[ There's no hard bolt through Tate's veins, no disgust rolling off of him like waves. A lot of Derek's apprehension fades, at first, but then he assumes the worst - assumes that Tate's still out of his head, or... assumes that Tate knows how to mask his heartbeat, like a hunter does. Derek wets his lips, looks at Tate. Holds eye contact. Piercing, hard. Demanding, almost. ]

What - you need proof? You wanna cry like a bitch about how I never tell you anything, then push for more when I do?

[ He's just - teasing. Trying to, at least, but he's still nervous, and his voice is too harsh, and maybe it's not coming across the right way. Maybe it's just coming off as awkward and as forced as it really is. ]