You and Derek are standing on opposite sides of the room. You’re by the cluttered desk, he’s near the door, arms crossed. The space between you feels solid, charged. Twenty minutes have passed like this.

The rest of the pack is scattered around the room—perched on the bed, leaning against the wall, sitting on the floor. No one has spoken. Stiles has been vibrating with the effort of keeping his mouth shut, his eyes darting between you and Derek like he’s watching a tennis match.