“I felt pretty bad doing it a couple times… The few times you actually did it when I was at your house, or you were at mine… I would just… I’d turn my back to you, press up against you.”
“… the last time, I… I got nervous because you almost woke up. I’d pushed my pajamas down some…”
Stiles looks up from the pillow, hair sticking every which way, his shirt shucked up to his armpits from his constant struggle to get to sleep for the last hour. The insomnia had just started to ebb, he was finally getting somewhere before being so abruptly woken up.
He reaches out blindly for his cell, knows that familiar ring anywhere, but at one in the morning it’s the last thing he wants to hear. Breathing in sharply through his nose, he answers it and plants the glass cover to his cheek, eyes still closed.
“Mm, Scotty?”
The bones pop in his right shoulder as he lifts his upper half from the bed and flops onto his back, legs hanging off the left side of the mattress.
“Stiles,” Scott breathes his name out as her legs tremble, trying her hardest not to moan directly into her best friend’s ear. It’s difficult, though, with her predicament, “I need-I need you.”