“Erica. He’s 15. Minutes. Late. I know you said you’d trust him with your life but if he can’t even be on time for his first day, I-” Derek stops short in his punctuated rant, the sound of the office door opening causing him to stop pacing across from his agent.
“Sorry I’m late, I just-whoa.” And Derek could say the same thing because holy shit. Derek doesn’t know if he wants to run his fingers through the guy’s hair or pull on it while he licks a strip along that perfect jawline and while the sudden strain in his pants tells him both are a good idea, Derek decides to look away before he says anything or tries to rip that fucking suit off. (And jesus does that suit looks so good on him.)
Meanwhile, Stiles is two seconds from a heart attack because what? He’s going to be guarding Derek fucking Hale? One of the best players on his favorite team who not only has a great batting average but should be arrested for looking so damn good in a baseball uniform?
“Are you done fanboying yet or should I give you a few more minutes,” Erica asks, the smirk on her face clearly for Stiles and his mental breakdown. Derek feels like it’s more of him though.