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There’s a time, a time when the bush sunflowers are in bloom. A time when a tiny butterfly flits across the air between them. There’s a time, a time when Derek smiles. It’s a moment he forgets to stifle. An expression he forgets he isn’t supposed to wear. Before the guilt, before the wrenching and acidic guilt can creep in, he forgets. He forgets that he’s not allowed to feel that. He’s not allowed to show that.
It’s gone as quickly as it appeared. His eyes downcast, a quiet flush creeping up his cheeks.
But Stiles notices it. He notices it.
The next time. It’s when a hummingbird buzzes by his head so low and so close it probably lifted the hair on his crown. And he smiles.
It’s gone as quickly as it appeared.
The sun is breaking through heavy clouds lined in silver. Rain has soaked the ground. And the California lilacs are in bloom. There’s a broken branch, a tiny scar in a narrow stem. So Stiles tugs it until it snaps. And hands it to Derek.
He holds it in his open palm. Looking down at it with its deep purple hues and rain like teardrops littering its veins. His eyes rise slowly. His expression so carefully blank.
Stiles nudges his ankle with a gentle kick and motions that he smell it. His eyebrows dip so slightly that a less practiced person wouldn’t notice the motion. A person unpracticed in the language of Derek Hale. If anyone else wanted him to smell a flower on a perfectly beautiful day in Spring, it’d be a trap. But it’s Stiles. So Derek does it.
Stiles watches his lashes flutter when he flicks his gaze down to the flower in his hand. It’s rising so slowly that Stiles has a hard time not reaching out and giving him the boost to get it to his damn nose! Though, really, he can probably smell it from that distance just fine. Finer than fine. Finer than Stiles can smell it if it was shoved up his nose.
His ridiculous hyperactive heart is in his throat by the time Derek’s nostrils flare and his eyes delicately waver shut for a split second. That same heart is stopped dead in its tracks when every fleck and hue of Derek's iris is revealed again. This time staying steady on Stiles’s face as the corners of his lips lift. So slightly. So fragile.
Stiles reaches out, the very tip of his knuckle landing against Derek’s chin.
“Don’t hide that smile,” he whispers, afraid his voice will break the moment.
Cheeks smudged pink beneath stubble. But his chin stays level. And the smile lingers.