Stiles stared at the cinnamon rolls. "No icing?"
Derek rolled his eyes. "They're covered in sugar, Stiles. You'll be fine without it. Do you want one or not?"
Stiles grinned up at his soulmate. "You could make some icing for them."
"And be the one who has to deal with you when you've had that much sugar?"
"Actually," Stiles said, "sugar doesn't cause hyperactivity. It's just a trope—"
"No," Derek cut in, "it doesn't cause hyperactivity. You take a nap and say you're in a food coma." But he was smiling, smirking at the very edge of his mouth, and Stiles' grin only widened.
"Well," Stiles said, waggling his eyebrows.
"Oh, no," Derek murmured, but he was already taking off his apron.
Stiles snorted. "I was going to say—"
Derek raised an eyebrow. "I think I know what you were going to say."
"What was I going to say?"
"That nobody's here, it's ten minutes to closing, and don't I want to see if the table can hold your weight?"
Stiles bit his lip to hide his smile, but judging by the way Derek's eyes crinkled, it didn't really work. "Actually," he said, "I was going to ask if you wanted to see if the table could hold your weight."
Derek's eyes widened, his lips parting. "Lock the door," he rasped.
Stiles hurried.