It’s not his fault. Seriously.
He’d been taking selfies with Derek’s phone, and replacing all of his contact photos with them. Derek didn’t even have pictures for half his contacts, Stiles was doing him a favor, really. But, as he’d been cackling to himself, rolling around on the kitchen counter making dumb kissy faces for his own contact picture, he’d lost his balance. His hand had flung out wildly, and he’d knocked Derek’s favorite Garfield mug off the side. It had swept out across the floor, handle snapping off and flying under the table and the mug splintering into three pieces.
There’s a long silence, Stiles staring at the broken mug in horror, cold coffee dripping down the cabinets and pooling on the floor.
Then, footsteps from Derek’s bedroom, through the living room, Stiles panics, thinks about making a break for it through the window, could he do it? Derek’s only eight floors up. Could be a challenge… But, then Derek appears in the kitchen door, sleepy and confused looking. Stiles’ heart clenches half in fear and half in the shock of seeing Derek so… adorable in the holey sweater he sleeps in, hair rumpled and face with pillow creases engrained on one side.
"It was an accident," Stiles blurts out.
Derek arches an eyebrow, leans against the door frame, “That should be the title of your autobiography.”