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Derek knew he was screwed when he looked into those big, beautiful eyes for the first time.
Oh shit I’m screwed was, in fact, his very first thought as soon as their eyes caught and the world dimmed around them, all the movement and noise quieting to a dull hum. Derek knew, he just knew deep in his heart that from then on he would never, ever be able to say no to anything this person asked of him.
Zachary Frederick Hale was born on October 13th 2012 at 9:48PM, weighing in at seven pounds, eight ounces. Baby Zack came into the world on a particularly cold fall night, wailing and shaking, ten tightly clenched fingers and toes, all rolls and skin folds and pink softness.
....Not that Derek was present for the birth or anything. But he’d heard it went as well as a thirty-hour labour could. Derek loved his sister Laura very dearly, but they really didn’t have the kind of relationship where he was at all interested in watching life emerge biblically from her vagina. Once all persons and their relevant areas were cleaned up and bundled up and there were no genitals of his siblings threatening to appear, Derek took that as his time to shine.
Once Derek received the group text from Laura’s husband that she was going into labour he’d raced down to the hospital to wait anxiously amongst family. An honest lifetime later those waiting were informed by a beaming midwife that there was a tired mother and a healthy baby boy ready to see visitors.
Yes, the moment Derek was handed his plump nephew, swaddled in enough blankets to nearly double his weight, the ribs over Derek’s chest softened to accommodate the rapid swelling of his heart. When little Zack yawned widely in Derek’s arms, scrunched up his nose and blinked confusedly up at him Derek knew in that moment that he was a goner, that he would rip the world in two with his bare hands to protect this kid.
It was that fierce, brightly burning surge of unconditional love that brought Derek to where he is now, six years later.
A dance studio.
Yep, warming up his body in preparation for his upcoming ballet class for adult beginners.
Yeah.
If someone had told Derek a year ago that he would willingly spend his Saturday afternoons donning ballet slippers to glissade across the dance floor, he would have asked them to check the batch of drugs they’re on, because that would be crazy talk.
And yet, here he is, rising up on his toes and lowering his heels down again to warm them up, moving into a calf stretch while he rests on the barre for balance. Beside him a middle-aged woman pendulously swings her leg back and forth, her foot getting higher and higher with every swing. She smiles sheepishly at Derek when she narrowly misses his hip and he manages a smile back.
The class is an odd mix of people, a veritable confetti of of demographics - some as young as eighteen and as old as seventy-five, all sizes and shapes and colors come to this class every Saturday to learn ballet. Derek is the only male in the class but he doesn’t mind at all, he finds. Looking around, he supposes everyone must feel just a little out of place.
It all started six months ago.
Every Sunday night Derek's’ family hold a dinner at his parents house, a Hale tradition going back ever since he was a kid. Any available Hale within the vicinity, aunts and uncles and cousins, would flock to the house in the preserve to spend the night eating, drinking, gossiping and gambling. Like every other Sunday, Derek made the trip to his childhood home in the early afternoon to help with the preparation and cooking before the hoards descended upon the house.
With bits of shredded carrot all over her hands, his mother had been telling Derek all about her work week as she crafted her coleslaw. As a high school teacher the stories Talia Hale had in her repertoire were both amusing and numerous and every week there was something new.
“...and then that poor Ben Bailey had to come to school on Friday with a black eye and a split lip. Finstock was furious.”
“I bet,” Derek agrees wryly, imagining his old coach and the particular shade of red he went when he was heated, how his eyes would bulge out when he was irritated.
“You were never like that,” Talia says, scooping mayonnaise into a bowl, “ - getting into stupid fights. Doing any of that stupid behavior.“
“Well actually -”
“ - except that one time.”
“We don’t talk about that one time.”
“Oh boy. That was a doozy.”
“But apart from that I was a perfect child,” Derek insists, stealing a cherry tomato from the spread of salad and popping it into his mouth.
“Oh yeah?” Talia asks with a snort, shaking her head. “Tell that to my frown lines and eye wrinkles.”
Derek leans over to plant a kiss on the fine lines of his mother's cheek. “There.”
“Kiss-ass,” she mutters, hip-checking him as he moves to prepare the burger mince. “You and your sisters, I swear to god.”
Before Derek can reply he’s cut off by the sound of the front door slamming shut, followed by the scuffle of footsteps and quiet voices filling the hallway. A tired looking Laura appears in the kitchen doorway moments later, an exuberant six-year-old Zack zipping through the free space to wrap himself around his grandmothers waist.
Talia exhales a pained, exaggerated oof before returning the hug, ruffling up the kids dark hair in the process. “Zack, are you taller than you were last week?”
“No,” he laughs into her stomach.
“You’re not? Are you sure?”
“Yes!”
“Okay then, I believe you. Go say hi to your uncle.”
Derek only has a moment to place down the knife he’s holding before Zack barrels into his side, headbutting his stomach. Derek squeezes his shoulder and smiles, “Hey little man, you hungry?”
Zack nods and then slaps Derek’s forearm, rocking back and forth on his sneaker-clad feet.
“Uncle D, do the thing.”
Turns out Derek still can’t say no to this kid. Holding his right arm out with a dramatic sigh, Derek waits until Zack latches his hands onto his flexed forearm and tells him to hold tight. With some fake grunts and groans, Derek lifts his forearm high above his head, raising Zack from the ground like a sloth hanging from a tree-branch. It’s the kids favorite thing, to be Derek’s pretend dumbbell, much to the dismay of Laura.
Derek will never admit to anybody that he maintains his strength training in alignment with Zacks growth so he can continue to be strong enough to pick him up.
It isn’t until they’re all sitting around the living room after dinner that Derek notices the small, yellowing bruise at Zacks hairline, half hidden beneath his floppy dark hair. Bending forward slightly to where Zack sits on the floor with Poppy, their old family cat, Derek brushes a few strands out of the way to get a better look.
He frowns at the mark. Nonetheless decides not to bring attention to it until it’s quieter.
The chance to ask appears when a few of the older adults step outside for a smoke and others disappear to use the facilities.
“What happened to your head, bud?” Derek asks quietly, however loud enough for Laura to answer if need be.
Zack shrugs, gently walking a small toy ninja over Poppy’s curved back.
“He got into a fight at school,” Laura sighs from the couch over, craning her neck back and forth.
“What.”
“I know. Some little asshole pushed him over.”
Alarmed, Derek stares at her waiting for any sort of elaboration. None comes.
“Why? Did the other kid get into trouble?”
Beside him, Zack shifts to grab his other toy, a camo-clad soldier, and manipulates it so it appears to be fighting the ninja. Quiet pew pew, krsshhh, noises tumble out of Zack’s mouth to depict what appears to be a deadly battle
Laura meanwhile scrubs her hand down her face. “Yeah, he did."
“He’s mean and he's stupid,” Zack said quietly, banging the ninja and the soldiers heads together. “I hate him.”
The soldier drops to the floor, startling Poppy who runs away with an annoyed meow.
It speaks a little of how exasperated Laura must feel about the situation when she doesn’t summon the energy to chide her child to be more mindful. Derek looks back and forth between them with a frown, wondering what it is he feels like he is missing.
Laura takes note of his confusion and explains, “In class the kids were drawing pictures of what they wanted to be when they grew up. Y’know, like astronauts or I dunno, monkeys or whatever.”
Derek tugs lightly on Zacks ear to annoy him into a smile. “What do you want to be?”
“A ballerina,” Zack mumbles, bending the ninjas plastic limbs into some intense, contortionist level poses.
Derek’s pretty sure that male ballet dancers are called something different but declines to bring that up. Nevertheless, understanding drips into Derek’s gut uneasily like oil into water. It sits heavily atop the surface and takes Derek more than a moment to resist the urge to ask for the kids name and address, and to focus on the way Zack avoids his eyes.
“The boy pushed you over because you drew a ballerina?”
“He said only sissy girls do ballet and then I said nah and then he said yeah. I pushed his dumb drawing off the table and then he pushed me over and I hit my head on the table. My drawing was cool, it had laser beams on the sides going bzshhh.”
Behavioral issues aside, Zack seems to shrink in on himself after he recounts the tale. Derek doesn’t like that one bit - who is this little shit making his nephew feel like he has to make himself smaller?
“Why don’t you start taking ballet classes?” Derek enquiries gently.
Zack shrugs, studiously avoiding anyones eyes. Derek looks up at Laura who mouths he’s embarrassed and Derek suddenly gets it. He was lucky having his sisters growing up, rarely did he venture into anything new alone, always with back-up and support amongst the bickering and ribbing. Zack’s an only kid with a father who works away most weeks.
Overcome with righteous indignation, Derek seals his fate.
“I’ll do it with you.”
Two weeks later he finds himself in a fresh new pair of black ballet slippers in a squeaky clean ballet studio in the heart of Beacon County. It was hard, but they’d managed to find a school that taught beginner lessons for both adults and children, and even luckier that the classes ran almost at the same time.
Zack’s instructor, Scott, was a fresh faced and energetic young adult who Zack adored . Derek wanted to be jealous about the way his nephew worshipped him but to be honest his own instructor, Kira, was equally adorable. Adoreworthy? Whatever. She was great. From day dot she looked at her nervous motley crew of newbies and explained that the studio believed in one core value: ballet was for anybody and every type of body, no matter what.
Derek’s tight hamstrings were relieved to hear that flexibility was not a goal this early in their training, if ever. But really, Derek was strong - how hard could it be?
In a few short weeks Derek understood just how hard it could be.
Okay, after the first lesson he definitely understood.
His knees ached after practicing little jumps that Kira called a sauté for the first time. His arms hurt from holding them upright in what he learned was called ‘second position’. Worst of all, his feet cramped from pointing them in dégagé’s and tendu’s for that first ninety minute lesson. He’d never found left and right so confusing.
But Zack had emerged from his class sweaty and beaming, jumping up to wrap his skinny arms around Derek, talking a mile a minute. In fact, Zack continued to leave his classes just as happy as the one before it and it gave them something they could talk about together. The kid’s confidence bloomed over the coming weeks.
Derek found his own confidence in such a foreign field shaky at first, not used to needing to have his form corrected so often and found himself frustrated when he wasn't immediately perfect at everything. But Kira was patient and seemed to have a talent for providing the perfect balance of praise and critique in a way that seemed caring. Derek quickly learned the new terms, practicing them throughout the week, much to the amusement of his family and friends
Most surprising at all was how much he found himself looking forward to his classes. The hour and a half class ended up being a way to zone out of the real world. It was hard to think about what to do about his life when he was trying to work on his arabesque or remember all of the steps in a barre exercise - what Kira called an enchaînment.
When Zack’s birthday rolled around two months ago he was showered in ballet themed gifts: new gear and ballet slippers, a pack of therabands, a massage roller. Derek took him to the local cinema to watch a documentary on the renowned ballet dancer Sergei Polunin. The kid was over the moon.
It came to Derek as an immense relief that their family seemed to take his passion seriously, too. There was no teasing about tutus or mention of Zack ‘being a ladies man’ or anything that might augment his feelings of being an outlier.
Things were good.
Over the Christmas and New Years period there had been a two week break of no classes, but today, the first Saturday back, marks the beginning of their second semester at the dance school. Both uncle and nephew were moving up the ranks of the entry levels and were keen to keep learning new skills, more technical and impressive than the ones they’d learned before.
Yeah relevés were cool and all, but do you know what else is cool? Pirouettes.
Maybe he could ask Kira about it? ...Nah. She’s a stickler for class structure and has said on more than one occasion that moves like that were way, way down the track.
It’s as Derek is quietly wondering if he could find a Youtube tutorial that a newcomer enters the room. It’s a male that Derek has never seen before, and while it’s not unusual for new students to begin throughout the term, rarely is it another guy.
Shit, Derek thinks. It’s quite a guy.
Soft pink lips, large doe-eyes, pale skin speckled with beauty marks. Derek’s eyes rake up and down, drinking in the lean limbs beneath the black leggings and white shirt the guy is wearing, the hair that dusts his arms. By the time his eyes make it back to the mans face Derek finds himself being caught out in his stare, the man's gaze on his.
Derek flushes, breaking their eye contact and searching the doorway for Kira instead. Surely she should be here soon.
From his peripheral vision Derek can see the guy loitering around the entrance, assessing the room. Strange, Derek thinks, most people usually go straight to their preferred spot at the barre. Instead, this guy just mumbles to himself as he looks around the people in the room, like as if he were... counting them?
The weirdness doesn’t fully register with Derek until the guy moves to turn off the music playing softly from the wall radio, piano notes abruptly being replaced with someone clearing their throat. Derek turns back to face the man as he turns to address the room, silence coming over the dancers as they place their attention on the newcomer.
“Hi guys,” the guy says loudly, clapping his hands together with a smack. “How are we doing this afternoon?”
There’s a faint murmur around the room expressing confused okayness.
“Awesome! For those of us haven’t met before, I’m Stiles and I’m an instructor here at the studio.”
Frowning, Derek tries to reach back in his memory to see if they’ve crossed paths before, but nothing comes to mind.
Stiles continues, moving lightly on the spot. “I bet you’re all wondering where Kira is! Well I’ve got some good news and some bad news. The good news is that Kira is now engaged!”
A chorus of cheers and applause erupts around Derek who bats his hands together somewhat half-heartedly.
“The bad news is that during her epic proposal she slipped and fractured her knee! So I’m going to be your instructor for the next six or so weeks. Questions?”
Saskia, a slim twenty-something, raises her hand nervously. “Is she going to be okay?”
Stiles waves his hand dismissively, walking over to the teachers barre and gesturing to the room.
“She’ll be fine, she’s tough. Anyway - who’s ready to start pliés?”
xxxx
This is a disaster, Derek thinks a little hysterically, keeping his eyes trained on the enchaînment Stiles is running through.
“Forward port de bras,” Stiles instructs, bending his body forward at the hips, thighs and glutes visibly clenching in the effort to remain upright, “arm up into fifth, bring it down to second, chassé forward and then go into an arabesque….”
Derek with his mouth slightly agape watches as the mans ass and back tighten through the position.
“...really extend your outside arm, reach those fingers, lift those toes off the floor…”
It’s all Derek can do to avoid blood rushing further south into what will soon become a fairly noticeable problem by focusing on the steps and keeping his eyes trained firmly on Stiles feet. His large, sturdy feet. Arching of the floor, flexing firmly into a perfectly steady demi-pointe, the delicate curve of his ankle.
Dammit.
Throughout the lesson Derek is called on frequently as the only male in the class, mostly for instructions on what parts that male dancers don’t typically do. It started with Stiles addressing him as hey you, which then progressed to a corrected Derek, and ended with a familiarised big guy.
The worst thing, the absolute very worst thing was that Stiles kept touching him.
It was normal for the instructions to approach their students to gently correct stances or feet by lightly touching the limbs to direct where they were supposed to be. Derek was used to Kira manipulating his foot to sweep through first on a ron de jambe - what Derek was not used to was Stiles’ warm, strong hands bracing his bicep and forearm with a feather-like touch, slightly angling his arm into a correct second position.
Derek was not used to Stiles cradling his ankle as he corrected what he called ‘sickling’. Sure Stiles touched the other dancers too, but did it burn them like it did Derek? He doesn’t think so.
It was torture.
By the time they had finished their reverence at the end of class Stiles had a light sheen of sweat on his flushed face, pink and red patches blooming over his cheeks and neck.
“Alright, thanks guys! That’s a great first class together.” Stiles says with a grin and applause, lifting up the bottom of his shirt to wipe at his glistening forehead. Derek’s eyes zero in like a heat-seeking missile at the newly exposed trail of hair leading from Stiles’ stomach into his pants. Good lord.
“Don’t forget to email me if you have any questions about what we covered - otherwise I will see you next week!”
At the dismissal Derek runs out of there like a bat out of hell. In the mens bathroom he splashes cool water on his face at the sink, chastising himself. It’s not exactly the first time he’s lost his head at a pretty face, it’s practically his MO, but that doesn’t mean he has to like his conduct.
He checks his phone once he extracts his face from the basin. Zacks class is about to finish and Derek usually likes watching the end of it with the other parents. Not that Derek is a parent or even likes being around them, but he likes seeing the kids having fun. It thrilled Derek when he was younger and his parents would show up to his games, always feeling on top of the world to have his love ones witness any success.
Shaking the excess water off his hands Derek moves to leave, reaching for the door handle when it swings outward, Stiles entering in and nearly running into him.
“Woah, hey there Derek,” Stiles greets, pulling back a bit.
“Stiles,” Derek says, fully intending to somehow flesh out the sentence but having no idea what to say.
Stiles’ cheeks pinken as he maneuvers around Derek to enter the bathroom. “Uh, great class today, I was impressed. You’re a great class.”
“Thanks,” Derek replies, feeling heat creep into his ears. “I enjoyed it."
I enjoyed it?
“Yeah? I’m no Kira but, like, I hoped it was okay. At least I have two functioning legs, so that’s gotta get me a step up, right?”
Derek can’t help but look down at Stiles’ legs and stare at the way the dark material hugs his tight calves. His brain gets twisted between the way the muscles of Stiles gently curve upwards and belatedly recognizing the pun, and says:
“Yeah, legs.”
“What?” Stiles asks, his voice somewhat strangled.
Derek flushes. “I mean you have them - legs that is - I mean,” he hastily retreats back to the door, opening it just in time for the sound of applause from a nearby studio signalling the end of class. “I have to go pick up my nephew, bye.”
“See you next week!” Stiles calls out and Derek can feel the back of his neck and ears burning hotter than a wildfire.
Luckily Derek doesn’t catch sight of his new instructor as they leave once Zack has rushed out of class, buzzing and happy.
“How was class?” Laura asks after Derek drops Zack back home.
Derek feigns interest in the time and declines to answer.
xxxx
Derek came out as bisexual to his parents when he was fourteen years old in an awkward concatenation of stutters and shaky, half-finished sentences. With the help of Laura, whom he’d first confided in a year earlier, Derek managed to say that yes, he was really, super bisexual, and no, it wasn’t a phase. All of his palm sweating and heart palpitations turned out to be unnecessary, though. His mother had smiled and told him it was okay and that she loved him, and his father started to tell him the same but after his third beer for the night belched midway through. Typical Hale moment, really.
Derek had fooled around with a few guys in his time - Elias, his high school basketball team captain in the tenth grade. Rohan, the cute guy at the gym in college. Nathan, his college roomate - actually just a whole bunch of guys in college, many without names.
But when it had come to serious, monogamous relationships, Derek only had experience with women. Two of whom he refuses to name or think about and one, his last serious girlfriend, who had somewhat restored his faith in the long game after their connection had fizzled out and they had parted amicably. It’s not that he hadn’t wanted a long term relationship with a guy, but it never worked out that way. Maybe he was meeting men at the wrong places - but when he saw a hot guy at a bar and was blowing him in the alley ten minutes later, he wasn’t really thinking about planning a future with him.
It’s not like he hasn’t tried dating men. He has Grindr, hello.
Which, okay, is probably not the most fertile ground for a blossoming romance but hey, the intention is there. It’s not Derek’s fault if his potential hook-ups are obsessed with shirtless selfies and backwards caps and want someone to call daddy. Not that Derek has anything against that - just… if it’s the right person, and not some build-a-twink persona with a heavily filtered photograph winking at the camera with their tongue lolling out of their mouth. It would be okay if it were someone who wants Derek for Derek and not, y’know, his face or his body or whatever.
Not to mention that whenever Derek lets his mind entertain the fantasy of letting some hook-up call him‘Daddy’ he gets overcome with sudden, overwhelming anxiety that he might accidentally croak out ‘Son,’ in return.
It’s a real turn-off.
With all of that being said, it comes to something of a surprise to Derek when his attraction to Stiles leads to less of a quickie in the studio office type of fantasy and more of a holding hands and spooning under the covers one. That’s not to say Derek hasn’t thought of Stiles in his bed in other ways, like how it would feel to pound his cock in Stiles ass while the instructors legs are in a full splits, oh no, those daydreams are a dime a dozen. But they’re unexpectedly outnumbered by the rose-colored, stomach-squirming visions that spring unbidden when Derek least expects them.
For the first week after his class with Stiles, he doesn’t really think about him too much, save for the intermittent mental replays of their embarrassing interaction in the bathroom. Work is distractingly busy. Erica gets lonely while Boyd is away on business and demands a large portion of Derek’s social life and camps out on his couch for most of the week. He babysits Zack for Laura on Tuesday and Thursday while she takes a much needed break. There’s plenty of distraction.
But Saturday rolls around again and it’s just as terrible as the previous one. Derek really likes the actual ballet component of the class, but he really struggles to appreciate the beauty of a promenade when all he can focus on is the way Stiles fingers suspend in mid air during his seamless turn, or the way his hand braces Derek’s lower thigh to help maintain his turnout when he mimics the move. Honestly, if this were any other instructor at a gym or like, a yoga class, Derek would think he was being flirted with - but no - Stiles is just actually a good teacher and this type of hands-on approach is not atypical for the instructors of the school.
Another week passes. And then another one. Then another. Suddenly it’s been a month since Stiles took over as their substitute teacher and Derek is no less of a useless bisexual disaster than the very first lesson.
Despite his best efforts, he hasn’t redeemed any points for suaveness or even marginal balletic competence when all he can think about is Stiles. The thing about learning ballet as an adult is that it requires pretty much all of your mental faculties with every piece of new material. The angle of your foot, your leg, your turnout, the squareness of your hips and shoulders - are your ribs tucked in, is the weight out of your heels, the angle of your wrist and the reach of your fingers? Is your thumb folded, is your tendu going from second to derrière or devant?
It’s fucking hard.
And yet, somehow Derek still finds time to fantasise about how Stiles would look asleep in Dereks embrace, how Derek’s thumb would look as it brushes back and forth adoringly against Stiles sleeping face. Stiles’ face in orgasm. Stiles fingers. Stiles wrists. Stiles.
It gets weird.
Derek manages to completely flub up an adage while imagining Stiles meeting his family over dinner and charming them silly.
It’s not Derek’s fault. Stiles is charming in this weird, awkward, delightful way. He turns out to be funny and dramatic and... also a legitimately good teacher?
“That was….a good try. Very creative!” Stiles announces to the class at the end of the enchaînment, tapping his fingers against his own barre at the centre of the class.
Panting slightly from exertion, Derek watches as Stiles visibly tries to think of a way to correct the class. After a moment, Stiles speaks.
“On your second side,” Stiles addresses the class. “I want you to really think about pushing through the floor. I know you know your glissés. I could see you thinking about which direction to go but you lost the sharpness of the movement. It was very sad looking.”
Derek watches amusedly as Stiles mimics what he must have seen. Stiles shoulders slump and he leisurely slides his foot across the floor until it lifts lazily from the ground, toes extended. There are a few chortles and giggles from the class at his exaggerated, marionette style movements.
“This is what I call the nursing home glissé!” Stiles says, foot slowly gliding in a cross-like pattern. “When you do your left side I want you to push, get that friction across the ground, lift your foot up. Sharp. Yes? I know you can do it, I’ve seen it before. You’ve got this, guys.”
With Stiles’ relaxed but methodical style of teaching, Derek is helplessly hoodwinked. Even though he was a flustered hot mess up against all that, he still found himself learning as much as he did with Kira, and found it even more motivating to do better. He found himself practicing between classes, raising himself up on fifth demi pointe everytime he needed to grab something off a high shelf, bought himself a theraband to use to strengthen his feet.
Not wanting to look like an idiot was a real motivator.
So, he’s never going to be at Stiles level and maybe it’s a little dumb considering Stiles is a professional and Derek is not, but he doesn’t want to...appear incompetent? Derek is an avid baseball player. He played college basketball. He is the champion of frisbee and volleyball at their family gatherings - okay, Derek is an athlete. Recreationally.
But put him in ballet slippers in front of a hot guy and he’s a mess. His limbs refuse to coordinate with his brain. Derek just wants to lay with him in bed on the weekends and know what Stiles body feels like when it’s curled up against his. It isn’t weird.
If nothing else, all this extra work helps him be a better dancer for Zack, which is why he started this all to begin with.
xxxx
One day Erica walks in on Derek practicing petit jetés in his living room and proceeds to tease him mercilessly.
"Uh, what the fuck are you doing?” She says from Derek’s doorway, mirth coloring her voice as she lets himself into his apartment.
Derek, who had been jumping from foot-to-foot in rapid succession, stumbles a little at the unexpected intrusion.
“A petit jeté?” He offers, hurrying to pause his phone where it is playing Tchaikovsky aloud. His ears get hot.
Smirking like a Disney villain, Erica drops onto the couch.
“A petty what?”
“It means little jump - it’s a ballet thing, nevermind,” Derek mutters, glaring at her. He joins her on the couch. “Are you here for a reason?”
An expression of mock afrontedness comes over Erica, slapping a hand to her chest. “To give you the pleasure of my company, Derek. Is that not enough for you anymore?”
“Erica, there is nothing pleasurable about your company.”
“That’s not what Boyd says,” Erica says, inspecting her nails. She shifts across the sofa until she is flush against Derek and rests her head on his shoulder. Her hair tickles his skin and the scent of her perfume fills his nose.
Not once in a million years would he admit it out loud, but Derek has always envied Erica and Boyd’s relationship. They were high school sweethearts and have been together ever since they were sixteen - they got it right the first time. Sometimes Derek would just watch them interact, the casual-but-still-intimate touches, the conversations that could be held without words, the inside jokes. He kinda wants that.
“I miss your face,” she says, rubbing her cheek against his shoulder. “That’s all.”
“Boyds’ cousin at the house again?” Derek tries.
“Yep.”
“You pussy.”
“Fuck off,” Erica laughs, shoving her weight onto Derek so he sways. “She’s the worst. She took one look at me this morning and asked me how far along I am - I’m not even pregnant. It's rude.”
“You sure about that?”
She pokes him in the ribs. “You calling me fat?”
"No, but last Friday I did watch you put away an entire pizza and wash it down with chocolate custard - after you stole my cheese fries.”
“I have a great metabolism, I’m taking advantage of it.”
“Sure. So how far along are you?”
“Not pregnant, fuckface,” Erica growls with an aggressive pinch to his stomach.
“Don’t swear around the baby,” Derek snickers, sliding a hand up and messing her hair into knotty, mane-like wildness. She swears and punches his thigh in retaliation.
“I hate you,” Erica sighs, stretching back and lifting her legs to rest her feet on the coffee table. “So, tell me about your week, I need me some entertainment. Are you still hot for teacher?”
“I’m not hot for teacher,” Derek protests, frowning down at his lap. “I respect him from a distance.”
She snorts. “You respect his dick from a distance.”
“I do not.”
“Mhmm. His penis.”
“I don’t -”
“His schlong.”
“Erica.”
“His engorged rod.”
“Erica.”
“His ginormous, throbbing cock,” Erica exclaims loudly, throwing her head back in mock ecstasy.
“You’re actually the worst,” Derek mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Get out of my apartment.”
“No. I bought you these throw pillows.”
“So what? Leave.”
Erica laughs, slapping Derek’s chest with a wayward hand. “Do you remember that episode of Dawson’s Creek where Andie is yelling at her dad and she’s like, ‘leave?’”
“I remember you losing your fucking mind everytime we watch it.”
“Get out of here!” Erica says dramatically, her chest heaving with an excited downward sigh. “It’s my favorite episode. It’s so good.”
“It’s really not that good.”
Derek is abruptly shoved sidewards, his midriff digging painfully into the armrest of his own sofa.
“Kiss my entire ass, Derek, it’s amazing. It’s up there with, like, Breaking Bad and Laguna Beach.”
“In what universe?”
“In the same universe you actually man up and ask out your ballet teacher.”
“So, none.”
Erica groans as she shits up abruptly from the chair and walks to his fridge to grab a couple of sodas. “Your beauty is wasted, you know that right? What’s your - whats his name again?”
“Stiles.”
“Okay. So? Ask Stiles out. What could he possibly say no to?”
“Homo?” Derek shoots back incredulously, accepting the soda can she passes.
“Der- “
“Just ‘cause he does ballet doesn’t mean he likes dick - and if he does it doesn’t mean he’s interested in me,” Derek says, snapping off the tab of the soda can and throwing it on his table.
“If he doesn’t, he’s crazy. You’re a solid fucking ten,” Erica offers, throwing back her soda and emptying it without taking a single breath. “Doesn’t hurt to ask, though. Ask him. Live a little.”
“Yeah,” Derek agrees, having absolutely zero intention of ever embarrassing himself by asking Stiles out on a date. Stiles is like the Mona Lisa in motion. Derek is The Scream after it’s been thrown into a raging fire and melted into a pile waxy, charred canvas. They can’t compare.
Erica nudges him with her elbow gently, pulling out her phone and bringing up an app. “C’mon, I’m ordering ribs. You can pick what we watch.
“Did you think that maybe I had other plans before you came here?” Derek says, but brings up Netflix on his TV anyway. After flicking through the selection he settles on Kitchen Nightmares. God he loves Gordon Ramsay.
Erica snorts. “Ha! You having plans. Like what, sitting in your room listening to Dido?”
He sighs. She’s not wrong.
xxxx
Life goes on as normal for the next couple of weeks. Work goes fast, then slow, then suddenly it’s the end of February and it’s starting to get darn wet for Northern California as they transition into Spring. Their spot in the corner of the state is notorious for rain during the colder months, proved consistent once again this year.
“Zack isn’t going to ballet this week,” Laura says, apropos of nothing one such rainy afternoon.
Derek frowns and sips his beer. The family is watching the baseball, the room firmly divided between the Yankees and the Dodgers.
“How come?”
Cheeto dust sprinkled over her lips and chin, Laura answers distractedly as the batter for the Dodgers approaches the box.
“He got invited to a birthday party.”
Quickly scanning the room Derek locates Zack playing Lego with Cora, heedless to their conversation.
“That’s great,” Derek says, genuinely warmed. This is the first time that he’s aware of Zack being invited to another kids birthday party.
“Yeah, he’s so excited,” Laura says, smiling over at her son. “He’s picked out his outfit already.”
Laura grows quiet, a pensive look crossing her face.
“He’s become so confident these past few months. Like, he’s really put himself out there since he started dancing.”
“Yeah, he has.”
“I’m really glad he had you to help him.”
Rolling his eyes and looking away, he says, “Don’t get soft on me.”
“Shut up,” Laura snorts. "You aint tough."
"Tougher than you," Derek says under his breath.
"Bitch, please."
xxxx
Later that night back at his own place Derek reflects on their conversation, nursing a glass of red wine as he idly watches Hell’s Kitchen.
If his little nephew can disrupt the status quo and take chances, why can’t Derek?
Besides the potential for humiliation and the crushing fear of rejection.
But...what was the worst that could happen, really, Derek thinks. Stiles wasn’t going to be their instructor forever, it would be anytime now that Kira would be back. Hell, even last week Stiles mentioned that she was on the mend and would be back soon. So if Derek asks Stiles out and is rejected, then it’s not like they have to see each other.
Derek doesn’t like the idea of not seeing Stiles again because he didn’t take the risk. He can handle Stiles not being interested in him, probably, but he hates the idea of a missed opportunity, a what-if more.
That’s it, Derek decides, heart beating out of time. He’s gonna do it.
He’s gonna ask Stiles out on a date.
Eyeing the half empty bottle of wine on his coffee table he guiltlessly pours himself another glass. He earned it.
xxxx
When Derek walks into the studio that Saturday his palms are sweating and his stomach is contorted into painfully nervous knots, twisting tighter and tighter with every minute that ticks closer to Derek’s class. Hell, with the birthday party he doesn’t even have Zack there as a distraction this time.
Warming up, he smiles stiffly at Donna, a fifty-something student in his class as she enters in moments after him, setting her bag down and beginning her own warm up sets. He offers an awkward nod to Priya comes up beside him to stretch her leg against the wall.
“You good, Derek?” she asks.
“Yeah,” he replies, quickly busying himself with a calf stretch, “Never better.”
“You look a little pale.”
“Stomach bug,” he says. “Terrible. Not contagious though,” he swiftly amends as she shuffles back a few feet from him, mouth twisting into a grimace.
Truthfully, Derek barely slept a wink last night, too busy tossing and turning and imagining what he’ll say to Stiles. At first, he thought maybe he should play it cool and slip him a note after class. Then Derek realized that was a little corny and childish and maybe it would be cool if he came up with some kind of ballet pun instead? But at 3AM all Derek could come up with was I’d like to touch your nutcracker.
Look, he never said he was creative.
In the end Derek figured the sentiment would come best from the heart at the moment in time. Even if he was notoriously shit at expressing any kind of warm sentiment and his resting face intimidates people.
If it were possible to get more nervous after hitting peak nervousness Derek manages it, anxiously watching the clock as the beginning of class nears. He tries to busy himself with stretching and listening keenly the faint noise of piano music from another nearby studio.
Moments later Kira walks in, grinning a mile wide. She waves to the students, hugging a few that come up to her.
Derek's heart sinks.
“Hi guys! I’m back!” She exclaims addressing the crowd. “How have you all been?”
There are some happy sounding responding murmurs from the class. Kira looks good, normal. Seems like she’s up to scratch again. That’s great… that’s really great.
“I heard that you’ve been doing great. Stiles almost didn’t want to give the class back to me!”
Disappointment falls over Derek in a heavy cloud, all previous nervousness promptly fizzled out and leaving a strange, burned out emptiness in his gut.
It’s fine. It obviously wasn’t meant to be. Stiles will go back to teaching his professional level classes and living in his office and everything will be just like before when Derek didn’t know he existed. It’s fine.
It was a stupid idea anyway.
“Alright, so get yourselves into first position and we’ll start our pliés!”
Derek proceeds to struggle through the next ninety minutes of class as an inability to focus renders him clumsy and forgetful, messing up basic steps that he would normally have no problem with executing. More than once Kira gave him corrections, which is practically unprecedented for him. Derek writes the class off as an absolute failure. It’s actually so embarrassing that would it not be for Zack expecting his presence - and support - Derek would question his presence there at all.
What’s left and right? Clearly Derek doesn’t know today.
The welcome back Derek gives Kira on the way out is not as sincere in his heart as he made it sound, but it was the best he had with his ever curdling mood. Just outside the studio as Derek switches his ballet slippers off and his sneakers back on, turning his phone back on.
A message immediately illuminates his screen.
> Erica:
... ok so i might b slightly pregnant
A photo accompanies the message, a pregnancy test displaying two blue lines.
Elated, Derek immediately calls Erica to congratulate her stepping out the back exit door of the dance studio, moving towards the staff carparking as he expresses his perverse satisfaction of his hunch being proved right and his best friends procreating. She’s crying and yelling on the phone, passing the phone to Boyd halfway through. When he hangs up Derek has a dumb smile on his face, pleased that his friends are pleased.
He better be named the godfather.
A flash of bright blue catches Derek’s attention. Upon closer inspection it’s the upturned hood of a vehicle, a toned figure hunched over the inner workings of the car. The person seems to be exasperated and talking into their phone. Derek pockets his phone and jogs over to see if he can help any.
He rounds up when the man hangs up, stopping in his tracks when he notices who it it is.
“Stiles?”
Stiles whips around, brow furrowed. He wipes his hand down his face.
“...Derek? Hey big guy, how you doin’?”
“I’m okay,” Derek nods towards his car. “You need some help?”
“Just called for a tow,” Stiles says, a wry smile on his face. “Car won’t start.”
Derek frowns. “What’s wrong with it?”
Stiles shrugs.
“Turn your ignition over.”
Stiles does as he’s asked, looking to Derek for confirmation as the motor turns but fails to ignite. Derek listens closely for the noises the engine makes - and doesn’t make.
“Sounds like a problem with your fuel pump,” Derek confirms with a grimace. “You’ll need that tow.”
“Great,” Stiles sighs and drops the hood with a clang as heavy as the droop of his shoulders.
“You got a ride home?”
“Nah,” Stiles says, waving his hand. “It’s cool, I’ll wait for the truck.”
Derek peers at the deep, angry purple clouds overhead and hesitates - not sure if Stiles is eager to be rid of him but equally unwilling to leave him alone like this.
“It’s about to start pouring down. Let me give you a lift home.”
“...Derek…” Stiles begins to protest, biting his lip.
“Stiles.”
“I can’t let you - “
“I’m not about to go home while you drown,” Derek argues, crossing his arms over his chest.
Stiles scoffs, peering up at the sky. “Oh c’mon. I’ll hardly drown.”
“Is that a yes?”
A loud drop of rainwater hits the windscreen of his Jeep.
“Fine.”
Derek leads him to where he has parked his Camaro, their footsteps hurrying with the quickening fall of raindrops, fat and heavy, soaking through their clothes with every hit.
Once inside Derek quickly revs the engine, placing the heating on and directing the fans closest to him to Stiles, who is beginning to look pale in just his shirt. Stiles lists off his address and smiles grimly at Derek.
“Thanks, man. That things’ got the kiss of death.”
“No problem,” Derek replies, merging onto Main Street.
“I’ll pay you back,” Stiles promises, looking out the passenger window. “Rescue you from work one day.”
Derek snorts. “Sure.”
“Hey, what do you do by the way?”
“I work at the library,” Derek says, changing lanes. “The one downtown.”
“No shit?” Stiles breathes. “That’s…”
“...kinda lame?” Derek offers, remembering all too well how most of his friends and prospective dates react to his profession. His last girlfriend never understood why he would rather pick up a book than go on a hike with her.
“No! It’s not lame at all,” Stiles hurries, fingering the neckline of his shirt. “It’s really not.”
“Okay.”
Silence falls between them for a few moments, the quiet made busy with the rainfall and crooning of a female singer through the speakers. Stiles house is a good twenty minutes outside of Beacon County proper. Cheaper rent, Stiles tells him.
“I’m sorry,” Stiles apologises at some point. “I don’t mean to cut into your Saturday night plans.”
Derek barely witholds a snort, sparing a sideways glance. “What plans? I have four episodes of Hotel Hell lined up and luke warm beer waiting for me.”
“Seriously? That sounds awesome. I love Gordon Ramsey,” Stiles sighs almost dreamily.
Derek heart skips a beat.
“Me too.”
“It’s raw, it’s fuckin’ raw!” Stiles mimics. “He’s so funny, he’s such a fucking asshole.”
“Right, but he’s so polite to the wait staff.”
“Please take this - the chicken is dry. Chewy. Ghastly. Thank you darling, thank you darling,” Stiles says with a fake accent, patting Derek lightly on the shoulder.
“Maybe we could watch it together,” Derek blurts out, cheeks immediately going hotter than the sun.
There’s a heavy beat of silence before Stiles speaks. “Yeah?”
Derek nods, his horror somewhat abated by Stiles fingertips reaching out to trail softly down his arm, leaving a trail of rising goosebumps in its wake.
“Yeah. I mean... if you want.”
“Do you mean... like just hanging out?”
Derek looks out determinedly at the road. “...Uh, no. I mean, we can - but…”
“So... like a date?”
“Yeah.”
“Yeah?”
Again, softer upon an exhale, “Yeah.”
“Cool,” Stiles says, like he doesn’t sense Derek’s impending doom.
“Cool.”
“You gonna cook for me?”
“I have frozen pizza?”
Stiles grins. “Sold.”
xxxx
Derek has the good sense to feel vaguely embarrassed about the state of his apartment once they get inside. There are piles of dishes still in the sink, unopened letters and bits and pieces all over his hall stand, shoes littered here and there.
“Sorry about the mess. I wasn’t expecting company.”
“It’s fine,” Stiles says, suddenly close behind Derek, placing a placating hand on his shoulder. “Don’t worry. You should see my place, it’s practically condemned.”
Feeling bold Derek reaches up to the hand on his shoulder and weaves their fingers together, leading Stiles away from the doorway and giving him a quick tour of the place that concludes in Derek’s kitchen. Leaning against the counter they stand flush side-by-side, shoulders pressed together, their hands still gripping each others. Stiles thumb draws lazy circles on Derek’s knuckle.
“Was expecting you in class today,” Derek mumbles, finding a scuff mark on his floor incredibly interesting.
“Did you miss me?”
“No.”
“Dude, I wanted to keep your class so bad,” Stiles admits, knocking their shoulders together. “Like, so freakin’ bad. But it was Kira’s first, so, y’know. Besides…”
“Besides what?”
“Besides, if I was still your teacher it’d be highly shady for me to do this...” Stiles smirks as he catches Derek’s eye, raising their intertwined fingers and kissing the back of Dereks’ hand.
Derek’s heart beats in triple time, his breath caught in his chest as the barely-there stubble on Stiles’ chin tickles his skin as they maintain their eye-contact.
“Yeah… that’s, yeah. Definitely the right thing to do.”
“Mhmm,” Stiles hums, leading Derek to his freezer with their joined hands. “Do you know what it was like for me to walk in every class and see you standing there in those sweatpants? That tank top? Absolutely ridiculous.”
Derek opens his freezer and fishes out the intended frozen pizza, discarding it in the bench.
“Excuse me,” Derek says, closing his freezer door with a snap. He turns the oven on. “How many développés did I have to watch you do? I had to watch your legs spread until your ankle hit your ear. For weeks.”
“Did you like it?” Stiles asks, cheeks pink and seemingly short of breath.
“Yeah,” Derek says roughly. “You’re really flexible.”
While he discards the pizza from it’s wrappings and places it into the oven Stiles grabs them each a beer from the fridge - Derek desperately tries not to think of a naked Stiles, legs splayed in a splitz as Derek pounds into him. He wills his dick to calm down despite the smell of Stiles shampoo or the sweet warmth of his skin against Dereks’ where they are briefly connected.
They watch each other take a sip from their respective beers. Derek almost takes the initiative to place a kiss to the place where Stiles throat bobs when he swallows when his phone goes off, interrupting the spell of their gaze. It turns out to be a barrage of photos from Laura of Zack at the party. Derek’s heart swells impossibly upon seeing his nephew happy and raucous with joy and laughter with the other kids, scenes of play and cake and decorations abound.
Stiles looks over his shoulder and smiles when Derek shows him. “Oh man, way cute.”
Derek pockets his phone. “Yeah, he’s a cool kid.”
When he looks up he sees Stiles looking at him, a dopey smile on his face.
“What?” Derek asks, mouth quirking upwards in a responding smile.
“Nothing.”
“Just nothing? You sure?”
“Yup,” Stiles affirms, taking another sip of his beer, somehow still smiling.
“You wanna watch some Hotel Hell while the pizza cooks?”
“Hell yeah.”
When Stiles snorts at his own pun Derek rolls his eyes, mostly in disbelief that he’s finding himself charmed by it. Nonetheless he takes Stiles hand again and leads him to his living room and gestures Stiles to take a seat on the sofa, quickly going back to the kitchen to grab a couple more beers. He sets them on his coffee table.
When he goes to sit beside Stiles he makes sure to leave a respectful couple of inches between them.
As he’s starting up an episode Stiles leans forward to sip his beer. When he settles back he bridges the gap between them, pressing their thighs together. Derek’s gut clenches but he says nothing, reminding himself to be cool.
For a while they idly watch the episode, the living room filled with their own snickering and enraged swearing coming from the TV.
It doesn’t take very long for Derek to be distracted, filled with a sense of surprise at the turn of the days events. Very rarely, if ever, does things go his way like this. Turning, Derek watches the long column of Stiles’ neck when he throws his head back to laugh at something, Derek’s not sure what, too focused by the heat of Stiles’ body against his.
Noticing he’s being stared at, Stiles smirks.
“Hey Derek,” Stiles says softyl, shifting impossibly closer. “You’ve got something on your face.”
“Oh….”
Before Derek can move, Stiles lifts his hand up and cups Dereks’ jaw, lightly rubbing his thumb back and forth on Derek’s cheek, causing a flurry of butterflies to fly up in Derek’s cgest.
“Got it,” Stiles whispers after a moment, but doesn’t move his hand. What he does is move his face closer until Derek feels the warmth of his breath and can count his eyelashes.
“Thanks,” Derek murmurs, leaning in.
The timer in the kitchen goes off, startling both of them.
Neither of them move.
“I should probably get that,” Derek says in the small space between them.
“I guess,” Stiles concedes, moving back a little, smirk still gracing his face. “You did promise me fine dining. I don’t think burnt pizza will cut it.”
“I made no such promises,” Derek scoffs, slipping out of their embrace with some regret. Moving as quickly as possible to the kitchen he retrieves the pizza from the oven, nearly burning himself as he plates it in his haste. The pizza isn’t burnt and could probably, honestly, use another five minutes in the oven but Derek isn’t trying to woo Stiles with his culinary skills here.
When he gets back to the living room Stiles has splayed out a little, his legs open, arm slung on the back of the sofa. Politely, Derek tries not to stare and sets the plates on the coffee table.
“It’s still really hot,” Derek warns and sits back on the sofa, as close as they had been before.
It takes all of his control to not appear surprised when Stiles wordlessly moves his arm from the back of the sofa to rest across Dereks’ shoulders. Be cool , he tells himself.
“Smells good,” Stiles comments, fingertips stroking Derek’s upper arm.
“Yeah,” Derek says, heartbeat on overdrive. “It does.”
“It’s a five star meal.”
“You haven’t tasted it yet.”
“It’s all about the ambience, big guy.”
“The ambience.”
“Yeah. Hey, Derek?”
“Yeah?”
Stiles tightens the arm over Derek’s shoulders as he leans in. “I’m gonna kiss you now, if that’s okay.”
“Yeah, that’s - yeah.”
Stiles leans in and finally presses his lips against Derek’s, sweet and soft, almost innocent. When Stiles moves back an inch Derek lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding and says:
“Do it again.”
Stiles answering smile makes Derek’s limbs turn weak when it’s pressed up against his mouth. He reaches up a hand to cup Stiles’ cheek, tilting his head just slightly to deepen the kiss.
“How was that?” Stiles asks once Derek pulls back, his lips shiny.
Derek pretends to think about it. “It was okay, but I call it the nursing home version of a kiss.”
Stiles appears equally outraged and amused if the choked gasp is anything to go by.
“I’ll show you nursing home,” Stiles says, swinging his leg over Derek’s to straddle his thighs, shimmying up until their groins are flush. Derek’s breath hitches, hands flying up to settle themselves on Stiles hips as he dives back in to kiss Derek senseless.
Turns out that Stiles is a fucking minx because the moment he slides his tongue in Derek’s mouth he grabs Derek’s hands from his waist and settles them on his ass, encouraging Derek’s fingers to squeeze. And squeeze he does.
Stiles’ long arms wrap around Derek’s neck, his hips rolling, their tongues sliding together. Derek loses himself in the curvature of Stiles denim-covered ass under his palms, the slickness of their lips, the way that Stiles exhales against Derek’s skin, the little pleased noises coming from them both.
“Fuck,” Derek whispers on a sigh, cupping Stiles taint from outside his clothing and rubbing lightly. Stiles hips make these short, rocking motions against Derek's - his hands, his mouth, his body, everything is so warm. A trail of kisses is being placed across his jaw down to his neck, all light suction and tongue.
The internal debate on whether he should reach for Stiles’ zipper is interrupted by the incredibly loud gurgling of Stiles stomach.
“Um, shit,” Stiles laughs awkwardly, scooching back a few inches, cheeks pink and breath laboured. “Sorry, I’m really fucking hungry.”
“Same,” Derek admits, stomach gnawing since the end of class. “Pizza?”
“Yeah,” Stiles agrees, sliding down so they’re flushed together again. Derek tries to not immediately miss the warmth of their skin touching and busies himself with passing a plate to Stiles.
They eat in relative silence, only half paying attention to the television when their ankles keep knocking together and their fingers brush. It still feels somehow as intimate as when Stiles was grinding into his lap. Maybe if Derek eats enough it will ease the yearning in his stomach.
Things don’t go any further that night. Stiles is visibly tired after having eaten, eyes drooping closed before snapping open again, mouth opening with barely suppressed yawns.
“C’mon,” Derek says, nudging Stiles shoulder. “I’ll drive you home.”
“M’kay,” Stiles agrees sleepily, standing up to stretch, raising his arms above his head. He helps Derek throw away the beer bottles and bring their plates to the sink and asks Derek for directions to the bathroom.
Derek nervously pats the car keys in his pocket while Stiles is in the bathroom and slips on his leather jacket.
In the car Stiles seems a little more awake. They make small talk about politics and trade war stories of their respective workplaces. Stiles mouth hangs agape in disbelief when Derek tells him about the one time someone had returned books literally covered in urine. It should look unattractive on him, but it doesn’t.
It’s still raining lightly when Derek parks outside Stiles’ house, the pitter-patter on the car windows helping to distract some of the lingering nerves wiring him up.
Stiles unbuckles his seatbelt and places his hand on Derek’s shoulder again, smiling.
“So, uh. I had a good time. A really good time. We should, I don’t know, do this again maybe? I mean, if you want.”
“Yeah?” Derek asks, dipping his head down a little. “I mean, yeah. Definitely.”
“Cool.”
“Cool.”
Stiles takes his hand off Derek’s shoulder to fish around for his phone, passing it to Derek. “Uh, you should give me your number. Then you can Odile me.”
“...What.”
“Get it? Odile me, like, o-dial me?”
Derek raises his eyebrows.
“Wow.”
“What?”
“That was really bad.”
"Uh, it was awesome. Clearly we need to work on your sense of humour.”
“Clearly we need to work on yours.”
“Hey, do you even know how hard it is to come up with a ballet pun? There’s almost no pointe.”
“Hey, Stiles.”
“Yeah?”
Derek hands his back his phone after entering his number and cups Stiles’ cheeks.
“I’m going to kiss you.”
“Shutting up now,” Stiles says, closing his eyes as Derek leans in to press their lips together.
A few minutes later after they’ve parted and Derek watches Stiles go through his front door, smiling to himself. Starting his car he begins the drive back home, radio playing softly in the background. It’s stopped raining.
When he gets home he checks his phone to see he already has a text from Stiles.
> Stiles:
hey derek
thanks again for tonight
i have a feeling ur gonnna keep me on my toes
get it?
Derek smiles and shakes his head.
Yeah, he definitely made the right decision to go to class.