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Summary
“Stiles,” he says in greeting. Derek cranes around to see the same boyish face he saw in the hall, standing there stiffly in the entryway. He’s dressed up in Peter’s preferred tastes, that’s for sure, a thick, fisherman sweater and brown trousers. His face, this close, is just as pale as it appeared in the hall, but small moles dot his skin. His hair is a mess of chestnut, and his hands are clenched up into fists at his side. He looks like he would rather be anywhere but here.