Work Text:
When Peter arrives at the pack meeting, everyone gives him the evil eye. He hasn’t even done anything lately. Stiles isn’t immediately visible, so Peter goes looking and finds him in the kitchen, putting together a tray of snacks. He’s humming softly as he works, clad in jeans and a t-shirt with a button front shirt over it. His usual fare, although the shirt is a little nicer than usual…
“Wait, is that my shirt?” Peter asks.
“Not so loud!” Stiles hisses. “It doesn’t look so different from what I usually wear.”
“There’s no point whispering,” Peter says, thought he obligingly lowers his voice. “It might not be obviously mine visually, but it certainly smells like me.”
Stiles freezes, ears going red. “Just because you’ve worn it doesn’t make it dirty,” he protests, still quietly. “I checked!”
“Just because it’s clean doesn’t mean it hasn’t picked up my scent,” Peter says, amused. “Face it, Stiles, the cat’s out of the bag.” He picks up the snack tray. “Now come defend me from the others.”
Stiles groans, but he follows Peter into the other room.