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Now, Stiles wasn’t a bad cook. Actually he was quite good. After all, HE didn’t burn water (see his best friend and the incident of ‘97) and he knew more than just how to grill (see his father, always). But with his father’s heart problems and the fact that Stiles basically had taught himself how to cook so that they’d eat healthy after his mom… well he figured that taking a class at the local community college in the summer before he actually went away to UC Berkley wasn’t a bad idea. That way he could load his dad with all the good, healthy, stuff before he left for the semester. Hopefully it would last him until Thanksgiving break. It was kind of like hibernation. Kind of.
What Stiles didn’t foresee when he signed up for the class was the teacher. He’d expected some older lady who would pinch his cheeks and explain to him exactly how a food processor was supposed to work in a shrill voice. He did not expect Mr. Hale, otherwise known as Sex-on-Legs.
Mr. Hale, or Derek as he said he preferred, was only probably a couple years older then Stiles’ eighteen, but he ran the class like a freaking alpha. No one, not even old Mr. Smithy who scowled at everyone, crossed Derek when it came to the proper time to bake a souffle. No one.
So yeah, Stiles was learning a lot, at least when Derek wasn’t watching him. When he was watching him, though, Stiles ended up fumbling over the smallest of things. He’s put pepper on a cake. A CAKE! Who did that?
He’d thought it was cinnamon, really, but with Derek’s burning eyes on his skin he wasn’t at his best, cognitively.
So really, it was no surprise that in the middle of cutting up some carrots for the stew they were all working on, that as soon as Derek looked over to check on what Stiles was doing he managed to fumble enough to slice opened his middle finger.
"Oh god. Oh my god," Stiles said, holding his finger away from the food. "I’m bleeding. Oh god."
"Calm down, let me see." And Derek was suddenly there, clean rag in hand. He gently led Stiles over to the sink and turned on the water, checking to make sure it was warm, not hot, before thrusting Stiles’ hand under it. The blood washed away down the drain and Stiles watched it—because his cheeks were already bad enough, they would only get redder if he actually had to look at his teacher.
"It’s not that bad," Derek said after a moment. He grabbed a butterfly bandaid and, after drying Stiles’ finger with the rag, put it on.
Stiles looked up before he could help it and met Derek’s warm brown eyes. “Thanks,” he murmured.
"Keep pressure on it," Derek said. His hand was still clutching Stiles’. "You okay now?"
Stiles nodded wordlessly. Derek let go and walked away to go see how the rest were doing on their stews.
Crap, Stiles thought wildly. He had a crush on his cooking instructor.
"Stiles?" Derek called. "Are you okay to get back to the carrots?"
"Uh, yeah, sure," Stiles said. He quickly walked back to his station and picked up the knife.
He was so screwed.