It’s the small hours of the morning. They lie under soft flannel sheets, curled into each other like parentheses. Stiles traces the lines of Derek’s face with the barest press of his fingertips, marveling at his tousled hair and unfurrowed brow. Derek sighs in his sleep and chases the contact, fitting his cheek more firmly against Stiles’ palm. The small, unconscious smile that blooms across his face makes Stiles’ heart hitch.