#stilesderek

Stiles is leaning against the wall by the door, his body in a relaxed curve, almost painfully dissonant when placed against the words coming out of his mouth. He should be so sure of this, Derek hates that he’s so - 

“What,” Derek says. 

Stiles’ arms are crossed against his chest and Derek hates that, too. It should look defensive, he knows its reflection does on him, but Stiles has his hands still and his body at peace and his eyes fixed on Derek’s without the least flicker of uncertainty. 

“We’d be good,” Stiles says. And there’s the flicker, but it’s not uncertainty. Stiles’ eyes skate over his body like he’s planning for something, like he’s mapping a route. Derek’s arms tighten against his chest and he locks his knees so he won’t take a step back. When Stiles’ eyes meet his again there’s a warmth there that Derek - that he hates, that - 

“Pretty sure you disagree,” Stiles says, easy, casual, “but your taste is pretty much for shit, so.” He shrugs, a little (but not quite) like an apology. “Just saying I’m here." 

"I don’t want you - ” waiting, Derek thinks, and Stiles’ eyes soften like he knows the sentence doesn’t end there, like he can see the ’I don’t deserve - ’ that’s formed from the hesitation and waiting ready at the end of Derek’s tongue. 

“I’m not waiting,” Stiles says, and Derek has to go with hate because it’s the easiest of the emotions he has at Stiles reading him so well. “I’m just - here. When you’re ready. Anytime.” He pushes himself off the wall and grins, sketches a wave as he saunters through the door, his heartbeat a little elevated but steady. Like he hasn’t been doing anything strenuous, like he hasn’t been trying, singlehanded, to take down walls - something simple instead, low key, like planting seeds.