[ Almost immediately, Stiles tilts his head into the touch, calloused and warm and familiar, looking at him with nothing but affection in his wet brown eyes. Derek's here. Something in the back of his head is whispering that this isn't right, that there's something off, but his instincts have been so out of whack since everything happened that Stiles has stopped trying to discern his paranoia from his lucidity, when the latter happens so much less than the former. ]

It's not--it's, it's really, really not. [ He shakes his head a little and sniffles, barely pulling away to wipe his face with the sleeve of the jacket that wasn't his and almost immediately invading his space again, long fingers curling in his shirt at the sides. ] They--don't usually make that noise, usually it's just, you say thank you, Derek, oh my god, oh my god.

[ He's making absolutely no sense, but he's happy. Stiles hasn't been happy in at least a year. He steals another kiss, short and sweet, tasting a little like desperation. ]