” and moves right past him and into the kitchen, waving Jackson to come with her. Derek sees him rolling his eyes. Isaac dumps a load of chips bags and other snacks into his arms, grinning widely, and stalks away into the living room, probably to start up the gaming console they placed in the loft. (Derek protested but it was no use. Sometimes he feels that his pack simply doesn’t respect his authority.)
“I figured I can bring the good stuff,” Erica says in lieu of a greeting and presents a bottle of Jack to him.
“It’s lunch time,” Derek replies but she waves him off with a roll of her eyes. He can already tell she’ll goad Jackson into drinking with her to see who’s totally hammered first. Boyd sends him a little knowing smirk.
Allison and Scott enter last. Scott greets in passing and joins Isaac in the living room while Allison sighs long-sufferingly before bestowing Derek with a warm smile. They’ve gone a long way until they were able to be easy around each other. Even after Allison had found out what the real reason of her mother’s death was, it hadn’t been easy. Derek didn’t trust her for a long time for the sole reason that she’s an Argent, a hunter, and all of her family’s deaths were connected to him one way or the other; just the same way as his own family’s death was connected to hers. It had taken several fights on the same team to gain at least somewhat of a foundation for something like a very thin, very, very fragile bond. It’s grown since then, though. Still, Derek catches himself sometimes looking at Allison and just—wishing her family away. He thinks it will never really go away.
“Hey,” she says, being the first who really greets him. She holds up two bottles of red wine. “I thought I bring along the wine.”
“Yeah,” Derek responds, nodding. “Good thinking.”
Allison smiles and takes some of the snack bags from his arms and helps carry it to the kitchen. Lydia is prodding around the ingredients for their lunch that Derek lined up on the counter. She seems satisfied, though, if the expression on her face is anything to go by. Allison puts the wine on the table, next to where Erica left the bottle of Jack.
“Where’s Stiles?” Scott asks walking into the kitchen. He has his phone in one hand and frowns at it.
Derek opens his mouth to answer when a loud and very off-key version of Teenage Dream beats him to it. All of their heads snap up to the ceiling.
“He came earlier,” Derek explains then, after clearing his throat, and adds, “He was on a run and wanted to take a shower.”
Stiles continues singing. Derek closes his eyes and draws his eyebrows together in a desperate attempt to tune it out. Unfortunately, it doesn’t work. Isaac, Erica and Jackson are already crying with laughter.
“That sounds even worse than when you pull a cat’s tail,” Jackson manages to say and grips the counter so hard it creaks.
“Singing isn’t exactly his strength,” Lydia states matter-of-factly. She turns around to Derek. “Someone should enlighten him.”
Defensive, Derek immediately says, “No.”
Lydia gives him her best You Are a Moron Eyes. “You’re the only one who can sweet talk him out of embarrassing the living shit out of himself,” she explains graciously.
“It’s a little too late for that,” Jackson snorts sardonically. “You should’ve told him that the day he was born.”
“LA,” Scott says ominously and narrows his eyes. Jackson visibly pales at that. Derek hears Erica and Isaac choke with laughter, and from where he’s standing he can see even Boyd smirks. Yeah. Derek remembers LA. He’d rather not.
“How much will it take do you think until he blushes so prettily?” Erica asks. The tone in her voice gives away how much she enjoys this—and will enjoy it, teasing Stiles that is. Derek sighs inwardly. Stiles doesn’t normally blush easily; if something embarrassing happens, he joins in laughing about it. He flushes when something unexpected happens, something he doesn’t want anyone to know about, or when it’s accidental. And this, his singing in the shower, is definitely something he wouldn’t want anyone to know about. Derek can’t even tell exactly how he knows that—he assumes, really—but when Stiles went to shower the others weren’t there yet and he probably thought they wouldn’t arrive for another twenty-five minutes at least. Derek tries hard not to think about how this could mean Stiles is comfortable enough around him to even start singing in the shower. He might be wrong after all.
“Not much,” Isaac answers with a thrill of anticipation clear in the tone of his voice.
“I bet Derek is a secret Katy Perry fan,” Erica says while flipping open his laptop. There’s a predatory smile on her lips.
Lydia smirks evilly. “Please. There’s no music that’s dark enough for him.”
“That’s why he compensates,” Jackson adds. Derek follows them into the living room, keeping his mouth firmly shut, refusing to be baited. “With Katy Perry and Nicki Minaj and Taylor Swift.”
Boyd snorts, “And you know that so well, because those are constantly on your playlist too.”
“Placebo,” Erica reads aloud, probably from out of Derek’s iTunes library. “That’s pretty dark.”
“Look at that: Snow Patrol. Does it bring some light into the darkness?” Isaac barely contains his wide smirk. Derek rubs a hand over his face. A lot of music on his laptop comes from Stiles. He’s been pestering Derek about music for ever, what his favorite song is, what kind of genres he likes, what his preferred band is. Derek stopped listening to music actively after the fire. It just—he never felt like it. So Stiles took it on himself to introduce Derek to some of his own favorite stuff, and Stiles taste in music is very broad. He listens to almost everything and anything, from classical music over classic rock to electronica. Derek doesn’t like all of it but he keeps finding some songs and pieces he really appreciates, and every time he tells Stiles, Stiles beams at him with blinding force.
“The Cure,” Lydia says with a knowing glimmer in her eyes as she regards Derek. “Lovesong.”
He doesn’t say that it’s one of his all-time favorites. Or that he knew the song even before Stiles put it into his library or that Stiles listened to it on repeat for a day when he spent time at the loft when they were looking for another monster of the week that was wreaking havoc in Beacon Hills.
They all look at him with a weirdly sync expression on their faces. He surely didn’t plan much ahead when he decided to turn a bunch of teenagers back then.
“There’s some Bloodhound Gang on it,” Derek says instead of responding to their knowing looks and shrugs. Scott stares at him wide-eyed. Derek knows from Stiles that they share a weird preference for The Bloodhound Gang, and Scott probably can’t believe he has something in common with Derek.
“You like The Bloodhound Gang?” Scott asks incredulously. Erica looks intrigued.
Derek shrugs again. “You want to look for a new favorite band now?” he shoots back.
Scott glowers at him as if Derek’s insulted him. “No,” he answers brusquely and shakes his head. “You just don’t strike me as someone who’d like them.”
Derek doesn’t respond verbally, he just rolls his eyes. He’s always thought it’s stupid make assumptions about someone’s taste in music on just how they act or look. Stiles has stopped singing in the meantime and comes bustling down the staircase. He freezes when he notices them all sitting in the living room. His eyes are almost comically wide, his mouth open as if to express voiceless surprise. Stiles looks weirdly uncomfortable, his eyes darting across the room and looking at each and every one of them.
Eventually, he clears his throat. “Hey, guys,” he says. He gets a greeting in unison back while he slowly saunters to the couch where Erica sits with the laptop propped up on her thighs.
Derek is busy trying to do anything but looking Stiles up and down. He’s wearing dark jeans and light grey, hooded Henley; his hair is still damp from the shower, and he looks—edible. Derek puts the pads of his palms on his eyes and sighs.
“Is—did something happen?” Stiles asks suspiciously, and when Derek looks again, his eyes are narrowed appraisingly. “You’re—quiet.”
Jackson smirks smugly and opens his mouth. Derek knows if it was up to Jackson, he’d never let Stiles live it down. He flashes his eyes deliberately at Jackson and bares his teeth simultaneously. Jackson glowers, looking like a child about to throw a full-blown tantrum, but he shuts his mouth with an audible but quiet click. Stiles who’s been standing with his back to Derek turns around and shoots him an assessing look. Derek plasters on his most inviting smile. Stiles’ eyes narrow a little more but he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he regains his confidence and claps his hands.
“So, you ready for some badass cooking?” he asks, bouncing on his toes excitedly.
“Yes,” Derek says and glares some at Jackson. “In fact, Jackson volunteered helping in the kitchen.”
Erica bites her lip and Isaac ducks his head. Scott, on the other hand, doesn’t try to conceal his glee. Jackson shoots them all a dirty look before he gets up and stalks into the kitchen. Stiles has one of his eyebrows arched questioningly and Derek just shakes his head in answer.
Stiles doesn’t join him in the kitchen; he stays in the living room and takes seat next to Erica. Scott plasters himself to Stiles’ free side and they hover over the laptop together, going through the music and commenting on different artists and songs and albums.
When Derek walks into the kitchen, he gets the distinct impression that Jackson’s never actually cooked before. He says so much.
“I stick to pasta,” Jackson retorts, a little proudly even.
“Because pasta is such an accomplishment,” Derek remarks dryly. He orders Jackson to peel the potatoes and drop them into the pot afterwards while Derek starts on stewing some vegetables. Watching Jackson peel potatoes is entertaining, to say the least. It’s accompanied by a running commentary that basically consists of very creative cursing. Jackson gets brownie points for being thorough though, because despite all the cursing he peels them perfectly and without wasting a lot of pulp, and Derek orders him to cut them into slices.
“You happy now?” Jackson grouses when he’s done and throws the last potato into the pot.
Derek smirks. “Delighted.”
Stiles and Allison walk in, talking, for some unknown reason, in Spanish. Derek thinks it borders on lewdness how ridiculously sexy it sounds. He didn’t even know Stiles could speak Spanish fluently, Allison too, apparently.
Jackson stares at them with a judgingly arched eyebrow. Standard Jackson procedure, right there. Stiles doesn’t even bother rolling his eyes at him, Allison just shrugs playfully and flashes a wide, dimpled smile.
“Did you come to be useful?” Jackson asks. He tries to mask his hopefulness with gruffness but fails miserably and Derek has to bite his tongue to keep from laughing out loud.
Stiles snorts. “We came to get the alcohol,” he snickers and winks at Allison.
“No,” Derek cuts in. “No alcohol until lunch. I’m not going to peel you off the floor, because you’re unable to hold your liquor.”
Stiles splutters and waves his hands around aimlessly. “I’m not intend on getting drunk, dumbass.”
Derek can’t remember when he stopped taking offence at Stiles’ calling him names, and he doesn’t know when the exact point was when he started being fond of it. It’s pathetic, really pathetic. Laura would pat his cheek and croon, You got it so bad, baby bro.
“Stiles, when you drink wine you’re hammered even faster than Jackson can pull a bitchface at me, and it’s even worse when you haven’t eaten before. So, no alcohol for you.”
Stiles stares at him flabbergasted with his mouth open. He’s about to protest further when Allison chimes in, “He’s actually right, you know.”
He glowers at her and mutters something that sounds a lot like traitor but Allison just smiles sympathetically.
“I hate it when you conspire against me,” Stiles whines eyeing the bottles of wine wistfully. Jackson rolls his eyes so hard Derek thinks he might strain something.
“We’re preventing you from getting drunk off your ass before lunch is even ready,” Derek corrects him graciously. Scott calls for Allison from the living room and she turns to leave. Stiles peeks into the pot filled with potatoes while Jackson stirs the water looking deeply bored again.
“Did you peel those?” Stiles asks.
“No, they magically peeled themselves and jumped into the pot,” Jackson answers.
Stiles nods. “Because you’re a fairy, you know, like Merryweather from Sleeping Beauty.”
Derek has to take a deep breath while Jackson glares daggers at Stiles.
“I’m not the fat fairy.”
“Hey, no bullying!” Stiles says, indignant. “Wait, which one do you want to be? Flora or Fauna?”
“Maleficent,” Derek provides and Stiles barks out a laugh.
Jackson has an expression on his face that’s caught somewhere between incredulity and boredom, with annoyance around the edges. He raises an eyebrow at Derek.
“You know Sleeping Beauty?” Stiles wheezes turning to look at Derek, eyes bright with amusement.
“Cut me some slack, Stiles, I’m not that uncultured.”
“Just screw each other already, Jesus,” Jackson comments, huffing out a breath.
Silence settles over them. Derek would give a lot to know what’s going through Stiles’ head now. The way he casts his eyes down and swallows doesn’t seem like Stiles is thrilled about the situation or the indication. He’s always unusually shy when someone makes a comment about them, Derek and him that is. Derek can’t tell if it’s, because Stiles is embarrassed about it or if he just doesn’t like the implication of it; if he doesn’t like that people think there might be something between them.
Stiles clears his throat. “I’m gonna…,” he trails off and awkwardly jerks a thumb over his shoulder before he turns and nothing but flees.
When Derek looks up, Jackson is glancing at him with something that Derek might call sympathy. It’s gone the next second though, as he rolls his eyes again turning back to the potatoes. Derek lifts the lid of the pot with the vegetables and stirs them a little, trying to stomp down the thoughts that clog his head. About what it means that Stiles always appears to be uncomfortable when someone mentions their weird…relationship.
“Sissies,” Jackson mutters to the potatoes and frowns at them. Derek refrains from stabbing him with a fork.
“Fry the steaks, idiot,” he snaps instead. He ignores the glower Jackson sends his way and hands him a pan and some oil.
Jackson curses and whines, because the oil splatters around and lands on his hands and arms. It’s hilarious actually, Derek could watch for hours. He doesn’t, though, because Stiles comes back in and groans exasperatedly when he sees Jackson’s poor attempts at flipping one of the stakes while standing an arms-length away from the stove.
“Are you kidding me?”
Jackson makes a face, looking sour. Stiles rolls his eyes and sighs gesturing Jackson to step away. He takes over at the stove, turning down the heat, and pushes the steaks around a little. Jackson looks relieved and saunters off before Derek can say anything.
Derek checks the vegetables and takes them off the hot plate. “So,” he starts casually. “Since when do you speak Spanish?”
Stiles looks at him surprised. “You don’t know?”
Derek rakes his memory for something, tries to remember Stiles telling him about Spanish but he comes up empty. “Uh. No.”
“Huh.” Stiles huffs quietly and flips a steak in a swift motion. “Allison and I’ve been taking Spanish classes since freshman year at college.”
That explains why Allison is fluent too. “You never told me,” Derek states, manages nonchalance even. Usually, Stiles tells him about a lot of stuff: about all the classes and courses he takes, about the people he meets, about things that remind him of Derek. So it’s almost a little—unsettling that Derek didn’t know about the Spanish classes. Especially since Stiles has just finished his sophomore year.
“It never came up, I guess,” Stiles says.
You don’t need a reason or an occasion to tell me stuff, Derek doesn’t say. He fills the vegetables into a pretty bowl Lydia got him sometime after she declared his dishes not pretty enough, and then starts on the sauce.
“I thought you knew,” Stiles tells him then. He quickly casts a glance at Derek. “I mean Allison and I talk about it all the time.”
“Not to me.”
“Well.” Stiles fidgets a little, prods at the potatoes with a wooden spoon. He smirks cheekily. “Maybe you just never listened.”
I listen to everything you say.
“I listen,” Derek replies and scoffs, “You just talk so much it’s hard to keep up with.”
“You know what you should work on then,” Stiles counters. He takes the potatoes off the stove and drains the water before getting out another frying pan (also a courtesy of Lydia), oiling it and pours the potato slices into it.
“Because it’s such an important survival skill.”
“You never know. One day I tell you something important about wereorcas, so you’re not completely helpless when they attack you, and when you don’t memorize it—you’ll regret it.”
“Insert random monster of the week.”
“I don’t know how a werefly is a monster of the week type but—”
“Yeah, until there’s a billion of them and they shit all over you.”
“I’d rather not picture that.”
“See? Important stuff,” Stiles points out, face serious and brandishes the wooden spoon in Derek’s face. He turns his attention back to frying the steaks and the potatoes.
“Very,” Derek agrees and watches, intrigued, how Stiles’ fingers wrap around the spoon; how his tongue peeks out between his lips while he flips the steaks again; watches his naked forearms and how his shirt wrinkles where he’s pushed the sleeves up to his elbows.
Stiles hip checks him when he reaches over to get salt and pepper from out of one of the cabinets. He stretches a little too far, though, and loses his footing, so Derek grips his hips to hold him steady. It’s weirdly intimate. Stiles sends him a little, thankful smile as he pulls back, hips moving under Derek’s hands. Derek doesn’t let go.
He looks at Stiles and Stiles looks right back. They’re close, close enough that Derek can feel Stiles’ breath on his skin or see the way his pupils dilate just a fraction. Derek’s throat is suddenly dry and his pulse picks up a little while he fans his hands out over Stiles’ hips, resting his fingers against the waistband of his jeans and rubs tiny circles into Stiles’ skin with his thumb, just under the hem of his shirt where it has ridden up a bit. Stiles moves sinuous, adjusting his position, so they’re almost flush against each other, and Derek wants. He wants to lean in, to mouth at Stiles’ collarbone and nose along his jaw; caress his neck and kiss his lips. He wants so much more.
And Stiles—he knows Stiles would let him.
Every fiber of Derek’s body is bowstring tight with anticipation, with need and yearning. If Stiles would kiss him, ask him for anything, Derek would give it without hesitation.
He doesn’t go for it. Neither does Stiles.
Scott’s voice startles him out of his dazed state. Derek turns to look at him, hands still on Stiles’ hips, although he pries his thumb away from the heated skin.
Scott is standing in the door looking at them wide-eyed and a little guilty. Erica appears next to him, following his view and proceeds to smack Scott on the back of the head.
“Did you seriously just cockblock them?” she asks, outraged.
“What?” Scott’s eyes get even wider. “No—I—How was I supposed to know?”
Stiles slips free and flavors the potatoes. “Lunch is ready in five,” he informs Scott and Erica, shooting them a quick look while Erica still scolds Scott.
“You sure you don’t need another five minutes?” Erica asks. “Or ten? Half an hour?”
Stiles rolls his eyes at her and swats Derek’s hands away from where he turned to grip the pan with the sauce. Derek lets go without actually meaning to, staring, watching Stiles stir the sauce and turn the stove off completely.
“Moment’s gone,” Stiles simply answers with a wry smile. “You can get the wine glasses out and uncork the bottle,” he adds, making a shooing motion with one of his hands in Scott’s and Erica’s direction.
Derek can’t quite decide whether to feel euphoric about Stiles acknowledging the moment or actually fret about it. Actually, they’ve had a lot of those moments: when they were close, leaning into each other, touching, smiling. Derek recalls a lot of times when it could have been easy to lean in and take, take, take. He never seized the chances, never overstepped that one boundary, even though he was so, so tempted to do so every time.
Sometimes, he wonders why Stiles doesn’t just do it. Then again, Stiles never asks and never pushes. He quietly accepts that the moments just pass without anything happening. Derek wants to ask so badly, wants to know, Why? He doesn’t.
Stiles glances at him, sends him a small, fleeting smile, and Derek returns it.
He doesn’t kiss Stiles. He only touches, sometimes, when he can, in private moments like the one they just had; basks in the intimacy of it, enjoys how Stiles lets him and how safe and sound it makes him feel, how happy. Derek doesn’t kiss Stiles, because he doesn’t know if he should, if he’s ready. He’s spent a lot of time building this relationship, this trust and closeness. There are so many what ifs in his head that he just can’t—he doesn’t want to risk anything. Derek is too afraid of possibly losing it all. It doesn’t matter that Stiles and he have been tiptoeing around each other for a long time now. Stiles is bright and shimmering, vibrant and versatile; the way he works is still a mystery to Derek even though he has known him for years now. Derek isn’t sitting in a dark pit anymore, admittedly, but he’s still far from being as easy-going and open-minded as Stiles.
It’s just—it’s not easy.
He helps Stiles to get the steaks onto a plate and they carry everything to the already set table in the living room (which is also something Lydia is responsible for; the table that is).
During lunch, Derek sits next to Stiles. Their knees are constantly touching; he can feel Stiles push back against him sometimes, sending him surreptitious glances. It’s loud and familiar, and comforting in a way Derek has last felt when his family was still alive. Stiles smiles at him again. The sensation that trickles through Derek is immense, warm and overwhelming.
When they’re finished, Derek reaches under the table, resting his hand on Stiles’ thigh, palm up, and Stiles slides his fingers into his hand unhesitatingly. They don’t look at each other and Stiles is in a fiery discussion about who’s more badass: Han Solo or James Bond, but Derek can tell that Stiles is also aware of their joined hands. He strokes over the spot of skin between Stiles’ thumb and his index finger.
Stiles drinks exactly one glass of wine and then just water.
They decide to go to the movies late in the afternoon, after they’ve cleaned up and devoured the cupcakes Lydia brought. Derek tried not to stare too blatantly when Stiles licked the frosting off his fingers. Boyd smirked at him, and Isaac made kissing motions at him and pointed at Stiles. Derek pinched the bridge of his nose.
Stiles gets outvoted by them all about the movie and he pouts indignantly while they leave the loft. Derek puts an arm around his shoulders, squeezing gently.
He can’t help himself. He says, “Come on, Teenage Dream, don’t pout. I’ll go watch the movie with you some other time.”
Stiles freezes and closes his eyes, frowns at himself. “And here I was lulling myself into sweet, sweet denial.”
He blushes almost violently, the flush creeping up under the collar of his shirt. Derek wants to put his lips to the heated skin, kiss it, lick it, taste it.
He smirks at Stiles. “At least no one recorded it.”
Stiles groans exasperatedly and buries his face in his hands. Derek rubs his flat hand over his back.
“You’ll watch the movie with me?” Stiles asks then, changing the topic and looking up again. He seems excited and pleased.
“Pinky promise,” Stiles demands and holds out his pinky finger. Derek doesn’t know why Stiles insists on that but it’s a quality he grew to like about him: the way that Derek can’t always figure him out or predict what he will do next. So he pinky swears and watches how a blinding smile spreads on Stiles’ face.
From where Erica, Jackson and Isaac are leading the way, they start singing Teenage Dream. Derek can’t help but laugh at Stiles’ wail.