Stiles stood in Derek’s kitchen, staring at the charred remains of what was supposed to be dinner. “Okay, so maybe I can’t cook,” he admitted, waving at the smoke alarm with a towel.
Derek leaned against the counter, arms crossed, clearly unimpressed. “You think?”
“Hey!” Stiles pointed the spatula at him. “I’m trying here. Not everyone is a sourwolf Gordon Ramsay.”
Derek rolled his eyes and moved to the stove. “Step aside.”
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Derek leaned against the counter, arms crossed, clearly unimpressed. “You think?”
“Hey!” Stiles pointed the spatula at him. “I’m trying here. Not everyone is a sourwolf Gordon Ramsay.”
Derek rolled his eyes and moved to the stove. “Step aside.”
“Wait, you’re gonna cook?” Stiles asked, surprised.
“Unless you want to burn down my loft.”
Stiles grinned. “Man of many talents. Should’ve figured.”
“Don’t push it,” Derek warned.
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