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Summary
“I thought you said you were going to work with Scott.” Derek's eyes are zeroed in on his pile of stuff now; he didn’t think there would be that much sand.
“I did. That involved walking up and down a beach all day.” Stiles pinches the hem of his rash guard before pulling it over his head, wincing as the collar scrapes over a sunburnt patch of skin on his neck. “I may or may not have pissed off a beachmaster, gotten chased, and tripped over some driftwood.”
Derek is staring at him with the same unimpressed look he’s been using since Stiles was sixteen. It hasn’t worked in years but Stiles hasn’t told Derek that. Dude’s got to get his kicks in somewhere and they may as well be on someone who knows his expressive eyebrows don’t mean imminent death.
Usually.
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