Archive of Our Own ^beta

The moon hung low over Beacon Hills, casting an eerie light on the Hale house, which still looked like it had been hit by a natural disaster. It had been years since the fire, yet the scars on the walls and floors remained.

Despite the history it held, the pack had come to see it as their home—a home that Derek Hale hardly ever left. His brooding presence loomed over everything, a constant reminder that not much had changed, even if the house was slowly being rebuilt.

Stiles Stilinski, however, was pacing up and down the living room like a caged animal. His sneakers squeaked on the hardwood floors as he practically vibrated with frustration. This had become routine.

He'd try to get everyone to focus, and Derek would find some reason to sabotage it. Sometimes, Stiles wondered if the guy had a personal vendetta against him—actually, scratch that, he knew Derek had a personal vendetta against him.

The problem was, Stiles had no clue what it was or why it was so damn persistent.

"Okay, I get it, we're all super busy with the supernatural mess happening in Beacon Hills," Stiles said, throwing his hands up in exasperation, "but can we, like, try and actually solve it? Instead of just staring at the walls and pretending this isn’t a life-and-death situation?"

Derek, who had been standing against the far wall, arms crossed and eyes narrowed, shot Stiles a look that could have frozen a hundred different species. "Maybe if you'd stop talking for five seconds, we could actually get something done," Derek muttered, his voice low, as if the words themselves were a weapon aimed directly at Stiles.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Stiles said, mock surprise lacing his voice. "Did I offend the almighty Derek Hale? Was that too much talking for you? I’ll try and tone it down, big guy. Maybe I'll just sit here and wait for you to solve all the problems with your brooding and your gloomy silence."

"Maybe you should," Derek shot back, a smirk tugging at his lips. "Less talking, more doing."

It was like this every time. Stiles would try to be useful, would try to get everyone on the same page, and Derek would always shoot him down. Like it was some sort of game to see who could out-pout the other. The worst part? Derek was actually good at it. His brooding stare could make even the strongest person want to look away.

Scott, who had been sitting between them trying to stay out of the line of fire, finally rubbed his temples. "Guys, seriously, can we just focus here?" He had to be the voice of reason at least once a day, and this was no different. "The creature is still out there, and we need a plan."

Stiles rolled his eyes. "No kidding, Captain Obvious. But, you know, it's hard to get anything done when some people refuse to listen to anyone else."

At this, Derek took a step forward, his expression darkening. “You think you know better, Stiles? You think your human brain can keep up with what’s going on here? You’re not part of this world, so stop acting like you’re some kind of expert.”

The words stung more than they should have. Stiles had heard Derek’s jabs before, but something about this one felt personal. Not part of this world. Stiles clenched his fists at his sides, doing his best to keep his temper in check.

"I’m not trying to be an expert," Stiles snapped, his voice rising in volume. "I’m just trying to help in whatever way I can. Unlike you, I don’t have the luxury of hiding behind my anger all the time."

Derek’s eyes darkened, the harsh edge in his voice cutting through the air. “I’m not hiding behind anything. I’m just making sure you don’t get anyone killed.”

Stiles’ eyes widened in disbelief. “Oh, so now you think I’m the liability? Is that it? You think because I’m human, I’m just some idiot who can’t handle his own? I don’t need your protection, Derek.”

“Clearly,” Derek replied with biting sarcasm. “It’s not like you’ve gotten yourself in danger at least a dozen times already, right?”

The words stung like a slap, and Stiles could feel the anger rising in his chest. He wasn’t sure what hurt more—the fact that Derek was once again belittling him or the fact that he seemed to take some twisted satisfaction in it.

“Alright, enough,” Scott said, standing up between them, his hands held out in a futile attempt to separate them. “We’re wasting time. This is exactly why we’re not getting anywhere.”

But Stiles wasn’t listening anymore. He was so angry, his heart was pounding in his chest, and every word out of Derek’s mouth just made the fire burn hotter.

“No, you listen to me for once,” Stiles snapped, his voice shaking with frustration. “You want to keep pretending like I don’t belong here? Like I’m just some... some clown who doesn’t know what’s going on? Fine. Keep doing it. But I’m not going to stand here and let you make me feel like I’m worthless.”

Derek’s eyes flashed with something that looked almost like rage, but it was hard to tell through the constant wall of indifference he always put up. “I never said you were worthless.”

“You don’t have to,” Stiles shot back, his voice laced with bitterness. “You say it every time you look at me. Every time you treat me like I’m just in the way. You don’t care about anyone but yourself.”

“I don’t need to care about you,” Derek snarled, his fists clenching at his sides. “I’ve seen what happens when people like you get involved. You think you can just waltz in and act like you’re one of us? You’re not. You’re just a human, Stiles. And you’re going to get yourself killed because of it.”

The words hit Stiles like a punch to the gut. His breath caught in his throat, and for a split second, it felt like the world stopped moving. He had heard Derek’s insults before, but this one felt different. It was like Derek wasn’t just angry at him for getting in the way. It was something deeper, something Stiles didn’t understand.

Before Stiles could say anything else, Allison stepped in, her tone sharp and commanding. “Both of you need to calm down.” She shot a look at Derek, then turned to Stiles. “We don’t have time for your drama, alright?”

Stiles took a deep breath, trying to calm his racing thoughts. He knew she was right. The creature was still out there, and they were wasting time. But he couldn’t shake the sting of Derek’s words. Couldn’t shake the way Derek always looked at him—like he was a nuisance, an annoyance, someone who was never going to fit in with the rest of them.

“Fine,” Stiles muttered, turning toward the door, his hand resting on the doorknob. “You know what? I’m done here. If you want to keep playing your little alpha games, Derek, then go right ahead. But I’m out.” He didn’t wait for a response. He didn’t need one. He was sick of it.

As Stiles stormed out of the Hale house, he could hear Derek’s voice in the background, his words muffled and angry, but he didn’t care. The air outside was cold, and Stiles welcomed the chill, trying to cool down the fire in his chest.

The problem wasn’t just that Derek didn’t like him. The problem was that Stiles didn’t like Derek either. He hated how Derek made him feel small, insignificant, like he wasn’t important. And if Derek wasn’t going to acknowledge Stiles’ worth, then maybe it was time for Stiles to stop pretending that it bothered him.

—

The night air bit at Stiles' skin as he stomped down the path away from the Hale house, his breath coming in sharp puffs. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, his heartbeat drumming against his ribs like an alarm he couldn’t shut off.

Why did Derek always have to be like that? Always so cold, so dismissive, so—

"You're going to get yourself killed."

The words echoed in Stiles’ mind, settling in his chest like a weight. He wanted to believe it was just Derek being his usual broody, borderline asshole self. But the way he had said it—low, bitter, like he was speaking from experience—made Stiles wonder if there was something more beneath all that anger.

Not that it mattered. Not right now. Not when there was an actual monster on the loose.

The rustling of leaves pulled Stiles out of his thoughts, and he froze mid-step. His breath hitched as his eyes flicked around the darkened woods. The wind had picked up, sending dry leaves scattering across the path, but this wasn’t just the wind.

Something was watching him.

His fingers twitched toward the baseball bat in the trunk of his Jeep, parked just a few feet away. He took a careful step forward, his pulse pounding in his ears.

And then—

A low, guttural growl.

Stiles barely had time to react before something moved in the darkness, fast and predatory. A blur of motion came from his left, and suddenly, claws slashed through the air, aiming straight for his chest.

He threw himself backward with a sharp yelp, landing hard on the dirt path. His hands scrambled against the ground as he tried to push himself up, but the creature was already circling, glowing red eyes locked onto him.

It was big—bigger than any werewolf Stiles had seen before. Its limbs were too long, its body twisted and unnatural, its skin almost translucent under the moonlight. This wasn’t just a rogue werewolf. This was something else. Something worse.

Panic surged through him, but before he could think of a way to escape, the thing lunged again.

And then—

A snarl ripped through the night, deep and unmistakably wolf.

A dark blur crashed into the creature, knocking it off-course just inches from Stiles. He scrambled backward as the two figures tumbled across the ground, all claws and flashing fangs.

It took Stiles a second to process what had happened.

Derek.

Derek had tackled the creature, his eyes glowing bright red as he tore into it with a ferocity Stiles had rarely seen.

The creature snarled, twisting violently before managing to break free. It hesitated for only a moment, its glowing red eyes flicking between Derek and Stiles, before it turned and vanished into the woods.

Silence fell.

Stiles lay there, chest heaving, staring at the spot where the creature had disappeared.

Derek stood a few feet away, also breathing hard, his fists still clenched like he was ready to fight. His eyes flickered from red back to his usual stormy green as he turned to look at Stiles.

"What the hell was that?" Stiles finally managed, pushing himself up. His hands were shaking, adrenaline still coursing through his veins.

Derek didn’t answer right away. He was staring at Stiles, his expression unreadable.

"Are you hurt?" he asked instead, his voice gruff.

Stiles blinked, caught off guard by the concern lurking beneath Derek’s usual irritation.

"I'm—" He exhaled, dragging a hand through his hair. "I'm fine. Thanks to you, I guess."

Derek frowned, glancing back toward the woods, his jaw tight. "It was waiting for you."

Stiles swallowed. "Yeah. Yeah, I kinda got that impression."

Derek's hands twitched at his sides like he wanted to say something else, but instead, he just muttered, "Come on. We need to get back before it comes back."

For once, Stiles didn’t argue.

As he followed Derek back toward the Hale house, his mind raced. Whatever that thing was, it wasn’t just some random supernatural threat.

It had targeted him.

And if Derek had not shown up when he did—

Stiles shook the thought away.

One thing was clear: whatever was happening in Beacon Hills was getting worse. And for better or worse, Stiles was right in the middle of it.

—

Stiles stomped up the steps of the Hale house, still shaking off the last remnants of terror and adrenaline. He was not about to admit how close he’d come to dying just now, and he was definitely not about to admit that Derek saving his ass had been the only reason he was still breathing. That would mean thanking him, and Stiles was simply not built for that kind of emotional self-destruction.

Derek, for his part, was already in full brooding mode. He pushed open the door with a little too much force—honestly, what did the doors ever do to him?—and stalked inside, muscles tense and jaw clenched.

Scott and Allison were still gathered in the living room, their heads snapping up the second Stiles and Derek walked in.

“What happened?” Scott asked, instantly alert.

“Oh, nothing major,” Stiles said, waving a hand as he collapsed onto the couch. “Just your standard, run-of-the-mill horrifying death encounter in the woods. But don’t worry—Derek here played hero, so my fragile human life was spared for another day.”

Derek shot him a glare that could’ve set the room on fire. “You should not have stormed off alone.”

“Oh, wow. Thanks for that insight, Captain Obvious. Really, where would I be without your wisdom?” Stiles deadpanned, resting an elbow on the arm of the couch. “Oh, right. Still getting chased through the woods by whatever the hell that thing was.”

Derek’s eyes flashed. “You wouldn’t have been chased if you hadn’t acted like a reckless idiot and walked straight into a trap.”

Stiles scoffed. “Oh, I’m so sorry I wasn’t born with supernatural instincts like you, Derek. Next time, I’ll just sniff the air and magically know when I’m about to be hunted for sport.”

Scott sighed heavily, rubbing his temples. “Guys—”

“No, no, let’s keep going,” Stiles said, sitting up and throwing his hands in the air. “This is fun. Let’s talk about how everything is my fault. Maybe Derek can give me a PowerPoint presentation about all the ways I ruin his life on a daily basis.”

Derek folded his arms, his glare darkening. “I don’t need a PowerPoint. You make it very obvious.”

Stiles gasped dramatically, pressing a hand to his chest. “Ouch. My feelings.”

Derek rolled his eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn’t get stuck.

“Seriously,” Allison cut in, arms crossed. “What was that thing?”

Derek’s expression hardened, and he leaned against the wall, his usual brooding stance in full effect. “Not a werewolf,” he muttered. “It moved too fast. It wasn’t a wendigo either—too big. And its scent was—wrong.”

“Oh, great,” Stiles said. “An entirely new nightmare creature to add to our already overwhelming collection of horrors. Love that for us.”

Derek shot him a look. “You’re not helping.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Stiles snapped. “Am I supposed to be contributing to your gruff and serious monster research time? Should I brood in the corner, too? Maybe scowl at everyone? Oh wait, no, that’s your job.”

Scott, ever the peacemaker, raised a hand. “Okay, seriously. Stiles, take a breath. Derek, maybe don’t imply Stiles is completely useless—”

“I never said he was useless,” Derek cut in, sounding offended.

Stiles blinked. “Oh, wow, that almost sounded like a compliment. Hold on, let me record this moment for historical preservation.” He patted his pockets mockingly. “Damn, no tape recorder. Guess I’ll just have to tattoo it on my arm.”

Derek exhaled sharply through his nose, clearly summoning every ounce of patience in his body. “You were bait, Stiles.”

“Excuse me?” Stiles snapped.

“The thing was waiting for you. It knew you’d walk out on your own.”

Stiles frowned, his sarcasm momentarily faltering. “Okay, but like—why me?”

Derek shook his head, expression unreadable. “That’s what we need to figure out.”

Stiles wasn’t sure what unsettled him more—the fact that some unknown monster had specifically targeted him, or the fact that Derek looked genuinely concerned about it.

For a moment, an awkward silence settled between them.

Then Stiles clapped his hands together. “Well. If something out there wants me dead, I’d at least like to know what it is before it succeeds.”

Derek narrowed his eyes. “That’s the first smart thing you’ve said all night.”

Stiles huffed. “Yeah, well. Don’t get used to it.”

—
Stiles hated being the center of attention.

Well, okay, that wasn’t entirely true. He enjoyed attention when it was on his terms—when he was cracking jokes, annoying Derek, or proving that his very human brain was just as useful as the supernatural muscle in the room.

But being the center of attention because something wanted him? Because the entire pack was now watching his every move like he was a walking, talking liability?

Yeah. Not fun.

Ever since the thing had come after him, Derek had all but slapped a “Property of the Pack” sticker on Stiles’ forehead.

Someone was always with him now. Always.

If he so much as breathed in the wrong direction, Scott was giving him the look—the worried best friend look that made Stiles want to throw himself into a volcano. Allison had started tracking his location (which, okay, super invasive, but whatever), and even Lydia—who usually found his paranoia exhausting—was checking in.

Isaac had trailed after him at lunch, Boyd had sat next to him in class like some kind of personal bodyguard, and Erica had taken to smirking at him like he was the world’s most entertaining sitcom.

And Derek?

Derek was the worst.

Silent. Brooding. Watching him with narrowed eyes like he expected Stiles to drop dead at any second.

It was unbearable.

Which was why, when the pack finally gathered in the Hale house again for an emergency “what the hell is stalking Stiles” meeting, Stiles was already at his wit’s end.

“Alright, wonder pack,” he announced, throwing himself onto the couch. “What’s the verdict? Am I cursed? Haunted? Did I piss off a witch? Because honestly, that last one seems super possible.”

Derek, standing by the window like the human equivalent of a gargoyle, shot him an unimpressed look. “You think this is a joke?”

“No,” Stiles said. “I think you being a control freak is a joke, and I think me being stuck in the middle of yet another supernatural disaster is just a cruel twist of fate.”

Scott cleared his throat before Derek could respond. “So. We might’ve figured out why it’s after you.”

Stiles sat up. “Oh? Please, enlighten me. Can’t wait to hear how much worse my life is about to get.”

Allison exchanged a glance with Lydia, who, for once, looked uncomfortable.

Lydia never looked uncomfortable.

Stiles’ stomach sank.

“Okay, so, turns out it’s an Incubus,” Allison said finally. “A supernatural entity that feeds off—”

Lydia cut in smoothly, “Virgins.”

Silence.

Absolute, suffocating silence.

Stiles stared.

Scott winced.

Derek pinched the bridge of his nose like this was somehow Stiles’ fault.

“Oh my God,” Stiles finally choked out, his entire body going up in flames. “Are you kidding me?”

Lydia gave him a knowing smirk. “Oh, Stiles. Sweetheart. You had to know this would catch up with you eventually.”

Stiles opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. "Excuse me?"

Allison cleared her throat, clearly trying not to laugh. “It—it makes sense. Incubi target virgins because their life force is, um, stronger.”

“Oh, fantastic,” Stiles deadpanned. “I am so glad my tragic lack of a sex life is now a supernatural death sentence.”

Erica cackled. “Honestly? I think this is the best thing that’s ever happened.”

Derek exhaled sharply through his nose, looking pained. “This isn’t a joke.”

“Maybe you aren’t joking, but I am,” Stiles snapped. “Because otherwise, I’m going to have an existential crisis right here on your murder rug.” He waved a hand at the floor, where there was definitely an old bloodstain.

Scott sighed. “Look, Stiles. I know this is—uh—awkward—”

“Oh, do you?” Stiles interrupted. “Do you know how awkward it is to be told that my untouched, tragically underutilized virginity is what’s keeping me on the menu?” He gestured wildly. “Like, that is my defining feature? Not my intellect? Not my boyish charm? Not my amazing comedic timing? No. It’s this.”

Isaac hummed. “I mean, technically, it’s your life force, not your virginity.”

“Oh, thank you, Isaac,” Stiles shot back. “That makes me feel so much better.”

Scott held up his hands. “Okay, okay! We get it. This is… a lot.”

“You think?” Stiles yelped, flailing. “Derek has been watching me like I’m about to drop dead for days, and now I find out it’s because some freaky demon monster wants to—” He cut himself off, his entire face burning. “Nope. Not finishing that sentence. Not even going there.”

Derek, who had been suspiciously quiet, finally sighed and rubbed a hand down his face. “Well, at least now we know what we’re dealing with.”

“Oh, great,” Stiles said. “Now all we have to do is what? Set me up as bait? Sacrifice my purity for the greater good? Fantastic plan, Derek.”

Derek’s eyes twitched like he was fighting the urge to throttle him. “No one is sacrificing anything, Stiles.”

“Speak for yourself,” Erica muttered. “This would be an easy fix.”

Stiles made a strangled noise. “Okay, NOPE, not having this conversation.”

Scott, who was probably regretting ever being friends with him, sighed heavily. “Look, all this means is that we need to keep a closer eye on you.”

Stiles groaned, flopping back against the couch. “Oh, fantastic. More babysitting. I cannot wait to have all of you breathing down my neck for the foreseeable future.”

Derek folded his arms, glaring. “Would you rather be dead?”

“Right now? Maybe,” Stiles muttered.

Derek rolled his eyes. “Then stop complaining and do what you’re told.”

“Oh, sure,” Stiles said, propping his chin on his hand. “Let me just magically become the obedient little pack member you wish I was.”

Derek took a slow breath through his nose, clearly resisting the urge to commit homicide.

Scott ran a hand through his hair. “Guys—”

“No, no, let him finish,” Stiles said, waving at Derek. “Go ahead, Alpha McAngryFace. Tell me more about how stupid I am for not knowing some freaky sex demon was gonna put me on its hit list.”

Derek growled.

Stiles smirked. “See? This is why I can’t take you seriously.”

Derek took a sharp step forward, eyes flashing red. “Do you ever shut up?”

Stiles smirked wider. “Not when it pisses you off.”

Scott dropped his head into his hands. “We are never gonna make it through this alive.”

—

Stiles regretted everything.

Not just being a virgin, not just having the worst luck in Beacon Hills—no, he regretted every single choice that had led him to this exact moment, sitting in the Hale house, surrounded by his self-proclaimed supernatural babysitters as they plotted how to keep him from being eaten by a demon with questionable morals and an even more questionable dating pool.

“So, what do we actually know about this thing?” Scott asked, rubbing his temples like the mere existence of this conversation was giving him a migraine.

Lydia flipped through the giant leather-bound book she’d found in the Argent family archives, the pages so old they looked like they’d been personally used as coasters by Dracula. “Well, according to this, the Incubus preys on ‘those with untapped life energy, particularly those who remain untouched by the carnal pleasures of the flesh.’”

Silence.

Stiles clenched his jaw, determined not to react.

Isaac made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a snort.

Allison coughed into her hand.

Erica? Cackling.

Stiles threw up his hands. “Okay, we get it! I’m a virgin! No need to keep rubbing it in.”

“Oh, Stiles,” Lydia sighed dramatically. “I wish someone was rubbing it in.”

Erica howled with laughter.

Stiles felt his entire soul attempt to leave his body. “I hate all of you.”

Derek, who had been leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, pinched the bridge of his nose. “Can we focus?”

Stiles huffed. “Oh, sure. By all means, let’s get back to the life-threatening part of this, instead of my painfully underwhelming love life.”

Lydia smirked but turned the page. “It says here that the Incubus usually stalks its victim for several days before striking. It feeds off fear, anticipation, and, well… repressed desire.”

Stiles groaned. “Seriously? It’s not bad enough that I have to be a target—I also have to be a pent-up target?”

Scott, looking like he wanted to die of secondhand embarrassment, cleared his throat. “So, we have a timeline, at least. It’s been after Stiles for a few days already, which means it’ll probably make its move soon.”

“And we still don’t know how to kill it,” Boyd pointed out.

“Fire,” Derek said immediately. “Most demonic entities can be burned.”

“Oh, great,” Stiles said. “I’ll just go ahead and light myself on fire, then. Problem solved.”

Derek glared. “That’s not what I—”

“But really,” Allison cut in, shooting Stiles a warning look before he could antagonize Derek further, “fire might be our best bet. That, or blessed weapons. Silver might work too, if it has ties to dark magic.”

Lydia nodded. “Incubi are weak to purification rites as well. Holy water, salt circles—things like that.”

Erica grinned. “So what you’re saying is, Stiles should carry around a flask of holy water and some matches and just hope for the best?”

“Love the confidence,” Stiles muttered.

Scott sighed. “We need a real plan. Something that doesn’t involve Stiles setting himself on fire.”

Derek pushed off the wall, eyes sharp. “We use him as bait.”

Stiles’ jaw dropped. “Excuse me?!”

Derek didn’t even blink. “It’s coming for you anyway. We control the situation, set a trap, and take it down before it can do anything.”

“Oh, fantastic plan,” Stiles snapped. “Really, top-tier strategizing, General Hale. Let’s just dangle me in front of the sex demon like a human sacrifice and hope for the best.”

Derek’s eyes narrowed. “It’s the best way to end this quickly.”

“And what if it doesn’t work?” Stiles demanded. “What if this thing is stronger than we think? What if your big, bad wolf routine isn’t enough?”

Derek held his gaze, unflinching. “Then we don’t let it get that far.”

Stiles wanted to argue. He wanted to call Derek every name in the book for treating this like some military operation instead of, you know, his actual life. But the worst part?

Derek was right.

If they didn’t stop this thing now, it wasn’t going to stop at all.

Stiles exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. “Fine. But if I die, I’m haunting you first.”

Derek’s lips twitched—like he was fighting a smirk—but all he said was, “Noted.”

Scott sighed. “Alright. Let’s set a trap.”

—

Stiles wasn’t sure when the pain started.

Maybe it had been immediate, sharp and violent, like the snap of a bone. Or maybe it had crept in slowly, coiling around his body like a vice, tightening with every second that passed.

He wasn’t sure.

Time had become a blur—meaningless, intangible, slipping through his fingers like sand. There was only darkness now. Darkness, and pain.

And him.

The demon.

The Incubus had been draining him for what felt like hours. Maybe longer. Stiles had lost track. He didn’t even remember how he’d gotten here, only flashes—cold hands, inhuman strength, the sensation of being ripped away from the world and dragged into the abyss.

Now, he hung limp in rusted chains, arms stretched high above his head, wrists rubbed raw and bleeding. His feet barely grazed the floor, his entire body trembling with exhaustion, muscles screaming, lungs burning.

He was so cold.

So weak.

The demon—no, his captor—stood before him, watching. Amused. Enjoying this.

“You’re surprisingly resilient,” the demon mused, tilting his head. “Most humans would have broken by now.”

Stiles forced a weak, lopsided grin. His lips were cracked, dry, but he still had some fight left in him. “Yeah, well… what can I say? I’m a stubborn bastard.”

The demon chuckled. “Oh, I know.”

Then, he pressed a hand against Stiles’ chest.

And ripped more life out of him.

Stiles screamed.

It wasn’t just pain—it was something worse. It was like his entire soul was being drained, pulled out in slow, agonizing increments. His vision whited out, his body convulsing against the chains, head snapping back as pure, raw agony crashed through his veins.

Then—darkness again.

---

At the Hale House

Derek knew something was wrong.

The second Stiles had left, something in his gut had twisted, warning him, screaming at him that something wasn’t right. He’d tried to shake it off, had tried to tell himself that Stiles would be fine, that he wouldn’t be stupid enough to go off alone.

But then an hour passed.

Then two.

And Stiles wasn’t answering his phone.

Now, the entire pack was gathered around the war table, tense, anxious, trying to put the pieces together.

“He’s not picking up,” Scott said for the fifth time, pacing back and forth. “He always picks up.”

“Unless he doesn’t want to be found,” Isaac muttered.

“No,” Lydia said firmly, her voice sharp as she studied the maps and books spread out before them. “He wants to be found. He just can’t be.” #

Derek clenched his jaw. “Then we find him.”

“We don’t even know where he is,” Boyd pointed out.

Lydia’s fingers tightened around the edges of an old, weathered book. “The Incubus wouldn’t take him far. They need time to drain their victims fully before they…” She trailed off, expression hardening.

Before they killed them.

Derek’s hands curled into fists.

Scott exhaled sharply. “Then we need to move now.”

“No,” Lydia said suddenly, eyes flashing as she turned toward them. “We need to think.”

Scott’s brows furrowed. “Lydia—”

“If we go in blind, we could lose him,” Lydia snapped. “We need to be smart about this.”

Derek hated it. Hated waiting, hated standing here when Stiles was out there, alone, suffering. But Lydia was right.

They needed a plan.

“What do we know?” he forced out, voice tense.

Lydia flipped through the book with sharp, frantic movements. “Incubi feed on life energy, but they thrive on suffering. The longer they keep a victim alive, the stronger they get.”

“So, what?” Erica demanded. “It’s just going to keep torturing him?”

Lydia’s throat bobbed. “Yes.”

Silence.

Derek’s stomach burned.

He turned toward Scott. “Can you track him?”

Scott’s jaw was tight, his eyes glowing red for a brief second as he focused. Then—he froze.

His breath hitched.

And then—he was running.

Derek was after him in an instant.

“Scott—”

“I have his scent,” Scott said, voice urgent, desperate. “It’s faint, but—it’s blood.”

Derek’s heart stopped.

Blood.

Stiles’ blood.

They moved fast after that.

Scott led them through the woods, following the faint, fading trail of Stiles’ scent, the pack moving in tense, wordless coordination. No one spoke. No one needed to. The air was heavy, thick with unspoken dread, each step feeling heavier than the last.

Derek’s hands itched to tear something apart.

Then—Scott stopped.

They had reached an old, abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of town, the structure half-collapsed, metal beams rusted with age.

Scott’s nostrils flared.

“He’s inside.”

Derek didn’t wait.

Didn’t hesitate.

He moved.

But as soon as he reached the door, something slammed into his chest—hard.

He staggered back, growling as a shockwave of energy crackled through the air, a shimmering barrier of dark magic blocking the entrance.

Lydia cursed. “A ward. It’s sealed.”

Derek’s claws dug into his palms. “Then break it.”

Lydia’s hands were already moving, fingers skimming the pages of an old grimoire. “I am.”

Scott turned toward her. “How long?”

Lydia’s lips pressed together.

Too long.

Derek let out a sharp breath, his entire body thrumming with barely-contained fury. Every second wasted was another second Stiles was trapped inside.

Another second he was suffering.

And then—

A scream.

Faint. Weak.

Barely a whisper.

But unmistakable.

Derek’s heart nearly stopped.

Scott’s face went pale.

“Stiles.”

Derek slammed a fist against the barrier, his body shaking with rage. “Lydia—”

“I’m working on it,” Lydia snapped, voice tight, fingers moving faster, eyes scanning lines of ancient Latin.

Another sound.

Choking.

Pain.

Stiles was dying.

Derek’s claws ripped into the doorframe. His body burned with the need to move, to get inside, to tear apart whatever was hurting him.

And then—

The barrier broke.

Lydia gasped as the ward shattered, the protective energy dispersing in a pulse of crackling air.

And Derek?

Derek ran.

He didn’t think. Didn’t hesitate.

He just moved.

Through the rusted doors.

Down the darkened hall.

And then—

He saw him.

And for the first time in his life, Derek Hale felt pure, unfiltered terror.

Because Stiles wasn’t just hurt.

He was barely alive.

—

Derek moved on instinct, pure rage and desperation fueling every step as he tore through the warehouse. He barely registered the rest of the pack behind him—Scott, Lydia, Erica, Isaac—all charging forward, weapons drawn, eyes burning with fury.

The demon was standing over Stiles.

Derek saw red.

With a snarl, he launched himself at the creature. Claws out. Fangs bared. The impact sent them both crashing through rusted metal scaffolding, the demon snarling as it clawed at Derek’s chest. He didn’t care. Didn’t feel it. The only thing that mattered was getting to Stiles.

Scott was already on the demon’s back, teeth sinking into its shoulder, Isaac driving his claws into its ribs. They fought with everything they had, the air thick with growls and the sharp, metallic scent of blood.

Derek barely registered any of it.

His eyes were locked on Stiles.

Hanging limp in rusted chains.

Barely breathing.

Blood smeared across his pale skin, dark bruises blooming across his ribs, his wrists raw and torn from struggling against his restraints. His head hung forward, lifeless, like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

No, no, no.

Derek broke away from the fight, reaching Stiles in seconds. His claws made quick work of the chains, metal snapping like twigs under his strength. As soon as they gave way, Stiles collapsed.

Derek caught him before he hit the ground.

His heart stopped.

Stiles was dead weight in his arms, his body cold, his breathing shallow. His pulse was weak—barely there, just a fragile, flickering thing beneath his fingertips.

Derek gripped him tighter.

"Stiles."

Nothing.

A sickening fear clawed its way into Derek’s chest. He shook him gently, fingers trembling as they brushed against bloodied skin.

"Stiles, wake up."

Still nothing.

His breaths came faster, shallower, the walls of the warehouse closing in, the fight still raging behind him nothing but a blur of sound and motion.

Derek pulled him closer, one hand cradling the back of Stiles’ head, the other clutching him against his chest like he could somehow will him back to life.

He could not lose him.

Not like this.

Not again.

Scott’s voice broke through the haze.

“Derek—is he breathing?”

Derek didn’t answer. Couldn’t. His grip on Stiles tightened, his entire body curling around him, shielding him from everything—like sheer force alone could keep him here.

Stiles had to be okay.

He just had to be.

—

Derek could hear his own heartbeat in his ears, pounding like war drums, drowning out everything else—the snarls of the demon, the pack fighting around them, Scott’s frantic voice calling his name.

Nothing mattered.

Nothing except the barely-there rise and fall of Stiles’ chest against his own.

Too shallow. Too weak.

Derek’s fingers curled around Stiles’ face, tipping his chin up slightly, his thumb brushing over the clammy skin of his cheek.

“Come on,” Derek muttered, his voice raw, barely above a whisper. “You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to—” His breath caught in his throat, panic clawing up his spine.

Stiles didn’t move.

Didn’t react.

Derek’s grip tightened. He could feel how cold he was, how lifeless.

“Stiles—”

A sharp cry tore through the warehouse.

Scott.

Derek’s head snapped up just in time to see the demon slam him into a metal beam. He went down hard, groaning in pain. Isaac and Erica weren’t faring much better, struggling to land any damage while the Incubus barely looked winded.

It was stronger now.

Stronger because of Stiles.

Derek clenched his jaw, rage surging through his veins.

This thing had touched him. Had hurt him. Had drained him until there was almost nothing left.

Derek bared his teeth, something animal and vicious curling inside him.

“You,” he growled, his voice like gravel, barely human.

The demon turned, its black eyes gleaming.

“Oh, now you’re paying attention?” it mused, tilting its head as if this was all some kind of game. “I was beginning to think you didn’t care about him at all.”

Derek didn’t hesitate.

Didn’t think.

He launched himself forward, shifting mid-air, claws and fangs at full force as he collided with the demon in a blur of violence.

It barely had time to react before Derek’s claws sank into its chest.

The thing shrieked, thrashing beneath him, but Derek didn’t let go. Didn’t stop. He tore into it, again and again, pure fury fueling every movement. It tried to fight back, clawing at his sides, but Derek didn’t feel it.

All he felt was Stiles.

His cold skin.

His shallow breathing.

His heart barely holding on.

A snarl ripped from Derek’s throat as he went for the kill, his claws sinking deep into the demon’s chest.

Its body seized.

A sickening crack echoed through the air.

And then—

Silence.

The demon’s body collapsed, motionless, black veins spidering out from the wound in its chest before disintegrating into nothing.

Derek was already turning back, already falling to his knees beside Stiles before the dust had even settled.

Scott was there in an instant, breathless, bruised, eyes wide with panic.

“He’s not waking up,” Derek said, voice hoarse. Too hoarse. He barely recognized it.

Scott pressed two fingers to Stiles’ throat, his expression going tight.

“He’s still here,” he said quickly. “Barely, but—he’s still here.”

Derek exhaled, something inside him loosening, just slightly.

“We need to get him out of here,” Lydia said, kneeling beside them, her voice sharp and steady despite the tightness in her eyes. “Now.”

Derek didn’t wait.

Didn’t think.

He just moved.

Scooping Stiles into his arms, he held him close, cradling him against his chest like something fragile, something breakable, something he couldn’t afford to lose.

He wasn’t letting go.

Not now.

Not ever.

—

The ride back to the house was silent.

Stiles was still unconscious, but at least he was breathing. Scott had checked his pulse every two minutes, and Derek hadn’t let go of him once—not even when Scott had tried to take him.

Derek had just glared at him, tightening his grip around Stiles, and Scott had backed off without a word.

Now, Stiles was stretched out on Derek’s bed, wrapped in too many blankets, an ice pack pressed to the bruises blooming along his ribs. His face was pale, too pale, dark circles bruising the skin beneath his eyes, his breathing slow but steady.

Derek hovered.

Not that he would admit to hovering.

He was just… making sure Stiles didn’t stop breathing. That was all.

Scott and Lydia were downstairs, murmuring in low voices about what had happened. About how the demon had targeted Stiles. About how close they had been to losing him.

Derek clenched his jaw, arms crossed tight over his chest.

It wasn’t like he liked Stiles.

Not even a little.

The kid was annoying. Loud. Sarcastic. Constantly getting himself into trouble.

But he was also pack.

And Derek protected his pack.

Even the infuriating ones.

Stiles stirred, a soft groan slipping past his lips as his fingers twitched against the blankets.

Derek tensed.

“Stiles?”

Nothing.

Then—

Another groan, this one more irritated, before Stiles’ eyes slowly fluttered open.

Derek exhaled, relief hitting him so hard it almost made him dizzy.

Stiles blinked blearily up at the ceiling, his brow furrowing before his gaze slid to Derek.

A slow, painful smirk tugged at his lips.

“Wow,” he croaked, voice rough. “You look like hell.”

Derek scowled. “You almost died.”

Stiles let out a weak, breathless chuckle. “Yeah, well. Guess I’m tougher than I look.”

Derek’s jaw clenched. “That’s not funny.”

Stiles sighed, shifting slightly—only to wince as pain shot through him. His face crumpled for a second before he covered it with another smirk.

“Well,” he rasped, “at least buy me dinner first before you start hovering. I mean, geez, Hale, a guy wakes up from near-death, and you’re already staring at him like I’m about to drop dead again.”

Derek rolled his eyes. “Don’t tempt me.”

Stiles gave a breathless laugh—then winced again, pain flashing across his face.

Derek almost reached for him.

Almost.

Instead, he just stood there, watching, waiting, his hands curling into fists at his sides.

Stiles closed his eyes for a second, then blinked them open again, his voice quieter this time.

“…Is it dead?”

Derek nodded. “Yeah. It’s dead.”

“Good,” Stiles muttered. “That thing sucked.”

“You don’t say,” Derek drawled.

Stiles shot him a look, then suddenly frowned, shifting under the blankets again.

“…Why am I in your bed?”

Derek stiffened.

“You needed a place to rest.”

Stiles arched a brow, his lips twitching despite the exhaustion still clinging to him. “What, so you volunteered your bed? Wow, Hale. Didn’t know you cared.”

Derek scowled. “I don’t.”

Stiles grinned, voice still hoarse but undeniably smug. “Sure, big guy. Keep telling yourself that.”

Derek clenched his jaw and turned toward the door, throwing over his shoulder—

“Try not to die in your sleep, Stilinski.”

And left.

Because if he stayed any longer, he might have actually admitted that, yeah—

Maybe he did care.

—

Stiles bounced down the stairs of the house like he hadn’t almost died a week ago.

"Morning, sunshine," he chirped, plopping onto the couch with a dramatic sigh. "I see your mood is just as bright and welcoming as ever."

Derek didn’t look up from where he was cleaning his claws—a totally normal thing to do at the breakfast table.

"I should’ve let you stay unconscious," Derek muttered.

Stiles gasped, pressing a hand to his chest. "Wow. Rude. I wake up from my near-death experience, grace you with my presence, and this is how you treat me? No 'Glad you're alive, Stiles'? No 'Wow, Stiles, you look great for someone who got strung up like a horror movie victim'?"

Derek finally looked at him, eyes narrowing. "You’re lucky you are alive."

Something in his voice was sharp. Too sharp.

Stiles opened his mouth for another sarcastic remark—but hesitated.

Because, yeah, the thing with the Incubus had been bad. Worse than anything he’d been through before. And he knew it had shaken the pack. Had shaken Scott. Had… done something weird to Derek.

Not that Derek would admit it.

So, naturally, Stiles went for the best way to deal with uncomfortable emotions.

He poked the bear.

"Wow, Der," he drawled, stretching his legs out across the coffee table, "if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you cared."

Derek’s eyes flickered with something unreadable before he scowled. "I don’t."

"Sure, sure," Stiles said, nodding sagely. "That’s why you literally carried me out of the warehouse like some tragic romance novel hero."

Derek’s face did something that was both irritated and uncomfortable at the same time.

"I was making sure you didn’t die," he snapped. "Which, by the way, wouldn’t have happened if you didn’t constantly throw yourself into danger like an idiot."

Stiles threw his hands up. "Oh, excuse me for being abducted! I’ll make sure to pencil that out of my schedule next time."

Derek huffed. "You always put yourself in danger, Stiles. You attract it."

"Yeah, well, not my fault monsters have a thing for me," Stiles muttered.

Derek gave him a look.

Stiles groaned. "Okay, fine, maybe I have a slight tendency to get involved in situations that may or may not lead to possible death—"

"Slight?"

"—but it’s not like I plan it! I mean, it’s not like I wake up every morning and go, ‘Gee, I hope something tries to kill me today!’"

Derek looked completely unconvinced.

Stiles crossed his arms. "You know, you’re way more dramatic about this than Scott, and he’s the one who’s actually supposed to worry about me. You’re acting like I’m your problem."

Derek’s jaw tightened.

Stiles blinked.

Wait.

Was he Derek’s problem?

Was that why Derek had been acting weird?

Before Stiles could press the issue, the house door slid open and Scott walked in, Lydia close behind.

"Oh good," Scott said, looking relieved. "You’re still alive."

"See?" Stiles pointed at him. "That’s how you greet someone after they’ve been brutally kidnapped and tortured! Thank you, Scott, for your kindness and appreciation of my continued existence."

Lydia scoffed. "I would’ve preferred if you came back with a little less trauma, personally."

Stiles grinned. "Aww, were you worried about me, Lyds?"

"No," she said flatly. "But it would’ve been a pain to replace you."

"Wow. So much love in this room. Really feeling it."

Scott rolled his eyes but turned to Derek, his expression shifting to something more serious. "So, what’s the plan? The Incubus was taken care of, but we don’t know if it was working alone. We still don’t know why it went after Stiles."

Derek’s gaze flickered toward Stiles.

"Because he’s a target," he said.

Stiles shifted uncomfortably. "Yeah, we established that, thanks. But, uh, does that mean there’s more creepy murder monsters that are, what, obsessed with me?"

Lydia tapped her nails against the table, thinking. "Possibly. The Incubus targeted you because you were a virgin, which means others might—"

Stiles immediately groaned. "Oh my God, do we have to keep bringing that up?"

Scott, to his credit, looked sympathetic. "Sorry, dude."

Stiles waved a hand. "No, no, it’s fine. Let’s just keep publicly announcing to every supernatural creature in town that I’m a prime sacrifice candidate."

Derek muttered something under his breath.

Stiles frowned. "What was that?"

"Nothing," Derek said, turning away.

"No, seriously, what?"

Derek sighed and shot him a look. "I said, maybe if you weren’t a virgin, you wouldn’t be in this mess."

There was a beat of absolute silence.

Scott and Lydia both stared.

Stiles choked. "Excuse me?"

Derek didn’t react.

Stiles gaped at him. "Did you just—did you seriously just suggest that I should—what? Go out and have a one-night stand to protect myself?!"

Derek shrugged. "It would solve the problem."

Scott groaned. "Can we please focus?"

Stiles was still spluttering. "I cannot believe you just said that!"

Derek rolled his eyes. "It’s logical."

"It’s insane!"

Lydia sighed. "If we’re done discussing Stiles’ love life—or lack thereof—maybe we should focus on making sure he doesn’t get kidnapped again?"

Derek looked like he wanted to argue more, but he just exhaled sharply and nodded.

"Fine," he muttered. "But we’re keeping an eye on him. At all times."

Stiles groaned. "Seriously?"

"You don’t get a say," Derek said flatly.

Stiles threw his hands up. "Unbelievable! You know, for someone who supposedly doesn’t care about me, you sure are obsessed with my safety!"

Derek scowled. "I’m not."

"You totally are!"

Lydia pinched the bridge of her nose. "I swear to God, if you two don’t stop bickering, I am going to kill you, and then you can be the next supernatural sacrifice."

That, at least, shut them both up.

For now.

—

The next supernatural disaster arrived wearing heels, red lipstick, and an obvious interest in Derek Hale.

Which, in Stiles' opinion, made her infinitely more dangerous than the last monster that tried to kill him.

Her name was Evelyn.

She appeared out of nowhere—just showed up one evening at the house, leaning against the doorway like she belonged there, all sultry smirks and sharp eyes.

"Derek Hale," she purred, her gaze raking over him in a way that made Stiles want to throw something. "I’ve heard so much about you."

Derek, to his credit, didn’t immediately look interested. If anything, he looked mildly suspicious, but that didn’t stop her from stepping further inside, completely ignoring Stiles and Scott like they were furniture.

Stiles narrowed his eyes. Red flag number one.

"Who are you?" Derek asked, crossing his arms.

Evelyn smiled. "A friend."

"Doubt," Stiles muttered under his breath.

Evelyn’s gaze finally flicked toward him, and the look she gave him made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. It wasn’t outright hostile, but it was assessing—like she was deciding whether or not he was worth acknowledging.

"Don’t mind him," she said smoothly, waving a hand. "I came to speak to you."

"Yeah, that’s not suspicious at all," Stiles deadpanned.

Derek shot him a look that clearly said shut up, but Stiles ignored it because, seriously?

Was he the only one getting weird vibes from this woman?

Scott, ever the peacemaker, cleared his throat. "Uh, maybe you should tell us why you’re here?"

Evelyn smiled, and it was too smooth. Too perfect.

"I just wanted to meet the infamous Alpha of Beacon Hills," she said. "To see if the stories were true."

"And what stories are those?" Derek asked, his voice still guarded.

Evelyn stepped closer, tilting her head. "That you’re strong. Powerful. Unclaimed."

Stiles choked. "Excuse me?"

Scott winced.

Derek, of course, remained unreadable. "I don’t belong to anyone."

Evelyn's smile widened. "Not yet."

Stiles hated her. He hated her stupid, flirtatious voice, her obvious interest, and the way she was looking at Derek like he was something to be conquered.

More than that—

He had a bad feeling.

There was something off about her. He couldn’t explain it, couldn’t prove it, but his gut was screaming at him that this woman wasn’t just some random flirt.

And Stiles had learned to trust his gut.

Unfortunately, Derek was not on the same page.

"Whatever you want," he said, his voice flat, "I’m not interested."

Evelyn's eyes gleamed. "Are you sure?"

And then—

She touched his arm.

A simple touch. Just her fingers brushing against his forearm.

And Derek flinched.

It was barely noticeable, just a slight tensing of his muscles, but Stiles saw it.

His stomach dropped.

Because Derek didn’t react like that to just anyone.

And Evelyn noticed.

"Interesting," she murmured, stepping back with a knowing smile. "I’ll see you around, Derek."

And just like that, she left.

The second the door shut behind her, Stiles turned to Derek, fuming.

"Okay, no," he snapped. "Who the hell was that?"

Derek rubbed a hand over his face. "I don’t know."

"She was weird," Stiles insisted. "Did you see the way she was looking at you? Like she wanted to eat you!"

Scott made a face. "Bad choice of words."

"You know what I mean!" Stiles threw his hands up. "She’s bad news, man! I can feel it."

Derek exhaled sharply. "You don’t know that."

Stiles gaped at him. "Oh, I don’t? Because I think I do! And newsflash, so do you! You flinched when she touched you, Derek!"

Derek went rigid.

Scott frowned. "Is that true?"

Derek didn’t answer.

Which was answer enough.

Stiles crossed his arms. "Yeah. That’s what I thought."

Scott looked between them, concerned. "Okay, so… we think she’s supernatural?"

"Obviously!" Stiles threw up his hands. "What, you think she’s just a normal woman who happens to waltz into werewolf territory with no fear and starts casually flirting with the Alpha? No way. She’s got an agenda, dude."

Derek’s jaw clenched. "Maybe."

Stiles let out a frustrated noise. "Maybe?! Dude, come on!"

Scott sighed. "Alright, let’s just be careful. If she shows up again, we’ll do some digging. Until then, we don’t have any proof she’s dangerous."

Stiles glared at Derek. "You don’t need proof! You need instincts! Which I have!"

Derek huffed. "Your instincts are annoying."

"But always right!"

Scott sighed. "Please don’t start fighting again."

Too late.

Derek was already glaring, and Stiles was already throwing himself into the argument with reckless abandon.

Because one thing was certain—

Whatever Evelyn was, she wasn’t just some woman with a crush.

And Stiles was going to prove it.

—

Stiles was not letting this go.

Something was off about Evelyn, and he wasn’t about to sit around and wait for it to turn into another life-threatening disaster. Because, let’s be real, that’s exactly how these things always went.

The pack, however, was frustratingly slow to catch up.

"We don’t have any evidence that she’s supernatural," Lydia pointed out, filing her nails as she sat on Derek’s couch like she owned the place.

Stiles scoffed. "Yet. But come on! What normal person just waltzes into Derek’s life without being either a) a supernatural horror, or b) an even worse supernatural horror?"

Scott sighed. "Stiles, we can’t just assume—"

"YES, WE CAN!" Stiles threw up his hands. "We literally always assume, and we’re always right!"

"You’re not always right," Derek grumbled from across the house.

"Oh, I’m sorry, do I need to pull out the receipts?" Stiles snapped. "Because I can list every single time I was right about something sketchy, and all of you ignored me until someone ended up bleeding on the floor!"

No one said anything.

Because they knew he had a point.

Derek exhaled sharply and crossed his arms. "Even if she’s something supernatural, we don’t know if she’s dangerous."

Stiles rolled his eyes. "She touched you, and you reacted like she tasered you. That’s not normal."

Derek’s glare darkened. "I didn’t—"

"YES, YOU DID," Stiles interrupted. "And it was weird, and now I can’t unsee it, and I refuse to let you die because you’re too stubborn to listen to me!"

Scott rubbed his temples. "Okay, okay, let’s just… take a step back. We’ll be careful around her, but we won’t make any accusations until we know she’s dangerous."

Stiles groaned. "That is literally the worst plan."

Lydia sighed and looked at Stiles. "So, what do you propose?"

"Surveillance!" Stiles declared. "We follow her. We figure out what she’s up to. We catch her in the act before she does something shady."

Derek shook his head. "You’re not following her, Stiles."

"Why not?"

"Because it’s dangerous," Derek snapped.

Stiles blinked, momentarily caught off guard by the intensity in Derek’s voice.

And okay, maybe he was still recovering from nearly dying last time, but—

"No, see, I hate that," Stiles said, pointing at Derek. "Because I know you don’t actually care about my well-being, so what is this, huh? You just don’t want me messing up your flirtation?"

Derek let out a frustrated noise. "Oh my god, Stiles—"

"You like her, don’t you?" Stiles accused, narrowing his eyes.

Derek shot him a withering glare. "No."

"Oh, you totally do!" Stiles scoffed. "I knew it! You’re so predictable, dude. She bats her eyelashes, gives you a little ‘mysterious woman’ act, and suddenly you’re all protective and broody instead of doing the logical thing, which is exposing her as a supernatural stalker!"

Derek looked like he was actively restraining himself from throwing something.

Scott stepped between them before the argument could spiral further. "Okay, let’s just—let’s set some ground rules. No one follows Evelyn alone. If we’re going to investigate, we do it together. Agreed?"

Stiles huffed. "Fine. But I want it on record that I called it first."

Lydia rolled her eyes. "Duly noted."

Derek grumbled something under his breath, but Stiles ignored him.

Because mark his words, Evelyn was up to something.

And he was going to prove it.

—

Stiles was going to lose his mind.

It had been a week since Evelyn showed up, and somehow, somehow, he was the only one still treating her like a walking red flag.

Even after he had personally compiled a list of reasons why she was suspicious, Derek refused to take him seriously.

"She hasn’t done anything," Derek grumbled for the millionth time, stalking across the house while Stiles followed, gesturing wildly.

"She exists, Derek!" Stiles snapped. "And you flinched when she touched you!"

Derek let out a sharp breath, clearly exasperated. "That doesn’t mean—"

"It means something!" Stiles interrupted. "Jesus, dude, would you just listen for once?!"

Derek whirled around, his eyes flashing. "No, because you’re annoying!"

"And you’re impossible!"

"You’re paranoid!"

"You’re stupid!"

"Okay," Scott called from the kitchen, not even looking up from his sandwich, "can we not do this for five minutes?"

"No," Stiles and Derek snapped at the same time.

Scott sighed.

Lydia, lounging on the couch, looked up from her phone. "This is exhausting," she said dryly. "Just kiss already."

Stiles choked. "Excuse me?"

Derek made a noise that was almost a growl. "Not. Funny."

Lydia smirked. "Oh, I think it is."

Stiles turned back to Derek. "See? Even Lydia thinks we fight too much!"

Derek crossed his arms. "Maybe if you shut up once in a while—"

"HA," Stiles barked. "Not a chance, big guy. Because someone has to stop you from making horrible life choices, and I—"

Derek suddenly turned away and walked toward the door.

"Hey! Where are you going?!" Stiles demanded.

Derek didn't even glance back. "Somewhere quiet."

Stiles threw up his hands. "Oh, good, run away like you always do!"

Derek slammed the door behind him.

Stiles turned to Scott, still fuming. "Do you see what I’m dealing with?"

Scott sighed. "Dude, maybe just—"

"Nope!" Stiles cut in. "Not listening! I need proof! I need something concrete to shove in his stupid, stubborn face!"

Lydia smirked. "Then go find some."

And Stiles, fueled by righteous indignation, did just that.

---

That was how he ended up outside Derek’s house the next evening, definitely not stalking, just… observing.

He knew something was going on. He knew Evelyn was shady. And if no one was going to take him seriously, then he was going to prove it himself.

Which was why—

When he walked up to the house door and peeked inside—

He saw Derek Hale and Evelyn making out.

And not just like oh, a little kissing, whatever.

No.

This was full-on, body-pressed-together, hands-everywhere, borderline-filthy kissing.

Stiles gasped.

Loudly.

Like a freaking cartoon character.

Derek and Evelyn froze.

Stiles gagged. "Oh my god—"

Derek jerked away from Evelyn, wiping his mouth like he’d been caught doing something illegal. "Stiles?!"

"WHAT THE ACTUAL HELL, DEREK?!"

Evelyn smirked, completely unbothered, and took a step toward him. "Well, well, well," she purred. "Look who’s spying."

"I WAS NOT SPYING!" Stiles shrieked. "I WAS—" He paused. "Okay, maybe I was spying! But only because you’re shady!"

Derek groaned. "Stiles, what are you even doing here?"

"Oh, I wonder!" Stiles threw up his hands. "Maybe because I knew something was off about her! And wow, what a shocking revelation—the ‘mysterious woman’ who appears out of nowhere is seducing you! Literally textbook villain behavior, Derek!"

Derek pinched the bridge of his nose. "It’s not—"

"DON’T EVEN TRY TO DEFEND THIS!" Stiles cut in. "You— I can’t even—oh my god—you have the worst taste in women!"

Derek growled. "Stiles—"

"NO!" Stiles jabbed a finger at Evelyn. "You! What’s your deal, huh? Why are you here? What do you want?!"

Evelyn’s smirk widened. "I could ask you the same thing."

Stiles narrowed his eyes. "Oh, that is such an evil villain response!"

Derek looked two seconds away from throwing Stiles out of the house. "Go home, Stiles."

"NO!" Stiles yelled. "Not until you admit I was right!"

Derek exhaled sharply, his nostrils flaring. "Leave."

"MAKE ME!"

Evelyn laughed. "Wow, you two are something else."

Derek turned to her, jaw tight. "Give me a minute."

Evelyn winked. "Take your time, handsome."

Stiles gagged again. "Oh my god—"

Derek grabbed Stiles’ arm and dragged him outside.

"HEY!" Stiles yelped. "Manhandling! I can sue!"

Derek shoved him toward the stairs. "Go home!"

"Not until—"

"NOW, STILES!"

Stiles glared at him. "Fine! But if she turns out to be a soul-sucking demon, I get to say ‘I told you so’!"

Derek growled. "Get out!"

Stiles turned on his heel and stormed down the stairs.

He hated this.

He hated that Derek wasn’t listening.

And more than anything—

He hated that he couldn’t shake the feeling that this was about to go very, very wrong.

—

Stiles knew something was going to go wrong.

He could feel it in his bones, in the deeply unsettling way Evelyn had smirked at him, like she knew something he didn’t.

Like she was playing a game, and they were all just pieces on her board.

But noooo, Derek had to be a stubborn, emotionally constipated idiot and ignore all the warning signs.

And now?

Now, Stiles was standing in the middle of the woods, staring down at Derek Hale’s unconscious body, bleeding and battered on the forest floor.

"Oh, for the love of—" Stiles dropped to his knees beside him, barely registering the rest of the pack crashing through the underbrush behind him.

Scott skidded to a stop. "Derek?!"

Lydia let out a sharp breath. "Holy—"

Isaac cursed under his breath. "That’s… a lot of blood."

"YA THINK?!" Stiles snapped, pressing a shaking hand to Derek’s chest, feeling the faint, uneven rise and fall beneath his palm. "Oh my god, he’s—he’s still breathing, but— What the hell happened?!"

Scott crouched beside him, pressing two fingers to Derek’s pulse. "I don’t know." His jaw clenched. "But this wasn’t just some random attack."

"No kidding," Stiles muttered, his throat tight. "Where the hell is Evelyn?"

No one answered.

Because they all knew.

This wasn’t a coincidence.

Evelyn had something to do with this.

And if she had hurt Derek—

Stiles swallowed hard, gripping Derek’s jacket in his fists. "Hey, big guy?" he muttered. "This would be a really, really bad time to die, okay?"

Derek didn’t move.

Didn’t even twitch.

And that?

That scared the hell out of him.

—

Stiles had never felt more useless in his life.

Derek was sprawled on the ground, pale and eerily still, his breathing shallow and ragged. His usual warmth—because, yeah, werewolves ran hot—was fading fast. That was not a good sign.

And Stiles had no idea what to do.

Scott pulled back from checking Derek’s pulse, his face tight with worry. "I think he’s poisoned."

"Poisoned?!" Stiles’ voice shot up half an octave. "By what?!"

Scott shook his head. "I don’t know. But his heartbeat’s slowing—whatever it is, it’s spreading fast."

"Great. Fantastic." Stiles threw his hands up. "This is exactly why I told you guys not to trust Evilyn—sorry, Evelyn. The woman was practically radiating bad intentions, and surprise, surprise, she freaking poisons Derek!"

Lydia crouched beside them, her gaze sharp and analytical. "She has the antidote."

Scott nodded. "Then we need to find her." He stood, already slipping into alpha mode. "Isaac, you’re with me. Lydia, call Cora—she might know something about this kind of poison. We need all the information we can get."

"And me?" Stiles asked.

Scott hesitated, glancing at Derek’s unmoving form. "You stay with him. Keep him stable."

Stiles’ stomach twisted. "Scott—"

"Stiles." Scott locked eyes with him, serious and firm. "We need you here. If anything changes, call me. We’ll be back as soon as we have the antidote."

Stiles wanted to argue. He wanted to be out there, tracking down that psycho and making her pay for what she did.

But one look at Derek, at how still he was, at how the rise and fall of his chest was barely there, and Stiles knew.

He couldn’t leave.

So he nodded. "Go. I’ll take care of him."

Scott gave his shoulder a brief squeeze before taking off into the night, Isaac and Lydia close behind. Within seconds, the only sound left was the rustling of leaves and Derek’s uneven breathing.

Stiles exhaled shakily, looking down at Derek. "Okay, buddy, it’s just you and me."

Derek, of course, didn’t respond.

Which was so typical, honestly. Even unconscious, he was ignoring Stiles.

"Rude," Stiles muttered, shifting so he was kneeling beside him. "You know, this is probably the only time I can talk without you rolling your eyes or glaring at me. I should take advantage of this."

Silence.

"I just wanna say," Stiles continued, "this is entirely your fault. If you had just listened to me for once, we wouldn’t be in this mess. But nooo, you had to do the whole brooding ‘I-don’t-trust-Stiles-because-he’s-annoying’ thing, and now look at you."

Derek remained perfectly still, his face too pale, his lips slightly parted as his breath rasped in and out.

Stiles’ chest tightened.

"Seriously, dude. You gotta pull through. You’ve survived so much already. You can’t just let some crazy poison take you out like this."

A weak, barely-there exhale was the only response he got.

Stiles swallowed the lump forming in his throat and adjusted his position, shifting Derek’s head onto his lap. "Not gonna lie, this is kinda weird," he muttered. "But, hey, you’d probably kill me if I just left you lying in the dirt, right?"

His fingers twitched against Derek’s jacket.

He hated this. He hated feeling helpless.

And he really hated that the idea of Derek not waking up made his stomach lurch in a way he wasn’t ready to analyze.

"Scott’s gonna find the antidote," he said, more to himself than Derek. "And when he does, you’re gonna wake up, and then I’m gonna yell at you so hard your ancestors will feel it."

A cool breeze rustled the trees, making Stiles shiver. He curled his fingers into Derek’s sleeve, grounding himself in the solid weight of the man who had somehow—despite being a pain in his ass—become one of the most important people in his life.

And all he could do now was wait.

—

Derek felt warm.

Not the kind of heat that came from pain or fever, but something comforting, something safe.

For the first time in years, there was no weight pressing down on his chest, no ghosts clawing at the edges of his mind.

Just peace.

And then—

"Took you long enough, little brother."

Derek turned toward the voice, his breath catching.

Laura.

She stood a few feet away, arms crossed, her expression torn between exasperation and amusement. She looked exactly as he remembered—sharp features, dark eyes that always held too much understanding, the same worn leather jacket she used to steal from their dad.

"Laura?" His voice felt strange, like it had been ripped from him and stitched back together.

She smirked. "Wow. I die and you forget what I look like? Rude."

Derek’s throat tightened. "No— I just… how are you here?"

"Because you are," she said simply, tilting her head at him. "You’ve been running from this for a long time, Der. Figured you’d show up eventually."

Derek’s brows furrowed. "Show up where?"

Before she could answer, another voice—so familiar, so achingly missed—cut through the quiet.

"Mi hijo."

Derek turned sharply, his heart lurching.

His mother stood a few feet away, watching him with soft eyes, the same deep brown as his own. Talia Hale had always been a force—strong, steady, unshakable. And here, in this strange, quiet space, she was just as he remembered.

"Mom."

Talia smiled. "Look at you," she murmured, stepping closer. "You’ve grown into such a strong man."

Derek’s breath hitched. "I—I don’t understand what’s happening."

"Of course you do," Laura said, her voice gentler now. "You’re tired, Derek. You’ve been carrying everything for so long, and now? You don’t have to anymore."

Derek frowned. "I don’t—"

Talia reached out, cupping his face in her hands, just like she used to when he was a kid. "You’ve fought enough, mi amor. It’s time to rest."

A strange, heavy warmth settled over him, pulling at something deep inside.

Rest.

God, he wanted to.

He was so tired.

He had spent years fighting—first for survival, then for redemption, then for a pack that never truly felt like his. And now?

Now, all of that could fade away.

"Come with us, Derek," Laura said, holding out her hand. "It’s okay. You don’t have to fight anymore."

His feet moved before he could think, drawn toward them, toward the promise of relief.

But something—something small, something stubborn—kept him from stepping forward.

It was a sound.

Distant.

Barely there.

But it sent a jolt through him, sharp and grounding.

A voice.

"—gonna wake up, and then I’m gonna yell at you so hard your ancestors will feel it."

Derek froze.

The warmth started to shift, twisting into something wrong.

Something unfinished.

"Derek?" Laura frowned. "What’s wrong?"

His mother’s hand was still on his cheek, grounding, comforting. "Come, mi hijo."

But the voice—the one calling to him—wasn’t done.

"Seriously, dude. You gotta pull through. You’ve survived so much already. You can’t just let some crazy poison take you out like this."

Stiles.

The memory of heat, of pain, of a battle came rushing back.

Derek staggered, his breath hitching. "I—"

Talia’s expression softened, as if she knew. "You’re not ready yet, are you?"

Derek’s pulse pounded. "I—I don’t think so."

"Of course not," Laura muttered, rolling her eyes. "You’re as stubborn as ever."

Talia exhaled, brushing his hair back gently, just like she used to when he was a kid. "Then go," she whispered. "But know that we are always with you."

Derek’s chest tightened. "I miss you."

"We know," Laura said softly. "But you still have work to do."

The warmth—the pull—started to fade, and suddenly, Derek was falling.

The last thing he heard was his mother’s voice, as steady and strong as ever.

"Wake up, mi amor."

—

"Wake up, Derek. Please, I beg you—please wake up."

Stiles didn’t realize he was crying until the words caught in his throat, coming out thick and broken. His hands shook where they pressed against Derek’s chest, fingers curled into the fabric of his jacket as if holding on could be enough to keep him here.

Derek had been out for hours. Too long. His breathing was shallow, his skin unnaturally cool. He wasn’t supposed to be this still, this weak. Derek Hale was never weak.

"Come on, big guy," Stiles whispered, his voice cracking. "You’re not going out like this. Not from some shitty poison given to you by some psycho chick you made out with. I refuse to let that be your legacy."

Nothing.

Just the too-quiet rise and fall of Derek’s chest.

Stiles’ breath hitched.

"Derek, please—"

A sharp inhale.

Then—

"Stiles?"

Derek’s voice was rough, barely above a whisper, but Stiles felt it like a thunderclap. His head snapped up, heart slamming against his ribs as Derek’s eyelids fluttered, unfocused red-green eyes blinking up at him.

"Holy shit." Relief hit Stiles so hard he almost collapsed. "Derek!"

Derek’s brows furrowed as he took in his surroundings. "Where—where is everyone?"

Stiles exhaled shakily, swiping at his face with his sleeve like that would somehow make him seem less like an emotional wreck. "Scott and the others are tracking down Evelyn. They’re gonna get the antidote."

Derek let out a slow, tired breath, his gaze distant. Then, almost absently, he smiled—a small, sad thing that didn’t belong on his face.

"I talked to my mom," he murmured. "And Laura."

Stiles’ stomach dropped.

Derek’s hand twitched against the dirt. "They’re waiting for me."

And then his eyes started to close again.

"No— NO!" Stiles shook him, panic crashing through his system like a damn tidal wave. "Do NOT fall back asleep, Hale! You hear me? You stay the hell awake!"

No response.

"DEREK!"

Tears burned at the edges of his vision, but he didn’t care, didn’t even notice the way they spilled over, hot and desperate, down his cheeks.

"You don’t get to do this!" His voice broke. "You don’t get to say goodbye and then just leave! I swear to God, Derek, if you die on me, I’ll—I’ll drag your ass back just to kill you myself!"

Derek’s breathing was slowing again. His face was too pale, his body too still.

Stiles’ grip on his jacket tightened.

"You are not allowed to die," he whispered, the words barely audible, but filled with every ounce of fear clawing at his chest. "I won’t let you."

—

The forest was too quiet.

Scott could hear the way everyone’s breathing was uneven, could smell the adrenaline rolling off them in waves. The urgency in the air was suffocating.

Derek was dying.

And they still didn’t have the antidote.

"We have to find her," Scott said, voice firm but laced with barely restrained panic. "Now."

Allison adjusted her grip on her bow. "She couldn’t have gotten far."

"Unless she’s not running at all," Lydia said grimly. "She might be waiting for us."

Scott clenched his jaw. "Then let’s not keep her waiting."

The pack moved through the trees with careful precision, spreading out in a loose formation. Evelyn was smart, but they were desperate. And desperation made people do dangerous

things.
Isaac sniffed the air. "I’ve got something," he murmured, eyes flashing gold in the dark. "It’s faint, but… she’s close."

Scott nodded, signaling for them to move in silently.

They crept forward, muscles coiled, every sense dialed to eleven.

Then—

"Well, well."

The voice was smooth, amused.

Evelyn stepped out from the shadows, standing at the edge of a small clearing. Moonlight glinted off her sharp features, and her lips curled into a smile that sent a chill down Scott’s spine.

"Took you long enough."

Scott bared his teeth. "Where’s the antidote?"

Evelyn tilted her head, feigning innocence. "Antidote? Oh, you mean the one for Derek?" She let out a soft chuckle. "You make it sound like I want to give it to you."

Anger flared hot and fast.

"We don’t have time for this," Allison snapped, raising her bow. "Give it to us. Now."

Evelyn sighed, shaking her head. "You’re all so dramatic. It’s really not attractive." Her gaze flickered to Scott, eyes glinting. "Especially you, Alpha. You should know better than to beg."

Scott’s claws extended, his patience snapping. "I’m not begging."

"No," Evelyn murmured, eyes darkening. "You’re threatening."

And then she moved.

Fast.

Too fast.

One second she was standing there, smug and untouchable—

The next, she was on them.

She struck first, a brutal swipe of her claws aimed directly at Scott’s chest. He dodged just in time, the air whistling where her attack missed by inches.

Isaac lunged at her side, fangs bared, but Evelyn caught him mid-air and threw him into a tree with terrifying ease.

Allison fired an arrow—dead center, straight for Evelyn’s heart—

But Evelyn twisted at the last second, and the arrow barely grazed her side.

"Cute," she mused, glancing at the rip in her shirt. "But not good enough."

Lydia, standing behind Allison, lifted her chin. "You know," she said, voice carefully measured, "I thought you were actually smart. But if you think we came unprepared, you’re dumber than you look."

Evelyn’s smirk faltered for half a second—

Then a roar tore through the clearing.

From behind her.

A blur of fur and muscle slammed into Evelyn at full force, knocking her straight to the ground.

A full-shifted Malia.

Malia’s massive claws pinned Evelyn down, fangs snapping just shy of her throat. "Give. Us. The. Antidote."

Evelyn sneered, struggling beneath her. "And if I don’t?"

Malia’s claws dug in.

"Then I rip you apart."

For the first time, Evelyn hesitated.

Scott stepped forward, towering over them. "Your choice," he said coldly. "But either way, we’re walking out of here with that antidote."

Evelyn’s lip curled, her gaze flicking between them—calculating, weighing her options.

And then, with a put-upon sigh, she pulled a small vial from her pocket.

"Fine."

—

Evelyn dangled the small vial between two fingers, smirking despite the sharp claws pressing into her skin.

"Well?" she taunted, flicking her gaze up at Malia. "Are you going to rip me apart anyway, or do you actually want to save Derek?"

Malia’s growl rumbled deep in her chest, the sound pure fury. Her claws flexed, drawing thin lines of blood from Evelyn’s arms, but she didn’t tear deeper—not yet.

"Give it to us," Scott ordered, voice sharp, every muscle in his body coiled tight.

Evelyn raised a brow. "Now, why would I do that for free?"

Isaac, recovering from where he’d been slammed against a tree, staggered forward. "Because if you don’t," he said, breathing hard, "we’ll make sure you regret it."

Evelyn rolled her eyes. "So predictable."

Lydia stepped forward, her sharp gaze locking onto Evelyn’s like a predator circling wounded prey. "Predictable?" she echoed, voice smooth, almost amused. "You know what I find predictable? People like you."

Evelyn scoffed, but Lydia just took another step closer, tilting her head.

"You’re not doing this because you’re strong," Lydia continued. "You’re doing this because you’re scared."

Evelyn’s expression darkened. "Please."

"You’re scared of us, and you’re scared of what happens next," Lydia said, unbothered by the claws and fangs around her. "Because you know that once we have that antidote, you don’t have anything left to bargain with."

Evelyn’s jaw clenched.

Scott watched her carefully, saw the slight tremor in her fingers, the way her grip on the vial tightened.

Lydia was right.

"You think you can control the situation," Lydia continued, her voice turning colder, "but you don’t realize that we already have."

A flicker of doubt crossed Evelyn’s face.

That was all the hesitation Allison needed.

In one swift motion, she raised her bow, fired—

The arrow sliced through the air and embedded itself deep in Evelyn’s shoulder, forcing her hand open.

The vial slipped from her fingers—

And Scott moved.

He dove forward, snatching it out of the air just before it hit the ground.

"Got it!" he shouted.

Evelyn let out a snarl of rage, twisting beneath Malia’s claws. "You—"

Malia roared, fangs snapping inches from Evelyn’s throat. "Try me."

Evelyn stilled, eyes flashing.

"That’s what I thought," Malia growled before shoving off of her and stepping back.

Scott clenched the vial in his fist, heart pounding. "Let’s go."

"What about her?" Isaac asked, eyeing Evelyn warily as she staggered to her feet, blood staining her shirt from Allison’s arrow.

"She’s not important," Lydia said dismissively, already turning away. "Derek is."

Scott didn’t argue. They had wasted enough time.

"Move!"

The pack tore through the trees, sprinting toward the house, the vial still clutched tightly in Scott’s hand.

They weren’t fast enough.

Not yet.

But they had to be.

Because if they weren’t—

They were going to lose Derek Hale.

—

The world blurred as the pack sprinted back toward the Hale house, the forest a dark blur of twisting branches and uneven ground beneath their feet. Scott could hear the frantic pounding of his own heart, the quick, sharp breaths of his packmates, the wind rushing past their ears. But none of it mattered.

Not when Derek was dying.

Scott tightened his grip around the vial, forcing his legs to move even faster. Hold on, Derek. Just hold on.

The house came into view—a shadow against the night sky, its broken silhouette standing silent and waiting. But inside, there was no silence.

Inside, there was Stiles.

Scott could hear his voice before they even reached the door.

"Derek, wake up! You do not get to die on me, you stubborn ass—"

The front door slammed open as Scott and the others rushed inside.

Stiles was crouched next to Derek, hands gripping his shoulders, shaking him—desperate. His face was pale, his eyes wide, and for a second, Scott saw something that made his stomach twist.

Terror.

Pure, raw, helpless terror.

Derek lay unmoving, his skin deathly pale, sweat glistening on his forehead. His breathing was shallow, his chest barely rising.

"Where the hell have you been?!" Stiles snapped, voice shaking with barely controlled panic. "He—he was awake, and then he— he was talking about his mom and his sister and—and then he just—"

Stiles swallowed hard, blinking rapidly, as if realizing he had said too much.

Scott didn’t waste a second.

He fell to his knees, fumbling with the vial as Allison dropped beside him, her hands steady despite the fear in her eyes.

"We have it," Scott said quickly, uncorking the vial. "Help me—"

Stiles didn’t need to be told twice. He grabbed Derek’s jaw, prying it open just enough for Scott to pour the antidote in.

Nothing happened.

The room was silent.

Scott could hear his own breath. The shallow, barely-there rise and fall of Derek’s chest. The way Stiles' hands trembled as they pressed against Derek’s arm.

Seconds stretched too long.

"Why isn’t it working?" Stiles’ voice was small. Almost broken. "Scott, why isn’t it working?"

"It will," Scott said, more to himself than anyone else. "It has to."

Derek’s fingers twitched.

Then—

His entire body seized.

His back arched violently off the ground, muscles locking up, his breath ripping from his throat in a strangled gasp.

"Derek!"

Stiles grabbed him, holding him down as he thrashed, his entire body convulsing. Scott pressed a hand to Derek’s chest, trying to keep him from hurting himself as the antidote did its job, burning the poison out of his system.

Derek’s head jerked to the side, his eyes snapping open—

They glowed red, brighter than fire.

Then—

Stillness.

His body sagged, breath shuddering out of him, muscles going limp as the tension snapped all at once.

Silence.

"Derek?" Stiles whispered.

Derek’s chest rose and fell.

Slow. Steady.

Breathing.

Alive.

Stiles let out a choked laugh—something between relief and sheer exhaustion—before shoving at Derek’s shoulder. "You absolute dick." His voice was rough, thick with something unspoken. "Scaring the crap out of me like that. Unbelievable."

Derek didn’t answer.

His breathing stayed even, but he didn’t wake.

Scott exhaled shakily. "He’s okay."

Allison wiped at her face, shoulders slumping. "He just needs to rest now."

Stiles didn’t move.

He just stared at Derek, something unreadable in his expression.

Scott nudged his shoulder. "Hey."

Stiles blinked rapidly, turning away too fast. "Yeah. Yeah, no, I know. I just—" He cleared his throat, scrubbing a hand over his face. "Whatever. He’s fine. It’s fine."

Scott didn’t believe him.

But for now, he let it go.

Because Derek was alive.

And for tonight, that was enough.

—

The Hale house was eerily quiet, save for the occasional creak of shifting wood and the distant rustling of trees outside. The tension in the air had settled, but it was far from gone.

Derek was alive. That was the only thing keeping Stiles from completely losing his mind.

For hours, Stiles sat by Derek’s side, arms crossed, eyes locked on Derek’s still face. His breathing had steadied, color was returning to his face, but he hadn’t woken up yet.

Scott and the rest of the pack had gone to regroup, to discuss Evelyn and what the hell they were supposed to do next. But Stiles had stayed.

Because someone had to.

Because the last time Stiles had left Derek alone, he almost died.

And yeah, okay, maybe Derek was an asshole, and maybe Stiles would rather eat glass than admit he cared, but watching him nearly bleed out on the Hale house floor had done something to him. Something he wasn’t ready to unpack just yet.

Stiles exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over his face. "You better wake up soon, man," he muttered, voice hushed in the dim light. "Because I swear, if I sat here all night just for you to go into another weird supernatural coma, I’m gonna be pissed."

Silence.

Of course.

Stiles scoffed. "Typical."

He leaned back against the couch, letting his head fall against the worn cushions. His body ached, exhaustion pulling at his limbs, but he didn’t close his eyes.

Because if he did, he’d see Derek’s body crumpled on the ground, unmoving, bleeding out.

Stiles clenched his jaw, swallowing the lump in his throat. "You’re not allowed to die, Hale. You hear me?" His voice cracked slightly, and he hated that. "Not now. Not ever."

The room stayed silent, save for the steady rhythm of Derek’s breathing.

But then—

A sound.

Barely a whisper.

A breath.

Then—

"Stiles?"

Stiles bolted upright.

Derek’s voice was rough, hoarse from exhaustion, but it was there.

His eyelids fluttered open, unfocused at first, then sharpening as they landed on Stiles.

"Holy shit," Stiles breathed. "You’re awake."

Derek frowned, his brows pulling together. "Where is everyone?" His voice was scratchy, barely above a whisper.

Stiles blinked, thrown by the question. "Uh—Scott and the others are out. Tracking down Evelyn or figuring out the next step. I don’t know, I wasn’t exactly paying attention. I was a little busy keeping your dumb ass alive."

Derek’s gaze flickered, unreadable. "You stayed?"

Stiles scoffed, throwing up his hands. "Of course I stayed. What, you think I’d just let you bleed out alone? I mean, don’t get me wrong, you annoy the hell out of me, but I’m not a monster."

Derek’s lips twitched, something almost like a smirk. "Debatable."

Stiles rolled his eyes. "Oh, screw you, man. I’m being nice here."

Derek hummed, shifting slightly, only to wince.

Stiles was on him in a second. "Whoa, whoa, don’t move. You almost died, okay? You can be an emotionally constipated brick wall later, just—stay put."

Derek huffed but relented, sagging back against the couch.

His eyes flickered up to the ceiling. "I talked to them."

Stiles hesitated. "Who?"

Derek’s voice was quiet, almost distant. "My mom. My sister. They were… waiting for me."

Something in Stiles’ chest twisted.

"Yeah, well," Stiles said, forcing his voice to stay light, "they’re gonna have to wait a little longer. Because like I said, you’re not allowed to die."

Derek’s gaze met his, something unreadable lingering there.

Seconds stretched between them.

Then, finally, Derek exhaled and let his eyes drift shut again. "Fine."

Stiles snorted. "Damn right, fine."

But even as Derek drifted back to sleep, Stiles couldn’t ignore the nagging feeling in his gut.

Because this wasn’t over.

Not by a long shot.

—

Derek was healing. Slowly but surely.

It had been a week since the near-death experience, and while his strength was returning, so was his attitude.

Unfortunately.

Stiles had been at the Hale house every damn day, helping—not that Derek would ever admit he needed it. And in return, Derek had done what Derek did best: scowl, brood, and complain that Stiles talked too much.

But here’s the thing—something had changed.

And Stiles had no idea what to do with it.

Because ever since Derek nearly died, ever since Stiles sat there, watching him fade away, something in his chest had cracked wide open.

He’d always known Derek was important—to the pack, to Scott, to the fight against whatever supernatural nightmare popped up next.

But to him?

Yeah. That was new.

And it scared the shit out of him.

So, naturally, Stiles did what he did best.

He ignored it.

Or at least, he tried to.

Too bad Derek was making it really difficult.

---

"I don’t need help."

"Oh, yeah? You sure about that? Because I literally just watched you struggle to get off the couch."

Derek glared at him from across the living room, arms crossed, jaw clenched. "I’m fine."

Stiles snorted. "Right. And I’m a six-foot-tall werewolf with a pack of admirers."

Derek gave him a flat look. "You don’t have admirers."

"Okay, rude."

Derek rolled his eyes and tried to stand again—only to sway slightly.

"Uh-huh," Stiles deadpanned, stepping forward. "Super fine, I can totally see that."

Derek let out a low growl of frustration. "I don’t need you hovering."

"I’m not hovering," Stiles shot back, crossing his arms. "I’m just standing really close, in case your dumb ass collapses."

Derek glared.

Stiles smirked.

And the tension between them crackled.

It had been happening a lot lately—these moments where the air between them felt charged, where Derek looked at him like he was trying to figure something out, where Stiles felt like he was constantly one second away from doing something stupid.

Like noticing the way Derek’s shirt clung to his frame.

Or how his hair was a little messier than usual.

Or how, despite all the glaring, Derek didn’t actually hate having him around.

It was messing with his head.

"Dude, if you don’t let me help you, I swear to god I will call Scott and tell him you’re being difficult."

Derek narrowed his eyes. "You wouldn’t."

Stiles grinned. "Oh, I would. And then he’ll tell Melissa. And you know she’ll show up here with soup and guilt trips."

Derek made a face.

"Yeah, that’s what I thought," Stiles said smugly, stepping forward again. "Now, come on, Grandpa, let’s get you back on the couch before you break a hip."

Derek let out an annoyed exhale but begrudgingly let Stiles help him.

For exactly three seconds.

Then he shoved Stiles’ hand away and sat down on his own.

"See?" Derek muttered. "Fine."

"Yeah, yeah, you’re so tough." Stiles flopped onto the couch beside him, stretching out his legs. "But let’s be real, if I hadn’t been here, you totally would’ve faceplanted."

"And yet, here you are. Still talking."

"Wow. Ungrateful. I’ve been nothing but helpful, and this is the thanks I get?"

Derek sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose like he was regretting all of his life choices.

Stiles grinned.

---

The pack was so over it.

"You guys are literally the worst," Malia announced one evening, after yet another argument about whether or not Derek should still be resting. "Nothing changed. Absolutely nothing."

"Nothing?" Lydia arched a brow. "Are you sure? Because something changed."

Stiles froze. "What? No. Nothing changed. What are you even talking about? Nothing changed. Everything is exactly the same."

Lydia gave him a look. "Uh-huh. Sure."

"Why do you sound like you don’t believe me?"

"Because I don’t."

Scott, who had been listening in silence, finally sighed. "Look, all I’m saying is, Derek almost died. You two should probably stop acting like none of this affected you."

Stiles scoffed. "Please. If anything, it affected me less than everyone else. I mean, yeah, it was scary and all, but I’m fine. Totally fine. So fine, in fact, that I—"

"Oh my god," Allison muttered. "You’re spiraling."

"I’m not spiraling!"

"He’s absolutely spiraling," Lydia confirmed.

Stiles groaned, rubbing a hand over his face. "Look, nothing changed, okay? Derek’s still an ass, I’m still an amazing problem solver, and we’re still arguing 90% of the time. That’s just how it is."

"Except it’s not," Scott said quietly. "Not for you."

Stiles opened his mouth.

Closed it.

Frowned.

Because—dammit.

Scott wasn’t wrong.

Something had changed.

And no matter how much he tried to ignore it, push it away, pretend it didn’t exist—

The truth was there, staring him in the face.

Derek almost died.

And it wrecked him.

So, yeah.

Maybe everything had changed.

But the problem was…

He had no idea what the hell to do about it.

—-

Something was off.

And it wasn’t the usual kind of “off” that came with living in Beacon Hills—like dealing with a new supernatural threat or being constantly paranoid that something was lurking in the shadows.

No.

This was different.

Stiles was different.

And it was driving Derek insane.

At first, he thought maybe Stiles was just tired. Recovering, the way all of them were after the whole Evelyn mess. But that wasn’t it. Stiles was still talking, still moving, still coming around the Hale house like he always did.

But he wasn’t himself.

The constant bickering, the sarcastic comments, the relentless need to challenge Derek at every possible opportunity—it was all toned down.

Not gone completely, but enough that Derek noticed.

Enough that it unsettled him.

Because this wasn’t Stiles.

Stiles was loud. Stiles was relentless. Stiles argued, even when he didn’t need to, even when he was wrong.

But now?

Now Stiles would start to argue, start to throw out some half-assed sarcastic comment—only to stop himself.

And Derek hated it.

He hated how quiet Stiles had gotten. Hated how the usual fire behind his words had dulled into something else. Something Derek didn’t understand.

And that—more than anything—was the worst part.

Because Derek understood Stiles.

He understood the way he worked, the way he thrived on pushing buttons, the way he needed to be involved, needed to know what was going on at all times.

But now?

Derek had no idea what was going on in Stiles’ head.

And he hated it.

---

"What’s wrong with you?"

Stiles blinked, looking up from his phone. "Uh. Excuse me?"

Derek crossed his arms. "You’re acting weird."

"Weird how?"

"You’re…" Derek frowned. "Quieter."

Stiles let out a short laugh. "Wow. Okay. Didn’t realize my volume level was something you kept track of, but good to know."

"You’re not arguing."

"I literally just argued with you last night about whether or not you should still be resting."

"Not really."

"Oh, I’m sorry—was I supposed to yell at you? Because I can absolutely do that if it’ll make you feel better."

Derek narrowed his eyes. "See? This is what I mean. Normally, you’d be relentless. You’d keep pushing, keep running your mouth until I wanted to throw you through a wall. But now?"

Derek took a step closer, eyes locked onto Stiles’.

"Now, you start to argue… and then you stop."

Stiles rolled his eyes. "Maybe I’m just maturing. Ever think about that? Maybe I finally realized you’re a lost cause, and I’m saving my energy."

Derek’s frown deepened.

Because that wasn’t it.

And they both knew it.

Stiles wasn’t maturing.

Stiles wasn’t saving his energy.

Stiles was holding back.

And Derek didn’t know why.

And it was pissing him off.

---

"Scott."

Scott looked up from his notebook, eyebrows raising. "Uh. Yeah?"

Derek crossed his arms, standing stiffly in front of Scott’s desk. "What’s wrong with Stiles?"

Scott sighed. "Derek, I swear, if you two got into another fight—"

"We haven’t fought. That’s the problem."

Scott blinked. "…You’re complaining because you haven’t fought?"

"Yes."

Scott gave him a look. "And you don’t see how ridiculous that sounds?"

Derek clenched his jaw. "Just tell me what’s going on with him."

Scott hesitated, then closed his notebook and leaned forward. "Look, I don’t know if it’s my place to say—"

"Scott."

Scott let out a breath. "Fine. It’s… it’s about you."

Derek frowned. "What?"

"You almost died, Derek. And it—" Scott sighed, running a hand through his hair. "It messed with him."

Derek’s stomach clenched. "Messed with him how?"

"It made him question things."

Derek narrowed his eyes. "What kind of things?"

Scott hesitated. "I think you should ask him that."

Derek clenched his jaw, frustration bubbling up inside him. "Scott."

"Derek," Scott shot back, his voice firm. "Just talk to him."

Derek exhaled sharply, his fingers tightening around the edge of Scott’s desk.

Because what the hell was that supposed to mean?

Stiles was questioning things?

What things?

And why did it make Derek feel like there was something huge he was missing?

Something just out of reach.

Something that had everything to do with Stiles.

—

Derek had never thought he’d miss arguing with Stiles.

But here he was.

The silence was unbearable.

It wasn’t that Stiles had completely stopped talking—he still made jokes, still rambled when the tension in a room got too thick. But something was missing.

It wasn’t the same as before.

Before, Stiles would challenge him over everything. Every order, every decision, every glance Derek threw his way. The two of them had lived in this never-ending battle of sarcasm and sharp edges, neither one backing down.

But now?

Now Stiles would look like he wanted to argue, his lips parting as if he was ready to launch into some long-winded rant—only for him to shut his mouth and walk away instead.

And Derek hated it.

Hated the way Stiles barely looked at him anymore.

Hated how the air between them felt… wrong.

He wasn’t sure why it bothered him so much.

Maybe it was because, despite all the fights, despite all the frustration, he had gotten used to the constant back-and-forth.

Used to the way Stiles’ presence filled a room with energy, with chaos, with something that kept Derek’s mind from slipping into the dark corners he tried so hard to avoid.

And now?

Now it felt like that energy was gone.

And Derek wanted it back.

---

He found Stiles in the kitchen of the Hale house, sitting at the table with his fingers drumming mindlessly against the wood.

Derek didn’t waste time.

"We need to talk."

Stiles barely glanced up. "Oh, great. My favorite sentence. Right up there with ‘Stiles, you’re an idiot’ and ‘Stiles, shut up’."

Derek clenched his jaw. "I’m serious."

"Yeah, I got that, Captain Broody. I just don’t know what you think we need to talk about."

"You."

Stiles finally looked at him, brows furrowing. "What about me?"

"You’re different."

Stiles rolled his eyes, leaning back in his chair. "Oh no. Derek noticed I got a haircut. How very observant of you."

Derek stepped closer, his voice sharp. "Cut the crap, Stiles. You’ve been acting weird ever since—" He hesitated, then exhaled. "Ever since what happened with Evelyn."

Stiles went still.

Derek watched his fingers curl slightly against the table, his body tensing just enough for Derek to see it.

"I don’t know what you’re talking about," Stiles muttered, looking away.

Derek growled. "Don’t lie to me."

"I’m not lying."

"Then talk to me."

Stiles let out a short laugh, but there was no humor behind it. "Why? Since when do you care about what’s going on in my head?"

"Since you started acting like a stranger."

Stiles’ jaw tightened. "Maybe I am a stranger, Derek. Maybe you never really knew me in the first place."

Derek snarled, frustration clawing at his chest. "Dammit, Stiles, just say what’s wrong."

Stiles shot up from his chair, his hands slamming against the table. "What’s wrong? Are you serious?"

Derek stepped back in surprise.

Because there it was.

The fire.

The anger.

The Stiles he had been waiting for.

"What’s wrong is that you almost died, Derek!" Stiles shouted, his voice cracking slightly. "And not just because you were poisoned, but because you wanted to! You were ready to go, ready to leave, like it didn’t even matter!"

Derek’s stomach dropped.

Stiles wasn’t done.

"Do you have any idea what that felt like? Watching you lie there, listening to you talk about your mom and Laura, hearing you say they were waiting for you like you were just gonna give up—" Stiles cut himself off, shaking his head furiously. "God, Derek, you’re such an idiot."

Derek opened his mouth, but Stiles wasn’t finished.

"You act like you don’t matter. Like this whole Alpha thing doesn’t mean anything. Like you don’t mean anything."

Stiles’ breath was uneven, his hands shaking at his sides.

"But you do, Derek," he said, his voice softer now, but just as fierce. "You matter to this pack. You matter to me."

Derek felt his chest tighten.

Stiles let out a humorless laugh, raking a hand through his hair. "And you’re standing there, looking at me like I just said something insane. Like it’s unbelievable that anyone would give a shit about whether you lived or died."

His voice cracked again.

"I do, Derek."

Silence filled the space between them.

Derek stared at him, his mind a tangled mess of thoughts and emotions he couldn’t even begin to sort through.

Stiles took a shaky breath, blinking rapidly before abruptly turning away. "You know what? Forget it."

Derek frowned. "Stiles—"

"No." Stiles’ voice was rough, broken. "Forget it. Just—pretend I didn’t say anything. That’s what you’re good at, right? Ignoring shit?"

Derek’s throat was dry. "I don’t—"

"Save it."

And then Stiles was gone.

Derek didn’t move.

Didn’t even try to stop him.

Because for the first time in a long time…

He had no idea what to say.

—-

Stiles had no idea where he was going.

He just ran.

His legs carried him blindly through the trees, leaves crunching under his feet, the cold air burning his lungs. His vision was blurred, his breath coming in sharp, ragged gasps as if his body couldn’t get enough oxygen.

His head was spinning.

His chest ached.

He couldn’t think, couldn’t process, couldn’t breathe.

Everything inside him felt like it was breaking.

His own words from earlier replayed in his mind over and over again—his own voice, raw and filled with something dangerous, something terrifying.

"You matter to this pack. You matter to me."

What the hell was wrong with him?

Why did he say that?

Why did it feel like the truth was clawing its way out of him, like he couldn’t hold it back any longer?

Stiles stumbled to a stop, his hands gripping the rough bark of a tree as the world tilted beneath him. His fingers dug into the wood, his body shaking, his breath coming in fast, erratic bursts.

Too fast.

Too shallow.

He squeezed his eyes shut, his chest heaving as his lungs refused to work properly.

No, no, no—

Not now.

Not this.

His throat was tightening, his pulse hammering wildly in his ears. His knees buckled slightly, and he gritted his teeth, forcing himself to stay upright.

But he couldn’t stop the tears that burned hot against his cheeks.

Couldn’t stop the overwhelming, suffocating feeling of everything crashing down on him at once.

He was so tired.

Tired of fighting.

Tired of pretending he was fine.

Tired of caring so much.

And now Derek—Derek, who had almost died, who was so damn reckless with his own life—had to come in and make everything worse.

Because Stiles didn’t know how to do this anymore.

Didn’t know how to pretend that Derek almost dying hadn’t completely wrecked him.

Didn’t know how to pretend that Derek didn’t matter to him in ways that scared the absolute hell out of him.

His breathing grew harsher, more uneven, panic clawing at his throat as he clung to the tree like it was the only thing keeping him from falling apart completely.

His vision was going dark at the edges.

His head was spinning so fast he thought he might pass out.

And then—

Then hands were on him.

Strong hands, grounding hands, grabbing onto him and pulling him away from the tree.

Before Stiles could even register what was happening, he was falling—or maybe not falling, but being pulled down, his back pressing into something solid, warm.

And then arms were wrapping tightly around him, holding him together, stopping the shaking, stopping the freefall.

Derek.

Stiles let out a broken, gasping sound as he realized who it was, as he realized that Derek had followed him, that Derek had found him.

That Derek was here.

Stiles was barely aware of Derek sitting them both down onto the cold forest floor, barely aware of the way Derek’s arms tightened around him, anchoring him in place.

"Breathe, Stiles," Derek’s voice came low and firm against his ear. "Just breathe."

But Stiles couldn’t.

"I—I can’t—" he choked, his entire body shaking against Derek’s.

"Yes, you can," Derek murmured, one of his hands pressing flat against Stiles’ chest, right over his hammering heart. "Follow my breathing, okay? Just listen to me."

Derek took a slow, deep breath.

Stiles tried to copy it, but his breath hitched, his body still trembling uncontrollably.

"Again," Derek said, voice steady. "Inhale."

Stiles forced himself to take a breath.

"Good. Now exhale."

It was shaky, uneven, but he did it.

"One more time," Derek encouraged. "Inhale..."

Stiles squeezed his eyes shut and focused.

Focused on the rise and fall of Derek’s chest beneath him, the warmth of his arms wrapped securely around him, the way Derek wasn’t letting go.

Slowly, painfully, his breathing evened out.

Slowly, the shaking in his limbs lessened.

Slowly, the panic faded into exhaustion.

He didn’t know how long they sat there—minutes, maybe hours.

But at some point, Stiles’ forehead found its way against Derek’s chest, his body still curled up in Derek’s lap, his fingers fisting into the fabric of Derek’s shirt as if afraid to let go.

His breathing was still uneven, but at least he could breathe now.

Derek’s arms stayed wrapped around him, solid and unyielding, a quiet reminder that Stiles wasn’t alone.

Stiles swallowed hard, his voice barely above a whisper.

"I don’t know what I feel anymore."

Derek’s grip on him tightened for just a second before he let out a quiet exhale.

"Shh," he murmured. "Just... rest for a minute."

And so they sat there, together, in the middle of the forest.

The world quiet around them.

—

The forest was quiet around them, the distant rustling of leaves and the occasional hoot of an owl the only sounds filling the night. Stiles' breathing had finally evened out, though his body was still pressed against Derek’s, curled up in the warmth of his arms like he needed to stay there, like he wasn’t ready to move just yet.

Derek didn’t move either.

Didn’t let go.

Because maybe—just maybe—he needed Stiles to stay, too.

He had no idea how long they sat there. His legs had gone numb under Stiles’ weight, his back stiff from leaning against the tree, but none of it mattered. Not when Stiles had been breaking right in front of him.

Not when he’d found Stiles barely standing, barely breathing.

Derek stared at the forest floor, his jaw tightening as he thought about what had just happened—about the sheer panic he had felt when Stiles had run, when he realized Stiles was in no state to be alone.

That fear was still there, still sitting heavy in his chest.

Stiles shifted slightly against him, and Derek’s arms instinctively tightened around him again, bracing himself for whatever came next.

And then—softly, hesitantly—Stiles spoke.

"Why weren’t you scared?"

His voice was rough, barely more than a whisper, but Derek heard the weight behind the words.

He stiffened slightly, his throat tightening.

"What?"

"When you almost died," Stiles murmured, still not looking at him. "You said you saw your mom and your sister. You said they were waiting for you."

Derek swallowed, his fingers unconsciously flexing against the fabric of Stiles’ hoodie.

"You weren’t scared," Stiles continued, his voice quieter now, almost small. "Why?"

Derek let out a slow breath, his chest rising and falling beneath Stiles' cheek.

He hadn’t wanted to talk about this.

Hadn’t wanted to think about it.

But Stiles had asked.

And—Derek realized with a slow, painful ache—he owed him an answer.

"Because for a long time... I thought I had nothing left to stay for."

Stiles tensed slightly, but he didn’t say anything. Just waited.

So Derek kept going.

"I lost my family," he said, voice low and rough. "I lost everything. And for a long time, I told myself that if I ever saw them again, I wouldn’t fight it. I wouldn’t—"" He exhaled sharply, pressing his lips together. "I wouldn’t be afraid to go with them."

Stiles’ grip on his hoodie tightened.

Derek closed his eyes for a second, trying to steady himself.

"But then I heard your voice."

Stiles stilled completely.

"You were screaming at me to wake up." Derek’s voice was quiet, but steady. "You wouldn’t stop."

Stiles let out a choked sound, barely more than an exhale, and Derek felt his breath warm against his collarbone.

"That’s when I realized," Derek murmured. "I couldn’t leave. I didn’t want to leave."

His fingers curled against Stiles’ back, gripping onto the hoodie like he was anchoring himself in this moment, like he needed Stiles to hear this.

"Because if I left, I’d be leaving my pack."

He hesitated, voice dropping even lower.

"I’d be leaving you."

Stiles sucked in a sharp breath, his whole body tensing.

Derek let the words settle between them, let the silence stretch, heavy with something neither of them wanted to name.

For a long time, Stiles didn’t say anything.

Then, finally—softly—“You’re an idiot.”

Derek huffed a quiet, dry laugh. "Yeah."

Stiles shifted slightly in his lap, pulling back just enough to look at him. His face was red, his eyes still puffy from crying, but there was something fierce in his expression, something stubborn.

"You don’t get to just decide that your life doesn’t matter," Stiles muttered, voice shaking slightly. "You don’t get to just—just leave like that. You have people who care about you, Derek. You have a pack. You have—"" He cut himself off, pressing his lips together like he wasn’t sure he could get the next words out.

Derek stared at him, watching the way his throat worked, the way his fingers gripped tightly at his hoodie like he was afraid of letting go.

He was afraid, Derek realized.

Not of losing the pack.

Not of losing himself.

But of losing Derek.

And suddenly, the tension in the air shifted—something heavy, something undeniable sparking between them, thick enough to make it hard to breathe.

Stiles was still looking at him, his eyes flicking down to Derek’s lips for the briefest second before snapping back up, like he hadn’t meant to, like he was trying so hard to ignore whatever was happening right now.

Derek’s heartbeat stuttered.

He should say something.

He should do something.

But before he could even think, before he could process, Stiles suddenly let out a quiet, frustrated sound—

And then he was kissing him.

It wasn’t careful.

It wasn’t soft.

It was messy, desperate, like Stiles couldn’t hold it back anymore, like he didn’t care about the consequences.

His hands fisted in Derek’s hoodie, pulling him closer, his lips pressing hard against Derek’s in a way that felt like he was trying to prove something—maybe to Derek, maybe to himself.

And for a second—for just one second—Derek didn’t think.

Didn’t analyze.

Didn’t hesitate.

He just kissed Stiles back.

And everything changed.

—

Everything did change.

But also… nothing did.

Stiles still argued with Derek. Derek still got annoyed with Stiles. The pack still groaned whenever they went at it. On the surface, it was all the same.

Except it wasn’t.

Because now, every time they fought, there was something else behind it. A tension that hadn’t been there before, an undercurrent that made Stiles hyper-aware of every look Derek gave him, every time Derek’s gaze flicked to his lips before snapping away, every moment when their shoulders brushed in passing, and neither of them moved away fast enough.

And the worst part?

They weren’t talking about it.

Not once.

Not even after the kiss.

Not after Stiles had shoved away from Derek like he’d been burned and muttered a panicked, “I—uh—gotta go.”

Not after he had actually run away into the trees, leaving Derek sitting there, looking stunned and motionless in the dirt.

And certainly not in the days since.

They just… carried on.

Like it hadn’t happened.

Like they hadn’t had a moment of complete, overwhelming clarity—of something that was definitely not hate, but couldn’t quite be defined as anything else either.

Stiles felt like he was losing his mind.

He wasn’t supposed to like Derek.

Derek was supposed to be an asshole.

Derek was an asshole.

So why the hell did Stiles keep catching himself staring? Why did his pulse jump every time Derek was near? Why did his entire body freeze up when Derek so much as looked at him for too long?

It was so dumb.

He was so dumb.

And he had no idea what the hell to do about it.

So, naturally, he did the only thing that made sense.

He went to Scott.

---

"So let me get this straight," Scott said, arms crossed as he stared Stiles down. "You kissed Derek—"

"He kissed me too," Stiles corrected quickly, pointing a finger at him.

"Right. You kissed each other," Scott amended. "And now you’re both pretending like it didn’t happen?"

"We’re not pretending!" Stiles said. "We’re just… strategically avoiding the subject forever."

Scott gave him a look.

Stiles groaned, slumping back against the wall of Scott’s bedroom. "Okay, fine, maybe we are pretending." He ruffled his hair in frustration. "But I don’t get it, dude. How did this happen? We hate each other."

"Do you?"

Stiles’ mouth snapped shut.

Scott raised an eyebrow.

"Because I gotta say," Scott continued, leaning against his desk, "I don’t think you guys have actually hated each other for a while now."

"That’s not true," Stiles said automatically.

Scott just gave him another look.

And okay, maybe Stiles knew he was lying the second the words left his mouth, but admitting it out loud? Yeah, no thanks.

"I mean, sure, we don’t hate each other," Stiles mumbled, shifting uncomfortably. "But we don’t like each other either."

Scott tilted his head. "Then why did you kiss?"

Stiles opened his mouth.

Closed it.

Opened it again.

Nothing.

Scott gave him a smug, knowing look.

"Oh my God, stop," Stiles groaned, covering his face with his hands.

"Stop what?"

"The look," Stiles grumbled. "Like you know something that I don’t."

"I do know something you don’t," Scott said, grinning. "You like Derek."

"No, I don’t," Stiles said immediately.

"Dude, you so do."

"I don’t even like liking him," Stiles argued, voice getting a little too high-pitched.

"So you do like him."

"THAT’S NOT WHAT I SAID."

Scott just looked even more smug, and Stiles wanted to throw something.

"Look," Scott said, shaking his head. "I don’t know why you’re freaking out. It makes sense."

"How does it make sense?"

"Because you and Derek are basically the same person," Scott said simply.

Stiles choked on air. "Are you out of your mind?!"

"No, think about it!" Scott said, grinning. "You’re both incredibly stubborn. You’re both protective of the people you care about. You both act like you don’t need anyone, but you actually do. And when you do let people in, you love them so hard that it actually kind of hurts."

Stiles stared at him, his stomach twisting uncomfortably.

"Dude," he muttered. "Never psychoanalyze me again."

Scott just laughed.

Stiles let out a slow breath, rubbing at his temples.

"So what the hell do I do?"

"Talk to him."

Stiles winced. "Yeah, see, that’s a terrible idea."

"Why?"

"Because talking about it makes it real," Stiles said. "And if it’s real, then—" He swallowed. "Then everything changes."

"Stiles." Scott’s voice was gentler now. "Everything already changed."

Stiles exhaled slowly, his chest tightening.

Because yeah.

Scott was right.

Everything had changed.

And Stiles had no idea what the hell to do about it.

---

The tension between Stiles and Derek didn’t go away.

If anything, it got worse.

Stiles kept catching Derek looking at him. Derek kept shifting closer in pack meetings, like he wasn’t even aware he was doing it. Their arguments were still there, but they were different—less biting, less genuine, more like they were just looking for excuses to talk.

The pack noticed.

Scott gave Stiles a pointed look every time Derek so much as existed in his direction.

Isaac groaned, muttering “just get it over with already” at least three times a day.

Even Peter had started making comments.

"You know," Peter said one afternoon, as Stiles was pacing around the house, trying not to stare at Derek from across the room, "I think I preferred it when you two actually hated each other."

"We do hate each other," Stiles snapped automatically.

Peter smirked. "Uh-huh. Keep telling yourself that, kid."

And that was the moment Stiles realized—

He had a problem.

A very big problem.

And his name was Derek freaking Hale.

—

The tension finally broke.

It wasn’t subtle.

It wasn’t quiet.

It was an explosion.

A messy, fiery, screaming explosion that left the entire pack standing in the house, staring at Stiles and Derek like they had lost their minds.

Which—fair. Because they probably had.

It started over something stupid.

Like always.

"For the last time, Stiles, stay out of it."

"For the last time, Derek, screw you!" Stiles shot back, throwing his arms up. "I’m part of this pack, whether you like it or not, so maybe stop trying to push me out every time things get dangerous!"

"I’m not pushing you out, I’m keeping you alive!" Derek snapped.

"Oh, please!" Stiles scoffed, rolling his eyes. "That’s the biggest load of crap I’ve ever heard! Newsflash, dude—everyone here risks their lives, not just me! But you don’t yell at Scott, or Isaac, or freaking Lydia for getting involved! You only ever do it to me!"

"Because you’re the weakest link!"

The second the words left Derek’s mouth, the room froze.

The air felt like it had been sucked out.

Stiles’ face went blank. His hands clenched at his sides.

Derek’s mouth snapped shut, as if he hadn’t meant to say it.

"Wow," Stiles finally said, his voice eerily calm. "Weakest link. That’s… harsh, even for you."

Derek ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. "Stiles, that’s not what I—"

"No, no, it’s cool," Stiles said, nodding stiffly. "It’s good to know how you really see me. Just some pathetic, useless human dragging down your oh-so-powerful pack."

"That’s not—"

"Forget it, Derek," Stiles cut him off. His throat felt tight, but he forced the words out anyway. "You know what? I thought something changed. I thought maybe we’d be something. But I guess I was wrong."

The house went silent

.
No one moved.

No one breathed.

And then Stiles turned on his heel and stormed out.

And Derek just stood there, looking like he had no idea what the hell just happened.

---

Stiles barely remembered getting into his Jeep.

All he knew was that one second, he was in the house, standing in the middle of a mess of his own making, and the next, he was gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turned white, his vision blurring as he sped down the road, trying not to completely lose it.

Weakest link.

The words wouldn’t stop replaying in his head.

He should have known.

He should have known.

It was Derek.

Derek had always thought of him as a liability. Derek had always resented his presence in the pack.

Why the hell did Stiles let himself think anything had changed?

He let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head.

God, you’re so stupid.

A horn blared, and Stiles realized—too late—that he had drifted into the wrong lane.

Shit—!

He jerked the wheel, narrowly avoiding an oncoming truck, swerving back onto his side of the road.

His heart was pounding.

He pulled over.

Turned off the engine.

And then he just sat there, gripping the wheel, his breath coming too fast.

His hands were shaking.

His entire body was shaking.

He squeezed his eyes shut, forcing himself to take slow, deep breaths, but it wasn’t working.

He was spiraling.

Everything felt too much.

Derek’s words.

Derek’s face when Stiles walked away.

The crushing weight of knowing—

It had all been in his head.

Derek didn’t care.

Derek never cared.

Stiles let out a strangled laugh, his head hitting the back of the seat.

God, he was such an idiot.

---

Back at the house, the silence was suffocating.

The pack just stared at Derek.

No one spoke.

No one moved.

Until Scott finally broke the tension with a sharp, "Dude, what the hell is wrong with you?"

Derek didn’t answer.

He was still frozen in place, his mind replaying Stiles’ face over and over—the hurt, the anger, the way his eyes had flashed with something else before he turned and walked out.

Something that looked a lot like betrayal.

Derek’s jaw clenched.

Isaac scoffed, shaking his head. "You are an idiot."

"I didn’t mean—" Derek started, but stopped. Because it didn’t matter what he meant.

What mattered was what he said.

And what he said?

Was exactly what Stiles had always been afraid of.

That he didn’t belong.

That he wasn’t enough.

That Derek never saw him as anything other than a liability.

Except that wasn’t true.

Not even close.

Derek knew that.

But Stiles?

Stiles didn’t.

Because Derek had never told him.

And now… now it might be too late.

---

Stiles didn’t come back.

Scott tried calling him. So did Lydia.

No answer.

Derek clenched his fists, his jaw tightening.

"Nice job, Alpha," Peter said, smirking. "You finally pushed him away."

Derek turned, his eyes flashing red.

Peter just raised an eyebrow. "What? It’s what you wanted, isn’t it?"

It wasn’t.

It never was.

Derek had spent so long convincing himself that Stiles was just some annoying, reckless human who got in the way.

But that wasn’t true anymore.

Maybe it never was.

Because somehow, somewhere along the way—

Stiles had become important.

And now he was gone.

And for the first time in years, Derek felt something dangerously close to fear.

—

Derek woke up with a feeling like ice water had been poured into his veins.

Something was wrong.

It wasn’t just a gut feeling—it was deeper. More instinctual. The kind of warning that came from inside, from the part of him that was more wolf than human.

His pack bond to Stiles—thin and fragile, but real—was flickering. Like a radio station slipping in and out of signal.

And then—

Nothing.

The bond cut out completely.

Derek lunged out of bed before he even had time to think. He barely noticed himself shoving his boots on, grabbing his jacket. His body moved on autopilot.

Scott was standing in the hallway, rubbing his eyes sleepily. “Dude, it’s three in the mor—”

Derek slammed into him. “Where’s Stiles?”

Scott blinked. “Uh… at home?”

Derek’s stomach dropped. “No, he’s not.”

*Because I can’t feel him anymore.*

Scott frowned, instantly more awake. “Wait, what? What do you mean?”

Derek didn’t answer. He didn’t have time. He stormed past Scott, heading straight for Stiles’ room in the house, his heart hammering against his ribs.

He shoved the door open—

And stopped breathing.

The bed was empty.

Untouched.

The room was cold.

There was a half-full glass of water on the desk, a hoodie slung over the chair, and the smell of Stiles’ usual mix of cologne and coffee, but there was no sign of him.

He never came back.

Derek turned on his heel and ran.

---

The house erupted into chaos within minutes.

Scott called Stiles again. Straight to voicemail.

Lydia texted him. No answer.

Isaac and Erica were already pulling on their jackets, ready to head out.

Derek was standing in the middle of it all, barely breathing, barely seeing, because all he could feel was the absence where Stiles should have been.

It wasn’t like before—when he’d just assumed Stiles was ignoring him, or pissed off.

This was different.

The bond was gone.

Like someone had ripped it away.

And that wasn’t supposed to be possible.

Scott turned to him. “Okay, let’s think. If he left, where would he go?”

Derek shook his head. “He didn’t just leave, Scott. Something happened.”

Scott’s face tightened. “You don’t know that.”

“Yes, I do!” Derek snapped. “I can feel it—or at least, I could.” He clenched his jaw. “And now I can’t.”

Scott paled.

Lydia sucked in a sharp breath.

The pack exchanged looks.

Because they all understood what that meant.

If a pack bond disappeared completely, it usually meant one of two things—

Either the person had left the pack for good.

Or they were dead.

Derek refused to believe it was the second one.

But the fear had already buried itself deep in his chest.

Scott took a deep breath. “Okay. Then we find him. Now.”

---

The woods were too quiet.

Too still.

The moon was high, casting pale silver light over the trees as Derek ran, his heartbeat thundering in his ears.

His mind was racing—tugging at the bond again and again, reaching for something, anything.

But there was nothing.

No tug.

No warmth.

No presence at all.

His wolf was panicking.

His pack was panicking.

He heard Scott shift beside him, heard Isaac and Erica moving through the trees like shadows, but none of it mattered.

Not if they didn’t find him.

Not if they were already too late.

Derek’s feet barely touched the ground as he ran faster, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He should have stopped Stiles from leaving. He should have gone after him. He should have—

Then—

The faintest sound.

A heartbeat.

Thready. Weak

.
Derek froze.

His head snapped toward the right, his entire body going rigid.

There.

He took off at a dead sprint.

Scott was right behind him, calling his name, but Derek barely heard him.

Because the heartbeat was too faint.

Too slow.

And the second Derek caught the scent of blood, something inside him snapped.

He tore through the trees like an animal, barely registering the branches scraping at his arms, the wind burning his lungs.

And then—

He saw it.

A clearing.

A body.

Stiles.

Lying motionless in the dirt.

Derek didn’t think—he just moved.

He skidded to a stop and dropped to his knees, his hands hovering over Stiles’ chest, his vision tunneling.

Scott was already there, pressing two fingers to Stiles’ neck.

"He’s alive,” Scott said quickly.

Derek let out a shaky breath.

But Stiles was barely breathing. His skin was ghostly pale, his lips parted slightly. His hoodie was soaked with blood.

Too much blood.

Scott’s hands were shaking as he pressed down on the worst of the wounds. “We need to get him back to Deaton. Now.”

Derek was already scooping Stiles into his arms before Scott even finished speaking.

Stiles didn’t move.

Didn’t react.

Didn’t wake up.

Derek’s fingers tightened around him, his pulse hammering.

He wasn’t losing him.

He couldn’t.

Not after everything.

He pressed Stiles closer, his breath ghosting over his temple as he murmured, "Hold on, Stiles. Just—just hold on."

Then he ran.

—

Derek ran.

He ran faster than he ever had before, faster than his body should have allowed.

Stiles’ limp form was cradled against his chest, his breath shallow, skin clammy. The wrongness of it clawed at Derek’s mind. The bond was still gone, and no matter how many times Derek reached for it, there was nothing.

He couldn’t feel Stiles.

He burst through Deaton’s door with enough force to rattle the windows, nearly taking it off its hinges.

"Help him," Derek demanded, his voice raw.

Deaton, already pulling on gloves, took one look at Stiles and gestured toward the exam table.

Derek laid him down gently, swallowing past the lump in his throat when Stiles didn’t so much as twitch. His usual restlessness, his constant movement—gone. He was too still. Too quiet.

Scott, Lydia, and Isaac came crashing in behind him, all out of breath, their faces pale with fear.

Deaton examined Stiles with quick efficiency, his brows furrowing as he ran a hand over the air above his chest. A slow, creeping humming sound filled the room, something unnatural.

Derek’s stomach dropped.

"It’s a curse," Deaton murmured.

The words sent ice through Derek’s veins. A curse. That explained why he couldn’t feel the bond, why Stiles’ body felt wrong in his arms.

"What kind of curse?" Scott asked, voice tight.

Deaton sighed, removing his gloves. "A powerful one. This isn't just an injury or a sickness. It's something deeper, something that’s tying him between life and death. His body is still here, but…" He hesitated. "His spirit is somewhere else."

Lydia inhaled sharply. "That's why Derek can't feel him."

Derek clenched his jaw, barely hearing them, his mind racing. A curse. That meant a witch. That meant—

Evelyn.

His hands curled into fists.

"How do we break it?" He kept his voice even, but everyone could hear the underlying rage.

Deaton sighed again. "I don’t know yet."

"What do you mean, you don’t know?" Derek snapped.

"I mean," Deaton said calmly, "I need time. I have to look into this. Curses are tricky, and if we don’t do this right, we could lose him forever."

The room went silent.

Derek’s pulse hammered. Lose him forever?

No.

No, that wasn’t an option.

"So what do we do in the meantime?" Scott asked, his voice shaking.

Deaton glanced at Stiles, then back at Derek. "You take him home. You watch him. Keep him close. Keep him safe. His body is still fighting, but without the right counter-curse, there’s nothing a hospital can do for him."

Derek didn’t even hesitate.

He bent down and picked Stiles up again.

Scott made a noise like he wanted to protest, but one look at Derek’s face shut him up.

No one was taking Stiles away from him.

Not now.

Not ever.

---

The house was eerily silent when Derek got back.

He walked straight to his room, ignoring the pack following behind him, and carefully laid Stiles down on his bed.

He looked smaller like this, curled against the dark sheets, his skin too pale. His heartbeat was still there—slow, but steady.

Derek sat on the edge of the bed, his elbows on his knees, staring at him.

"This is my fault," he muttered.

Scott and the others didn’t argue.

Because it was

.
Evelyn came for him. And Stiles—Stiles, who always threw himself into danger without a second thought—was the one who paid the price.

Derek dragged a hand down his face. He should have been smarter. He should have seen this coming. He should have—

"We’ll fix it," Lydia said softly. "We will."

Derek didn’t answer.

The pack lingered for a while, but eventually, one by one, they left.

Scott was the last to go, hesitating in the doorway. "I’ll be back in the morning."

Derek just nodded.

Then he was alone.

With Stiles.

With his own guilt.

He sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face. His chest felt tight, his throat sore, like he’d been running for miles and still hadn’t caught his breath.

He looked at Stiles again, watching the slow rise and fall of his chest.

Derek leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees, his voice barely above a whisper.

"I’m sorry," he said. "I’m sorry you’re getting hurt because of me."

Stiles didn’t answer.

Didn’t move.

Didn’t wake up.

Derek clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms.

He would fix this.

He had to.

Because losing Stiles wasn’t an option.

—

Derek didn't sleep.

He sat by Stiles’ bedside, watching every slow breath, listening to every sluggish heartbeat.

The bond was still gone. No matter how many times he tried reaching for it, all he got was an empty void. It was like someone had ripped something vital away from him, something he hadn’t even realized he relied on until it was missing.

The house was silent except for the occasional sound of the wind rattling the windows. The pack had gone home for the night, promising to be back first thing in the morning.

Derek hadn’t moved.

He couldn’t.

Every time he so much as blinked, his mind went back to Deaton’s words:

"If we don’t do this right, we could lose him forever."

He swallowed hard, his jaw tightening as he glanced down at Stiles. He looked… wrong. Too still, too pale. There was none of his usual energy, no sarcastic quips, no restless fidgeting.

Derek reached out, hesitated, then gently brushed his fingers against the back of Stiles’ hand. His skin was warm but lifeless, his fingers limp in Derek’s grip.

Derek let out a slow, measured breath.

"You’re not dying on me, Stiles," he muttered. "Not like this."

The silence stretched on.

Derek let his head drop forward, squeezing his eyes shut. His mind kept flashing back to the moment he realized Stiles was missing. The fear that had gripped him so suddenly, so completely, like his ribs were caving in. He hadn't felt terror like that since—

Since the fire.

Since Laura.

And that was the part that scared him the most.

Because if he lost Stiles, it would wreck him.

He clenched his fists, nails digging into his palms as he forced himself to focus. No. He wasn’t going to think like that. He couldn’t think like that.

He wasn’t losing Stiles.

Not now.

Not ever.

---

Meanwhile…

Scott, Lydia, and Isaac stood outside Evelyn’s last known hideout, hidden behind the thick trees.

It was an old, abandoned house on the outskirts of town, the windows dark, the air around it wrong. Even without their enhanced senses, Scott and Isaac could feel the lingering energy.

"This is definitely witch territory," Lydia muttered, arms crossed.

Scott nodded, his jaw tight. "Then let’s end this."

They moved carefully, slipping through the overgrown yard. Isaac stepped ahead, his wolf senses scanning for any sign of a trap. The door was slightly open, creaking when he pushed against it.

Inside, the house was eerily quiet. Dust floated in the air, the faint scent of burnt herbs clinging to the walls.

Then—

"I was wondering when you’d come."

Evelyn stepped out of the shadows, a slow smirk spreading across her lips.

Scott immediately bared his fangs, his eyes flashing red. "Where is the antidote?"

Evelyn tilted her head, feigning innocence. "Oh, that? I thought you’d never ask."

Lydia stepped forward, her expression cold. "You poisoned him. You cursed him. Give us the antidote, or I swear you won’t leave here alive."

Evelyn chuckled. "Such fire. I like it."

Isaac growled, stepping into a fighting stance. "Enough games. Just give us the damn antidote."

Evelyn sighed dramatically. "Fine. But you should know… the price for breaking a curse like that? It’s never simple. Magic always demands something in return."

Scott narrowed his eyes. "What price?"

Evelyn smiled.

"A life for a life."

The words hung heavy in the air.

Lydia stiffened, her hands curling into fists. "No."

Evelyn’s smirk widened. "Then Stiles dies."

Scott’s heartbeat thundered in his ears. This wasn’t happening. This couldn’t be happening.

Isaac clenched his jaw. "There has to be another way."

"Oh, there is," Evelyn said. "You could always trade… something else." She stepped forward, her eyes locking onto Scott. "Like your Alpha spark."

Scott inhaled sharply.

His Alpha spark.

His power.

His pack.

If he gave it up…

Scott turned to Lydia and Isaac, searching their faces for an answer, for anything.

Lydia was already shaking her head. "No. Don’t you dare."

Isaac looked just as torn. "Scott…"

Scott swallowed hard.

His entire identity had been shaped by being an Alpha. It was more than just strength—it was his family, his responsibility.

But Stiles—

Stiles was his best friend. His brother.

If giving up his power meant saving him, how could he not?

He turned back to Evelyn. "Fine. Take it."

But before he could take a step forward, Lydia grabbed his arm.

"We’re not doing this," she hissed.

"Lydia—"

"No!" she snapped. "There’s always another way."

Evelyn rolled her eyes. "You don’t have time for another way. Stiles is already slipping."

Scott’s heart clenched.

Lydia took a steadying breath. "What if we make a deal?"

Evelyn raised a brow. "I’m listening."

"We don’t kill you," Lydia said simply. "In exchange, you give us the antidote. And you disappear. Forever."

Evelyn smirked. "And if I don’t?"

Lydia’s voice was deathly calm. "Then I make you wish you had."

Something in Evelyn’s expression flickered. A second of hesitation.

Then—

"Fine."

She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small glass vial filled with a dark, shimmering liquid.

"One dose," she said, tossing it to Scott. "Make it count."

Scott lunged at her, but Evelyn vanished before he could touch her, disappearing into the shadows.

The pack stood in silence for a long moment, the weight of everything pressing down on them.

Then—

"We need to get back. Now."

Scott turned and ran, Lydia and Isaac right behind him.

Stiles was slipping.

And they weren’t going to let him go.

—

Derek’s fingers clenched the fabric of Stiles’ hoodie as he sat beside him on the bed, watching his too-pale face. Every shallow breath Stiles took felt like a countdown to something Derek wasn’t willing to face.

His pack had been gone for hours, searching for the antidote, and every minute that passed made the weight in Derek’s chest heavier.

He wasn’t sure what scared him more—losing Stiles or the fact that the thought of losing him was tearing him apart more than it should.

Derek ran a hand over his face, exhaling sharply. Pull yourself together.

His instincts were screaming at him that something was wrong. Stiles’ pulse was slowing, his body colder than before. Derek felt helpless, something he despised more than anything.

His gaze flickered back to Stiles’ face, his jaw tightening.

"Don’t you dare," he muttered, his voice rough. "Don’t you even think about leaving. You hear me?"

No response.

Derek felt his throat tighten.

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

Not to Stiles.

Not to his pack.

Not to him.

Then—

The house door slammed open.

Derek was on his feet instantly, claws unsheathing, his fangs bared—until he saw Scott, Lydia, and Isaac racing in, breathless.

Scott held up a small glass vial.

"We got it," he gasped.

Derek’s entire body locked up. He was across the room in an instant, his eyes flashing red as he reached for it.

"Give it to me."

Scott hesitated. "Deaton said we have to be careful. If we—"

"Scott." Derek’s voice was low, deadly. "Give it to me."

Scott didn’t argue.

Derek took the vial with steady hands, but inside, his heart was slamming against his ribs. He turned back to Stiles and hesitated for the briefest second.

What if it was too late?

No.

He wasn’t letting that happen.

Derek uncorked the vial and gently tilted Stiles’ head back, pressing the glass to his lips.

"Come on, Stiles," he murmured. "Swallow."

Nothing.

Derek clenched his jaw. "Stiles."

Still nothing.

A growl rumbled in his chest, panic rising like fire in his veins.

No. No, no, no—

Derek pressed his palm against Stiles’ throat and rubbed gently, coaxing him to swallow.

Seconds felt like hours.

Then—

A tiny movement.

Derek barely breathed as he watched Stiles’ throat move, the liquid slowly disappearing down his throat.

It worked.

Now all they could do was wait.

---

Minutes Passed. Then an Hour. Then Two.

Derek never moved. He barely blinked.

The rest of the pack sat in tense silence around the house, the weight of exhaustion pressing down on them.

Then, just as Derek’s body started to lock up with fear again—

A sharp inhale.

Derek snapped his head up.

Stiles’ fingers twitched.

Then—his entire body jerked as he sucked in a ragged breath, like someone had just yanked him back from the edge of death.

Derek’s hand shot out, gripping his wrist. "Stiles."

A shaky breath. A flutter of eyelashes.

Then—

Brown eyes, dazed and unfocused, cracked open.

Derek felt like the air had been knocked out of him.

"Derek?" Stiles’ voice was weak, hoarse, but it was there.

Relief crashed over Derek so suddenly it made his head spin.

"You’re okay," Derek said, his voice rough. "You’re okay."

Stiles blinked slowly, his brows furrowing like he was trying to piece together where he was. Then, after a long moment, he let out a small, raspy whisper:

"Dude, you look like shit."

Derek exhaled a sharp breath—half a laugh, half a what the hell, Stiles.

He turned slightly, glancing at the pack. Scott’s face had crumpled with relief, Lydia had tears in her eyes, and Isaac looked like he had just let go of a breath he’d been holding for hours.

Stiles was back.

Derek looked down at him again, his grip still firm around Stiles’ wrist, like letting go might make him disappear again.

Stiles swallowed thickly, then frowned. "What… what happened?"

Derek sighed. "You almost died."

Stiles blinked, then squinted at him. "Again?"

"Yeah," Derek muttered. "Again."

Stiles exhaled softly, his eyelids heavy. "You stayed."

Derek hesitated.

Then, his voice barely above a whisper:

"Yeah."

Stiles didn’t say anything else.

He didn’t have to.

Because for the first time, in a long time, everything made sense.

And nothing would ever be the same again.

—

The relief in the house was palpable, like the collective weight of the pack’s fear had finally been lifted. But even as the others exhaled and started to relax, Derek didn’t move.

He stayed right where he was, sitting on the edge of the bed, his grip still tight around Stiles’ wrist as if he could hold him there, keep him from slipping away again.

The moment Stiles’ heartbeat had strengthened, the moment his eyes had fluttered open, something inside Derek had snapped.

But now, with the immediate danger passed, all that was left was exhaustion. And the anger simmering just beneath the surface.

Because Stiles had almost died.

And Derek hated how much that had affected him.

Stiles blinked groggily, eyes darting around the room before settling back on Derek. His voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper. “Why do you look like someone ran you over?”

Derek clenched his jaw. “Because you almost died, you idiot.”

Stiles huffed a weak laugh, but Derek could see the way his hands trembled against the sheets.

Scott stepped closer, his voice gentle. “How are you feeling?”

Stiles blinked sluggishly. “Like I got hit by a truck. A magical, curse-infused truck.”

Lydia crossed her arms, eyes sharp. “You were cursed, so technically, that’s not far off.”

Stiles let out a slow exhale. “Figures.”

Isaac leaned against the wall, exhaling heavily. “You scared the hell out of us.”

Stiles glanced around at all of them, his expression shifting slightly. There was something unspoken in the air, something heavy. He licked his lips, hesitating. “How long was I…?”

Derek exhaled sharply. “Three days.”

Stiles’ eyes widened slightly, something flickering across his face—something Derek couldn’t quite place.

“Three days?”

Derek nodded once.

Stiles swallowed thickly, like he was trying to process it, then slowly turned his gaze back to Derek. “And you… stayed?”

Derek’s expression didn’t change. “Someone had to make sure you didn’t do anything stupid while unconscious.”

Stiles smirked faintly. “I think being cursed into a coma was already peak stupid.”

Derek didn’t return the smirk. He just stared, his expression unreadable, his grip still firm.

The room fell quiet for a moment before Scott clapped his hands together. “Alright, I think we should give Stiles some space. Let him rest.”

Stiles groaned. “Ugh, I just woke up. You’re already treating me like an invalid?”

Lydia rolled her eyes. “You were literally in a supernatural coma, Stiles. Shut up and rest.”

Isaac snorted. “For once, I agree with her.”

Stiles huffed but didn’t argue. He was clearly exhausted, his body still weak.

One by one, the pack started to file out of the room, until it was just Derek left, still perched on the edge of the bed, his hands clenched into fists on his knees.

Stiles tilted his head slightly, his gaze lingering.

“You’re still here.”

Derek didn’t look at him. “You need someone to make sure you don’t stop breathing in your sleep.”

Stiles narrowed his eyes slightly. “Right. Of course. Has nothing to do with the fact that you’re totally worried about me.”

Derek scowled. “I’m not—” He stopped himself, exhaling sharply. “Just shut up and rest, Stiles.”

Stiles hummed, shifting slightly in the bed, his movements slow and careful.

For a long moment, the room was silent, save for the sound of their breathing.

Then, quieter this time, Stiles murmured, “You didn’t leave.”

Derek’s jaw tensed.

Because no, he hadn’t.

Not once.

Not even when it had scared him to realize just how much Stiles mattered to him.

Finally, Derek exhaled. “Get some sleep, Stiles.”

This time, Stiles didn’t argue.

And for the first time in days, Derek let himself breathe.

-

The Next Day

Stiles woke up feeling better. Still exhausted, still weak, but at least he wasn’t on the verge of dying anymore. So that was a win.

The house was quieter than usual, though he could feel the tension in the air.

Mostly, he could feel Derek’s tension.

The guy had barely spoken since last night, hovering in the background like some kind of brooding gargoyle. Which, okay, wasn’t entirely new, but something was different.

Derek wasn’t arguing with him.

Which was honestly more concerning than anything.

Stiles sighed, pushing himself up in bed, wincing slightly. He knew Derek was standing somewhere near the doorway, arms crossed, face unreadable.

“You’re being weird.”

Derek raised an eyebrow. “I’m always weird.”

Stiles narrowed his eyes. “Yeah, but you’re being extra weird.”

Derek exhaled, shaking his head. “You almost died, Stiles. Forgive me if I’m not in the mood to deal with your usual bullshit.”

Stiles frowned. There was something in Derek’s voice, something raw.

“I’m fine.”

Derek’s jaw clenched. “You weren’t.”

The air in the room felt heavier now, like there was something more lurking beneath the surface.

Something they weren’t saying.

Stiles licked his lips, glancing down at his hands.

He could still feel the echoes of the curse, the way it had pulled him under. He had felt cold for days, like something had been dragging him away from everything.

And yet, through all of it—

Derek had stayed.

Stiles inhaled deeply, then exhaled.

“You should’ve gone with the pack, you know. They needed you.”

Derek’s gaze darkened. “You needed me.”

Stiles’ breath hitched.

For a split second, neither of them moved.

Derek had said it so easily, like it was just a fact. Like it wasn’t a big deal.

But it was.

Stiles didn’t know what to say to that.

So instead, he did what he always did.

He smirked. “Wow. Didn’t know you cared so much, Big Guy.”

Derek rolled his eyes. “Shut up, Stiles.”

But there was no bite to it.

Just the barest hint of something softer.

And for now, that was enough.

—

The house was quiet that night. The kind of quiet that sat heavy in the air, pressing down like a weighted blanket.

Stiles was standing near the window, arms crossed, looking out at the city lights. His heartbeat was steady but off — a rhythm Derek had come to memorize without even realizing it.

Derek was behind him, leaning against the wall, watching him.

It had been like this all day—Stiles avoiding him, throwing himself into stupid distractions, anything to keep from having a real conversation.

Derek was tired of waiting.

“You’re being weird.”

Stiles huffed a soft, humorless laugh. “You’re stealing my lines now?”

Derek pushed off the wall, stepping closer. “You’re avoiding me.”

Stiles shrugged, gaze still fixed on the city outside. “I’m just thinking.”

Derek narrowed his eyes. “That’s never a good sign.”

Stiles finally turned, an almost-smirk on his face. But Derek could see the way his fingers twitched, the tension in his shoulders.

They had both been dancing around this for days.

And Derek was done pretending like none of it mattered.

“Talk to me, Stiles.”

Stiles swallowed, his throat working. He hesitated, then exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t know what to say.”

Derek tilted his head. “Try the truth.”

Stiles let out a breath that sounded almost like a laugh, but there was no humor in it. He looked down at his hands, then back up at Derek.

And then—

“I thought I was going to lose you.”

Derek’s breath hitched.

Stiles’ voice was quiet, raw. “When you got hurt, when I saw you like that… I—” He swallowed. “I realized how much I care.”

Derek didn’t move.

Stiles shook his head, pacing slightly. “And I hated it. I hated that I care so much, because it wasn’t supposed to be like this. We were supposed to just hate each other, right? That was the deal. You roll your eyes at me, I annoy you until you want to kill me. That’s how it worked.”

Derek clenched his jaw.

Stiles exhaled, shaking his head. “But then you didn’t die, and I didn’t know what the hell to do with myself. Because suddenly, I wasn’t just relieved that you were alive—I was terrified. Terrified of losing you again. And that’s just—” He dragged a hand down his face. “It’s stupid.”

Derek finally stepped forward, his voice steady. “It’s not stupid.”

Stiles let out a bitter laugh. “No? Because it feels pretty damn stupid.”

Derek exhaled sharply. “Stiles.”

Stiles went quiet.

Derek met his gaze, his heartbeat loud in his ears. “I wasn’t scared to die.”

Stiles flinched, like the words physically hurt. “Yeah, I know. That’s what pissed me off the most.”

Derek swallowed, taking another step forward. “I wasn’t scared to die… but I didn’t want to.”

Stiles’ brows furrowed.

Derek’s voice was softer now. “Because leaving the pack—leaving you—was never an option.”

Stiles blinked.

Derek inhaled deeply. “I stayed because I care, too.”

Stiles opened his mouth, then closed it. His throat bobbed, his hands clenched and unclenched at his sides.

Derek didn’t move, just watched as Stiles tried to process it.

Then -

“So what the hell do we do now?” Stiles’ voice was quiet, almost hesitant.

Derek exhaled, stepping even closer. “We stop pretending.”

Stiles let out a shaky breath.

They were close now. Close enough that Derek could feel the warmth radiating from Stiles’ skin, see the way his lips parted slightly like he was about to say something but didn’t know how.

Then Stiles huffed a soft laugh, shaking his head. „God, we were such assholes to each other.”

Derek smirked faintly. “Yeah.”

Stiles bit his lip, looking up at Derek through his lashes. “I’m sorry.”

Derek frowned slightly. „For what?”

Stiles swallowed. “For the way I treated you. For never realizing how much you actually meant to me until it almost killed me.”

Derek inhaled deeply. “I’m sorry, too.”

Stiles tilted his head.

Derek’s gaze was steady. “For not realizing how much you meant to me before I almost lost you.”

For a second, neither of them moved.

Then—

Stiles surged forward, grabbing Derek’s shirt and crashing their mouths together.

Derek froze for a half-second before melting into it, his hands gripping Stiles’ waist, pulling him closer. Closer.

The kiss was messy, desperate, filled with everything they had been holding back for so damn long.

When they finally broke apart, Stiles was panting slightly, his forehead pressed against Derek’s. “Wow.”

Derek huffed a laugh. “Yeah.”

Then Stiles pulled him into a hug.

A real hug.

Not a quick, awkward pat on the back. Not a life-or-death, clutching-at-each-other hug.

Just… a hug.

And Derek let him.

He wrapped his arms around Stiles, holding on, letting himself feel it.

Because after everything - after the fights, the near-deaths, the supernatural disasters - this was what mattered.

They mattered.

And finally - finally - Derek let himself believe that.