Stiles brush with death at the hands of the malevolent Darach, Jennifer, leaves him teetering on the edge of the supernatural abyss. Salvation comes with a price: the bite. Now, thrust into the tumultuous life of a werewolf, Stiles must come to grip...
When I was about to relish the respite, Lydia's voice materialized by my side, stirring new currents in the already swirling air. "So, should I ask what that was, or will I have to draw my own conclusions?" she inquired with a hint of playful curiosity in her tone.
My throat tightened as I answered, "Oh, you know, just a bit of alpha-beta talk," attempting to sound casual even as my face began to reclaim its normal shade.
"Mhm," she hummed skeptically, brushing past me with a knowing look as she moved towards the kitchen.
Her intuition was uncanny; banshees might be heralds of death, but Lydia seemed to have a sixth sense for the things left unsaid. I pondered whether to delve into her insights about Derek and me, but the very thought sent a shiver down my spine. Instead, I resolved to put aside the complexities of premonitions and unspoken words, joining everyone at the island to partake in the shared comfort of pizza.
•
After everyone had dispersed to their homes, it was just Derek and me left in the kitchen with the remnants of the evening's gathering.
"Okay, how about I tackle the washing up and you take on drying?" I proposed, scooping up an armful of dirty dishes to take to the sink.
"Sounds good," Derek agreed, grabbing the remaining glasses and depositing them next to the sink.
With the island now cleared and wiped, Derek sauntered over, towel in hand, ready to fulfill his part of the clean-up operation.
As I scrubbed a plate clean, I handed it over to him. In the quiet rhythm of our task, conversation bubbled up within me.
"It was really great, having everyone around like this," I mused aloud, watching the soapy water swirl down the drain. "I just hope, given everything that's going on, we'll still be able to gather like this."
He gave a contemplative hum in response, acknowledging the sentiment.
We lapsed back into a quiet hush, until only one dish remained. As I passed the final glass to Derek, our fingers lightly touched, sparking an unintended blush across my cheeks. He flashed a mischievous smile as he accepted it and began to wipe it dry.
"You're drenched," Derek commented lightly, a teasing tone dancing in his voice.
Blinking down, I noticed the water that had splashed onto my shirt front.
"Oh," I muttered, surprised, as he stepped in closer, gently patting the wet fabric with his towel.
"I can go change," I suggested hastily, feeling the heat radiating from my skin as he held my waist with his free hand, maintaining my stance while he tended to the water stains.
For a moment that stretched out interminably, his eyes met mine. "Right, sorry," he said, a softness in his voice, as he set the towel aside.
Yet his hand stayed on my waist, a sweet ache lingering where his fingers had grazed my skin.
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