"Oh god," Lydia cringes beside Stiles, and he looks up from where he’s arranging their bags in the trunk, glances over her shoulder.
"What? Are Scott and Allison making gross, sappy—" he trails off as his eyes land on Derek, wearing board shorts and flip flops.
Derek has feet.
Nice, perhaps slightly over excessively hairy toes.
Two years of frat boys at college has still not adequately prepared Stiles for the sight of Derek Hale wearing flip flops. And board shorts. Black ones, of course— heaven forbid he actually deviate too much from the norm— but also a bright red vest that clings to his waist, and shows off his arms and, oh Jesus.
“Christ,” he blurts out.
"I know," Lydia agrees, for no doubt totally different reasons. "What a mess."
Of course, she’s worried about his apparel for its style related reasons. Not because Derek looks hot like the burning sun, and Stiles might have a meltdown before lunch.
Derek glowers across at them, “What. What are you looking at?”
"Shins," Stiles says faintly, and then shakes himself when Derek arches an eyebrow and Lydia turns to stare at him incredulously. "I mean, I just— have never seen your uh, calves before.”