Derek's hand didn't move. He sighed, and shifted his weight a little bit, leaning in to crowd into Stiles' personal space. The pad of his thumb starts drawing small circles on Stiles' skin. He's soft, and he smells like blood and fear, but under all that is the unmistakable scent of Stiles, the thing any of the werewolves he knows could use to pick him out of a crowd, and he focuses on that, breathing deep against the pulse point in his neck.

"You nearly died," he said softly, pressing his face against Stiles' neck. "I nearly lost you."