Stiles is in the cereal aisle when it hits him. It’s like a goddamn freight train, heart thudding hard against his chest as he clutches at the box of bran flakes he’d picked up and grinned at five seconds before. He’s madly, ridiculously in love with Derek. He stares down at the cereal, face heating up and hears Derek before he sees him. Derek, who is a dramatic living embodiment of everything Stiles didn’t realize he wanted until it literally sort of leapt out of the shadows at him. Fuck, he’s so gone. Derek’s barging past a host of flustered shoppers, clutching two loaves of bread but looking like he’s about to throw down as he gets closer to Stiles.
“I’m fine,” he says quickly, waving the box in Derek’s face. “Just your regular Friday night meltdown in the supermarket over which brand is best.”
Derek’s gaze flicks from his face, to behind them, and then to the box with the dumb picture of an old dude that happens to have wild, bushy eyebrows which led to Stiles’ revelation, and his concerned expression slides into confusion.
“I—” Stiles licks his lips, and then looks down at the bread hanging limply in Derek’s hands. “Were you gonna use those as weapons?”
“They might have come in handy,” Derek sniffs, suddenly looking awkward.