The words die on his lips as he looks across the room, and there, sitting on the edge of an armchair with a relaxed smile on his face, in a well-fitted henley and jeans, is Imaginary L’Oreal Boyfriend. Or, Derek Hale.

Clearly something in his scent is giving him away, but he’s too busy swallowing against the sting of bile that has made its way into his throat and checking behind the couch for future murder victims because Derek is totally cheating on him.

“No,” Derek sneers. “I’m just treating myself to a cupcake.”

(That's not exactly what happens, but kind of.)

Derek is the Uber driver who always seems to be up when Stiles needs a ride home from work.

Derek doesn't like coffee and he doesn't like coffee shops. They are loud and brash and full of people who think too much of themselves. He prefers tea and independently owned bookshops, where people sit in companionable silence and read. But here he is, sitting in a loud, obnoxious coffee shop, trying his damnedest to focus while people drone on mindlessly on all sides of him, drinking cup after cup of low quality tea. And why is he doing this again? Oh right. Because of him.

Words are not Derek's friends. Not by a long shot. So Derek doesn't use them. He doesn't open up. He doesn't share. It doesn't matter how much he might want to, it's just not something that happens.

Seriously, sometimes Stiles thinks that the man is a plant by the owner, who is a hippie, through and through, but just business savvy enough to pay someone hot to sit on the premises and brood up a storm like a modern day James Dean, clicking away at his computer in his leather jacket with that pensive look on his face.