[ Tate's - impassive. Derek's honed in on the beat of his heart, on the chemosignals in the air, on every miniscule, reactionary part of him, but - nothing really changes, not at first. His breathing slows, becomes more manual, like he has to think to remember how his lungs work, but that's... that could be anything.

For a second, Derek thinks that things are actually okay between them. That Tate's so enamoured by the beach that he's not going to fall into a self-destructive spiral, beating himself up over rejections and isolation, missing Violet, wanting Violet. Ge exhales a breath he didn't know he was holding, and then he smells it; the iron pang of blood, sharp and metallic. Derek's eyebrows pinch, wary, and Tate just...

Snorts. Reassures him. Makes things light. Derek - hesitates. ]

Yeah. I do. I like you, too.

[ A pause. Derek buries his elbows in the sand a little, gets comfortable in the warmth of it. Maybe he shouldn't have said anything. Maybe he shouldn't have engaged in any kind of - discussion, about Stiles. Fuck, why is this so difficult. All Derek can do is try to match the vibe Tate's trying to make. Light. Reassuring.

Another exhale. Derek slaps at Tate's arm, holds his hand out for more pretzels. ]

But if you're fishing for a threesome, you're gonna have to bring it up with him, not me.