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There is a guy.
A really hot guy, in fact, who has the audacity to jog on the sidewalk shirtless, as if Stiles has the mental capacity to deal with that at seven in the goddamn morning.
He does not.
He does not, so much so that while he’s rubbernecking and trying to take in as much of that glistening, rippling torso as he can, he misses a curve in the road and drives right up onto the sidewalk—on the other side of the street, thank god—and into a big blue mailbox.
Fuck.
Stiles gasps at the impact, wincing as the seatbelt jerks hard against his sternum and his head slams into the doorframe. Everything stills after one final jostle, and after a quick check to make sure he still has all his limbs, Stiles rests his forehead on the steering wheel with a groan. Holy shit. This is definitely one of the top five most embarrassing things to ever happen to him, and that is a damn hard list to crack.
“Are you okay?”
Stiles yelps at the unfamiliar voice and opens his eyes to find himself way too close to the hot guy. He’s just standing there, right outside Stiles’ window, hands on his hips and looking all cute and concerned in those little shorts, and it’s just not fair that this is his life right now.
“A squirrel!” he cries out, wincing when the guy steps back in surprise. “Yep, there was definitely a squirrel. I, uh, swerved to avoid it.”
The guy slides his sunglasses off, and goddamn his eyes are pretty. Stiles stares for a second, completely unabashed, before he remembers that he crashed his car because he was leering, Jesus Christ, and jerks his gaze away again.
The Abs (yes, they’re capitalized in Stiles’ head, all six or eight or ten of them) kind of clench as the guy crouches down to see through the open window, and Stiles groans, slamming his eyes shut again.
“Oh my god, it’s too early for this,” he mutters.
“Too early for what? Are you sure you’re okay?”
Stiles takes a deep breath and tries to remember how to function like a human being. “Yes, except for the glaring blow to my dignity, I am fine. But I’m clearly not appropriately caffeinated for, uh, anything, apparently. Driving, talking, et cetera.”
“I see. Is that what you were going for?” he says, gesturing behind them, and Stiles twists to see that he narrowly avoided driving into a coffee shop. Two women in yoga pants are standing outside, staring at them. Probably 25% at the accident, 75% at the guy. Maybe 20-80. “Because I think there are easier ways of getting coffee than bulldozing the store.”
Stiles glares at the guy, who’s now smirking at him, and unfastens his seatbelt. “I told you, there was a squirrel.”
He trips as he spills himself out of the Jeep, and the guy grabs his arm to help steady him. “Whoa, there. You good?”
With his eyes closed, Stiles nods, well-aware that his face is probably bright red. “Uh, yeah.”
“I’m Derek, by the way.”
“Stiles,” he says, hoping that if he doesn’t move a muscle, Derek won’t notice that his hand is still on his arm.
“You probably hit your head. Any headache or dizziness? Here, follow my finger.”
“No, as I said, just my pride,” Stiles says as he obeys and lets Derek check his pupils. “Are you a doctor or something?”
“No, I’m a firefighter,” he says absently as he watches Stiles watch his finger, and Stiles has to bite his lip so that he doesn’t groan out loud. Seriously? “Okay, you seem all right.”
“Thanks, Fireman Derek,” he says, putting a little more space in between them. “More importantly, I need to see if my baby’s okay.”
“This is your baby?” Derek asks, eyebrows raised, and Stiles shakes a finger at him.
“You better not be mean to her, or else I’ll have to beat you up.”
Derek looks about as threatened by that as he should be (i.e., not at all) and follows Stiles around to the front of the car. “It doesn’t look too bad.”
“Yeah, I think the dent blends in pretty well with the other ones. The mailbox wasn’t so lucky, though.”
“Well, everyone hates the post office, right?” Derek says, smirking, and Stiles laughs.
“True, true. But you have to admit, it is pretty remarkable that something can get across the country in like three days for 49 cents. At least we’re not living in the Pony Express days. I mean, back then it took like ten days, and I’m guessing that in today’s dollars, it cost a lot more than 49 cents.” Stiles cuts himself off and winces, running a hand over his hair. Pony Express, really? That’s what he decides to ramble on about?
But Derek is smiling, broadly, actually, as if he could lean against Stiles’ Jeep and talk about historical postal service trivia all day. “So then are you going to tell them that you dented their mailbox?”
“Oh, fuck no,” he says, shaking his head. “I’m going to flee the scene, like any proper degenerate.”
Derek laughs. “For caffeine, I assume. I hope so, anyway, for the sake of the mailboxes.”
“Yeah, I’m going to get right on that,” he says, and then before he can think about it anymore, he blurts out, “you should come.”
Derek’s eyes widen, and Stiles mentally facepalms himself. “As a thank you for being a good samaritan, I guess. You could have kept running, but it was nice of you to stop and see if I was okay.” Stiles realizes that he’s rambling again, while Derek’s just sort of staring at him. “Though I guess that’s your fireman duty. I mean, you don’t—actually, let’s not, okay? Forgot I said anything. I’m sure you have places to run, people to see.” More accidents to cause, he thinks, but thankfully does not say out loud.
“Oh, no, I’m coming,” he interrupts, before Stiles can dig himself into a bigger hole. “You invited me, you can’t just take that back now.”
“Okay. I’m just gonna, uh,” he says, gesturing, and Derek smirks as he takes several big steps back.
“Flee the scene? I’ll be way over there.”
Stiles scowls at him as he swings back into the driver’s seat and very carefully reverses away from the mailbox. He parks a safe distance away and tries not to freak out about the fact that he’s going to spend more time in the vicinity of the hot fireman.
Derek is waiting for him near the coffee shop, but when he pauses just outside the door, Stiles freezes mid-step.
“Uh,” he says, gesturing to the door, and Stiles follows his gaze. There’s a standard no shoes, no shirt, no service sign there, but Stiles just rolls his eyes. He grabs Derek’s wrist and tugs him forward anyway.
“Believe me, no one’s going to complain. And we’ll get it to go.”
They both get iced coffees, which Stiles pays for—if Derek is even carrying any cash in those shorts of his, Stiles is not equipped to watch him dig around for it. Derek garners his fair share of appreciative glances, as Stiles had expected, and if he glares at them when Derek’s back is turned, well, that’s no one’s business but his own. He’s had a stressful morning, it’s the least he deserves to pretend that he has a hot boyfriend for five minutes.
They stroll back to the Jeep, and after Stiles gets in, Derek lingers, bracing his forearms on the open window. “So I owe you coffee now,” he says, and Stiles swallows and tries to keep his gaze on his face.
“That would, uh, appear to be the case, yes,” he says, praying for any semblance of coolness that he can muster. “Lucky for you, I tend to be benevolent to those who are in my debt.”
“Good to know. How about tomorrow? Same time, same place. I’ll wear a shirt, you try not to damage any federal property on your way here.”
Stiles blinks for a second—he’s being asked out on a date, right?—and nods dumbly. “Uh—yeah, yes, absolutely,” he says, even though he doesn’t have any classes tomorrow until the afternoon and would normally be deep in REM sleep at this time. But Derek grins, his whole face lighting up with it, and suddenly none of that matters at all. “You really don’t have to wear a shirt, though.”
Derek smirks and slowly backs away from the Jeep. “Let’s see how coffee goes.”
They meet for coffee at the same place one year later on their first anniversary, and when Stiles finally tells him why he really crashed his Jeep that day, Derek falls out of his chair laughing.