Derek's lip curls back on instinct at her attitude, but he does his best to reign it in. Stiles jumps up from the sofa and Derek steps aside so he can see, keeping himself slightly between the two of them because Stiles seems anxious.

Stiles' cheek is still pink with beard burn from Derek's scenting, and his eyes go down to the triskele bracelet that never leaves Stiles' wrist. It's okay, Stiles is his. He's not going to lose him. He repeats this like a mantra in his head, but it sounds more like a plea.

"I told you. You can't leave. You apparently know Stiles so well," he grits out, proud of how there isn't even a growl to it. "We've been here for over a year. If there was a way out, Stiles would have found it."

Of that, Derek has no doubt. Stiles is so smart, and he sees things in a way other people don't.

Every wolf instinct is telling him not to let Malia into their private space, and he just stares moodily while he decides. Stiles is warm at his side, and his shoes are kicked off to the side with Derek's. His backpack is on top of Derek's favorite leather jacket. Their lives are intermingled here. It smells like them. It's theirs.

He sighs and pulls the door open wider, leaving it open as he walks over to Stiles and rests a hand low on his back. His intent isn't really to appear possessive; he just feels like he needs the contact right now. Derek's face is blank to hide how unsettled he is, but he can't help the way that his fingers curl almost desperately into the loose fabric at the back of Stiles' shirt. "Come in, if you want."

There, he used his manners.