Arm falling back to his side, Stiles curls the fingers of that hand into a loose fist. Déjà vu trickles down his spine, invoking a ripple of goosebumps in its wake. Seemingly without a prompt, he thinks of the night he was sleepwalking. His curled fingers tingle with warmth, like they still retain sensory memory from when they grasped Derek’s shoulder. Stiles clears his throat.

“Don't try to change the subject, pal!”