Sprawled all over Scott in his sleep, plastered against Erica and Boyd for movie nights, reaching out to fix Lydiaâs lipstick or Isaacâs curls with no irritation.
Except for one, glaring exception.
Theyâve touched: hands clenched into fists, shoves into shoulders.
But they donât get touch-y.
Which is fine, how Derek likes it, he thinks with crossed arms and clenched teeth. If his eyes get a little tight as he watches Stiles put his arm around Alison, who could gainsay him. Who would dare?
Until one night, late into a researching session at the loft, Stiles is practically asleep in his chair but still moves to the couch to get away from Derek.
Derek switches off the light, half asleep himself.
Shuffling feet, crossed arms, clenched teeth.
âWhy donât you touch me?â
It hangs so long in the air, Derek would think Stiles had fallen asleep, if it werenât for his racing heart.
âWouldnât be able to stop, if I started.â
Stiles says it low, almost like Derek couldnât hear, if he werenât a werewolf. Things simmer there, in between Stilesâ rapid heart beats.
Derek waits a long moment, and then he turns.
âUh-â Stiles moves, sitting up.
âI just have to take my books off the other side of the bed. Come on.â Derek says, louder than he would for a werewolf.
Stiles swallows. âOkay, but-â
âDonât stop. Ever.â The last word has a bit of a growl behind it. Clenched teeth and all.
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