Derek watched Stiles move, his manner precise, polite. Distant.
His instinct was to flee. To leave things as they were, since they weren't...terrible, and live to fight another day. But another part of him, the private, possessive part of him that he tended to associate with his wolf, told him to move, to try, at least.
He crossed the distance between them and slipped his arms around the boy from behind, fitting his chin on his shoulder. "That's good," he said, softly.