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The room is quiet, oddly comforting in a way that the Sheriff knows is somehow not right for what is about to happen.
He says, "It's Derek Hale, isn't it." and tries to breathe around the throbbing pulse that has been building in his throat for the past hour.
Stiles turns his face away, and there is something almost fond flickering in the shadows of his eyes.
"Yeah," he whispers. His mouth tugs slightly, a wistful smile trying to make itself known on his bruised and broken face. "I love him, Dad. I love Derek."
And the Sheriff knows, of course he knows, of course. He's known for days, weeks, months, that knowledge a building trepidation in his bones, skirting across his skin, the chill at the back of his neck. He's known from the extra set of footsteps thumping softly from Stiles' bedroom at too-late hours of the night, he's known from his son's red-kissed lips and wild laughter and he's known since the moment he spotted his son at the local gas station, standing by the hood of a Camaro he did not own, leaning against it as Derek pressed himself into the swaying curve of Stiles' body and smiled against his neck.
The Sheriff has known.
"That's, that's good son." He says, because Stiles is his son and he is supposed to care about Stiles' happiness most of all. And Stiles is smiling now, faint but still there, amongst the bruises against his cheek and the broken skin at his mouth. Stiles is happy and the Sheriff is supposed to be happy for him because that's how it works, isn't it? As a parent, a father - he's supposed to be happy for his son.
He gives Stiles a squeeze on his shoulder, and it is awkward and Stiles lifts his head to his father and the Sheriff smiles because this is what his son needs.
But when he goes downstairs and hears Stiles turn in for the night, the Sheriff pours himself a glass of whiskey, and then another, and another still, until he's forgotten that his son is in love with a boy too old for him and an ex-suspected murderer. He drinks until his wife has returned and is sitting by his side, hand curled gently around his wrist as she always used to, drinks until he can hear her voice and forget his own.