“Derek,” Stiles pouts from the counter, rolls his head around trying to shake away spider webs of drunk-en-ness, “Can you please come here?”
“Can’t,” Derek keeps his head down, methodically slicing bread, “Need to make this for you.”
Stiles laughs, “But, I’m not hungry.”
“You might be,” Derek looks up at him, his earnestness shining through despite the drunken glaze to his eyes. “Later.”
“I can make one then.”
“No, you’ll leave the bed,” Derek sighs dramatically, tips his head up to stare at the ceiling. “Don’t like that.”
“Okay,” Stiles jumps off the counter, sidles towards him. “What if we come back, together, when you’ve had a little bit of sleep?”
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