[ Unlike Stiles, Derek doesn't have that problem. Which is probably a good thing, because otherwise the housewives would hound him about eating as much as they do about getting him to go out. It's easy enough for them to get him to come to their houses, out on lunch dates with them like he's got an army of mothers more than he does an army of older friends. The idea is incredibly strange, due in part to having lost his actual mother but also because these ones have been celebrating his birthday for the past five years.
And he forgets that they do, every single year.
He tries not to jitter as he waits for Stiles to answer the door, messing with the wrists of his sweater absently as if he's got something to actually adjust there. But he can hear Stiles moving around, Scott making fun of him playfully-- though he can't quite catch what he says-- and a noise that is likely Stiles crashing near the door to put his shoes on. He's seen the routine enough times by this point, really.
They've been spending so much time together at his place, and sometimes at Stiles', that he knows all of his patterns. Stiles has left a trail of glittery destruction in his wake everywhere in the loft, his own ingredients tucked in his fridge and cabinets, clothes in his laundry from nights where he's stayed over after long days spent grading papers and cooking together. The entire thing is eerily domestic, without any of the added perks. But he isn't complaining, not when he's got Stiles in his life at all.
He also isn't complaining when the housewives make sure that he knows Stiles is invited, and that he's not allowed to weasel his way out of this. He makes a promise to them that he'll bring Stiles, even if he has to throw him over his shoulder and bring him like a sack of potatoes.
A slight jolt straightens his spine as the door opens, and he opens his mouth as if he's going to say something. But he doesn't, staring a little owlishly at him as he takes in his clothes and hair and the flush already high on his cheeks and around his ears.
God, he's gorgeous. God, this is bad. ]
Hey. [ A smile quirks at his mouth, a little lopsided but pinching around the corners of his eyes. ] You look good.
[ Is that weird? It isn't, is it? He doesn't think it could be. ] Ready?
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And he forgets that they do, every single year.
He tries not to jitter as he waits for Stiles to answer the door, messing with the wrists of his sweater absently as if he's got something to actually adjust there. But he can hear Stiles moving around, Scott making fun of him playfully-- though he can't quite catch what he says-- and a noise that is likely Stiles crashing near the door to put his shoes on. He's seen the routine enough times by this point, really.
They've been spending so much time together at his place, and sometimes at Stiles', that he knows all of his patterns. Stiles has left a trail of glittery destruction in his wake everywhere in the loft, his own ingredients tucked in his fridge and cabinets, clothes in his laundry from nights where he's stayed over after long days spent grading papers and cooking together. The entire thing is eerily domestic, without any of the added perks. But he isn't complaining, not when he's got Stiles in his life at all.
He also isn't complaining when the housewives make sure that he knows Stiles is invited, and that he's not allowed to weasel his way out of this. He makes a promise to them that he'll bring Stiles, even if he has to throw him over his shoulder and bring him like a sack of potatoes.
A slight jolt straightens his spine as the door opens, and he opens his mouth as if he's going to say something. But he doesn't, staring a little owlishly at him as he takes in his clothes and hair and the flush already high on his cheeks and around his ears.
God, he's gorgeous. God, this is bad. ]
Hey. [ A smile quirks at his mouth, a little lopsided but pinching around the corners of his eyes. ] You look good.
[ Is that weird? It isn't, is it? He doesn't think it could be. ] Ready?