"No, I think that’s exactly what you meant," Stiles says, voice hoarse.
"Stiles," Derek murmurs, hating how the small space between them smells of betrayal and sadness. It’s a horrible stench overall, but knowing he’s the one who caused it is even worse. He doesn’t know how to fix it—still not used to dealing with situations like this—but he wants to. He wants to be able to kiss it better instead of walking away from open wounds.
He leans over the table, wanting to be closer but not sure if Stiles would appreciate him walking around it to where he’s standing his ground. They’re not looking at each other anymore, both their gazes on the table separating them. Derek purses his lips and slowly moves his hand across the surface to where one of Stiles is curled up to a fist, listening to the sound of their heartbeats quickening in sync.