“I sent you a Christmas card that got sent back to me. Did you get a new apartment?” his dad wonders. The question is all suspicion and little anything else.
A flicker of an idea sparks. It’s not nearly formed well enough for him to say, “Yeah, actually,” and when he follows that with, “I moved in with someone,” he wants to punch himself in the face. He’s living with someone?!
“You’re living with someone?” It’s the same voice and tone as the one in Stiles’ head, just thirty years older.
Two things keep Stiles from bashing his face onto the table: there’s a steaming cup of coffee in the way and, more importantly, his dad will definitely hear. Someone passes by in front of him and a semi-familiar book cover catches his eye. “Derek Hale,” he muses, and stops. No. That wasn’t meant to be out loud.
“My student thinks that all werewolves have to turn on the full moon. That we debunked seventy-five years ago. What the hell is he doing, living with his head in a bucket of bees?”
It looks like werewolf-dude’s mouth twitches. “It’s probably difficult to write an essay with your head in a bucket of bees.”
