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“I told you, Stiles, none of them fit,” Derek grumbles, tossing shirt after shirt over his shoulders. He’s torn up the whole dresser by now, all Stiles’ shirts littering the floor in heaps of plaids and stripes and solids. His shirt just had to snag on a goddamn branch, didn’t it?
Stiles glances up from his workbook, highlighter cap between his lips. His big brown eyes flicker over to the werewolf, first looking over his well chiselled muscles, and then meeting the steely cyan glower of the always broody Derek Hale. He spits out the cap, then purses his lips in thought.
“Did you try—” Stiles starts, drawing circles in the air with his highlighter.
“I tried them all,” interrupts Derek, short and brusque.
“God, you don’t need to growl about it,” Stiles rolls his eyes. He earns himself a hard glare, but he ignores it, “You’re such a sourwolf.”
Derek raises his eyebrows, silently daring Stiles to say that again. Accusing him only makes his disposition worsen, features hardening and gaze intensifying.
“Whatever, just keep looking,” Stiles says, and with a grunt Derek returns to ravaging Stiles’ dresser. Stiles looks back down at his workbook, every line highlighted in neon yellow, but finds his eyes keep straying from the text and fixing on the werewolf’s back. He bites down on the end of the highlighter and smiles.