Au where Stiles goes to college in New York. It’s 8AM and it’s now officially been more than 37 hours since he last slept. Finals are kicking his ass, hard. 

So when Stiles exits the coffee ship he’s like 23% human, his brain is stuck on survival mode, and he’s clutching the biggest coffee cup ever against his heart (the barista sent him worried look while adding all the expresso shots).

Since his other hand is busy holding his phone—Scott is having a new “love at first sight” crisis—Stiles has to open the door of the cruiser with his hip. He sinks in the seat with a sigh, puts his cup between his thighs, rubs his eyes, and explains once again to Scott the concept of personal space and the thin line separating adorable and stalkerish.

When Scott only answer is a wailing, third description of the girl’s hair, Stiles decides that the subject is doomed and hangs up. He drinks some coffee again, humming in delight, and suddenly realizes how loud the silence in the car is.

In the millisecond it takes him to turn his head toward the driver, he realizes that, one, he doesn’t have a car in New York nor do any of his friends and two, his dad will never let him forget it if he gets arrested for trespassing on police property. 

The third realization comes on the heels of the first two, in the form of the hottest man to ever wear a uniform. And Stiles has some references on the subject: he has seen Parrish in a rain soaked uniform AND been invited to Lydia’s bachelorette party.

The man has arms, shoulders and eyes that Stiles is in no way alive enough to handle. Stiles won’t even think about the fingers wrapped around the wheel or the frowning eyebrows. Or the fact that the man politely waited for Stiles to finish his phone call.

“My dad is the sheriff,” blurts Stiles in the silence. The man’s eyebrows get frownier. “…in Beacon Hills?”

The criminal in the back of the cruiser snorts at Stiles. The man is in handcuff on the backseat and half-naked, with white powder all over his face and an eye swollen shut, but he’s still clearly judging Stiles’ entire life.

“Okay…” Answers should-be-a-stripper cop, with a slow, calm voice that Stiles knows is the “keep the manic suspect from going for a weapon” tone of voice.

“I am very tired,” finally adds Stiles when the silence reaches critical awkwardness. The cop nods immediately, like it’s obvious, but his lips are curling up a little. He’s absurdly beautiful.

There is a knock on Stiles’ window and they all turn toward the policewoman staring at them from the sidewalk, two cups of coffee in her hands. She’s smirking like a shark, heavy blond curls falling over an “officer Reyes” badge.

“Derek?” She asks, a laugh in her voice.

“He’s very tired,” explains simply too-beautiful-not-to-be-a-caffeine-hallucination (Derek). When Stiles turns toward him, the man is smiling, small but honest. Stiles may have to call back Scott and apologize for scoffing at the “whole love at first sight” idea.

(Erica finally takes the cruiser back to the precinct, and leaves Derek to walk Stiles back to his flat, for the good of the community. Just to be sure that Stiles doesn’t climb in another stranger’s car or ends up falling in front of the subway. They drink their coffees on the way, and talk about Stiles’ dad, and Stiles’ major, and Laura and Derek’s cat.

Derek calls the precinct to take a sick day five minutes before reaching Stiles’ flat.

Erica laughs at him for it for all eternity.)