Derek got about an hour of sleep if that, once every sleeping position possible had been attempted, and he made a frustrated noise as he pushed himself out of bed, scowling to himself as he stormed across the room and into a little side door, grabbing a bottle of water from a fridge in there and striding back to the bed, while he drank from it, slumping onto the edge of the bed and rubbing a hand over his face. He was exhausted, and becoming more so, but he figured once he'd settled back down into the place he'd sleep better.
He looked over at Stiles, seeing he still had the book, and he took another sip of his water. "Enjoying it?" He nodded at the book, wondering just how much of it he'd managed his way through. Derek wasn't ashamed to admit the book had left him feeling emotionally raw afterwards, and that he wasn't sure he'd ever want to read it cover to cover again, not after everything that had happened recently, but he still loved it.
"The poem Wishbone is another of my favourites," he commented, remembering how intense that one felt when he read it. He cleared his throat, because his voice had come out a little rougher than he planned for it to, and he rested back against the pillows, torn between watching Stiles read and knowing that was highly inappropriate.