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Summary
“Morning.” Stiles says, still sleepy. He’s fucked out tired and loose and sluggish, up most of the night until he’d passed out onto the pillow they shared.
Derek rumbles a response, the timbre of his voice low and strong. “Morning.” He bends and kisses Stiles’ forehead, who takes the kiss with his eyes slipping half closed and a hum in his throat. Derek regards him. Focused on Stiles like he sometimes gets, eyes mottled and gold but not demanding.