Archive of Our Own

Stiles Stilinski was done. Done with being invisible, done with playing it safe, and done with pretending like the ache in his chest wasn’t growing with every minute he spent around Derek Hale. For years, he had been content—or at least, pretending to be—with the silence between them. Derek had never given him more than a grunt or a sideways glance, and Stiles had convinced himself it was fine. It was fine to just sit back and watch Derek from the sidelines, to let that undeniable pull in his chest fester like some kind of secret Stiles was too terrified to confront.

But now? Now he was fed up.

The way Derek’s jaw clenched when he was annoyed. The way his shoulders tensed in that quiet, almost painful way when he was pretending not to care. The way he smelled—pine and something earthy, like the woods. Stiles had gotten to the point where he couldn’t ignore it anymore. He couldn’t just sit there and do nothing. Not when Derek looked like that. Not when Derek acted like that. So, Stiles had made a decision: it was time to do something about it.

He was sitting at his desk, textbooks scattered around him, trying to work on his chemistry homework but completely distracted by the thought of what he was about to do. His pencil was between his teeth, and he gnawed at it absentmindedly as he stared at the blank space in front of him. His mind kept racing—how could he make Derek notice him without it being totally obvious? How could he break through that stone wall of indifference Derek always had up?

Stiles sighed, staring at the pencil in his mouth as if it were some kind of magic wand that would offer the perfect solution. He was practically bouncing in his seat, unable to focus on anything but Derek. The way his dark hair curled just slightly at the edges, the faint scar along his jaw that Stiles could never stop noticing, even though Derek did his best to hide it. And don’t get him started on those eyes—intense, always flickering with something unspoken, something that Stiles wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to figure out.

He wanted to get close to him. To make Derek crack. But how?

With a frustrated sigh, Stiles dropped the pencil and ran a hand through his messy hair, which was starting to resemble an unkempt bird’s nest. He stared at his reflection in the glass of his bedroom window for a moment, his brown eyes wide and full of adolescent angst. His face was still the same goofy one he saw every day—freckles scattered across his nose, a faint scar over his eyebrow, and his mouth curled into that permanent half-smile like he was always one awkward moment away from making a fool of himself. But today, he wasn’t going to be the goofy, invisible best friend anymore. He wasn’t going to sit back and wait for something to happen.

He was going to make something happen.

For the first time in years, Stiles was sick of being the passive one in this little game. The one always lingering in the background while Derek stood tall and distant, like some kind of unattainable mountain peak that Stiles had no hope of climbing. It was stupid, really. Derek didn’t even know he was interested. Hell, Stiles had never done anything to show him. He had just let his feelings fester in silence, waiting for some magical moment when Derek would finally look his way and—what? Realize Stiles wasn’t just some annoying kid who followed him around?

No. It was time to stop waiting.

He leaned back in his chair, tapping the end of his pen against his chin, thinking about what he could do. He needed to be subtle. He wasn’t going to go full-on confession or anything crazy like that. Not yet. But he could start small. Maybe a little more physical proximity. Maybe a few casual touches. Nothing too obvious, but something to make Derek uncomfortable, just enough that he’d start paying attention.

A slow grin crept across Stiles’ face as he pictured Derek’s reaction to his plan. It wasn’t much, but it was a start. He couldn’t just keep pretending that nothing mattered, that Derek didn’t drive him insane with every step he took. And if Derek didn’t notice now, then Stiles was going to make damn sure he did.

Seven days. Stiles had given himself seven days to figure out if Derek even knew he was there—or if he’d still be that same stone-faced guy who couldn’t be bothered to even look at Stiles without grumbling.

Stiles’ hand reached for the pencil again, this time a little more purposefully, tapping it rhythmically against his lips. It was cute, in an absentminded, awkward way, but it felt good to finally be moving forward. Even if it was just a tiny step.

Day One

Stiles drove up to the pack house with his hands gripping the steering wheel a little too tightly, his breathing slow and deliberate as if trying to steel himself for what was coming. He’d spent the past few hours shopping—something that felt borderline humiliating, if he was being honest with himself—trying to find something that would make him look a little more *mature*. It wasn’t easy, picking out clothes that didn’t scream "awkward teenager," but today was the day. Today, he was going to do something about it. He was going to stop sulking around in his usual, disheveled attire and—hopefully—get Derek Hale to notice him. At least, that was the plan.

He’d grabbed a few things that he thought might work—a couple of dark sweaters, some fitted shirts, even a jacket that might actually fit him. All of it was stacked in the back of his Jeep. It wasn’t much, but it was a start.

Stiles parked, took a long, slow breath in, and then exhaled shakily. *Okay, Stiles. We’ve been through this. You can do this.*

Grabbing the bags from the back of his Jeep, he squared his shoulders and walked toward the front door of the pack house, the weight of the clothes making him feel more self-conscious than he wanted to admit. He’d been here a hundred times before—hell, most of his clothes had probably seen the inside of this house more than any of them had seen the inside of his own closet. But this time was different. This time, he was going to show off his new clothes to someone who... mattered.

The pack house felt oddly quiet when he stepped inside. It was a bit of a relief; Derek was the only one who usually lived here full-time, and that was exactly who Stiles was hoping to catch.

Derek appeared in the hallway just as Stiles was taking off his jacket. He stopped mid-step, like he was about to head into the kitchen, but froze as he saw Stiles. There was a moment of hesitation before Stiles spoke up.

"Hey, Sourwolf," he said, trying his best to keep his tone casual. "I wanted to show Lydia my new stuff. Is she here?"

It was a lie, of course. Stiles knew Lydia wasn’t here. But he needed an excuse to get Derek to look at him, to notice him, without outright admitting it.

Derek didn’t look surprised or confused, just... calm. His expression didn’t shift. “No, no one’s here.”

Stiles immediately felt a pang of nervousness, but he powered through it. “Well, guess I’ll show you then,” he said with a forced grin, stepping around Derek and heading toward the living room before Derek could say anything else.

Stiles’ heart was hammering in his chest now, his palms suddenly clammy as he realized what he was about to do. *What was I thinking?* he thought, mentally slapping himself. He hadn’t really thought this through. He wasn’t expecting Derek to follow him, wasn’t prepared to change in front of him. What the hell had he been thinking?

Stiles set the bags down near the couch, and for a moment, he just stood there, frozen. But the nerves didn’t stop him from ripping off his flannel and shirt. The cold air made his skin break out in goosebumps, but it was nothing compared to the way he felt Derek’s eyes on him, like they were burning into his back. His stomach did a flip as he tried not to make eye contact, but there was something about the tension in the air that he couldn’t ignore.

Derek hadn’t said anything. He hadn’t even moved. But Stiles could feel him. *God, he could feel him.*

He quickly grabbed the first thing his fingers touched, which just happened to be a black sweater—one of the new ones he’d bought. He pulled it over his head, his hands a little unsteady. It was a size too big, the sleeves falling almost all the way down to his fingertips, and the neckline dipping low enough to expose a little of his collarbone.

He sighed, trying not to make a big deal out of it, but a part of him felt disappointed. He glanced up at Derek, who was still standing there, arms crossed over his chest, jaw clenched in that familiar way that always made Stiles feel like he was about to get yelled at.

“You think it looks good?” Stiles asked, his voice a little more tentative than he’d meant it to be. His fingers fidgeted with the hem of the sweater, and he sighed again, not sure if it was from frustration or anxiety.

It was Derek’s silence that was killing him, making everything feel heavier than it should have been. But then, just when Stiles was about to turn away in embarrassment, Derek spoke, his voice low and almost reluctant.

“Keep it,” he said, his eyes flicking up to meet Stiles' briefly. “It looks good on you.”

Stiles stood there, frozen, the bags of his new clothes surrounding him like some kind of surreal, fashion disaster. He wasn’t sure if he was imagining the way his heart skipped a beat or the blush creeping up his neck, but it was there, unmistakable. He couldn’t believe it. Derek had just... *complimented* him. And not in a gruff, "you’re not a total disaster" kind of way either. No. This was something else.

A slow smirk tugged at Stiles' lips, and despite himself, despite how nervous he felt, he couldn’t stop the small sense of victory that bloomed in his chest. Derek might have a stoic, brooding exterior, but for a brief, flickering moment, there was something else. Something in the way Derek had looked at him, something in the way his words had felt. It wasn’t much, but it was enough.

Stiles stood there for a second, staring at Derek, before his lips quirked into a smile. *Well, at least I’m not completely repulsive.*

And maybe—just maybe—today was a good start after all.

Day two

Stiles stood in front of his wardrobe, staring at the new clothes he had bought the day before. His fingers hovered over the pieces, uncertain of what to pick, but he was determined today was going to be different. Yesterday had been a good start, with the awkward tension between him and Derek, but today? Today, he needed more. He needed something that would make Derek really *see* him.

His eyes settled on a pair of light grey skinny jeans with distressed patches on the knees. They weren’t the most subtle of choices, but they made his ass look amazing, and that was exactly what he was going for.

Stiles grabbed them, tossing them onto the bed, then reached for the black sweater Derek had complimented the day before. The fabric was soft and hugged his body just right, but he couldn’t ignore the way it showed off his collarbones. It was just a little too big, making him look like he was trying to wear something a size up, but Stiles didn’t mind. He liked the way it made him feel... *different*.

He threw on the sweater, then dug through his drawer for something he didn’t expect to find himself buying: a silver necklace with a wolf pendant. He had almost passed it by in the store, but something about it made him pause. A sly smirk tugged at his lips when he saw it, almost like it was mocking him for wanting it.

After styling his hair into a messy but intentional style, Stiles took a deep breath. He was going to do this. It wasn’t a matter of if Derek would notice him—it was *when*. He grabbed his keys, slipped them into his pocket, and headed out the door.

---

The drive to the pack house felt longer than it should have. The more Stiles thought about his plan, the more he realized how much of a gamble this was. Yesterday had been easy enough—a little flirtation, a little tease—but now, it was time to take it up a notch. He needed to push Derek. He wanted something more today. He just wasn’t sure what.

When he finally parked in front of the pack house, Stiles took a moment to calm himself. He was about to step into dangerous territory. But as he walked up to the door, he could feel the nerves twisting in his stomach, and something else—excitement.

The door creaked open, and Stiles stepped inside, scanning the room for Derek. It wasn’t long before he spotted him, sitting on the couch, reading a book. The usual broody vibe seemed to radiate off of Derek, but Stiles didn’t let that deter him.

He took a slow, purposeful step toward the living room, stopping just in front of the couch. Derek hadn’t noticed him yet, so Stiles let his feet carry him to the armrest. He perched himself casually on it, leaning forward just enough to look down at Derek. It was a perfect position to tease him, but more importantly, it put him in Derek’s personal space—right where he wanted to be.

For a moment, Derek didn’t move. He just kept his eyes on the book, like he hadn’t even noticed Stiles leaning over him. Stiles waited, biding his time, but the second Derek shifted, Stiles felt it—Derek’s body brushing against his waist as he leaned back into the couch.

The contact was barely a touch, but it sent a ripple of heat through Stiles' chest. His breath caught for just a moment, but he quickly covered it with a sly smile, like it was nothing.

"Hey, Sourwolf," Stiles said, tilting his head, his voice casual. "You ever get tired of being so... *intense* all the time? Or is it just a thing you do to keep the world away?"

He could feel the weight of Derek’s gaze on him as he spoke, and he loved it. Stiles had learned the art of making Derek uncomfortable—of pushing his buttons in just the right way—but now, he was testing just how far he could go.

Derek’s eyes flicked up from the book, the faintest hint of amusement flickering across his face, just enough to be noticeable. His brow arched as he looked Stiles up and down, taking in the new outfit.

“What are you doing, Stilinski?” Derek asked, his voice low, the edges of it holding that teasing sharpness Stiles had come to crave.

“I’m just here to brighten your day,” Stiles replied with a grin, completely ignoring the way Derek’s body was almost flush against his. The tension between them was palpable, and Stiles didn’t even try to hide the way he leaned in just a little more. He could feel the subtle pulse of Derek’s body in the space between them, and it made his own heart beat a little faster.

Derek didn’t flinch. His posture stiffened, his jaw clenched, but Stiles could tell he was trying to keep his cool. Derek’s gaze fell back down to Stiles’ body, lingering on the way the new clothes fit him. The subtle way the grey jeans stretched across his thighs, the collar of the sweater dipping just low enough to reveal a hint of his chest. Stiles let him look—let Derek take it all in.

"Something wrong?" Stiles asked, his voice a little too sweet, a little too teasing as he shifted his position on the armrest. He felt his body press just a little more into Derek’s personal space as he leaned in.

Derek’s lips pressed together, and Stiles could see the muscle in his jaw twitch. He didn’t speak right away. Stiles could feel the moment stretching, drawing out the tension, until Derek finally shifted his weight, his shoulders stiff, but his voice was quieter now.

“You should stop doing that,” Derek said in a low, almost warning tone.

Stiles smirked, eyes glinting with mischief. He couldn’t tell if Derek was telling him to stop because he was annoyed, or if it was because the space between them had gotten too hot for him to ignore. But Stiles wasn’t ready to back off. Not yet.

“Doing what?” Stiles asked innocently, dropping his head closer to Derek’s, as if he didn’t already know exactly what he was doing. His breath was warm against Derek’s ear, and Stiles was suddenly very aware of the way Derek was feeling his presence.

Derek’s body stiffened, and before Stiles could react, Derek moved with a suddenness that caught him off guard. He stood up, the couch creaking as he pushed off it with a force that made Stiles blink in surprise.

Stiles froze, watching Derek’s every move. Derek stood a little too tall, looking down at Stiles with an unreadable expression. His frown deepened, his brow furrowing as he tilted his head slightly. His eyes flickered—first to Stiles’ face, then down to the wolf pendant hanging from Stiles’ neck. There was something in that look. A spark of recognition, or maybe confusion, but definitely something that made Stiles’ heart skip a beat.

Stiles opened his mouth, ready to say something, but Derek was already moving away.

Before Stiles could process it, Derek was already walking toward the hallway, not sparing him another glance. The sharp sound of his boots on the floor echoed through the silence.

Stiles sat there for a moment, his mouth still open in surprise, his mind racing. He hadn’t expected that. Not at all. His chest tightened slightly—was Derek really pushing him away, or was he just... unsure?

Stiles tried to ignore the slight sting of rejection, trying to convince himself it wasn’t the end of the world. He was doing this to get a reaction, right? Maybe Derek just needed time to process whatever was happening between them.

The sound of Derek’s footsteps faded into the distance, and Stiles was left behind, alone in the living room, feeling both frustrated and oddly determined.

Okay, you can do this, he told himself, straightening up. Tomorrow will be better. I'll make him notice me... for real.

Day Four

Stiles groaned as he rolled over in bed, his face buried in his pillow. Yesterday had been a bust. Day Three of his conquer Derek Hale’s heart plan had turned into a full-on pity party, complete with sulking under the covers and second-guessing every move he’d made so far. He’d told himself he needed the day to regroup, to lick his metaphorical wounds and come back stronger.

But today was Day Four, and Stiles Stilinski wasn’t about to let one bad day keep him down.

He sat up, scrubbing a hand through his messy hair as he surveyed his room. A small notebook sat on his nightstand—the one he’d been using to outline his very unscientific strategy for winning over Derek. Yesterday, it had felt like the dumbest thing he’d ever done. Today? Well, it still felt dumb, but now it felt worth it.

“Alright, Stilinski,” he muttered to himself, stretching as he swung his legs out of bed. “No more sulking. Back in the game.”

Determined, Stiles headed for his closet, picking out a fitted hoodie and his favorite jeans—something casual but flattering. As he laced up his sneakers, a sudden thought struck him. The fridge had been looking a little bare last night, and he’d promised his dad he’d grab groceries today. With an exaggerated sigh, Stiles grabbed his keys.

“Great. Errands first, romancing the werewolf later,” he mumbled, rolling his eyes at himself.

The grocery store was mercifully quiet for a weekday morning, and Stiles breezed through the aisles, tossing essentials into his cart. He was reaching for a box of cereal when a familiar presence made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. Turning slowly, his eyes widened.

Standing a few feet away in the produce section, inspecting a bag of oranges like his life depended on it, was none other than Derek Hale.

Stiles froze, his grip tightening on the cereal box. For a moment, all he could do was stare, the sight of Derek looking so casual and human in the middle of a grocery store throwing him completely off balance. His black jacket stretched across his broad shoulders, and his hair was a little messier than usual, like he’d rolled out of bed and come straight here.

“Well, would you look at that,” Stiles murmured, a grin creeping onto his face. “No need to hunt the wolf down after all.”

Taking a deep breath, he pushed his cart toward Derek, his heart thudding a little faster with every step. Luck, it seemed, was finally on his side.

Stiles rolled his cart into the produce section, stopping just short of Derek, who was still studying the bag of oranges like it held all the secrets of the universe.

“Hey, sourwolf,” Stiles said casually, leaning slightly on his cart. “Didn’t know you shopped for groceries. Figured you lived off of brooding and protein bars.”

Derek glanced up, his expression unreadable for a moment before his lips twitched—just barely. “Stiles.”

“Wow, two syllables. Must be my lucky day,” Stiles quipped, grinning. “What brings you here? Run out of scowls and intimidation in bulk?”

Derek’s gaze flicked to Stiles’ cart. “Same thing that brought you here, I’m guessing. Food.”

“Touché,” Stiles said, moving to grab a bag of apples from a nearby stand. “You, uh, got a list or just winging it?”

“Winging it,” Derek admitted, sounding almost sheepish.

“Bold move,” Stiles teased, holding up a bag of apples as if in question. Derek gave a small nod, and Stiles tossed them into his cart.

The two fell into step together, weaving through the aisles as they shopped. Stiles talked—because of course he did—and Derek, to Stiles’ delight, actually responded. It wasn’t much at first, just small, clipped answers. But as they continued, Derek’s tone softened, and his replies grew longer.

Somewhere between the dairy aisle and the bakery section, Stiles had dared a question he wouldn’t normally ask. “You ever miss it? The food your mom used to make?”

Derek’s expression shifted, something wistful flickering across his face. “Yeah,” he admitted quietly. “Especially her baking. She used to make these lemon bars that... I don’t know. They just made everything feel normal for a little while.”

Stiles blinked, caught off guard by the admission. Then he snorted, trying to break the tension. “Of course your favorite is lemon bars. Sourwolf strikes again.”

To his surprise, Derek chuckled—a real, genuine laugh that made Stiles’ heart skip a beat.

“What about you?” Derek asked, his voice softer now. “Do you...?”

Stiles’ smile faltered for a moment, but he nodded. “Yeah. My mom... She made the best banana bread. Used to sneak me slices before dinner even though Dad would get mad.” He laughed, though there was a bittersweet edge to it. “I miss her every day.”

Derek didn’t say anything, but the look he gave Stiles was warm, understanding.

As they reached for a box of crackers on the same shelf, their hands brushed. Stiles pulled back quickly, his cheeks flushing red as he mumbled, “Sorry.”

Derek raised an eyebrow, his lips quirking slightly as if amused by Stiles’ reaction. “It’s fine.”

By the time they’d finished shopping, Stiles had managed to coax Derek into sharing a little more about his family, and Derek had relaxed enough to chuckle at a few of Stiles’ bad jokes. As they stood in the parking lot, loading their groceries into their respective cars, Stiles turned to Derek, ready to make his exit.

Derek, however, hesitated. He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, his gaze dropping to the pavement before flicking back up to Stiles. “Hey,” he said, his voice quieter than usual. “About the other day... I’m sorry. For leaving like that. I just—” He paused, clearly searching for the right words. “I felt a bit... uncomfortable. I didn’t mean to make you feel bad.”

Stiles blinked, caught off guard by the apology. For a moment, he just stared at Derek, unsure of what to say. Then, without thinking, he stepped closer, got on his tiptoes, and wrapped his arms around Derek in a spontaneous hug.

“It’s okay,” Stiles said softly, his voice warm against Derek’s shoulder. “You’re forgiven.”

Derek froze at first, his entire body stiff as if he had no idea what to do. But after a moment, he let out a quiet sigh and tentatively placed an arm around Stiles’ waist, giving him the most awkward, stilted hug imaginable.

When they pulled apart, Stiles grinned up at Derek, his heart doing weird little flips at the sight of the faint blush dusting the werewolf’s cheeks. “You’re not so bad, you know,” he said teasingly, though his tone was tinged with affection.

Before Derek could respond, Stiles was already backing away, groceries in hand. “See you around, sourwolf!” he called over his shoulder.

As Stiles drove out of the parking lot, he glanced in his rearview mirror and saw Derek standing there, a small, silly smile tugging at his lips.

Stiles couldn’t help but laugh, his mood soaring.

Day 5

Stiles woke up with a sense of purpose humming in his veins. The disaster of Day Three was a distant memory, and Day Four had been a reminder that he could still chip away at Derek Hale’s brooding exterior. Today, though—today, he had a perfect plan.

Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he stretched and grinned to himself. "Alright, Stiles. Operation Sourwolf’s Lemon Bars is a go." He padded down to the kitchen, phone in hand, scrolling through recipes. It was a simple plan, but sometimes simple was better. Derek had mentioned his mom’s lemon bars, and if Stiles could somehow replicate that memory, it might help the gruff werewolf associate him with something warm, comforting—even sweet.

An hour later, Stiles was standing in a kitchen that looked like a culinary battlefield. Flour dusted every surface, lemon zest clung to his fingertips, and sugar had formed an almost supernatural grip on his shirt. The smell of baking, however, was divine, and the golden bars cooling on the counter made him feel like a culinary genius.

Stiles wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand and surveyed the mess. “Totally worth it,” he muttered. Then, as an afterthought: “Probably should clean this up before Dad gets home.”

After cutting the lemon bars into neat squares, Stiles packaged them carefully in a simple brown box. He tied it up with twine he found in a junk drawer, then scribbled a note:

“For when you’re feeling sour – from your friendly neighborhood Stiles.”

He looked at the note, grinning, then groaned. “Cheesy. But charming. Yeah, charming.”

By the time Stiles was ready to leave, he was practically buzzing with nervous energy. He double-checked the box three times, adjusted the twine, and even debated adding a second note. Finally, he grabbed his keys and headed out, placing the box carefully on the passenger seat of his Jeep.

On the drive to the pack house, Stiles kept telling himself this was a completely selfless gesture. “It’s not even about the plan,” he said aloud. “It’s just being nice. Thoughtful. And if Derek happens to fall in love with me because of my mad baking skills, well, that’s just a bonus.”

Still, as he pulled up to the pack house and grabbed the box, Stiles couldn’t ignore the flutter in his stomach. This wasn’t just about lemon bars—it was about showing Derek that he cared.

Squaring his shoulders, Stiles walked up to the door and knocked twice before letting himself in. “Hey, sourwolf!” he called out, his voice carrying through the quiet house. “I come bearing gifts!”

Would Derek think it was weird? Too much? Stiles shook the thoughts away. It was too late to turn back now.

The pack house was unusually quiet when Stiles arrived, the box of lemon bars tucked securely under one arm. He nudged the door open and stepped inside, his sneakers squeaking softly against the polished wood floors.

“Derek?” he called, his voice echoing in the stillness.

The faint clink of tools drew him toward the garage. Peeking inside, he spotted Derek crouched beside a motorcycle, a wrench in hand and a smudge of grease streaked across his forearm. The sight momentarily caught Stiles off guard; Derek looked so at ease here, a rare glimpse of the man beyond the brooding façade.

Derek glanced up, his brow furrowing in surprise. “Stiles? What are you doing here?”

“Hey, Sourwolf,” Stiles said with a grin, stepping fully into the garage. “I brought you a little something. Figured you might appreciate a taste of nostalgia.” He held up the box, the scent of citrus and sugar wafting faintly from inside.

Derek straightened, wiping his hands on a rag as he approached. “What’s in the box?”

“Lemon bars,” Stiles declared, puffing out his chest slightly. “Homemade, thank you very much.”

Derek paused, his expression softening as his gaze flicked from the box to Stiles. “You made these?”

“Yep,” Stiles replied, shrugging nonchalantly. “Thought you might like them. You know, since you said they were your mom’s specialty.”

Derek’s mouth twitched, not quite a smile, but close enough to make Stiles’ chest do a little flip. “Alright. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

Minutes later, they were sitting at the kitchen table, the open box of lemon bars between them. Stiles watched intently as Derek took his first bite, his expression neutral at first.

Then Derek nodded slowly, a glimmer of approval in his eyes. “Not bad.”

“Not bad?” Stiles echoed, feigning outrage as he leaned back in his chair. “These are *amazing*. Admit it—you’re impressed.”

Derek smirked faintly, breaking off another piece. “Fine. They’re good. Happy?”

“Ecstatic,” Stiles replied with a mock bow.

As they ate, the conversation began to flow more naturally. Derek shared snippets of his family life that Stiles had never heard before—how his mom would bake lemon bars to cheer his dad up after a tough day, or how Laura would sneak them before they cooled.

“You couldn’t stop her?” Stiles asked, his grin widening.

“She was persistent,” Derek said with a shrug, his tone tinged with fondness.

Stiles chuckled softly. “I get it. My mom used to make this incredible chicken pot pie. My dad and I tried to recreate it once.” He shook his head at the memory. “It was… a disaster.”

Derek’s gaze softened as he looked at Stiles. “Still. You tried. That counts for something.”

Stiles smiled faintly, fiddling with a crumb on his plate. “Yeah. It does.”

As the conversation continued, small moments of physical closeness seemed to happen naturally. Reaching for a plate at the same time, their hands brushed. Stiles quickly pulled his hand back, his cheeks tinged pink. Derek arched an eyebrow, his expression unreadable but faintly amused.

When Derek leaned forward to grab a napkin, their knees knocked under the table. Stiles felt his heart skip and wondered if Derek noticed—or cared.

“Wait,” Derek said suddenly, leaning slightly toward Stiles. “You’ve got powdered sugar—”

But Stiles was faster. He reached up and swiped at his own cheek, then smirked. “Gotcha,” he teased, wiping the sugar off on his napkin.

Derek stared at him for a moment, his lips twitching like he was trying not to smile. “You’re a menace.”

“And yet, here I am, brightening your day,” Stiles quipped, leaning back in his chair with an exaggerated flourish.

Derek shook his head but didn’t argue. For a moment, the room was filled with a comfortable silence, the kind that felt new but promising.

By the time the box was empty, Stiles felt like the day had been more than worth the chaos in his kitchen. Derek was relaxed, maybe even happy, and Stiles couldn’t help but bask in the warmth of their shared moment.

Stiles leaned back in his chair, stretching dramatically as if he’d just completed a monumental task. “Well, I think I’ve done my good deed for the day. Fed the sourwolf some sugar and got to witness you actually enjoying yourself. I’m practically a saint.”

Derek huffed, crossing his arms. “You’re impossible.”

“Impossible, but appreciated,” Stiles shot back, standing up and collecting the now-empty box. He tapped the lid with a grin. “I’ll have to remember this secret sweet tooth of yours. Lemon bars, huh? Who would’ve thought?”

“I don’t have a sweet tooth,” Derek said firmly, though his tone carried more of a grumble than real conviction.

“Sure you don’t,” Stiles teased, his grin widening. “It’s okay. Your secret’s safe with me, big guy.”

Derek gave him a mock scowl, but there was no hiding the faint smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.

As Stiles started toward the door, he half-expected Derek to retreat back into his usual stoic silence. But just as he reached the threshold, Derek’s voice stopped him.

“Stiles.”

He turned, surprised to find Derek looking at him, something unspoken lingering in his eyes.

“Thanks,” Derek said simply, the words carrying a softness that made Stiles’ heart skip.

For a moment, Stiles couldn’t find the words to reply. Then, his grin returned, brighter and more genuine than ever. “Anytime, Derek.”

As he walked to his car, the box tucked under one arm, Stiles couldn’t help but glance back. Derek was still standing there, leaning against the doorframe, watching him leave.

Sliding into the driver’s seat, Stiles let out a breathless laugh, his face flushed with a mixture of triumph and giddiness. “Progress,” he murmured to himself, starting the engine.

And as he drove away, the image of Derek’s faint, fond smile lingered in his mind, warming him from the inside out.

Day Six

Stiles woke up feeling equal parts excited and nervous. Day six of "Operation Win Derek's Heart" was underway, and tonight was the perfect opportunity: a pack movie night. It had been Scott’s idea—a casual gathering to decompress from the chaos that was their lives. But to Stiles, it was also the perfect excuse to spend more time with Derek and maybe, just maybe, get a little closer.

He spent an embarrassing amount of time picking out what to wear, eventually settling on a soft burgundy hoodie and his comfiest pair of jeans. He wanted to look good but not like he was trying too hard.

“Cool, casual, and cuddle-friendly,” he muttered to himself as he ran a hand through his hair.

By the time Stiles arrived at the pack house, the living room was already half-full. Scott and Kira were on one side of the couch, their heads leaning toward each other. Lydia had claimed the armchair with a blanket and a mug of tea. Malia was sprawled on the floor with a pile of snacks, and Liam was fiddling with the remote.

Derek, as always, was slightly apart from the group. He stood by the wall with his arms crossed, watching the chaos with mild exasperation. Stiles made a beeline for him, his heart doing its usual somersault as he got closer.

“Hey, Sourwolf,” Stiles greeted, flashing a grin. “You planning on standing there all night, or are you actually going to join the fun?”

Derek gave him a look but relented with a small huff, moving to sit on the far end of the couch. Stiles, not one to miss an opportunity, plopped down right next to him, pressing closer than strictly necessary.

“Room’s tight,” Stiles said innocently, ignoring the very obvious empty space on the other side of the couch.

The movie started—some action flick Liam had insisted on—but Stiles could barely focus. The warmth radiating from Derek’s side was downright distracting. Halfway through, he decided to make his move.

Feigning nonchalance, Stiles stretched, letting his arm drape along the back of the couch, just shy of Derek’s shoulders. Derek glanced at him but didn’t pull away, his expression unreadable. Encouraged, Stiles let his head tilt slightly toward Derek, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

“Comfortable?” Derek asked dryly, though there was no bite in his tone.

“Very,” Stiles replied, grinning up at him.

As the movie continued, Stiles found himself relaxing more and more. The room grew dimmer as the sun set, the only light coming from the TV screen. The steady rhythm of Derek’s breathing beside him was oddly soothing, and before he knew it, Stiles’ eyelids began to droop.

Stiles wasn’t sure when he fully drifted off, but he woke to the feeling of something warm and solid under his head. Blinking groggily, he realized his cheek was pressed against Derek’s shoulder, and Derek’s arm was resting lightly around his back.

Panic flared for a brief moment. “Oh my God,” he mumbled, sitting up quickly. “Did I just—was I—?”

“You fell asleep,” Derek said calmly, his gaze still fixed on the screen.

“Yeah, but, like, *on you*,” Stiles stammered, his cheeks burning.

Derek finally looked down at him, the corners of his mouth lifting just slightly. “It’s fine, Stiles. You looked… comfortable.”

Stiles blinked, stunned into silence by the uncharacteristic softness in Derek’s voice.

As the credits rolled and everyone began to disperse, Stiles lingered near the door, his mind still reeling.

“Hey, Stiles,” Derek called, his voice stopping him in his tracks.

“Yeah?” Stiles turned, trying not to let his face betray how much his heart was racing.

“Thanks for… sticking around tonight,” Derek said, his tone gruff but sincere.

Stiles’ grin practically split his face. “Anytime, Sourwolf. Anytime.”

As he left the pack house, Stiles couldn’t help but feel like today had been another step in the right direction.

Day Seven

The early morning sunlight streamed faintly through the slats of Stiles’ blinds, casting soft, golden beams across his room. He was still cocooned in the warmth of his oversized shirt and blankets, utterly unaware of the looming presence in his space.

“Stiles.”

The voice, low and familiar, sliced through the silence and jolted Stiles awake. He blinked rapidly, sitting up abruptly as his eyes landed on Derek.

Derek was perched in Stiles’ desk chair, leaning back slightly with an air of casual dominance. In his hand was a piece of paper, one that Stiles instantly recognized—the notes he'd been jotting down about the last week of his efforts to win Derek over.

“Morning,” Derek said, his tone laced with snark. “Sleep well? Because apparently, you’ve been busy when you’re awake.”

Stiles’ heart plummeted into his stomach. “Oh, no,” he muttered, running a hand through his already tousled hair. “That’s, uh… not what it looks like?”

Derek arched a brow and held up the paper, his eyes skimming over it once more before he began to read aloud. “Day one: Casual outfit debut to gauge reaction. Day two: Proximity and subtle teasing. Day four: Grocery store bonding. And day six…” His lips quirked as he read, “Strategic cuddling during pack movie night.”

Stiles’ face flamed, and he scrambled to untangle himself from his blankets. “Okay, listen, I can explain—”

“Explain?” Derek interrupted, standing from the chair with a predatory grace that made Stiles’ stomach flip. He strode toward the bed, the paper crumpled slightly in his hand. “Because from where I’m standing, it seems pretty clear.”

Stiles froze, wide-eyed and clutching his blanket as Derek placed a hand on the headboard, leaning in close. The proximity stole every coherent thought from Stiles’ brain. Derek’s other hand rested on the bed, bracketing Stiles in, and his piercing gaze locked onto Stiles’ own.

“So let me get this straight,” Derek murmured, his voice like velvet and gravel. “While I’ve been losing my mind the last few days, thinking about how you’re *everywhere*—how I can’t get you out of my head—you’ve been doing all of this intentionally? To drive me crazy?”

Stiles swallowed hard, his breath hitching. “Uh… maybe?” he squeaked, his voice embarrassingly high-pitched. Then, with a shaky exhale, he confessed, “Okay, yes. Fine. I wanted you to notice me, alright? I just—”

Before he could finish, Derek’s stern expression softened into something entirely different—a slow, wicked smirk. “Good,” he said simply, the single word hanging heavy in the charged air.

“Good?” Stiles echoed, his confusion plain.

Derek leaned closer, so close their noses nearly touched, his voice dropping to a rumbling whisper. “Good. Because now I don’t have to worry about overstepping.”

And then Derek kissed him.

It wasn’t hesitant or careful; it was fierce, consuming, and filled with every bit of tension that had been building between them for days. Stiles gasped against Derek’s lips, his hands instinctively clutching at Derek’s shirt as the world tilted on its axis.

Derek’s hand slid from the headboard to cradle the side of Stiles’ face, his thumb brushing gently over Stiles’ cheek even as the kiss deepened. Stiles melted into it, every nerve in his body singing at the feel of Derek’s warmth, his strength, his everything.

When they finally pulled apart, both of them were breathless. Derek rested his forehead against Stiles’, his smirk still firmly in place.

“Guess your plan worked,” Derek said, his voice low and teasing.

Stiles let out a breathless laugh, his heart pounding wildly. “Yeah, I guess it did.”

Progress? Stiles thought, his lips tingling and his chest full of warmth. No, this was better than progress. This was victory.

The end.