[ When the sleek, sexy camaro doubles back, up the street, the headlights have no effect on Stiles’ eyes except to shrink his pupils. He doesn’t blink, he doesn’t squint, he doesn’t visibly react. Feet padding quietly on the pavement, he brushes past Derek as if the other man hadn’t spoken, as if he wasn’t even there. When the werewolf steps in front of him a second time, Stiles hesitates before attempting to move around the obstacle. His heartbeat, should Derek listen to the sound, is slow and steady—perhaps too slow for someone actively wandering the streets of London.
Stiles trips over a curb while trying to go around Derek; if he’s not caught, he’s going to faceplant hard into the concrete. ]
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Stiles trips over a curb while trying to go around Derek; if he’s not caught, he’s going to faceplant hard into the concrete. ]