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Derek let the door to his loft click shut behind him, the echo bouncing off the bare walls. His face was impassive, his jaw set like stone—just as it had been all day. He’d forced himself to remain unyielding, unshaken.
But the moment he was alone, the weight of it all crushed him. The quiet pressed against his ears, the dim light from the moon filtering through the windows casting shadows across the room. His legs gave out, and he crumpled onto the bed, his shoulders trembling.
A sob broke free, raw and guttural, shattering the silence. Then another, and another, until they spilled out of him uncontrollably. He buried his face in his hands, as if the gesture alone could hold it all back.
“Derek?”
His head snapped up, his blood running cold. Stiles was standing in the doorway, his silhouette outlined by the faint glow from the hallway. Derek’s heart clenched at the concern etched in Stiles’ voice, the hesitation in the way he lingered there, like he wasn’t sure if stepping closer would make things better or worse.
Derek shook his head, his voice breaking as he pleaded, “Please… don’t. Don’t turn on the lights.”
Stiles froze, understanding the meaning behind the words immediately: Don’t look at me.
For a moment, neither of them moved. Then, Stiles quietly stepped inside, leaving the door slightly ajar to keep the room dim. He didn’t say anything as he crossed the space, sitting down on the edge of the bed. He didn’t try to touch Derek, didn’t push him to speak.
Instead, he just sat there, his presence a quiet anchor in the storm raging inside Derek.
Stiles stayed quiet for a long moment, his sharp eyes carefully watching Derek’s trembling frame. The Derek Hale he knew—the man who snarled at danger and faced impossible odds without flinching—looked so small and vulnerable now. It made something in Stiles’ chest ache.
But Stiles also knew Derek. Pushing him, asking him to talk, would only make him retreat further. Instead, he stayed exactly where he was, close enough to be felt but far enough not to intrude.
The silence between them stretched, filled only by Derek’s uneven breaths. After a moment, Derek pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes, as if trying to stop himself from breaking any further.
“I don’t know why you’re still here,” Derek muttered, his voice hoarse.
Stiles tilted his head, the corner of his mouth quirking up in a way that was more sad than amused. “Do you really think I’d leave? You should know me better than that by now.”
Derek didn’t respond. He didn’t have the strength to argue, nor did he have the words to explain the dark cloud that had been suffocating him all day. Instead, he exhaled shakily and dropped his hands to his lap, staring at the floor like it held all the answers he didn’t have.
Stiles leaned back slightly, resting his hands on the bed for balance. “You don’t have to tell me what’s going on,” he said, his voice uncharacteristically soft. “Not if you don’t want to. But if you do… I’m here. You know that, right?”
Derek’s shoulders tensed, but he didn’t say anything. His mind raced, tangled with memories he didn’t want to revisit and emotions he didn’t want to feel. He wanted to be strong, to hold it all together, but the truth was, he felt like he was breaking apart.
“I’m not… I’m not good at this,” Derek finally admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.
“At what?” Stiles asked gently.
“Talking. Feeling. Letting anyone see me like this.” Derek gestured vaguely at himself, his hands shaking. “I don’t… I don’t know how to do it.”
Stiles nodded slowly, his expression thoughtful. “Well, lucky for you, I’m pretty good at talking. And feeling. Hell, I’m practically an expert at being an emotional disaster. So, if it makes you feel any better, you’re not alone in this.”
Derek huffed a sound that might have been a laugh if it weren’t so broken. He glanced at Stiles for the first time, his expression somewhere between gratitude and exhaustion. “Why are you like this?”
Stiles grinned faintly. “A gift, really. But seriously, Derek, you don’t have to do this alone. You never had to.”
The weight of Stiles’ words hung in the air, heavy and undeniable. Derek looked away again, his jaw tightening. He’d spent so much of his life believing that he had to carry everything by himself—that showing vulnerability was a weakness, that leaning on someone else would only lead to pain. But now, with Stiles sitting here beside him, his presence warm and steady, Derek felt a crack in that armor he’d spent so many years building.
“I lost control,” Derek said suddenly, his voice raw.
Stiles straightened slightly, his attention sharpening. “What do you mean?”
Derek’s hands clenched into fists on his thighs. “At the meeting earlier. One of the pack alphas… they said something about my family. About how weak we must have been to fall the way we did. And I…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “I wanted to rip them apart. I almost did.”
Stiles swallowed hard, his chest tightening at the image of Derek barely holding himself back. “But you didn’t,” he pointed out.
“Does it matter?” Derek snapped, his voice rising. He stood abruptly, pacing across the room with restless energy. “I wanted to. I wanted to hurt them, to make them feel even a fraction of what I felt. What kind of alpha does that make me?”
“The kind who’s still grieving,” Stiles said firmly, standing as well.
Derek froze, his back to Stiles.
“You’ve been carrying this weight for so long, Derek,” Stiles continued, his voice steady but filled with emotion. “You’ve been blaming yourself, punishing yourself for things that weren’t your fault. And yeah, maybe you lost your temper today. But that doesn’t make you a bad alpha. It makes you human.”
Derek turned to face him, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. “I’m not human, Stiles. I’m not like you.”
“No, you’re not,” Stiles agreed, stepping closer. “You’re better. You’re stronger. And you’ve survived things most people wouldn’t even be able to comprehend. But you know what else you are? You’re allowed to feel, Derek. You’re allowed to have bad days and moments where you lose control. That doesn’t make you weak. It makes you real.”
For a moment, Derek just stared at him, his expression unreadable. Then, without warning, he sank back down onto the bed, his head dropping into his hands.
“I don’t know how to stop it,” he admitted, his voice muffled. “The anger. The pain. It’s like it’s always there, just under the surface.”
Stiles hesitated, then sat down beside him, close enough for their shoulders to brush. “Maybe you don’t have to stop it,” he said carefully. “Maybe you just need to let yourself feel it. All of it. Because bottling it up? Pushing it down? That’s only going to make it worse.”
Derek didn’t respond, but he didn’t move away either.
Stiles leaned back on his hands, staring up at the ceiling. “You know, when my mom died, I thought the world was ending. I didn’t think I’d ever be okay again. And for a long time, I wasn’t. I lashed out, I shut down… I made a mess of everything. But eventually, I realized that the pain wasn’t going to go away. I just had to learn how to live with it.”
Derek glanced at him, his expression softening. “How?”
Stiles smiled faintly. “By letting people in. By realizing I didn’t have to go through it alone.” He turned to look at Derek, his eyes earnest. “And you don’t have to either. You’ve got me, Derek. Always.”
Derek’s throat tightened, and for a moment, he couldn’t speak. He’d spent so much of his life feeling like he was on his own, like he had to be strong for everyone else. But here was Stiles, offering him a lifeline, refusing to let him drown.
“Thank you,” Derek said finally, his voice barely above a whisper.
Stiles smiled, his hand brushing against Derek’s in a quiet gesture of support. “Anytime, Sourwolf.”
And for the first time in what felt like forever, Derek let himself believe that maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t as alone as he thought.
Stiles shifted on the bed, leaning back against the headboard. He held out his arms, silently inviting Derek closer. For a long moment, Derek didn’t move, his body tense, his breathing still uneven. Then, as if something inside him finally cracked open, he allowed himself to lean into Stiles.
Derek rested his head on Stiles’ chest, the weight of his body sinking against him. Stiles didn’t hesitate, wrapping his arms around Derek with an unwavering grip, as if he could shield him from everything that had ever hurt him.
“You’re safe,” Stiles whispered, his voice soft and steady. “I’ve got you.”
Derek let out a shaky breath, his face pressing into the fabric of Stiles’ shirt. For a while, neither of them spoke. The room was quiet, save for the faint hum of the wind outside and the rhythm of their breathing.
Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, Derek began to speak.
“My mom,” he said, his tone fragile, as if the words themselves might break him. “She used to bake cookies every Christmas. They were… perfect. Chocolate chip, oatmeal raisin, gingerbread—you name it. She had this old, battered recipe book she wouldn’t let anyone else touch.”
Stiles’ hand moved in slow, soothing circles across Derek’s back. “Bet they were amazing.”
“They were,” Derek said, his voice thick with emotion. “She always let us sneak one before they cooled. Even when she pretended to be mad, she’d be smiling.”
Stiles stayed quiet, giving Derek the space to continue.
“Laura was the oldest,” Derek went on, a faint, bittersweet smile tugging at his lips. “She always thought she had to take care of everything. But one time, during a full moon… she actually caught a rabbit. Like, bare hands, teeth and all. I’ll never forget it. She just looked at me and said, ‘Don’t judge me,’ before… eating it.”
Stiles couldn’t help it—a laugh burst out of him. “Oh my God, Laura Hale, badass of the pack, eating a raw rabbit? That’s… something.”
Derek huffed a quiet laugh, the sound barely there but real. “Yeah. She was… something. So was Cora. She was good at everything. Sports, school, hunting… and messing with Laura and me. She’d steal my stuff just to see if I’d chase her. Half the time, I wouldn’t even notice until she gave it back.”
“She sounds awesome,” Stiles said softly.
“She was.” Derek’s voice cracked, and his body tensed against Stiles.
Stiles tightened his hold, resting his chin lightly on top of Derek’s head.
“My dad,” Derek said after a long pause, “he was human. Just like you. He was… the best. He didn’t care that he wasn’t like the rest of us. He’d let me come to his office when I needed a break from Laura and Cora. He didn’t say much, just let me sit there and read or draw or whatever I wanted. It was… quiet. Safe.”
Derek’s voice grew quieter, and Stiles could feel him trembling again. “I miss him. I miss all of them.”
Stiles closed his eyes for a moment, willing himself to stay steady for Derek. “I know you do,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry, Derek.”
There was a long silence before Derek spoke again, his voice barely audible.
“Peter…” He hesitated, as if unsure whether to continue.
“It’s okay,” Stiles said gently.
“Peter was… different,” Derek admitted. “Even before everything happened. He was always a little manipulative, a little selfish. But he was also… like a best friend. He understood me in ways no one else did. He wasn’t all bad back then. I think… I think it was because of his wife.”
“His wife?” Stiles asked softly, surprised.
Derek nodded against Stiles’ chest. “Her name was Caroline. She was… good for him. She balanced him out. After she died, he changed. But even now, after everything he’s done… I can’t hate him. I’ve tried. But he’s still my uncle. I still love him.”
Unbeknownst to either of them, Peter stood outside the loft door, his sharp ears catching every word. Tears streamed silently down his face, his normally smug expression replaced with one of raw, unguarded emotion. He pressed a hand to the doorframe, his heart aching at Derek’s words.
Inside, Derek’s sobs grew louder, shaking his entire body. Stiles held him tighter, his arms like a protective cocoon. “It’s okay,” he murmured. “Let it out. I’m here.”
And Derek did. He let it all out—the pain, the anger, the guilt he’d been holding onto for so long. He cried until there was nothing left, until his body was limp with exhaustion.
Stiles didn’t let go, even as Derek’s breathing evened out and his tears finally stopped. He waited until Derek had drifted into a deep, dreamless sleep, his face peaceful against Stiles’ chest.
The quiet was interrupted by a soft creak. Stiles looked up sharply to see Peter stepping inside, his expression unreadable but his eyes red-rimmed.
“Peter,” Stiles whispered, his voice a mixture of surprise and suspicion.
Peter raised a hand, his usual smirk nowhere to be found. “I’m not here to cause trouble,” he said quietly. His voice was hoarse, almost hesitant. “I just… I heard.”
Stiles’ eyes narrowed. “You were eavesdropping?”
Peter shook his head, his gaze drifting to Derek’s sleeping form. “Not intentionally. I was going to check on him, but then…” He trailed off, swallowing hard.
Stiles studied him, noting the uncharacteristic vulnerability in Peter’s posture. He still didn’t trust him completely, but there was something raw and genuine in Peter’s expression that gave him pause.
“Did he mean it?” Peter asked suddenly, his voice barely above a whisper.
“Mean what?”
“What he said about me,” Peter clarified, his gaze flickering back to Stiles. “That he still loves me. Even after everything.”
Stiles’ expression softened despite himself. “Yeah. He meant it.”
Peter’s lips pressed into a thin line, and for a moment, he looked like he might break down right there. But instead, he nodded, his eyes glistening. “Take care of him,” he said, his voice rough.
Stiles’ arms instinctively tightened around Derek. “I will.”
Peter lingered for a moment longer, his eyes fixed on Derek’s face. Then, without another word, he turned and slipped out of the loft as quietly as he’d come.
Stiles watched him go, a strange mix of emotions swirling in his chest. Then he looked down at Derek, his hand gently brushing through his hair.
“You’re not alone, Derek,” he whispered. “Not anymore.”
Derek didn’t respond, but the way his body relaxed further into Stiles’ hold told him that, on some level, he’d heard. And that, for now, was enough.
The sunlight filtering through the windows of the loft was bright but not harsh, casting a warm glow over the space. Stiles was already up, bustling around the small kitchen area. His phone sat propped against a cup, playing music at full volume. He hummed along at first, then broke into an off-key rendition of One Direction’s “What Makes You Beautiful”.
Derek emerged from the bed, his hair disheveled, looking much more rested than he had the night before. He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching Stiles dance around with a spatula in one hand.
“Is that necessary?” Derek asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Oh, very,” Stiles shot back, grinning. Without missing a beat, he grabbed Derek’s hands, the spatula clattering onto the counter. The half-made pancake on the skillet was momentarily forgotten as Stiles spun Derek around in a clumsy but enthusiastic dance.
Derek stumbled slightly, his expression hovering between exasperation and amusement. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And you love it,” Stiles quipped, his smile impossibly wide as he let Derek go and did a dramatic twirl of his own.
Derek rolled his eyes but didn’t deny it. Instead, he stepped back to the stove, flipping the pancake with practiced ease. “Are you going to help with breakfast, or are you just going to keep assaulting me with boy band lyrics?”
“Both,” Stiles declared confidently, grabbing a bowl of strawberries to start slicing.
The loft was filled with the easy rhythm of their morning routine: the sizzle of the pan, Stiles’ incessant commentary, and the occasional half-hearted grumble from Derek. The moment felt light, like a balm to the heaviness of the previous night.
Just as Stiles was about to launch into another verse, a voice interrupted their little bubble.
“Well, isn’t this cozy.”
Stiles spun around, startled, to see Peter standing in the doorway, arms crossed, his expression caught between smug and something softer.
“Peter,” Stiles greeted, his surprise melting into a polite smile.
Peter stepped further into the loft, his gaze shifting to Derek. “I came by to check on you,” he said, his tone unusually subdued.
Derek froze for a second, the spatula still in his hand. He didn’t move as Peter approached, hesitating only a moment before pulling his nephew into a hug.
“I’m sorry,” Peter murmured, his voice barely audible. “For how I’ve been acting. I’ve… lost myself over the years. But I’m going to get back to being the old me. I promise.”
Derek stood stiffly at first, but slowly, he relaxed. He returned the hug, his arms tightening around Peter in a way that spoke volumes. Words weren’t necessary.
When they finally pulled back, unshed tears shimmered in both their eyes. Stiles, sensing the emotional tension needed a breather, cleared his throat.
“You staying for breakfast?” he asked, his voice light and teasing.
Peter blinked, the corner of his mouth quirking up. “I’d love to.”
Stiles grinned, gesturing toward the bar stools by the kitchen island. “Pull up a chair. Pancakes are almost ready.”
Peter took a seat as Derek silently resumed flipping the pancakes. Stiles slid a plate of freshly sliced strawberries onto the counter, then leaned against it, watching the two Hales with a small, content smile.
As they ate, the atmosphere shifted from tentative to warm. Peter, surprisingly, was in good spirits, making wry comments that had both Stiles and Derek laughing.
“You know,” Peter said, after swallowing a bite of pancake, “I wasn’t sure what to make of you at first, Stiles. All that energy, the constant talking… It’s exhausting.”
“Gee, thanks,” Stiles replied, though his grin betrayed his amusement.
“But,” Peter continued, his tone softening, “you’re good for him. For Derek. You’ve brought something back to him that I thought he’d lost forever.”
Derek glanced down at his plate, clearly uncomfortable with the attention, but Stiles beamed.
“Aw, Peter,” Stiles said, clutching his chest dramatically. “That almost sounded like a compliment.”
Peter smirked. “Don’t get used to it.”
They continued eating, the conversation flowing easily. Peter shared stories from when Derek was a teenager, much to Derek’s chagrin and Stiles’ delight.
“Derek used to sneak out of the house all the time,” Peter said, leaning back in his chair. “He thought he was being clever, but your grandmother always knew.”
“You’re making that up,” Derek said, though there was a faint blush on his cheeks.
“Am I?” Peter countered, his eyes twinkling. “She used to leave snacks by the door for when you came back.”
Stiles burst out laughing. “Derek Hale, sneaky wolf extraordinaire, undone by cookies.”
“Shut up,” Derek muttered, though he couldn’t hide the small smile tugging at his lips.
The morning stretched on, the three of them sharing stories, teasing each other, and falling into a rhythm that felt natural, almost familial.
When they were done eating, Stiles started clearing the plates, but Peter waved him off. “I’ve got it,” he said, gathering the dishes.
Stiles watched him for a moment, then turned to Derek, who was standing by the counter, a thoughtful look on his face.
“You okay?” Stiles asked, stepping closer.
Derek nodded slowly, his eyes meeting Stiles’. “Yeah. I think I am.”
Stiles reached out, his fingers brushing against Derek’s. “Good. Because you deserve this, Derek. All of it.”
Derek didn’t say anything, but the way his hand closed around Stiles’ spoke louder than words ever could.
Across the room, Peter glanced over his shoulder, a small, genuine smile on his face as he watched the two of them. For the first time in a long time, the loft felt like home.