Work Text:
Stiles doesn’t stay over, as a rule.
At first, it was about them – whatever it was that they were, back then. Slamming each other against walls, snarling insults, sharp and wrong. There was no staying after – no touching after, really, while Stiles avoided looking at Derek, jerking his pants back over his hips and running a helpless hand through his hair before he took off.
Later - after Derek came back - it was about logistics. Where to park the Jeep so the Sheriff, driving by the loft during his shift, and wouldn’t see his underage son’s car in the warehouse district at 3 o’clock in the morning. Avoiding a rushed weekday morning, Stiles scrambling to scarf down breakfast and make it to school on time, thirty minutes farther, without anyone noticing that he’s come from the wrong direction with wet hair. Everything felt too fragile and new to withstand a second set of towels, an extra toothbrush, a change of clothes in the drawer.
Lately, though. Stiles is back from college for the summer, commuting to a Department of Justice internship in Sacramento and sleeping late in Derek’s bed on Saturday morning.
He wakes before Stiles and just looks at him. Gives himself ten minutes before he has to get out of bed and shove his feet into shoes, set out on his run.
Stiles is passed out on his back, stretched out over his half (and when did Derek start thinking of it as his?) of Derek’s king size bed. Early light pours through the window and limns his features in warmth, despite the California summer morning chill penetrating the bricks.
Stiles shivers and rolls onto the side, curling against the cold. Derek counts the moles on his shoulder, tries to memorize the angle of his shoulder blade, just in case, and tucks the sheets around him before he slips out of the room.