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It’s dark. Almost pitch black in Derek’s loft, scarcely a sliver of moonlight shining in through the big window. So that for a moment, Stiles isn’t sure his eyes are actually open or that he’s actually awake. He’s gotten comfortable over the summer sleeping here. He knows all the sounds. The Betas upstairs sleeping in their puppy pile. The faint hum from the fridge and the other electrical luxuries that the pack has lived without until their Alpha finally got them a real place to live. There’s a red glow from a clock across the room and a smaller one from an LED on the turned-off TV. Stiles’ eyes focus on the outlines of the furniture he helped Derek drag up eight flights of stairs because while it’s a real place to live, his sourwolf wouldn’t be a proper brooding prince if the place actually had an elevator or a wall without a hole or two knocked into it or window panes that didn’t rattle just a little in the coming autumn breeze.
Stiles dreamed of this loft and being in this bed even when he was sleeping in his own room in his house. So it was reasonable that in this penumbra between wakefulness and dream he wasn’t quite sure where he was. There was one big clue though. A familiar but creepy feeling making the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.
“You’re doing it again, aren’t you?” he mumbled, a smile teasing the corner of his lips. Stiles felt Derek shift in the bed and settle against his back. A warm, heavy arm draped around his waist, snugging him close.
“Doing what?” a low voice whispered in his ear before a kiss was planted beneath it.
“Watching me sleep.” Stiles reached up and held Derek’s arm, pulling it across his chest.
“47,” Derek answered, nuzzling against Stiles’ back.*
“47 what?”
“Beauty marks.”
Stiles could feel Derek smile against him. He laughed quietly. “Oh my god. Go to sleep, you. I have school in the morning.”