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Stiles is pretty damn certain he's in love. The only problem is that he's technically only met the guy once, and he didn't exactly make the best first impression. In his defense, he'd had a lot of jello shots at Scott's party that night, so by the time he was voluntold by Jackson to go get the doorbell, he was pretty sloshed.
It's not like he'd meant to stare, mouth hanging open like a goldfish as his eyes trailed over the well-muscled frame of the marble statue made human standing in front of him. It's not like he'd meant to wonder aloud why a GQ model would pick up a side gig delivering pizza, or start waxing poetic about how pretty his eyes were, but like, listen, maybe if they would just make up their fucking mind about what color they were, Stiles wouldn't have had to go on and on about all the different gemstones they reminded him of. So really, in the grand scheme of things, it was actually Derek The Hot Pizza Delivery Guy's fault — you can't just show up at a college dorm looking like that and expect people to not make a fool of themselves.
Luckily, Derek (because yeah, Stiles might not remember a whole lot from that night, but he distinctly remembers that the guy's nametag said Derek) was gracious about it. He chuckled, low and throaty, as he handed Stiles the stack of boxes, lips quirked up at one corner in a self-satisfied little smile, the faintest hint of a blush tinging the tips of his ears. And Stiles nearly toppled over right then and there, scattering five dozen pizzas in the middle of the sidewalk, because it was just about the cutest goddamn thing he'd ever seen.
That was a week ago, and Stiles has (mostly) recovered from his brief spell of death by mortification. Determined to make a better second impression (and maybe even get the guy's number) Stiles starts ordering out from Hale's Pizzeria a couple of times a week, hoping that Derek will be on shift. Much to Stiles's disappointment, he can never seem to get the timing right.
The first time, it's a guy with curly blonde hair that shows up — wearing a fancy ass winter scarf in fucking May — and gives him this appraising smirk like he's judging him for liking pineapple and pepperoni. The second time he opens the door, he's met with the literal embodiment of tall, dark, and handsome as a wall of muscle in the form of a man gives him a look of wry amusement and mild impatience when he fumbles for his wallet.
The third interaction is the strangest of all — a woman wrapped in leather, blood red lipstick, and cheetah print stilettos sharp enough to kill a man eyes him up with a mischievous glint in her eyes and says, "So you're the one I've heard so much about," before shoving the pizza box into his outstretched hands and clicking down the hallway at lightning speed before he can ask what the hell she'd meant by that.
Two and a half weeks, and still no sign of Hot Pizza Man. Stiles is starting to get disheartened.
By the time he gets home from his night class later that week, he's exhausted and starving. He doesn't think twice before reaching for his phone and scrolling for the contact — he's got the place on speed dial at this point, and when they answer — "Hale's Pizzeria, this is Laura speaking, what can I get you?" — they recognize him by voice, already calling out his usual order to the back.
Without thinking, Stiles asks if Derek is working tonight, and then immediately regrets it. There's a pause, the telltale static of someone trying to shove the receiver into someone else's hands, followed by a bout of muffled laughter and a gruff, panicked voice informing Laura that she's the worst sister in the world.
Stiles can practically hear the smirk in her voice as she gets back on, all polite, high-pitched, feigned innocence as she tells him she'd be more than happy to arrange that for him. Stiles splutters, tries to backtrack and insist that there's no need, he was just curious, please forget he asked, but before he can get a word in edgewise, the line cuts out with a sharp peal of laughter and the unmistakable sound of sibling bickering.
He doesn't know why he's panicking. This is exactly what he wanted, a second chance to see Derek again. Except for the fact that he'd asked for him by name after meeting him exactly once, so there's no way Derek doesn't think he's a total creep.
To make matters worse, it's in that moment that Stiles realizes just how gross and sweaty he feels, resenting Scott for making him go on a run through the preserve to settle his nerves before his big date with Allison. He checks his phone — it's only been five minutes since he placed his order, and the usual wait is twenty-five — he's got time for a quick shower and a change of clothes.
He starts the water, gets the bathroom all nice and steamy, gets a nice lather going in his hair until it's thick enough to turn into stegosaurus spikes, when there's a knock at his front door. Stiles groans, leaning forward to bang his head against the tiled wall. He knew this would happen, the moment he came home and saw them sitting on the kitchen counter — Scott left his keys and got himself locked out of their dorm. Again.
With a long-suffering sigh, Stiles shuts off the water and wraps a towel around his waist, padding out of the bathroom and across the living room floor with a series of squelching noises as his soapy feet collide with the carpet. He opens the door, fully prepared for the sight of Scott's apologetic puppy dog eyes, only to find—
Derek, the hot pizza delivery guy, standing there in his doorframe, eyebrows arched so high they practically straddle his hairline.
"Derek," he gasps, and then realizes just a beat too late how weird it sounds that he knows Derek by name.
"Pizza delivery for Stiles," Derek says in a strained voice, seemingly unable to take his eyes off of Stiles's bare chest, following a trail of moles dotted down his throat and across his collarbones like constellations just begging to be mapped.
"Uh," Stiles falters, swallowing nervously. "I'll just—"
Water drips down his face in rivulets, threatening to get shampoo in his eyes as he scrabbles for his wallet, tucked into the back pocket of the jeans he'd hastily discarded in a pile on the floor before stepping into the shower. With a sheepish grin and a nervous chuckle, he trades Derek the pizza box for a soapy, soaking wet $20 bill.
Technically, this should be the end of the transaction, but the two of them just keep standing there, staring at one another. And then Derek's gaze drifts lower, and his eyes widen, and that's when Stiles feels it — the sudden burst of cool night air across his backside — and sure enough, when he glances down, there's his towel pooled in a puddle at his feet. Stiles gives a startled yelp, and in his panic, attempts to use the pizza box as a modesty shield, only he's got it tilted at the wrong angle so now the pizza's slipping, sliding straight out of the box and onto the floor, landing face-down in a soapy puddle.
Somewhere, vaguely, in the back of his mind, Stiles can't help but think that this is an apt metaphor for his entire romantic history. Scarlet heats up his cheekbones in a scorching blush that threatens to sizzle the beads of water still clinging to his skin. For a moment, all he can do is stand there, staring down at the Greek tragedy melting into his living room carpet in wide-eyed horror, and then some latent self-preservation instinct kicks in, and he blurts out a flustered, "I'm so sorry!" and promptly shuts the door, sinking down onto the floor and burying his face in the palms of his hands.
A few hours later, there's a knock on his front door. With a begrudging groan, Stiles heaves himself off the couch, where he'd spent the last few hours wrapped in a blanket burrito, sulking and fighting an uphill battle with his nerve-addled mind as it replayed the incident in excruciating, embarrassing detail. He doesn't think he can handle hearing how amazing Scott's date went after the absolute dumpster fire of an evening he'd had.
"Seriously, Scotty, you have got to stop forgetting your keys," Stiles sighs, trudging across the (still damp) living room floor and whipping open the front door. "You never know, one of these days I might actually get lucky, out all night with a hot date, and then what are you gonna—"
The rest of his words die in the back of his throat as he takes in the sight of the man framed in his doorway. Infuriatingly attractive, all dolled up in a pair of sinfully form-fitting jeans and a dark red henley with adorable little thumbholes in the ends, chiseled jaw clean-shaven where there'd been a hint of five o-clock shadow before (and Stiles can't honestly decide if it's an improvement or a tragedy.)
"Pizza wasn't to your liking?" Derek teases, eyeing up the cardboard box haphazardly shoved into the trash bin, the freshly-scrubbed portion of carpet where flecks of cheese and oil still cling. He crosses his arms and leans casually against the doorframe, forest eyes lit up in the glow of the streetlights as he flashes Stiles a dazzling grin. When he smiles, the corners of his cheeks dimple, and honestly, it should be illegal for anyone to be that fucking charming.
"Yeah, you know…" Stiles huffs out a nervous laugh and attacks a phantom itch on the back of his neck to avoid having to make eye contact. "I just don't think pepperoni and peppermint soap are a good combo."
Derek chuckles, this low, rumbling vibrato that sends a wave of warmth unraveling inside Stiles's chest, and asks, "So, did you end up ordering from somewhere else, or…?"
"I made toast," Stiles supplies lamely, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans and kicking at a torn patch of carpeting with the toe of his sneakers.
"Oh," Derek says with an air of feigned disappointment. "Okay, well, my shift just ended, and I was coming over here to ask if you wanted to go out to dinner with me tonight — dealer's choice, as long as it's literally anything but pizza — but if you're all full up on toast—"
"Oh my god yes," Stiles practically moans, altogether forgetting his keys, wallet, and phone as he flies out the door.
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