Almost before the bullet punches through the double-plated glass living room window, shattering it spectacularly, Derek has Stiles under him on the floor, shouting, “Everyone get down!”
Face-planted on the waxed wood paneling, Derek’s arm tensed against his chest, Stiles says, “That was fuckingloud.” He peers up at the two hundred pounds of muscle and hypothetical two pounds of fat holding him down and tries not to panic. “That wasn’t a prop gun, was it. Oh my god, someone’s trying to kill me again.”
Derek goes, if possible, even tenser around him. “It was one bullet,” he tries. Derek is terrible at reassurances.
“Jessica never tried to kill you,” Lydia corrects from her crouch behind Stiles’ giant leather couch. “She wanted you to be her boyfriend.”
Lydia is also terrible at reassurances.