It's early December when Scott promptly loses his mind.

"You're going to what?!" Stiles exclaims, squinting his eyes incredulously.

Scott blinks slowly, frowning in genuine confusion. "I'm gonna take a trip to the mountains. Do a little soul searching, dude."

"That is the stupidest thing that has ever come out of your mouth," Stiles accuses, "and you've said some dumb stuff."

Scott huffs and his eyes go wide with subdued hurt. "I just need to get away," he grounds out pathetically. And okay, yeah, Stiles feels a little bad for him. But only a little. "From Allison and, y'know, stuff."

"Stuff," parrots Stiles, biting his lower lip and scrunching up his brows to keep from asking his lovably dumb best friend to elaborate. "Okay," he relents, throwing his hands up in surrender. "Okay."

"Thanks man! I knew you'd understand." Scott grins and claps him on the back with a little too much force.

"Yeah, whatever," Stiles grumbles. "Just don't get eaten by an overzealous bear."

Scott's laughter fills the room and Stiles can't help it, he smiles. He claps Scott on the back in turn, guiding him towards his closet. "Alright, let's get you packed. God knows if I leave you to it you'll end up as a camping cautionary tale. And I'm serious if you get eaten by some wild animal I will laugh – hysterically! – at your funeral. And desecrate your grave. Desecrate it! Also, pack an extra inhaler, dude, because if you lose—"

"Stiles," Scott whines, big brown puppy eyes glaring.

Stiles laughs. "I'm gonna miss you, dude."

Scott rolls his eyes. "Just shut up and help me."

The morning greets them with a cold and crisp wind chill. Stiles shivers as he helps Scott pile all of his camping gear into the trunk of his beat-up '97 Honda (the one that Stiles explicitly told him not to purchase as a graduation gift to himself). It doesn't all fit (go figure), so they resort to strategically placing luggage in the backseat, careful not to obscure the rear window. After battling and rearranging for a half hour, the finally manage it (but just barely).

"So," Stiles begins, shifting from side to side awkwardly. "What'd you tell your mom?"

Scott huffs a laugh, warm breath billowing in the cold morning air. "The truth."

"Really? You told her you were going on a one man adventure in the mountains, to find yourself in some sort of transient, all inspiring mental escapade? Possibly to become a mountain man? Please don't come back a hippie. Please, for the sake of my mental health. If you start eating organic and become a vegan I will kill you slowly and painfully—"

"Vegan?" Scott laughs out, coughing horribly and inhaling sharply, grappling wildly at the inside of his coat pocket.

"Woah, woah, Scott, calm down, let me—"

Scott manages to free his inhaler and takes one, two sharp intakes of breath. He coughs, shaking slightly. "Damn, damnit!" he yells in anger as he slumps against his car for support.

Stiles stands there uneasily. He bites his lower lip and looks up through his lashes with uncertainty. "You sure you're going to be okay?" he asks. "I mean, buddy, the cold is not good for asthmatics."

Scott's glare cuts right through him. "You think I don't know that?"

Stiles feels guilty immediately. "Sorry, man."

"Just forget it," Scott grumbles, shoving his inhaler back into his jacket pocket with more force than necessary. He jerks the car door open and slides inside. "Later," he says, hands flexing on both sides of the steering wheel.

Before Scott can haul the door closed, Stiles grabs for it, halting the motion. He hesitates. "I'm sorry things didn't work out with Allison," he says carefully, tone soft. He may be an ass eighty percent of the time, but it sucks seeing Scott so mopey. And while Stiles is strictly against hitting girls, he'd make an exception for Allison. She broke his best friend's heart, after all. That is not cool in his books.

Scott winces. "Me too," he whispers before shutting the door with a muted click and driving off.

Stiles stands there for a moment or two, frozen to the bone. He whips out his phone and texts, just let me kno ur alive evry day ok?

ok, Scott texts back immediately.

and don't txt n drive dumbass, he taps out, grinning like a mad fool when he presses send.

Scott doesn't reply. Stiles sighs and shuffles over to his jeep, starts her up and drives home, obeying all traffic laws, of course.

It has been two weeks since Stiles last heard from Scott and he's worried. He's been dodging Ms. McCall's phone calls for two days now and he can't stand to lie to her anymore. Scott is her son. She deserves to know if something awful has happened to him. His brain betrays him then by offering up exactly why his friend may not have contacted him in grisly detail. Was he mauled by a bear? Is he laying somewhere in the forest, dead because he lost both of his inhalers? Did he get abducted by aliens? Shanked by a hobo? Cut up into a million pieces by a sadistic serial killer?

It is when the Sheriff places a strong hand on his shoulder and says, "Is there something you're not telling me, son?" that he decides he can't take it any longer.

"I'm meeting Scott tomorrow," he blurts before his brain can catch up with him. "To uh, soul search?"

His father looks down at him, mouth forming a thin, unreadable line. "Soul search," he repeats, arching a brow. "You?"

"What?" Stiles replies, affronted. "I could do it. I could let go of worldly things and get in touch with my 'inner self'."

"Uh-huh," the Sheriff nods, clearly not believing a word out of his mouth. "Just stay out of trouble."

Stile laughs nervously. "Trouble? Ha! What trouble could I possibly get into while … soul … searching…"

But his father is already walking away, coffee clasped tightly in his hand (it better be decaf, damnit), his head shaking at his son's antics; nineteen years, bless his father's eternally patient soul.

Stiles accomplishes wrestling a small dome tent into his jeep, a sleeping bag, toiletries, and about ten extra blankets (what? It's cold in the mountains and he's 147 pounds of pale skin and fragile bone). He also packs a surplus of flashlights and steals his dad's lantern for good measure. After shrugging on two sweatshirts and a puffy, warm winter jacket, Stiles slides into the driver side of his jeep and switches it into gear.

The drive is a long and nervous one. He manages to survive by listening to all the shitty 90's pop the decade has to offer. He's bouncing up and down to Britney Spears'... Baby One More Time (put that judgment right back where it came from) when he pulls up on the entrance to the campground Scott had promised he'd be staying at. ("It's this one, Stiles. I promise. Why would I lie to you? I'm going to find myself dude, not disappear forever."). There is a large, scowling woman sitting behind a thin layer of glass. Stiles rolls down his window and beams at her. "Good evening ma'am, you're looking radiant—"

She leans forward to speak through the meshed circular opening. "How many nights," she drawls, tone overly bored.

"Uh," Stiles falters. He hadn't thought that far ahead. "Three," he decides aloud. "Yeah. Three nights, that's what I want, ahaha…" he trails off when he spots the woman's obvious disdain for him. Oookay.

"Sixty dollars," she drones and Stiles winces because come on that's like half of his meager savings. When (if) he finds Scott not-dead he's going to murder him himself or at least make him rue the day he was born. This is tragically not cool. Stiles wilts as he hands over the sixty dollars. Something inside him dies a tiny bit.

The money-thieving woman shoves a pass at him. He snatches it out of her hand with a grumble and grimace. He hangs it on his rear view mirror as he presses his jeep forward, moseying towards the campground. His jeep rocks a bit as he drives down the dirt road; fingers crossed his baby doesn't break down (that is not a phone call he wants to make, thank you very much). As he pulls into the appropriate parking lot, he spots Scott's car right away. He parks next to it and hops out of jeep with twitchy eagerness.

Upon further inspection, he finds that Scott's pass has not yet expired (it has a week left) and that none of the surrounding campers have seen him for a least a week. ("Oh, you mean that sweet, brown eyed boy? He went off into the restricted area. Told him not to, the dear, but he just grinned at me and bounded off. Are you a friend of his?")

This leads Stiles to hike right past all off the DO NO ENTER and CAUTION BEAR COUNTRY signs with a wary eye. The territory is unfamiliar and in an attempt to not get lost, Stiles marks his path with brightly colored orange ribbons. As the sun dips lower on the horizon, Stiles grumpily decides to make camp. He fights with the dome tent for a good hour. It ends with his hands nearly frost bitten and his ego significantly wounded. As he lays there in his sleeping bag, mountain of blankets atop of him, he mentally kicks himself. How did he ever get it into his head that he was going to be able to locate Scott? The woods are freaking huge and, not to mention, when he was ten he almost failed Boy Scout Camping 101.

Plus, it's cold. So, so cold. Like, his balls are going to get frostbite and fall off, cold. Three hours in and he cannot take it anymore. He barrels out of his tent and makes a puny (it's pathetic, really) fire. At least his toes are warm. He was never meant to be a camper. Scott is crazy. More than insane, really. He got on the loony train and rode it all the way to probably-got-himself-killed-ville. "Stupid Scott," he grumbles, "stupid cold, stupid mountains, stupid, stupid, stupid!" Stiles throws some pine needles into the fire in frustration and sighs, irritated.

It occurs to him now that he is alone in the forest, that this is probably something he should have told his father about. But he hates the idea of encroaching on what-ever-the-fuck kind of weird shit Scott is doing with search parties and general panic.

Damn, now he has to piss and he really, really doesn't like the idea of exposing his junk to subzero temperatures. Stiles frowns the most epic frowny face of all time and gets to his feet. He hobbles over to behind the nearest tree and unzips his pants. Dick in hand, he goes about his business.

And suddenly, there is a very bright light in his eyes and oh god oh god oh god there is someone walking towards him and that someone is growling – growling! – Christ who even does that!? Stiles palms at his dick immediately, shoving it back into his pants. "Oh my god," he shrieks (manly, he shrieks manly) in embarrassment. He backs himself flush against the tree, hands in the air. "I don't have any money I swear," he says, squinting into the light.

The light-wielder stomps forward and Stiles finds himself with a face full of very hot, very angry park ranger. He has a moment to thank the heavens he's not being mugged before said ranger speaks. "What do you think you're doing," he growls, seriously growls, at him.

"Um," Stiles starts, blinking rapidly as blotches of light dance in front of his eyes. "I was taking a leak?" he offers up, shrugging his shoulders in a way he hopes is nonchalant.

Oh, oh. Growly Ranger suddenly has him by the hair, tilting his head upwards painfully. His rock hard chest (Jesus, what is this guy made of?) is pinning him to the tree and he has no excuse for how inappropriately turned on he is right now. "You shouldn't be here. This area of the park is off limits," he snarls into Stiles' face, voice deep and grating. His breath is hot on his cheeks and woah, this just isn't fair.

"Really? My bad, dude. I totally thought this area was camper-friendly," he smarts off, eyes traveling skyward and lips twisting into a goofy grin.

Growly Ranger is Not Amused. His lips pull back, exposing some, okay wow, some seriously sharp teeth. Are teeth normally that sharp or is he just losing his mind? He must be, because he blinks and the teeth are blunt and normal looking again. Holy crap. "Annnnd, it obviously isn't so if you would kindly let go of my hair, cause dude that hurts, what is your deal? I'll meander back to … appropriate camping areas."

"Stop calling me dude," he snaps, releasing Stiles hair form his grasp but not before smacking the back of his head. He backs up a step, blue-green-gold (crap, what color are his eyes even?) gaze assessing him idly. His eyes narrow a fraction.

"Ow, dud—uhhh…" Stiles sputters before spying his shiny D. HALE nameplate, "… Officer Hale." He wiggles his eyebrows. "Always treat curious campers with this much police brutality or am I just special?"

Officer Hale growls (is that this guy's default setting or something?) and trudges forward to grab Stiles roughly by the scruff of his neck. He guides him away from his makeshift campsite with some scary strength. "Shut. Up," he grounds out through clenched teeth.

Stiles doesn't get the memo. "Hey, hey," he prattles, following the ranger with a stumbling stride. "Where are you taking me—my stuff—I can't just—"

Officer Hale jerks him up and over a log before steering him to the left, right towards an innocent looking truck. It's parked to the side of what looks to be an old, unused dirt road. He slams Stiles up against the side of it, jerks the passenger side door open and all but pushes Stiles towards the entrance. "Get in," he demands.

All aboard the train to fuck-that-ville. "No," Stiles refuses. He tries and fails to wrench himself from Officer Hale's death grip. Said officer smashes his head against the glass and ow, ow, ow, what the hell?

"I said get in," Officer McGrowly snaps, shoving all four lanky limbs of Stiles inside. He slams the door shut behind him and stalks over to the driver's side. He hops into the truck and starts it up with a loud rumble.

Stiles gapes at him. Is this guy crazy? "What the… what was that?" he bites out, hands flailing as he glares purposefully at the man opposite of him.

And, great, he's being ignored—just wonderful! Here he is, having just been pushed into some strange park ranger's truck without a proper explanation. It's looking more and more likely he's being led to his death at this point. His dad is going to be so disappointed in him. Stiles closes his mouth, twists his lips into a sour scowl and glares with his arms crossed at Officer D. Hale. "So, Dylan," he begins with a guess, "mind telling me why you just manhandled me into your truck. Cause, I'm flattered and all but—"

"My name isn't Dylan," Officer McHottie grumbles, lips twitching.

"Right, well, Daniel," he continues, "you see not all of that camping stuff is mine, per se. Actually, none of it is mine, if we're being honest—wait, wait, I'm not saying I stole it! That is so totally not what I meant. It's all my dad's and if I come back without it, well that will lead to questions that I don't have the answers for so—"

"Derek," he snaps, turning the car a little too sharply, "my name is Derek."

Huh. Derek. He can work with that.

"Alright, Derek," Stiles says, testing the name out on his tongue. It rolls off with a purr and a click, sounding oddly natural. "Explain. Now, preferably, or I'm going to throw myself out of this moving vehicle and run like crazy, screaming in a way that I assure you will be very masculine."

The doors lock with an audible click.

"Woah, are you serious right now?!" Stiles shrieks, all but vibrating in his seat.

"Completely," Derek monotones. He presses the petal to the floor and the truck speeds up with a lurch.

Stiles is not above begging for his life. "Please, please, please don't kill me? You're a park ranger, you're a good guy or, oh god, you are a real park ranger, right? This isn't all some elaborate ruse? Are you some mountain man serial killer? My dad is a Sheriff, I'll have you know. If I go missing he won't rest until he finds me. And when he finds you he won't arrest you okay, he will shoot you, probably multiple times—"

"Do you ever shut up," Derek snarls in his direction, eyes flashing bright blue.

Stiles rubs his eyes and blinks rapidly. "Not really, no," he says after a beat.

Derek's grip on the steering wheel tightens. "I'm not going to hurt you," he grits out and gees, it must have been painful for him to admit that by the constipated grimace contorting his features.

Stiles narrows his eyes. "I don't trust you."

Derek spares him a side eye. "I just saved your life," he rumbles testily. "You could show some gratitude."

Stiles laughs obnoxiously at that. "Dude, what? What'd you save me from—exposure? Poison oak? Smokey The Bear?" He sighs dramatically and then grumbles, "If anything, you gave me a concussion."

The growling is back, vibrating from deep within Derek's chest. The truck must have some damn good acoustics because it shakes the whole cab. Then Stiles' whole world is turning on its axis because Derek slams on the breaks and he goes flying forward. His head smashes against the glove box with a vengeance (and yeah, that's definitely going to bruise).

"Ow, what would you do that fo—"

But then he sees, holy god he sees. Crouching in front of the truck is the largest wolf Stiles has seen in the entirety of his, admittedly, short life. It is covered in thick, black fur matted with dirt and shit, yeah that is most probably blood. It bares its teeth, canines long and sharp while its eyes glow – freaking glow – crimson red. It rears back and uses the full force of its back legs to propel it forward at the truck. The truck rocks back and forth as the wolf lands on the vehicle's hood. It snarls nastily at the windshield, thick, gooey saliva oozing from his mouth like some sort of disgusting fountain.

"Oh my god," Stiles shouts as he waves his hands manically towards the windshield. "Drive, drive, drive!"

Derek finally gets with the program by smashing his foot against the gas pedal so fiercely the truck screeches forward with a whine. The wolf slams into the windshield and the glass cracks upon impact. It howls in rage as Derek turns the truck sharply, flinging it off in one fluid motion. Stiles' eyes snap to the rear view mirror but the wolf is nowhere to be found. He whips back around and presses his back into the seat.

"A wolf just attacked your truck," he says, oddly not as freaked out as he thinks he really ought to be. "A wolf. California doesn't even have wolves!" He looks wildly at Derek, whose jaw is clenched and he seems… strangely clam for a guy whose truck just got attacked by a mutant wolf.

"It's rare," Derek bites out, "but not unheard of."

Stiles' heart is still hammering in his chest from all the excitement. "No I'm pretty sure it's unheard of," he replies, tapping his fingers on the leather armrest rhythmically. He scrunches up his brows as the cogs in his brain start to turn. His eyes go wide. "That's why you freaked out on me—you knew that rabid wolf was out there," he narrows his eyes, "didn't you?"

Derek is quiet for a long, tense moment before he nods stiffly. "It hunts at night; tries to pick off lone campers."

Stiles suddenly has a whole new appreciation for Officer Derek Hale, Park Ranger Extraordinaire. "Thanks dude," he begins awkwardly. "It would have sucked to end up as wolf chow," he laughs and then says, "but next time? Try using your words."

Derek tenses. "Don't call me dude."

Stiles is mid-grin when the terrible awful occurs to him: Scott. Oh god, Scott! He is about two seconds away from hyperventilating his way through a panic attack because what if the wolf ate Scott? He's pretty sure no amount of therapy would help him through his best friend being torn to shreds by a giant mutant glowy-eyed wolf.

A warm hand brushes over the back of his neck. The touch is soft; unexpected. He jumps a little in surprise before relaxing instinctively into the caress. The hand travels upwards and the fingers brush against the base of his hairline, skimming through his buzz cut almost lazily. The sweep of skin against skin is remarkably comforting.

"Breathe," Derek murmurs, sounding unexpectedly gentle. There is no judgment there or malice.

The sound curls up inside of him and his heart stutters, beating out of rhythm. Heat blooms across his cheeks and he jerks away reflexively. "Thanks," he mumbles, turning away from Derek. He already aches for the touch to return and it leaves his head buzzing.

Derek grunts and retracts his hand.

Stiles picks at the lock on the door and frowns. "You haven't… no one has been hurt," he swallows, "right?" It comes out more weak than he'd like.

"No," is the gruff reply.

Stiles swallows again and sinks into the seat. After a moment or two, the rocking motion of the truck lulls him to sleep.

"Hey," someone says, sounding far off and unpleasant. "Wake up."

His shoulder is being shaken but he doesn't want to get up. Not yet. "Five more minutes," he mumbles, pulling into himself.

The grip on his shoulder tightens. "Get up," the voice says with more force.

Stiles cracks his eyes open and shifts his body into a more comfortable position. He wipes the excess spit off his chin and blinks. "Why," he groans to the person who has so rudely interrupted his beauty sleep.

"We're here," grumpy voice says as way of explanation. Stiles shifts his eyes to the left, yawning with dulled understanding. Right. Hot park ranger. Manhandling. Scary driving. Man eating wolf. That wasn't just some bizarre dream. His life sucks so bad.

"Here?" he murmurs, peering out of the cracked windshield. A homely log cabin with warm light-filled windows greets his curiosity. "Where's here?"

But Derek has already climbed out of the truck and is stalking in towards the cabin. If Stiles stares at Derek's backside whilst taking longer to get out of the truck than strictly necessary then that's his business. With the promise of warmth on the horizon, he walks briskly across the yard and bounds into the cabin. "Hey, look, I appreciate you saving me from the scary—" Stiles begins, but the words die in his throat.

There, gaping at him open mouthed, is Scott.

Derek stands off to the side, looking between the two of them. "Friend of yours?" he asks Scott.

"Stiles," Scott spews disbelievingly. "What are you—No, no! You cannot be here. Go home. Now."

Stiles is still processing that his friend is not, in fact, dead. "Go home?" he sputters. "After I drove all this way to find you, dodged call after call from your mom and lied to my dad? Like hell I'm going home, Scott."

Scott stomps forward, grabs him by the arm and yanks him out of the door before Stiles' brain can catch up. He tries to wiggle out of Scott's grip but he can't which is weird as hell. "Woah, woah, Scott, stop, dude!"

"It's not safe here," Scott is saying like that is supposed to mean something.

"Uh, yeah," Stiles replies, "I kind of got that when the hungry, growly wolf tried to eat Derek's truck."

Scott freezes and his grip tightens to a painful degree.

"Ow," Stiles groans. He winces and shakes his arm deliberately.

Scott drops the arm as if he's been burned. "Sorry," he mumbles.

Absently, Stiles rubs the spot where Scott's hand had wrapped around his arm. It throbs achingly and he notes absently that it'll probably bruise. He scowls at Scott who looks like someone just kicked his puppy. Stiles breathes in and then exhales. "Would have it hurt you to send me a text?" he asks, careful to keep the hurt from his voice.

"I lost my phone," Scott says a little too quickly. Liar.

Stiles nods. "Okay, let's say for arguments sake you did," he pauses to glare, letting Scoot know exactly how he feels about that lie. "Surely Derek has a phone you could have used since the two of you seem to be well acquainted? What, with you being in his house and all." He doesn't sound bitter. Not at all.

"You don't understand," Scott honest-to-god whines.

"Then explain it to me. 'Cause there is a whole lot of shit that doesn't make sense to me right now," he snaps. He has just driven a hundred miles, frozen his ass off, been subjected to police brutality and had a near-death-by-wolf experience. He can be as irritated as he damn well pleases.

"Stiles you just have to trust me on this, okay?!" Scott shouts at him, eyes flickering gold for a fraction of a second.

Stiles takes a half-step forward. "Did your eyes just—urk!"

Derek pulls Stiles back by the collar of his jacket. He's glaring at Scott. "You," he says pointedly. "Come back when you're ready to stop acting like a childish idiot."

Scott looks as if he's going to protest. "Did I stutter, McCall?" Derek says, arching a brow. Scott balls his hands into fists and stomps off in a huff, grumbling obscenities to himself.

Derek focuses his glare on Stiles next. "And you. Go inside. Now."

"But Scott—and the wolf—are you crazy?"

Derek scrunches up his brows but he only appears mildly annoyed. "Scott can handle himself," he supplies before herding Stiles inside and locking the door behind them.

"And I can't?" Stiles challenges.

"No, you can't."

Stiles goes for defensive. "How is it you know Scott anyway, Officer Hale?"

"I'm helping him," Derek says simply, sauntering into the kitchenette attached to the living room. He shuffles through a few cabinets and pulls out two mugs. He sets them down on the counter with a soft clink.

"Make a habit of 'helping' vulnerable young men?" he retorts a bit too viciously. Scott's old enough to make his own decisions about who he, well, whoever he wants to be with. Though, he thought Scott would never get over Allison. He was obviously wrong.

Derek pauses and leans up against the counter, muscles flexing. He turns a cool gaze on Stiles. "Why?" he grunts. "Jealous?"

"No," Stiles bites out too quickly.

Derek's lips twitch into a smirk as he reaches for the coffee pot. He pours the steaming brown liquid into both mugs and then looks up at Stiles. "Sugar?"

"Black is fine," he replies tersely.

Derek nods amicably and holds the mug of coffee out towards him.

"You are going to regret giving this to me," Stiles states sullenly as he snatches the mug from Derek's loose grasp. He drinks it down gluttonously and hums as the beverage warms him from the inside out. Derek remains where he is, gaze oddly intent. It burns into Stiles, hard and unwavering. It makes him shift uncomfortably. No one has ever looked at him with such intensity before. He fiddles with the empty mug to distract himself until he can't take it anymore. He sets the mug down on the counter. "What?" he asks as he rings his forefinger around the inside of the mug.

Derek's head tilts to the side as if he's considering something troubling. His gaze darkens as he strides forward, feet loud and heavy against the wood floor. Suddenly he is crowding into Stiles' space, looking down at him with something akin to guilt. He reaches up, movement fluid and sure as he smooths his left thumb over the upper right corner of Stiles' forehead. Stiles winces at the contact, hissing slightly. Derek pulls back immediately and his lips twitch into a dour grimace. "You're bruised," he states.

"Yeah, great observation there, Watson," he grumbles. "That's what happens when you slam people into the side of trucks and then proceed to drive recklessly." The comment is meant to be flippant, said offhandedly, but the growl that vibrates through Derek sends tendrils of fear down his spine. He takes a step back, rump hitting the counter. His eyes go wide with caution. "Uh, I mean, thanks for not letting the big bad wolf eat me?" he amends with a squeak.

Derek takes two steps forward, effectively trapping Stiles between the counter and his looming body. His eyes travel from the bruise on Stiles' forehead to his lips and then down the curve of his neck. It's unsettling and incredibly arousing to watch the way Derek's eyes roam over him like he's some sort of rare delicacy. His pupils dilate and nostrils flare. The next moment Derek is leaning down and pressing his nose into the tender flesh of his neck. A pleased rumble fights its way past Derek's lips and a huff of warm air blankets his skin, eliciting a shiver and sharp intake of breath.

Stiles doesn't get the opportunity to ask what the hell because Derek has already pulled himself out of the crook of his neck and stalked away. Stiles is left standing there with the most awkward boner of his life and a vague sense of what the actual fuck. After a moment gaping stupidly at the space Derek had previously occupied, he walks over to the couch mechanically. He lays down and pinches the bridge of his nose, huffing a sigh.

Tomorrow he is going to get some damn answers out of Scott.

Will update Tuesday.

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