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Summary
“Your dad’s the fucking sheriff of my hometown,” Derek hisses when Stiles is pretending to search through the expiration dates on the cartons of 1%. “When were you going to tell me that?”
“Uhm,” Stiles stalls, closing the glass-paned door. “Never?” He ventures. Seeing the hard placed scowl on Derek’s face, Stiles knows it’s not what he wanted to hear. “How was I supposed to bring it up?” He asks, voice pitching on hysterical in the middle before he forces it back down. “Right around the first time I was sparking up, just lean over and go, “Oh, hey, by the fucking way, I’m from Beacon Hills and my dad’s the sheriff, but he doesn’t know I do recreational drugs on the weekly,” and then recite Millay to you? Yeah, because that’d work out so goddamn well.”