Stiles startles into laughter, turning his face to the side, his stomach vibrating beneath Derek's legs. "Oh God," Stiles wheezes. "I can't--who knew you were so poetic?" He looks back at Derek, his eyes shining brightly. "You can tell me. You have a journal, right? Where you keep all your secret thoughts? And write about my eyes. You've totally written about my eyes, haven't you?"
"No," Derek mutters darkly. He has a journal on his laptop which Stiles will never read because his password is not Stiles.
"Would you say they're more golden or whiskey-colored? Or maybe molten honey?"
"I'd say you're full of crap," Derek answers, "And that's why they're brown."