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Summary
“You must be Stiles.” The words fond and amused.
“You’re the clever one, Stiles.” Pleased words accompanied by a surprisingly soft grip on his chin despite the claws digging into his skin.
“I like you, Stiles.” This time the words were whispered like a lover’s caress against the sliver of skin peeking out from his sleeve.
“Yes or no, Stiles?” Words delivered with impatience and demanding, but with no heat.
Odd that Stiles found himself thinking of the time he’d made a choice, as he lay bleeding out in the middle of Shakespeare Park knowing he’d never get to make another choice again, much less take Peter up on his offer from so long ago.