II

It was pack night at Derek's loft.

The whole group was piled together on the couch, armchairs, and floor, the lamps around the space casting dim, warm light over them and making for a cozy ambience. All his friends—his pack— surrounded him with pillows and remarks and the occasional laughter at what was happening on the large TV screen Derek had bought simply for nights like these. Even though Derek liked to growl that he hadn't. He totally had, he loved having them over.

The blurry image of the full moon was visible through the large industrial window, peeking out from a cluster of clouds. The soft pitter-patter of rain against the glass combined with the distant rumble of thunder only added to the cozy atmosphere. 

Summer had officially gone, and autumn was here in full swing. It felt like summer was ten years ago. 

Stiles took in the space again. Luckily, Derek had taken at least some of his advice on the lighting situation, helped by the continued nagging of his sisters to please, Derek, just put in a rug or something if we're going to have movie nights here. Because no, Derek, having one big overhead light in the room wasn’t enough.

You need at least three, at eye level. You know, for those cozy vibes.

They had all ordered food together, and the empty takeout containers were left scattered and forgotten throughout the space.

And somehow, after their dinner and before the start of the movie, Derek had ended up sitting next to Stiles. The rest of the pack hadn't left much room as everyone piled onto the various pieces of furniture, some even opting for pillows and blankets on the floor.

Crap.

He tried to focus on the movie, but he wasn’t really paying attention.

He was tired, he was cold, and he'd seen Regina George say "fetch" wasn't going to happen countless times. It still made him chuckle, though.

Stiles always got cold fast. It had been less obvious with all the running after—or away from—supernatural creatures that he'd been doing, but in peaceful moments like this, he couldn't help rubbing his hands together and wiggle his toes.

Apparently, Derek wasn't a fan of central heating. Or comfort.

Stiles's eyes drifted to his right, where Derek had his legs splayed out from the couch between Laura and Cora, crossed at the ankle. He studied the bare feet, a dusting of dark hair on them. He'd never liked the hair on his own—or even really liked his toes that much, to be honest—but somehow it made him smile seeing it on Derek’s. It fit. And of course Derek didn't wear socks because, again, the man hates comfort.

At least Stiles got a bit of warmth from where he was pressed against Derek's side on the couch. A warm line along his thigh, arm, and shoulder. Seriously, Derek was next-level when it came to being hot.

Yeah he was.

And he tried to ignore the way their shoulders touched, or how the warmth spread pleasantly into his cold limbs. Much like it had done some time ago when they'd gone on that group holiday to the Hales’ beach house over the summer. 

They hadn't really spoken about it. Or spoken much at all. Stiles got the distinct impression that Derek wasn't much of a talker, at least not before he had a chance to fully thaw out, which, at the glacial pace it was going, would take a while. At first, he thought it was because Derek was just a perpetual grump. Sourwolf, his brain helpfully supplied.

The nickname never ceased to make him grin, because he was just funny like that, no matter what Derek had to say about it. He grabbed his drink and took a swig, trying to hide the smile he was fighting down at the same time.

From the corner of his eye he saw Derek glance at him. Stiles's movement, and the almost quiet huff of a snort that had escaped him, must've caught his eye. He probably thought Stiles was smiling at something in the movie. Stupid werewolf hearing.

Stiles glanced back, meeting Derek's eyes for just a heartbeat. His chest felt too tight for a second, and he saw Derek's eyebrows twitch into the hint of a frown before he forced himself to look away, just as Derek did, both turning back to the movie. 

No, Stiles knew better now. He'd had the chance to get to know Derek, to see the way he talked to Cora and Laura, the way he clasped his hand on Scott's shoulder after a job well done, a little awkwardly, like he didn't quite know how to act. His current theory wasn't that Derek was antisocial, but that he was simply socially anxious. Shy, even. A dweeb.

And of course that made sense, with all the very helpful and embarrassing stories Laura and Cora liked to share with the pack about their brother, much to Derek's detriment. How he'd really just been a big nerd in high school, and had always been the awkward, lanky, quiet basketball player that only really grew into his features in his later teens.

If the scowl, the silence, and the slight reddening of Derek’s ears were anything to go by as Laura and Cora regaled the group with their stories, they weren’t exaggerating. What a dork, he had thought.

He realised that the movie was all but forgotten. He had been thinking of Derek. 

Again, his unhelpful brain supplied.

He'd been doing that a lot over the past couple of months, ever since that night at the beach. He'd always been intrigued by the man. Derek was a puzzle that Stiles couldn't quite seem to solve, it was an unspoken challenge. A layered onion yet unpeeled.

And wasn't that just great. Because of course Stiles's latest obsession had to be Derek. Moody, brooding, so-far-out-of-his-league-it-wasn't-even-funny Derek. 

Not that he liked Derek or anything. His good looks compared to Stiles's were just a fact. An easy observation. Stiles didn't even really know him that well, anyway.

Crap. Complete crap.

The soft rustle of fabric broke through his thoughts as Derek grabbed a blanket, piling it on top of both of them. Going so far as to reach over Stiles's thighs and tuck it in gently with his strong, big, manly hands. Hands that Stiles definitely wasn't staring at and definitely hadn't thought of more than a normal amount. Which was none at all. Of course.

They were sharing a blanket. Together. And Stiles’s skin still felt warm where Derek’s hand brushed his thigh. 

Like friends. Like friends do. Right?

Because that is what they are. Friends. Just friends. Normal friends. Yes. Right.

He worked up the courage to look over to the side, immediately catching Derek's eyes as the man had seemingly been staring at him, one of his unreadable expressions on his face again. Derek gave him an exasperated look, as if to say you're always cold. As if it were Stiles’s fault he got cold. But somehow, after spending more time with Derek, the expression looked more fond to Stiles. 

Huh.

Maybe he'd just spent too much time studying the expressions on the other man's face. Spent too much time trying to figure out what the specific tilt of his eyebrows meant and how close he was to being shoved into a nearby wall or piece of furniture again.

Not like that.

...Unfortunately.

He heaved a sigh and tried to focus back on the movie, which was kind of hard now since he was actually warming up. It always made him feel sleepy. Probably something to do with his lack of sleep or his refusal to stick to any sort of sleeping schedule.

He closed his eyes for a moment, and he wasn't sure when it happened, but sometime between Erica getting up on his other side to grab something from the kitchen and Cora sprawling out on her belly in front of them, Derek's arm found its way to the back of the couch behind Stiles. Stiles just slightly leaned into the wall of hard muscle for warmth, okay? It was perfectly normal and friendly. 

Werewolves and their warm skin. Unfair.

They stayed like that for a while, the even, slow movement of Derek’s breathing an ebb and flow against his side, lulling him deeper into the warm embrace of sleep. 

He hadn't realised his head had started listing forwards. He didn't tell it to do that. Bad head.

Stiles felt a strong, insistent but gentle hand on his head, guiding his head down to the side and onto soft fabric on warm muscle. Derek's hand stayed on the back of his head for a moment, a silent, gentle command as if to say stay. And Stiles couldn't very well disobey such a command, could he?

He blinked his eyes open and glanced up, but Derek had his hazel eyes glued to the screen, seemingly fixated on the drama unfolding on it. His lashes were so obviously long from this angle it was obnoxious. Derek was obnoxious. Everything from his dark stubble to his eyes to his long lashes. Completely obnoxious.

And distracting.

He closed his eyes again happily, relishing the warmth and earthy smell of the other man.

And if he missed the rest of the movie, so be it. Derek was way too comfortable a pillow to give up for a rewatch of Mean Girls.

He missed when the movie ended.

When the rest of the pack quietly said their goodbyes and gave each other hugs.

When Derek lifted his sleeping body from the couch into his strong arms and easily carried him to the other man's bed.

He’d been so tired, and he didn’t know it yet, but this was going to be the best night’s sleep he’d have in a long time, surrounded by the sounds of rain on the windows, the lingering warmth of his friends' company, and the smell of Derek.