Chapter Text

XII

Stiles had gone home after that.

What else had there been to do, really?

He’d gone home, cried his eyes out, and then done his best to get on with his life.

He’d managed to mention what had happened to Ben, but a mention was really all he’d been able to handle.

“Oh?” Ben had said when Stiles had told him that he’d gone to Derek’s to talk. “So how did it go, then?”

And Stiles had just shaken his head mutely, even in the face of Ben’s gentle prodding.

He can’t talk about it yet. Hasn’t managed to sort things through in his own head. Is still struggling quite a bit with internalizing the knowledge that Derek apparently wants him too; can feel himself starting to brace for someone jumping out of the bushes and shouting ‘hah, you really fell for it, didn’t you!?’ whenever he gets too close to fulling believing it.

He’s definitely not ready for seeing Derek’s car parked outside his house.

“Scott…” he says when he spots it.

“Wah,” Scott says, when he sees it too. “What’s he doing here? Did you… Were you going to meet him or something?”

Stiles shakes his head and Scott slows the car down almost to a crawl, though Derek must have spotted them already. How long has he been here? Stiles has been at Scott’s since morning, and they’re only swinging by to pick up Stiles’ lacrosse stick for some impromptu reminiscing about their now bygone high school days. In other words: Derek should have had absolutely no idea of when Stiles was going to be coming back home.

Has he just been standing there?

Waiting?

“Dude,” Scott says, “we can totally just turn around.”

Scott has now stopped the car entirely, in the middle of the street, even though Derek has most likely spotted them in the rearview already.

Stiles swallows, but shakes his head.

“No,” he says. “No, it’s- it’s fine. Keep going. I’ll go see what he wants.”

Stiles can’t help but to notice that, yep, his dad’s definitely still at work, just like he’s said that he would be. A good thing for Derek, most likely, considering the whole lurking-vibe he’s got going on.

Scott drives slowly up until his car is parked behind Derek’s.

“Want me to go tell him to piss off?” Scott asks, loud enough that Derek can almost certainly hear it over the gentle rumble of the stationary car.

Stiles hasn’t told Scott basically anything about what happened when he went to talk to Derek, but apparently his silence has been enough for Scott to have come to the conclusion that Derek must have been an asshole about it. It isn’t… entirely true, but Stiles kind of likes things this way anyway.

“No,” he says, shooting Scott a slightly lopsided, forced smile in response. “That’s okay. I’ll… I’m just gonna go see what he wants.”

He opens the door and gets out of the car and tries to take deep breaths. Behind him, Scott shuts his car off. Maybe it’s not even Derek. Maybe it’s Erica who’s graduated from Netflix passwords to grand theft auto, and has fallen asleep at the wheel waiting for him to come back home.

He reaches the passenger door and it’s Derek.

Obviously it’s Derek.

He’s sitting in the driver’s seat, still, radio off and his hand resting on the handle to the door without actually pulling it.

Stiles waits a moment to see if Derek’s maybe going to get out of the car to talk but, when he doesn’t, Stiles puts a hand on the roof and leans forward slightly to be able to see his face and not just his lap.

“Hello,” he says, ignoring the way his midsection swoops and constricts almost painfully.

“Hi,” Derek replies, a little too rigidly to be entirely natural.

Stiles waits a moment, but Derek says nothing else.

“What are you doing here?”

Derek glances briefly back at the house. Stiles wonders why. Is he confused about where he is?

For a brief moment he worries that Derek might be under the influence of some sort of magic, but… save for some of his own magical traces that Derek must have picked up by being so close to his wards, he can sense nothing off about him.

“Derek?” Stiles prods.

“’You wanna come with?” Derek asks.

Stiles stares at him. Glances up at Scott through the windshield of his car.

“… come with?” Stiles asks.

“Me,” Derek says, as though that’s any sort of clarification. “Do you want to come with me?”

Stiles keeps staring. At Derek’s stiff shoulders. At his clearly clenched jaw. At how he’s still holding the door handle without actually pulling it.

Then he straightens, makes a few brief gestures towards Scott that he hopes conveys his intentions, and gets into the car with Derek.

Derek looks at him like he’s gone insane.

“Sure,” Stiles says, ignoring the look.

It gets a little harder to do as Derek just keeps staring. Stiles twists to pull his phone out of his front pocket and shoots Scott a text.

Sorry. Need to see where this goes.

Behind them, Scott’s car rumbles back to life.

Stiles phone dings.

Np. Good luck. Call if you need me.

Stiles puts his phone back into his pocket. Then he turns to Derek, who still hasn’t moved a muscle, and raises his eyebrows. 

Derek just looks at him a moment longer, opens his mouth as if to say something. But then he just closes it again and turns to face the road, twisting the key in the ignition.

Stiles relaxes back into the seat and lets Derek drive.

He can’t really say why he’d agreed to come with in the first place, and neither can he put the finger on what exactly makes him not feel like asking Derek where or why.

Derek drives in silence. Stiles wonders if it’s his easy acquiescence that has thrown him. The thought amuses him somewhat.

Good, he thinks, let you feel what it’s like to be the one responsible for carrying the conversation for once.

They’re heading in the direction of the town, though that doesn’t necessarily have to be their final destination, Stiles supposes. They could simply be aiming for something somewhere beyond it.

It turns out they’re not, though, when Derek turns off at an exit and pulls into the parking lot outside the pizza place Stiles favors. But Stiles still doesn’t dare guess whether they’re here because of business or pleasure.

Maybe there’s goblins in the kitchen, or something.

He waits until Derek’s started getting out of the car until he follows suit, and trails a yard or so behind him as they head towards the entrance.

Before they reach it, Derek suddenly stops. Turns around to face him.

“I don’t-…” Derek starts. “… Are you hungry?”

Stiles shrugs. “I could eat.”

They have the best pepperoni here, and their crust is the absolute shit, so Stiles could probably eat at this place even after having a full Thanksgiving dinner. As it stands, he has not, nor had any proper lunch at all, and so pizza is sounding pretty good.

If extremely unexpected.

Derek nods, with what seems like excessive decisiveness, and then holds the door open for Stiles.

Stiles frowns slightly at the gesture, but heads inside.

There probably aren’t any goblins in the kitchen.

Derek orders them a large pepperoni to split, and that pie is technically recommended for four people, but Stiles has found it to be an appropriate size for himself and one werewolf and so he doesn’t comment. Derek then leads them towards a booth in the back, and slides down onto the red, fake-leather-clad cushion.

Stiles sits down in the seat opposite him.

Their drinks come, and Stiles smiles briefly at the waiter in thanks.

He pulls the paper off his straw and, when Derek still doesn’t seem inclined to initiate any conversation, begins playing with it between his lips. His soda has ice, but hasn’t really had the time to be chilled by it yet, so he pulls some heat out if by cupping his hands around the glass.

Derek watches the ice crystals creeping along the outside of it.

Stiles lets his magic go before they reach the rim.

He thinks about offering to cool Derek’s as well, but doesn’t want to be the first one to speak, so he keeps silent and his hands on his side of the table.

They’re quiet for so long that neither has said a word by the time that their pizza arrives, and it’s not until Stiles has finished his first slice that he finally decides that he can’t take it anymore.

"Is this a date?"

Derek doesn’t startle at his abrupt question, and neither does he seem very surprised by having been asked. Which is… slightly surprising to Stiles, to be honest.

Derek's mouth twists in a weird and indecipherable way.

“I… don’t want to assume things anymore,” Derek says, as though it’s enough of an explanation.

Stiles frowns at him.

Derek sighs.

“Look, I-… I know I’ve fucked up. I don’t even really deserve to have you talk to me anymore. But you said that you weren’t sure. If it was ruined. And I just-… if there’s any way that we could see if…”

Derek trails off and turns to look out the window.

He leaves the sentence unfinished.

The question unasked.

Stiles stares at him. At how his jaw works as he continues to not meet his eye.

"Yeah," Stiles says then, with fairly little consideration or actual input from his brain. "We could do that, I guess."

Derek says nothing in response, just gives a tight nod and then picks up his slice and continues eating. But Stiles had heard his long exhale, sees how his shoulders hang just a little bit looser.

He says nothing, though, and simply picks up another slice of his own.

He keeps saying nothing – they keep saying nothing – during their whole meal. They eat their food in silence, and then rise when they are done. Derek pays at the counter, Stiles standing a couple of feet behind him.

The radio is even off the whole way as Derek drives him back home.

It uncomfortable and awkward and altogether fairly awful, and Stiles thinks with grim resignation that Derek surely has gotten all the answers that he’d needed.

But then he shows up again, four days later, and this time they go and get ice cream.

There’s barely any more talk during the second time – and what little there is is just about a scent Erica thought she’d picked up in the forest – but that’s apparently not enough to keep Derek from, as they’re about to part, stiffly asking Stiles if he would like to stay after the pack meeting to “watch a movie, or something”.

And so, next Friday, he’s awkwardly waving goodbye to everyone as they give both him and Derek odd looks. He hears Isaac say to Derek, just a little bit too loudly, that he’s “finally figuring shit out”.

And Stiles can’t process that.

He just can’t.

Derek picks out the newest Mission Impossible from his Netflix watchlist, they sit at separate ends of the couch, and talk almost not at all. Until they’re nearing the end, and things are very tense, and Stiles just can’t take it anymore.

“Oh my god,” he says, somewhere between outrage and a whine. “You’ve done this for, like, seventy-eight thousand movies now, how could you possibly not have seen that coming?!”

It’s a shitty fucking habit, talking to the TV, and Stiles has never been able to curb the impulse, whether he’s alone or has company.

Not even when the company is an emotionally stunted alpha whom Stiles is certain will grow weary of him any minute now.

Embarrassment mingles with regret and he tries to gauge Derek’s reaction without making it obvious that he’s checking.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Derek’s lips twitch into a slight smile.

Stiles turns his eyes firmly back to the TV and feels his cheeks heat. Something fizzes in his chest and he has to force himself to concentrate for the rest of the movie.

“How about Wednesday?” Derek asks as he walks him to the door. “Are you… I mean, would you like to maybe-?”

“Sure,” Stiles interrupts, because it’s still kind of awkward and weirdly formal whenever Derek asks. “See you Wednesday.”

Derek keeps asking, though.

Though it’s clearly making him just as uncomfortable as it’s making Stiles (if not more so), he keeps asking.

He asks keeps asking the first six times, where the question continues being basically the only words that they exchange with each other. He keeps asking after that, when Stiles really begins to think that surely he’s going to get tired of him soon. He keeps asking after half the pack moves away to prepare for the start of college, and seeing each other regularly really isn’t as much of a given anymore. He keeps asking as summer is drawing to a close and fall begins to creep in and Stiles begins to feel guilty that he’s never the one to initiate.

He keeps asking, even though it’s become a given that they’re going to hang out at least a couple of times per week.

And he never stops looking a little bit worried that Stiles is going to say no.

It hasn’t happened yet, though.

And, during all this time they’re now spending together, Derek also starts touching him. In a way that makes it impossible for Stiles not to notice that he's never really done that before.

He gives him small a small shoulder nudge when Stiles spaces out and misses that it's his time to order when they’re getting tacos.

His fingers brush his elbow to catch his attention before pointing at something, and Stiles is nearly so distracted by it that he misses what.

Their left calves touch as they sit across from one another, in a small way that Derek might not even be aware of, but sends electricity running through Stiles body at every brush.

They're in line at the post office to pick up some books Stiles has ordered and, after letting an old lady with a walker pass, Derek doesn't step all the way back. Stiles' lungs do that strange thing where he has to actively concentrate on how to breathe.

The stone they're sitting on by the lake, during what's probably going to end up being the last day of summer, isn’t big enough for two people, and Derek's whole side is pressed up against his. Stiles keeps getting distracted by the sight of it in his periphery.

And he's starting to feel certain about the answer to the question Derek had asked, that day on the couch. And he knows that, yes, technically that was the reason they started meeting up regularly, and maybe he should bring it up, but…

While he can now accept that, yes, Derek probably likes him, he still can’t fathom that Derek could actually like him-like him.

Derek might have been confused.

Emotionally compromised.

He might have changed his mind.

Moved on.

They talk about a lot of things – most things, actually – but never feelings.

And today probably isn’t going to be the day when Stiles figures out how to start.

“Coming?” Derek asks.

The sun hasn’t quite fully set behind the trees yet, rays still peaking through the tips. Derek squints against it as he smiles down at him, bathed in golden light. The tips of his hair are still wet after the swimming they did earlier, the white cotton t-shirt clinging slightly in places where he hasn’t yet had time to dry.

Stiles thinks that Derek is so absurdly beautiful that surely there must be some law of physics preventing him from getting feelings for him, of all people.

“Stiles?” Derek urges, holding out a hand.

He has to say something.

Anything.

And, just as he opens his mouth, takes a deep breath and starts saying: “Derek, I-…”

Derek says, still smiling: “If we lose the light, you’re gonna be tripping over things the whole way back home.”

Stiles shuts his mouth and swallows his words.

“Sorry, were you gonna say something?” Derek asks.

“No, uh, er… you just have a bit of dirt, right here,” Stiles lies, pointing at a spot on his cheek, and stands up without taking Derek’s hand. “Yeah, right there, great, you got it.”

He gives Derek a thumbs up as he brushes the imaginary spot of dirt away.

“So, yeah, let’s get going then, shall we?”

It’s probably for the best, he reasons as they walk back home, blanketed by a silence that has now become uncharacteristic of them. Right then probably wouldn’t have been a good time, anyway; probably better to do it at a time and place with a quicker escape route than an hour-long walk back home.  

By the time they’ve reached Derek’s house, the thought has popped into Stiles’ head that maybe Derek interrupting him had been a sign. That maybe something was trying to tell him to count his fucking blessings and appreciate that Derek was in his life at all, and stop obsessing over the possibility of romancing him.

He ends up declining Derek’s offer of staying over, even though that’s something they do every now and again, these days.

Instead, he goes home, goes to bed, lays his head on the pillow and thinks that maybe Derek was trying to tell him something. Maybe he felt the mood, or whatever, and realized what Stiles had been about to say and- and stopped him. Spared them both the awkwardness of him having to reject him, potentially salvaging their friendship in the process.

He closes his eyes and tries to objectively evaluate the idea the way Ben has taught him to do. Evidence for, evidence against.

He comes up blank on both, though, and just keeps seeing Derek smiling at him in the sun and thinking that he’s too fucking beautiful.

Too fucking Derek.

And it seems like enough evidence to support his dismal hypothesis, even though Stiles’ rational side is aware that it’s not exactly an objective evaluation.

He squeezes his eyes shut harder and tried to tell himself that he hasn’t made his mind up yet. Maybe Derek was trying to stop him from saying something, maybe he wasn’t. Maybe Stiles will tell him about his feeling, maybe he won’t.

In his gut, though, something cold and hard has settled, and it doesn’t seem inclined to go anywhere.

---

Two weeks later, and Stiles is a bit early in getting to Derek’s. He’d told him he’d be over by the late afternoon sometime, but then his dad had switched shifts with Lucinda because she’d needed to take her cat to the vet and home had just felt too lonely. It’s only around noon now, but he’s brought his laptop and headphones and is planning on entertaining himself with the web development courses he’s taking anyway, so he knows that Derek won’t mind.

He lets himself though the wards and opens the lock on the door with a flick of his wrist and a small burst of magic.

“Hel-!”

He’s shouted greeting cuts off short.

Derek’s standing in the living room, staring at him like a deer in the headlights.

He’s got a pile of books in his arms, tall enough that he’s leaning them against his chest. He’s got black sweatpants on, and a grey sleeveless shirt, and both are splattered slightly with what looks like… paint?

“Are… are those my books?” Stiles asks, after several long moments.

“… Yes,” Derek says, with the tone of someone admitting to something they shouldn’t have done.

Stiles blinks at the pile. Had someone asked him before now, he probably wouldn’t have said that he even had as many books as Derek is carrying in his arms. And, to be fair, they’re not all technically his, though books tended to move between his and Deaton’s shelves with such fluidity now that it hardly was a distinction worth making anymore.

That so many have ended up at Derek’s, though…

He shifts the strap on his messenger bag higher up on his shoulder.

“Um, so… what are you up to?”

He’s better about actually feeling wanted and included these days, but seeing Derek with all his books in his hands make a prickle of shame run sharp and hot through him. He never realized that he’d brought so many, and the tomes had definitely not been piled up all nice and neat like Derek has them now. They must’ve been spread out all over the place.

Presumptuous, a harsh part of his mind scolds him. Taking liberties.

He forces himself not to scan the room for other things he might have left lying about but, even so, he can’t help but spot one of his hoodies slung over the armrest of the couch, his copy of Super Smash open by the controller on the coffee table.

“Sorry,” Derek says quickly. “I- I shouldn’t-… I didn’t really think, and-…”

Derek puts the stack of books down on the coffee table by the couch and wipes his hands on the side of his pants.

There’s something nervous to the gesture, uneasy. 

"Didn’t think about what?”

“I shouldn’t have moved your stuff,” Derek says, which is maybe half of an answer to the question Stiles asked. “Sorry.”

“’s your house,” Stiles says, shifting the strap again, swallowing to try to force the unease down and away. “Where were you going with them? I could just put them in my car, if you like?”

“No, look, I-…” Derek cuts off, licks his lips. “Look, all of this-… it just happened a bit fast, okay?”

Stiles's stomach drops like a stone.

“Your stuff was just all over the house, and I-… I should have considered, more. Before. I just- I’m-… Shit, fuck, I’m just making excuses, aren’t I?”

Derek blows out a heavy exhale, and Stiles is concentrating very hard on his breathing.

On not allowing his magic to run with his feelings and teleport him to northern Siberia where he won’t ever have to interact with other people ever again.

On not crying.

“I just-… I wanted to do something… something nice, I guess. For you. After… well. After what I did.”

Stiles' stomach lurches so hard, so viciously, that he tastes bile in his mouth.

“Okay,” is all he manages to say.

His face feels wooden and stiff, and Derek is clearly noticing because he’s starting to look more and more agitated. Stiles has to push down the urge to apologize for having emotions. 

“I should have talked to you first, I know that, it’s just- I- It didn’t-…” Derek closes his mouth, jaw working. Then he sighs, whole body deflating. “I went to Home Depot.”

Stiles blinks.

“You-…?”

“The hinge on the door to the bathroom cabinet was creaking,” Derek says, as though it’s his shopping habits that Stiles has taken issue with. “And I just-… I got carried away, I guess.”

Derek rubs his face with his hands, and Stiles spots a speck of greenish paint on his elbow. It matches the splatter on his clothes.

“They had these handles, and then I saw this color, and-“

Stiles is, by now, utterly, utterly, bewildered.

Derek has stopped talking and is looking at him with something nearing desperation.

“I’m-…” he cuts himself off, again, then sighs. “I’ll just show you.”

He turns around and heads towards the back of the house.

Stiles hesitates for a moment. The thought that maybe he should kick off his shoes and take off his jacket flicks through his mind, but the idea seems… no. Just no. The feeling of having wrongfully invaded Derek’s space, of having made himself too comfortable… The image of himself fumbling with laces he can’t see through the tears…

He walks through the corridor after Derek in his sneakers.

He hears the sound of a fan running as they walk down the hallway, hears the twitter of birds unusually well for being indoors. And there’s a smell, sharp, that’s stinging his nose. It smells like… like…

Paint.

The furthest wall, the wall with the huge windows, is painted the same pale green that has stained Derek’s clothes and elbow. It hasn’t dried yet, judging by the fan slowly swinging back and forth, directing air out through the open windows, and the heavy smell that permeates the room despite its efforts. About a foot away from it, though, stands a massive, solid, dark wooden desk, the kind that fancy old business executives or presidents sit behind in movies. It has beautiful, ornate handles fastened to each drawer. 

It’s like someone hasn’t been able to quite contain themselves; needed to get an idea of what the room would look like when the desk had assumed its proper position.

Against the still white wall to Stiles’ left stands a mostly empty bookshelf, save for a few tomes that Stiles recognizes as his own. At the foot of it lays a pile of folded fabrics that Stiles thinks might be curtains. They’re a sheer white, the weave reminding him of linen.

Beside the bookshelf stands a chair. A sturdy old thing with armrests and six carved little legs coming out from a central pillar. It looks to be richly stuffed and can spin around.

“It’s y-… an office,” Derek says, haltingly, from the doorway before Stiles has found any words. “For-… if you want to be here, some, I mean.”

Stiles can’t tear his eyes from the room.

“Isaac brought all his books and stuff with him,” Derek continues, still standing a few feet behind him, “so there was just an empty bookshelf standing in the guest bedroom. And then I drove by this second-hand shop with this desk in the window, and… the handles… I don’t know. It just kind of happened.”

There are goosebumps spreading over Stiles’ skin, a soft crackle of magic rushing underneath.

“… it’s… for me?”

He turns to look at Derek, who’s crossed his arms uncomfortably over his chest.

It makes the spot of paint on his elbow easy to see.

“I’m not… trying to make you do anything,” Derek says, and it’s not really an answer but, at the same time, it kind of is.

“What would this make me do?” Stiles asks, lifting his arms to encompass the room.

Derek’s eyes flick to the side for a moment, down to the floor.

Then he says: “Stay.”

The rush in his head, the swoop in his midsection; Stiles doesn’t get a moment to recover from any of it before Derek keeps talking.

“I didn’t think things through, the implications-. I should have asked you, not just done something like this, I-“

“Do you want me to?” Stiles interrupts.

Derek goes silent, arms falling to his side.

And he looks at him.

“Yes,” he says, then. “I do.”

The prickling sensation grows to almost unbearable intensity beneath his skin, and Stiles is slightly worried that he might accidentally be glowing despite all the training Deaton and Ben has put him through.

“… you do?” he can’t help but ask, voice sounding a little bit small.

"Stiles," Derek says, laughing a little, sounding both weary and a little incredulous, "I love you. Of course I want you to stay."

Stiles chokes on absolutely nothing and suddenly doesn’t know what to do with his arms.

He gets the, possibly absurd, impulse to ask Derek if he’s sure.

“You- er- oh.”

Derek gives him an odd look.

“I’ve told you,” he reminds him.

“Yeah, I know,” Stiles says, hugging his arms defensively around his body. “I just- y’know, thought you might have changed your mind.”

“Well…” Derek says, shifting slightly, a small crease on his brow. “I haven’t.”

Derek is looking at him as though he’s trying to figure something out, and Stiles can’t help but stare helplessly back.

There’s a speck of paint in his beard, too, Stiles realizes, up by his ear. A little spot of green. Of that color he’d apparently picked up – painted a whole fucking room in – because he thought that Stiles would like it. Would want a space of his own at Derek’s place.

Without asking first.

Judging by his hurried apologies, his insistences that he never meant to push Stiles something into something that he doesn’t want, Derek’s clearly aware of the idiocy of it. Of how horribly wrong it could have gone, forcing something else onto him.

But Stiles loves the color of the paint, how it goes with the forest outside and the hardwood inside. The desk and chair are everything he’s ever dreamt of having in an office setup. The bookshelf feels like a need fulfilled that Stiles hadn’t even been aware of having yet. And it’s all inside Derek’s house. Stiles’ space inside Derek’s home – an invitation so plain that even Stiles’ most pessimistic inner voice can’t find a way to dismiss it.

And Stiles doesn’t think he’s felt this seen in his whole life.

Because of course Stiles wants.

He wants everything. Wants to walk up close and touch that green spot and know how it feels on Derek’s face, in his beard. Wants to card his hands through his hair to see if there’s any paint stuck there, too. Wants to hug him close and laugh at him for being ridiculous. Wants to kiss him. Wants to have him.

And, finally, it clicks.

That maybe he can.

“Me too,” he blurts. “I mean- I haven’t either,”

For a moment Derek just keeps frowning.

Then it abruptly smoothes out and he goes very still.

Stiles catches himself holding his breath.

"You-..." Derek says, eyes wide.

Stiles swallows.

"I- get it," he starts haltingly, "if you've... Maybe don’t want to try. Anymore, like that. But I'm-... I mean, I think... I'm pretty sure what I want. Now."

Derek stares at him, eyes wide.

“… and?” he asks.

“And?” Stiles asks, laughing nervously. “What do you mean, and?”  

“What do you want?” Derek asks carefully, as though Stiles might startle and run away.

Stiles steps closer, almost without being aware of what he’s doing.

“This,” he says, gesturing to the room. Then he takes another step, and Derek is close enough to touch, and he says: “You.”

Derek keeps looking at him; still wide-eyed, still something cautious and unconvinced in his expression.

“Are you sure?” he asks, a bit breathlessly. “I mean, I-“

“Yes,” Stiles interrupts, smiling slightly. “I’m sure, Derek.”

Like a ripple, the uncertainty is dissolved by wonder. Then Derek’s brow pulls down in a frown and the worry is back, only to then again cede to awe.

Stiles watches him, waiting.

 “… I don’t know what to do,” Derek admits after a moment.

Stiles can’t help but laugh a little, too filled with delight to keep it from bubbling over. He dares to reach out and touch, puts his fingers lightly against the skin above the arch of Derek’s hipbone. It feels like a spark shoots through him, but he’s not sure if it’s magic or if this is just how it’s going to feel to touch Derek for a little while, now.

“Why don’t you try kissing me?” he suggests lightly, stomach swooping at the idea of it.

Derek’s eyes flick to his lips, and Stiles almost loses his breath.

“Are you sure?” Derek asks again.

“Yes,” Stiles repeats, smiling. Then he thinks that maybe he wants to say it, that Derek needs to hear it: “I want you to kiss me.”

Derek says nothing in response, but he licks his lips and his hand comes up to Stiles’ neck. His thumb trails lightly along his jaw, and Stiles feels like he might fall over. Then Derek’s other hand comes up and rests at the junction between shoulder and neck, and it’s both stabilizing and sets his head spinning even further.

“Okay,” Derek says, mostly to himself it seems. “I’m going to kiss you, now.”

Stiles can’t help the smile that spreads over his lips.

“Good,” he says, closing his eyes. “I can’t wait.”

There’s the slightest bit of pressure from Derek’s fingers by his shoulder, and Stiles leans forward in response.

Then Derek’s lips touch his, warm and just a little bit wet and absolutely perfect. Derek's fingers twitch a little where they rest a little below his left ear, and Stiles’ arms wrap around his back almost on their own, pulling him close.

And Stiles kisses back.