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Summary
He drags his hands down, one palm pressed flat over the curve of Stiles’ shoulder socket, fingertips curled to grip slightly but not as tight as he wants, never as tight as he wants, the other fisted over his sternum so he can feel how his heart beats, beats, beats.
He needs just a second, only a second, he swears. “I am terrified of changing things.”
Stiles bows back, flat against the front of the dishwasher as he considers Derek, surrounded by his own hair. “Are you afraid of things changing,” he starts, “or are you afraid of changing me?”