It’s something of a minor miracle, Derek muses, that fingers that long can fit into such a tiny space. From his perch outside Stiles’ window, he listens as Stiles picks out chords and simple progressions, half-humming a melody as he goes along.
He hadn’t even known Stiles could play the ukulele until five minutes ago, when he caught the sound of the chords floating out from Stiles’ bedroom window like some kind of siren song. And now he’s been here for the better part of five minutes, just watching from the handy perch under said window, mesmerized as Stiles’ sure fingers pick their way across the neck of the ukulele and listening to whatever melody he comes up with.
Derek wouldn’t say he’s stalling, per se.