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It’s the recipe that does it.
Stiles had spent nearly an hour the previous day waxing poetic about some kind of Polish pastry his mom used to make, apparently having learned the recipe from her mother, and which she’d never managed to teach to Stiles. He’d concluded, with a deep sigh, that he’d probably never have them again.
And now Peter is more than two hours down a rabbit hole of infuriating pintrest recipes and reddit posts trying to reconstruct the damn thing from the many, many details Stiles had elaborated on during his nostalgic raving. Peter glances at the time, shakes his head, goes back to his notes, and that’s when it hits him:
This isn’t the kind of thing a friend does.
Slowly, he turns and looks around his apartment. Takes in the pillows and the curtains on the windows and realizes that he’s has Stiles over for dinner three times this week and there’s still the weekend ahead. What was it Stiles had asked him? “Does it mean something when a werewolf starts, I don’t know, nesting?”
Peter can only laugh. Stiles is never going to let this go.
But at least the pączki can double as a first formal courting gift.