Chapter Text
Stiles had always considered himself the glue that held the pack together. Sure, he didn’t have claws or fangs, but he was the one who did the research, made the plans, and got everyone out of supernatural disasters with his quick thinking. He was Scott’s right hand. At least, he had been.
The changes started subtly.
It was in the little things. Like how no one responded to his texts as fast as they used to. Or how he wasn’t included in impromptu pack hangouts anymore. Stiles tried to tell himself it was just senior year stress—everyone was busy with college applications, relationships, and preparing for life after high school.
But deep down, something gnawed at him.
The first time it really stung was during a pack hunt. A rogue omega had been causing trouble, nothing major, but enough to warrant an intervention. Stiles had spent the whole afternoon researching the werewolf’s habits, cross-referencing best tracking strategies, and mapping out a plan.
When he showed up to the woods, they were already gone.
They left without him.
Not even a text.
He drove back home in silence, gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turned white.
When Scott called him later, his voice was all casual, like nothing was wrong. “Sorry, dude, it was last minute. We figured it was just a routine thing—nothing you needed to be there for.”
Stiles swallowed the lump in his throat and forced out a laugh. “Yeah, makes sense. Just, y’know, would’ve been cool to get an update or something.”
“Yeah, my bad. But hey, we handled it. No biggie.”
No biggie.
***
It got worse at school.
At lunch, he used to sit between Lydia and Scott, contributing to the chaos of their conversations, bouncing theories about supernatural weirdness, teasing Jackson when he was being a dick. Now, Scott was always occupied with Kira, Allison, and the rest of the pack, discussing training sessions or weekend plans that he wasn’t invited to.
One afternoon, he approached their usual table with his tray, only to find the seat-assignments had shifted, with some of their Lacrosse teammates joining them. There was no seat saved for him.
Scott glanced up at him, fork halfway to his mouth. “Oh, hey, dude. Maybe try the next table? I think those freshmen over there have room.”
Stiles stood there for a second, blinking.
Jackson barely spared him a glance. Lydia didn’t look up from her phone. Allison gave him a small, awkward smile but said nothing.
“Right. Cool. Yeah, no worries.” He turned on his heel, walking away before anyone could see the burn of embarrassment on his face.
That day, he ate in his Jeep.
***
Lacrosse had always been his way of being part of the team, even if he sucked at it. Coach Finstock yelled at him more than anyone else, but it was part of the game, part of the fun.
But now?
Now he never got on the field. Not even for practice scrimmages.
He showed up to every practice, worked his ass off, but it was like he was invisible.
One day, during a particularly rough practice, he approached Scott after warm-ups, tossing his stick over his shoulder. “Hey, think you could put in a good word with Finstock? I swear, I’m not that bad—”
Scott barely glanced at him. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, man. We’re trying to win this year. You understand, right?”
Stiles stared at him, stunned. “Right. ‘Cause me playing for five minutes would completely ruin our championship dreams.”
“It’s not like that, Stiles—”
“No, I get it. Gotta focus on the real assets, huh?”
He dropped his stick and walked off the field.
***
By the time the next pack meeting rolled around, Stiles was on edge.
He arrived at the McCall house, walking straight in like he always did—only to stop dead at the sight of everyone already gathered in the living room.
The meeting had already started.
Scott was standing at the center, talking strategy about the recent supernatural issue plaguing Beacon Hills. Isaac and Kira were listening intently, Allison and Lydia were throwing out suggestions, and Jackson was lounging on the couch like he owned the place.
Stiles was nowhere in the conversation.
For a long moment, he just stood there, taking it in. The way they didn’t even look surprised to see him. The way they hadn’t bothered to wait.
He cleared his throat. Loudly.
Scott looked up. “Oh, hey, Stiles. Didn’t know if you were coming.”
His stomach twisted. “Didn’t know I had to RSVP.”
There was an awkward silence.
Isaac smirked from his spot on the floor. “Figured this was more of a werewolf thing, anyway.”
“Right,” Stiles said, voice tight. “Because my whole thing—research, planning, keeping your asses alive—totally not important.”
Scott sighed, like he was exhausted. “No one’s saying that, man. But, like… some of this stuff? It’s just not something you need to be involved in anymore.”
Not something you need to be involved in anymore.
The words hit like a punch to the gut.
Stiles forced a grin. “Oh. Got it. You guys got it all handled. No need for the human.”
“Stiles—”
“Nah, it’s cool. I’ll leave you real assets to it.”
He turned and walked out.
No one stopped him.
Not even Scott.
***
Stiles didn’t know where he was going at first.
His Jeep carried him through town, past the places where he had spent so much time with Scott, Allison, Lydia—the people who used to be his family. But now, he had no place among them.
So he ended up at Derek’s loft.
He knocked, and for a second, he thought about leaving. But before he could turn away, the door swung open.
Derek, frowning. “Stiles? It’s late.”
Stiles let out a hollow laugh. “Yeah, well. Didn’t realize there were time restrictions on showing up at your doorstep in an emotional crisis.”
Derek’s expression softened just slightly. “Something happened.”
“Yeah, you could say that.”
Derek stepped aside. “Come in.”
Stiles exhaled, stepping past him. The loft was dimly lit, smelling like old wood, leather, and something distinctly Derek. It was oddly comforting.
Derek didn’t push, didn’t demand an explanation. He just poured them both a drink—non-alcoholic, because despite what people thought, he was responsible—and sat across from Stiles, waiting.
Stiles stared at his glass, swirling the liquid absently. “You ever realize you don’t actually matter as much as you thought you did?”
Derek’s jaw tightened. “More than you know.”
That was all it took.
The walls cracked.
Stiles told him everything.
And Derek listened.
Not just listened—understood.
It was the first time in weeks Stiles didn’t feel completely alone.
And for the first time, he realized he didn’t need the McCall pack to survive.
He had someone else now.
And maybe that was enough.