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Stiles shuts the laptop with a thud, instantly regretting it because, after paying this month's rent and replacing the washing machine, the last thing he needs is to break the laptop too. It's been two weeks now since he got hooked on watching low-budget romantic movies that only serve to remind him how utterly alone he is, but he can't help it, it's as if his brain has decided to help his heart by crafting a life that’s practically impossible to have. And yet, he already ticks at least half the boxes of your average Young Adult heroine: a ridiculous name? Check. Born and raised in a small town? That too. Dead mother? Morbid, but also yes. And he’s even part of a pack!
"All I’m missing is the bad boy, mysterious and emotionally unavailable..." he mutters with a sigh, and while saying those words, he’s definitely not thinking about the brooding, leather-wearing werewolf he’s had a crush on since his teenage years.
Stiles puts the laptop away and slips on his shoes, glances at the clock and curses himself for being so absent-minded, he’s now almost twenty minutes late to the dinner he organised.
He grabs the keys from the cabinet by the front door and rushes out of the house, heading for the Jeep.
It’s no longer so easy to get everyone together under the same roof. All the members of the pack graduated four years ago and each took different paths. Some moved to the other side of the country, and some, like him, came back to Beacon Hills after college. Stiles decided to reinvent himself as a web developer after his FBI adventure tragically flopped. After all, law enforcement had never truly suited him, whereas working with computers has brought him a fair bit of joy, and his numerous clients would agree.
Stiles pulls up in front of Scott’s old house and honks the horn, waiting in the car for the boy to come out.
"Hiya, bro!" Scott greets him cheerily as he climbs into the car with Malia. "It’s been a while, what’s new with you?"
Stiles frowns. He doesn’t like how the nickname "bro" rolls off Scott’s tongue so easily after the werewolf had practically pushed him out of the pack and ignored him for years.
"The usual," Stiles replies simply, starting the engine and driving towards Derek’s house.
"Can you believe Derek actually bought a real house and doesn’t live in that rundown loft anymore?" Scott continues, trying to spark a conversation and cut through the heavy silence that’s filled the car.
Stiles glances at Malia through the rear-view mirror, seeing she’s ignoring the conversation and definitely won’t be the one to respond. He sighs again. "Of course I can," he says sharply. "I was there when he moved in."
Scott blinks but doesn’t seem too fazed by the acidic tone from the man who used to be his best friend. He shrugs. "It has been a while since I was last here... what, three months?"
"Seven," Stiles corrects him. Not that he’s counting.
Scott looks surprised. "Time flies," he says with a chuckle.
Stiles rolls his eyes for what feels like the hundredth time as Scott tells yet another story from Chicago, and then parks the car across the street from a house with a black Camaro in the driveway. Derek’s new house. Where Stiles now spends most of his time either working or trying to convince Peter to get rid of his taxidermy collection, which his nephew absolutely loathes.
“It’s a precious collection, Stiles,” Peter tells him every time.
“And Derek thinks they’re dolls straight out of a horror movie,” Stiles always shoots back.
Stiles really should stop spending so much time at Derek’s house, if only to avoid going to bed constantly frustrated and hard. But he’s never been good at avoiding pain, especially when it comes to hopeless crushes. If his thing with Lydia taught him anything, it’s the fact that he’s a masochist.
“Stiles!” Liam greets him with a hug, and Stiles smiles as he ruffles the man’s hair.
“Hey, puppy, long time no see.”
Liam nods and shows him his arm. “Look! In San Francisco, I found a group of supernatural people and one of them is a tattoo artist,” he says excitedly, showing off a tattoo on his forearm. “He did it without using a blowtorch! I didn’t feel a thing!”
Stiles chuckles. “That’s great, I’m happy for you.” He barely finishes the sentence when his breath catches and his eyes widen. “A triskele,” he whispers, almost reverently. His chest swells with pride seeing Liam chose that tattoo.
“It’s like yours and—” Liam is cut off by Stiles’s hand clamping over his mouth.
“What’s like yours?”
Stiles looks up and sees Derek entering the lounge still in his police uniform. After everything that happened, anyone would have bet Derek would steer well clear of law enforcement, but instead, he got a qualification and was hired by Stiles’ father.
“Nothing,” Stiles says quickly. “Is everyone here? Can we order the pizzas?”
The “pizzas” end up being fried chicken and enough burgers to feed an army. Stiles made the mistake of sitting at the far end of the table, partly to avoid Derek, and also to distance himself from Scott, who seems to have entirely forgotten the argument they had last time they spoke. Before leaving for uni, Stiles had told his best friend he was in love with Derek, and Scott had laughed and insisted he’d never have a chance, and that as Alpha and his friend, he would never allow such madness.
Stiles knows Derek is completely out of his league, there’s no need to remind him, thank you very much.
His thoughts are interrupted when someone nudges him. Stiles turns to Liam, who’s smiling and handing him a plate with a cheeseburger and a mountain of curly fries.
“Thanks,” Stiles says, taking the plate.
Liam shakes his head and gestures with his thumb behind him. “Thank him.”
Stiles looks up and meets Derek’s kaleidoscopic eyes locked on him. His heart starts to pound wildly, and Stiles tries to control his breathing so he doesn’t alert every werewolf at the table.
He stares intently at the plate and nibbles on a fry. “Thanks,” he mumbles. He knows Derek heard him.
Dinner drags on. Stiles can barely talk to anyone, everyone has something to share, and he’s not in the mood.
“Truth or dare!”
Stiles looks at Mason’s new boyfriend and rolls his eyes. That game wasn’t fun in high school, and it’s certainly not now.
“Malia! What do you pick?”
Scott chimes in, suggesting they modify the game to make it more interesting: the player would ask everyone a truth, and they’d all have to answer or face a penalty.
Stiles isn’t really following, but the others are laughing, so they must be enjoying themselves. When it’s his turn, he groans and tries to think of something remotely interesting to ask.
“Would you kill someone if I asked?”
“Without a doubt.”
A beat of silence. Then an explosion of laughter. “What are you on about?” Scott asks, tears in his eyes from laughing. “You know our pack doesn’t kill, what kind of question is that?”
But Stiles isn’t listening. His ears are ringing because the words that reached them are the only thing echoing in his head. He’d recognise that voice anywhere, and now, its owner is slowly leaving the dining room amidst the commotion.
Derek would kill for him.
Why?
—
He doesn’t remember much of the ride home.
The laughter fades fast. The lights, the voices, even the ridiculous game, all of it blurs behind the echo of that voice in his ears.
Without a doubt.
He knows he didn’t imagine it. He knows what he heard. But Derek had disappeared right after, melted into the shadows like he always does, like he wasn’t the one who’d just dropped a line that could level mountains, and then walked away. Classic Hale.
The others hadn’t even noticed. Too busy arguing about who cheated in the last round. Stiles had gone quiet, withdrawn into himself in a way that nobody really commented on. Maybe they’re used to it. Maybe it’s easier not to ask.
By the time he gets home, it’s past midnight. His ribs ache, not from an old wound, but from holding himself so tightly all evening. He kicks off his shoes, strips down to his t-shirt and boxers, and flops into bed face-first.
But he doesn’t sleep. He stares at the ceiling. He does that a lot lately.
He replays the moment, over and over, the way Derek had said it, not loudly, not for attention, just clear. Certain. Like it was obvious.
And then... nothing.
Avoidance. Distance. Silence.
Stiles knows he’s spiralling, but the thing is…he’s been good. He hasn’t acted on his crush in years. Not since high school. Not since the loft, the firelight, the bruises and tension and the way Derek used to look at him like he was both a problem and a solution. Not since the pain got quieter and the world moved on.
But it’s not quiet now.
His phone buzzes.
New message: Group chat.
Malia: “Derek said he’d do the dishes. What the hell happened?”
Scott: “I think he left early?”
Liam: “He totally left because of that truth question lmao.”
Stiles groans and tosses the phone aside. Buries his face in the pillow. Regrets everything.
The next morning, he doesn’t get far. He drags himself to the coffee shop out of spite more than necessity, orders something with too much espresso and sugar, and tries to look like he hasn’t slept two hours at most.
Lydia finds him before the second sip. “I figured you’d come here.”
He startles. “You have a tracking spell on me or something?”
“Please. You’re predictable. Post-pack meltdown location number three.”
She sits across from him, crossing her legs with elegance that should not be legal at 9 a.m. “You look like hell,” she says, sipping her drink.
“Thanks. You’re a peach.”
“Rough night?”
Stiles raises an eyebrow. “Wouldn’t know. I didn’t spend it with a man who casually implied he’d murder for me and then ghosted me.”
Lydia doesn’t flinch. Just tilts her head slightly. “He didn’t say it casually.”
“He said it in front of everyone. Then left. Pretty sure that’s the definition of casual homicide promises.”
She doesn’t smile. “He said it seriously. You heard it. I heard it.”
Stiles stares at the table. “And yet, this morning he’s MIA. No texts. No grunts. Not even a courtesy ‘don’t die’. Which, for Derek, is basically a love letter.”
“Maybe he’s scared.”
“Of me? Please.”
“No,” Lydia says, voice softer now. “Of what you mean to him.”
That stops him. For a second.
Then he snorts. “Okay, but when exactly did I wake up in a fanfiction AU?”
“You joke,” she says, setting her cup down. “But I’ve seen how he looks at you.”
“Right. Like I’m a problem to solve.”
“Like you’re something he can’t figure out how to hold without breaking.”
Stiles goes quiet.
Lydia leans in, resting her chin on her hand. “I’m not saying it’s going to happen. I’m saying he sees you. Whether or not he’ll do something about it... that’s on him.”
He picks at the cardboard sleeve of his cup. “You think he’s avoiding me because of what he said?”
“I think he’s avoiding himself.”
It’s annoyingly insightful. And very Lydia.
Stiles sighs. “Everyone else would think I’m crazy.”
“They don’t,” she says. “They would think you’re... reaching.”
“Same thing.”
She gives him a look. “Stiles.”
“Scott literally laughed in my face when I told him I had feelings for Derek.”
“That was four years ago.”
“Yeah, and nothing’s changed. I’m still the weird, loud human who thinks too much and gets himself stabbed too often.”
“And Derek is still the grumpy, emotionally repressed wolf who pretends not to care.”
Stiles chuckles. Just barely.
Lydia finishes her drink and stands. “Don’t let him off the hook so easily this time.”
He watches her walk away, the click of her heels soft against the café floor.
He sits there long after his coffee’s gone cold, staring out the window like the world might rearrange itself into something easier.
It doesn’t.
By the time he makes it home, the ache in his chest is worse. Not pain. Not really. Just… weight. Uncertainty curling under his skin like smoke.
He tells himself he’s going to stop thinking about it. Stop chasing shadows and imagined meanings. He tells himself he’s going to be logical. Rational. Adult.
Then he opens his phone, scrolls to Derek’s name, and doesn’t press call. Because he’s not ready. Because it hurts. Because, deep down, some part of him still hopes Derek will call first.
Spoiler: he doesn’t.
—
Stiles tells himself he’s just passing by to check the northern barrier runes, but he knows he’s full of shit. He doesn’t need to be here. He shouldn’t be here. But Derek doesn’t ask him to leave, doesn’t even blink when Stiles lets himself in with the spare key that no one ever took back.
The front door closes with a soft click behind him. The house is still. Not empty, just... quiet. There’s a kind of hush that wraps around his shoulders the moment he steps inside, like the silence has been waiting for him.
He finds Derek in the back garden, kneeling in the wet grass with a rune stone in his hand and a furrow between his brows. His shirt is rolled at the elbows, exposing forearms that really shouldn’t be allowed in public, and his fingers move with the kind of precision that makes Stiles forget what he came here for.
“You already checked the barrier,” Stiles says, keeping his tone casual. “I can smell the chalk.”
Derek looks up, blinking once. “There was interference last night. I thought it might be Liam.”
“It wasn’t.” Stiles scratches the back of his neck, fiddling with a cable sticking out of his bag. “I mean... probably not. He was at Scott’s. Playing Mortal Kombat until three in the morning and losing embarrassingly.”
Derek doesn’t smile, but something in the corner of his mouth shifts. “Still can’t do combos.”
“Not unless the combo is dying spectacularly.”
He moves closer. Not too close. Just enough that the cold grass beneath his feet starts to give way to the soft earth that Derek’s weight has warmed.
“I brought the map,” he says, holding up a small scroll. “Might be overkill, but—”
“It’s fine.”
They fall into a rhythm. Derek does most of the checking, the adjusting, the muttering under his breath about frequency imbalances. Stiles hands him rocks with weird runes he doesn't ask for, finds ways to stay close without making it obvious.
Their fingers brush three times. The third time, Stiles doesn’t pull away.
After an hour, they head inside. Derek disappears into the kitchen. Stiles doesn’t follow, just drops his bag by the door and sinks onto the couch with a sigh that comes from somewhere deeper than his lungs. He’s tired. Not in a way that sleep could fix. Just tired of pretending that this isn’t the best part of his day.
Derek comes back with two mugs. Doesn’t say anything. Just sets one down in front of him, the navy blue one with the small chip at the rim. Honey and lemon, warm and steady. Exactly the way Stiles likes it.
He takes a sip and lets it settle into his chest.
Derek sits in the armchair, one leg pulled under the other, like he’s trying to disappear into the furniture. His eyes flick to Stiles, then away, then back again when he thinks he won’t notice.
They don’t talk much. They never do, not in this space between things. But it’s not uncomfortable. It’s never uncomfortable. It’s just... waiting.
“I fixed the magic wall around the southern corner,” Stiles says after a while. “Added a double anchor so it doesn’t collapse again when it rains.”
Derek nods. “I noticed.”
Of course he did.
The rain starts slow. Just a soft tapping at first, then harder, like fingertips drumming on the windowpanes. Stiles glances up. “Guess it's time to go.”
Derek doesn’t look up from the notebook he’s been scribbling in. “Stay.”
One word. Low. Certain.
Stiles’s heart skips and then catches up with a painful jolt. He nods, even though Derek isn’t looking.
“Okay.”
The storm swells outside. It starts with steady rain, then builds into something louder, heavier, wind tugging at the trees, thunder cracking somewhere behind the hills. Inside the house, it’s warm. Not because of the fireplace, which Derek hasn’t lit, but because of the quiet. Because of him.
Stiles ends up on the floor with his laptop, a blanket pulled over his legs, his back resting against the couch. He’s pretending to write something for a client, but he’s just watching the way Derek moves through the room. Calm, precise, quiet. Always quiet. There’s something reverent in the way Derek tidies up the bookshelves, the way he folds a throw that Stiles swears no one has ever used.
They eat later, something simple. Derek pulls out leftover stir-fry from the fridge and throws in extra rice. Stiles insists on helping and ends up slicing his finger on a tin can. Derek doesn’t roll his eyes, but the sigh is eloquent enough. He pulls out a plaster from a tin labelled emergency only and wraps it carefully around the cut, his fingers brushing the inside of Stiles’s wrist.
Neither of them says anything about it. But Stiles can’t stop staring at the way Derek’s hands are so much gentler than they look.
After dinner, they move to the living room again. Derek picks a film from his oddly specific DVD collection, something Japanese and old and probably cursed, and Stiles pretends to make fun of it even as he curls into the corner of the couch with wide eyes and an open mouth.
The power flickers halfway through. The lights dip, then return, as if the storm is trying to remind them that the world outside still exists. Stiles shifts, dragging the blanket with him. Derek doesn’t move much, just lifts his arm slightly, creating space.
Stiles moves into it without thinking.
His shoulder brushes Derek’s chest. His knee touches his thigh. The blanket ends up shared between them, a mess of fabric that settles over both their legs. Derek’s body is warm. Solid. Anchoring.
They stay like that. Watching. Breathing.
It’s not the first time they’ve sat close. Not even the first time they’ve touched. But this is different. This feels like something neither of them has the strength to name.
The movie is ridiculous, full of dramatic monologues and sword-wielding ghosts. Stiles barely follows the plot. He just watches the flicker of light on Derek’s skin, the way his eyes narrow when something absurd happens, the way his jaw shifts when he’s trying not to laugh.
Somewhere between the second sword fight and a scene with an exploding temple, Stiles’s head tips forward. He blinks once, twice, then lets his weight fall.
His head lands on Derek’s shoulder.
He expects tension. Stiffness. A shift away. But none comes. Derek stays still.
And then, slowly, so slowly, he leans just enough that Stiles is supported. The shoulder beneath him is warm and solid and perfect. Stiles lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.
Minutes pass.
Maybe more.
The thunder rolls low, but it’s distant now. Just background noise. The warmth lulls him. The smell of Derek, pine, something smoky, something not human, sinks into him like gravity.
He doesn’t mean to fall asleep. He doesn’t even realise he has until something shifts.
A touch.
Fingertips in his hair. Just once. A soft stroke along the crown of his head, barely there. Then again, slower.
He doesn’t open his eyes.
Doesn’t move.
He knows it’s Derek. Knows it with the same certainty with which he knows the rhythm of his own heartbeat. The hand stays there for a moment, fingers curved gently, like it belongs. It feels like a confession.
Then it’s gone.
The absence is as loud as thunder. But Stiles doesn’t say anything. He just stays still, the side of his face pressed against Derek’s shoulder, the blanket pooled in his lap, the warmth of the touch echoing down his spine.
He sleeps. And Derek lets him.
The world is quiet when Stiles wakes.
For a moment, he doesn’t know where he is. The room is dim, lit by the watery grey light of morning filtering through the windows. The storm has passed. He can hear the soft dripping of water from the eaves outside, and the occasional creak of wood settling as the house breathes.
He’s still on the couch. Blankets bunched around him. His neck stiff, his mouth dry. But it’s the warmth that anchors him, the lingering sensation of having been held.
He sits up slowly. The living room is empty now, though there’s a faint scent of coffee in the air, and a folded hoodie rests neatly over the back of the couch. Not his. Derek’s.
Stiles brings it to his face without thinking. Breathes in.
The kitchen is quiet. He walks barefoot down the hall, fingers brushing the doorframe as he peers inside.
Derek stands at the counter, stirring something in a pan. Eggs, maybe. He’s still in the same shirt as the night before, sleeves pushed up, hair slightly mussed. He doesn’t look up when Stiles enters.
“You’ve got terrible posture when you sleep,” he says, voice low.
Stiles blinks. “You watched me sleep?”
Derek shrugs one shoulder. “You were snoring.”
“I don’t snore.”
“You make noises.”
“Yeah, well, so do dogs.”
Derek finally glances over, and the corner of his mouth lifts. It’s not quite a smile, but it’s real. Stiles feels it like a hook in his chest.
There’s a second mug already on the table, still steaming. Stiles sits and pulls it towards him. It’s exactly how he takes it. No sugar, extra milk. He doesn’t say anything, but his fingers linger around the handle.
They eat in silence. Forks scraping gently. Rain ticking at the windows. It’s so domestic it makes his chest ache.
Halfway through breakfast, Derek reaches for the salt, and their hands brush. It’s nothing. It’s everything. Stiles looks up.
“Did I... last night—” He hesitates. “Did you—?”
Derek doesn’t look at him.
“You were half-asleep.”
Stiles waits. “So it was real.”
There’s a pause. Then: “Yes.”
Stiles looks down at his plate. His appetite vanishes. “I thought I’d dreamt it,” he says quietly. “The way you...”
He trails off. The words feel too fragile.
Derek is quiet for a long time. Then, finally, “I didn’t mean for it to happen.”
Stiles blinks. “The... touch?”
“The way it made me feel.”
Stiles doesn’t breathe for three full seconds. “You’re allowed to feel things,” he says, voice tight. “You’re not... made of stone, you know.”
“I try to be.”
“Well, you suck at it.”
Derek almost laughs. Almost.
Stiles pushes his plate away and leans forward. His elbows on the table, hands folded together like he needs to anchor himself to something.
“You scare me sometimes,” he admits. “Not in a bad way. Just... I never know if I’m getting it wrong. If I’m pushing too far. If I’m seeing something that isn’t there.”
Derek meets his eyes, steady. “You’re not wrong.”
That’s it. Nothing more. But for Stiles, it’s everything.
They stay at the table for a while, finishing their coffee. Derek doesn’t pull away when Stiles’s fingers brush his wrist. Doesn’t flinch when Stiles picks up the empty mugs and starts washing them without asking.
He just watches.
When Stiles leaves an hour later, Derek walks him to the door. The air outside is clean, the trees dripping, the earth soft underfoot. Stiles turns back once before going.
Derek stands on the threshold, one hand resting on the doorframe.
Stiles lifts a hand in a half-wave. “Thanks for... letting me stay.”
“You always can.”
The door doesn’t close right away.
---
The rain had stopped a few hours ago, but the ground is still soft beneath Stiles’s boots. It squelches unpleasantly as he walks, and the path that cuts through the woods is half-submerged in slick leaves and shallow puddles. He told Derek he didn’t need a lift, told himself he wanted the quiet, but now, halfway between Derek’s house and his own, he regrets every single decision that led to this moment.
His jacket is too thin. The zip keeps sticking. He keeps hearing things that probably aren’t there.
Stiles walks faster.
The wind has picked up again. It whistles through the branches high above him, pushing and pulling at the trees like they’re nothing. The sun keeps slipping in and out of view behind thick clouds, throwing long, distorted shadows across the trail. Stiles tries not to look too closely at them. He knows better. Looking too closely at shadows in Beacon Hills is how people get killed.
He’s almost out of the woods when he hears it.
A rustle. Too heavy to be wind. Too deliberate. He stops. Turns his head.
Nothing.
“Okay,” he mutters. “Paranoia is cute but let’s not die today, thanks.”
He takes a step forward, and the world moves.
Something slams into him from the side with enough force to knock the breath clean out of his lungs. He hits the ground hard, his shoulder cracking against the edge of a tree root. Pain shoots down his side, sharp and instant. He rolls instinctively, just in time to avoid claws swiping through the air where his chest had been.
He doesn’t see much. Just glimpses, a flash of grey skin, limbs too long, eyes that reflect the sunlight with a sickly, golden sheen. Whatever it is, it’s not fully human. It’s not a wolf either. It moves too fast, too jagged, like a puppet with its strings pulled wrong.
Stiles scrambles backwards, one hand diving for his phone, but the creature snarls and knocks it away. His back hits the trunk of a tree. Trapped.
The claws come down.
He twists to the side, but not fast enough. Pain tears across his ribs, hot and wet and immediate. He gasps, choked, involuntary, and feels the warmth spreading under his shirt. The fabric rips. His knees buckle.
Something cold floods his limbs. Shock. Blood loss. Fear.
It doesn’t matter.
The creature rears back for another strike, and stops.
No, not stops. Freezes.
Then is gone. Not vanished. Thrown.
The world explodes around him. A roar echoes through the trees, low and furious, and the wind seems to shake with it. Stiles falls to the ground, dazed, his ears ringing.
Something, someone, lands in front of him. He blinks. The world tilts. Colours blend and stretch, the trees lean too far. There’s movement, a blur of dark shapes. And then the sound again, that deep, resonant growl that makes the forest itself go still.
Through the haze, Stiles sees him.
Derek.
But not like this. Not like he’s used to. This version of Derek is terrifying.
Teeth bared. Shoulders wide. Hands tipped with claws that shine under the daylight. And his eyes, god, his eyes, glow a brilliant, burning red. Not blue. Not omega.
Alpha red.
The creature lunges again, shrieking, and Derek meets it head-on with a sound that doesn’t belong to anything human. He’s faster than Stiles has ever seen him. Stronger. There’s no hesitation. No doubt. Just fury and fire and protectiveness that bleeds from every move he makes.
Stiles wants to say something. Warn him. Cheer him on. Anything. But the pain catches up to him in a rush, and he crumples back against the tree with a grunt.
—
The fight is over quickly.
The creature lies twisted and broken in the undergrowth. Derek stands over it, panting, his body coiled and tense. The glow in his eyes doesn’t fade.
Not yet.
He turns.
His gaze lands on Stiles.
And for the first time in a long, long time, he looks afraid.
Derek doesn’t hesitate. The moment the creature drops, he’s moving, fast, controlled, but not calm. There’s nothing calm about the way he crosses the distance between them, the way his eyes scan every inch of Stiles like he’s counting the seconds he might still have.
Stiles is half-conscious, slumped against the tree trunk, his breathing uneven and shallow. His hands are slick with blood, pressed hard against his side, but the damage is already done, the cut deep, the warmth spreading too fast.
Derek drops to his knees beside him. “Don’t move.” His voice is low, urgent. Not a growl. Not an order. Just…Derek.
Stiles blinks slowly, eyes unfocused.
“Hey,” Derek says again, softer now. “Stay with me.”
Stiles’s lips twitch. “You’re glowing,” he mumbles. “Kinda cheating, Hale. Didn’t even say abracadabra.”
Derek doesn’t laugh. He presses a hand gently to the side of the wound, then curses under his breath. “I need to get you out of here.”
“Did you see him?” Stiles slurs. “He had claws. Like, Freddy Krueger style. So rude.”
“Stiles.”
“I think he ruined my shirt.”
Derek pulls the shredded fabric back, carefully. His fingers freeze.
The wound is bad, deeper than he thought. But that’s not what stops him.
It’s what’s inked just beneath the torn cotton, etched into pale skin now streaked with blood.
A triskele. Black. Deliberate. Centred just above Stiles’s left hipbone.
Derek stares.
He knows that symbol. It’s in his blood. It’s carved into the history of his family, into the skin of every Hale who ever chose to wear it. His own rests on his back between his shoulder blades, faded slightly over the years but still clear. Liam’s is newer, sharper. But this, this isn’t just a design. This is personal. This is a choice.
“Why?” he breathes, without meaning to say it out loud.
Stiles blinks up at him, the corners of his mouth twitching again. “Didn’t do it for aesthetic.”
Derek looks up, meets his eyes. “You— when did you—?”
“Four years ago,” Stiles murmurs. “After everything with the Wild Hunt. I kept thinking... if I had something real, I’d remember where I belonged. Even if everyone else forgot.”
Derek swallows hard.
“Didn’t know you’d ever see it,” Stiles adds. His voice is slipping, fading at the edges. “But now you have. Surprise.”
Derek shifts, sliding one arm under Stiles’s shoulders, the other beneath his knees. Lifts him with practiced ease, holding him close. The smell of blood is strong, but so is the scent of Stiles, sharp and warm and familiar.
“You’re such an idiot,” Derek mutters.
Stiles smiles faintly, his head lolling against Derek’s shoulder. “Hey, Derek?” he whispers, barely audible.
“What?”
His fingers clutch instinctively at the fabric of Derek’s shirt, weak but insistent. “You’ve always been my Alpha.”
Derek stops. Just for a second. The words hang in the air like something sacred. Like magic. He looks down at Stiles, eyes half-closed, lashes wet, lips parted as if still tasting the sentence.
He holds him tighter. And runs. The forest blurs around them.
Derek runs like he hasn’t in years. Faster than his body should still allow. His heart thunders in his chest, each beat a countdown he doesn’t understand. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t growl. Doesn’t think. He just holds.
Stiles is quiet now. Too quiet.
His weight is loose against Derek’s chest, head tilted slightly back, breath coming in short, uneven pulls. The blood has slowed, but not enough. Derek keeps one arm wrapped tight around his shoulders, the other hand curled under his knees, and his grip never wavers.
Every branch he ducks, every shadow he passes, all of it disappears behind the sound of Stiles’s voice in his head.
You’ve always been my Alpha.
Derek hadn’t expected it. Couldn’t have. Those words didn’t sound like a joke. Not a punchline. They were quiet, raw. Honest. They settled into him like a blade and a balm all at once. And now they’re stuck there, repeating.
Not You are.
You’ve always been.
Derek’s feet hit solid ground as he clears the treeline. His house appears through the fog, lights already on. Someone must have called ahead. Liam, maybe. Or Malia. He doesn’t know. Doesn’t care.
The door flies open before he reaches it. Lydia stands there, white-faced, one hand pressed to her chest. Liam is just behind her, eyes wide.
“Oh god,” Lydia breathes, stepping aside. “What happened?”
“Get Deaton,” Derek snaps, not slowing as he passes. “Now.”
He doesn’t stop in the living room. Heads straight for the sofa, the old one near the fire. Gently, but quickly, he lowers Stiles down, cradling his head as he adjusts the cushions. His hands move on instinct. Pressure on the wound. Elevation. Warmth.
Stiles stirs faintly. “Derek?”
“I’m here,” he says, instantly.
Stiles smiles, weak but real. “You’re warm.”
“You’re losing blood,” Derek says. “Don’t talk.”
“Your voice,” Stiles whispers. “Sounds... safe.”
Derek doesn’t answer. He can’t.
Because he wants to say, You’re safe with me. Always have been. Always will be. But the words won’t come. They never do.
Deaton arrives minutes later. Derek steps back only because he has to, but his eyes never leave Stiles’s face. Not when the shirt is cut open, not when the wound is cleaned, not when the pain makes Stiles flinch and mutter his name again under his breath.
Afterwards, Deaton says something about stitches and healing time and keeping him warm. Derek nods. Says nothing. Lydia touches his arm once, then leaves him alone.
The house empties slowly. Everyone leaves. Night falls. Stiles sleeps.
And Derek sits on the floor beside the couch, elbows on his knees, hands tangled in his own hair.
The red in his eyes has faded. But the weight remains.
He doesn’t know what he is anymore. Doesn’t know how the spark came back, if it’s something ancient and wild or something broken and rebuilt. But when Stiles looked at him, bleeding and smiling and fearless, and said You’ve always been my Alpha…he believed it.
For a second. And that terrifies him more than anything. Because he wants to believe it again.
---
The house is too quiet.
Stiles notices it the moment he steps inside. The shoes by the door are lined up perfectly, the scent of tea lingers faintly in the air, and the fireplace hasn’t been lit since the night before the attack. It looks exactly the same.
That’s how he knows something’s wrong.
Derek’s not in the kitchen. Not in the living room. Not even in the garden.
Stiles stands in the middle of the hallway, arms crossed, jaw tight. He shouldn’t be here. He knows that. He should be home, resting, still technically under Deaton’s orders not to overexert himself.
But screw that.
Derek hasn’t messaged him. Not once. Not a call. Not a visit. Not a knock on the door just to see if he’s breathing.
He was bleeding on his couch three days ago.
And now, silence.
Stiles walks straight through the driveway. His side aches, but he doesn’t care. He knows where Derek hides when he doesn’t want to be found.
The bedroom door is open. He doesn’t knock.
Derek’s sitting on the edge of the bed, back to the door, shoulders hunched forward, one hand wrapped around his wrist. Like he’s been trying to hold himself still.
“Are you seriously ignoring me right now?” Stiles asks. No greeting. No preamble.
Derek doesn’t answer.
Stiles steps inside, shuts the door behind him. “You didn’t show up. You didn’t even ask how I was. After— after carrying me home, after seeing—”
“I know what I saw.” His voice is rough. Measured. But it cracks near the end, barely audible.
Stiles walks forward until he’s close enough to see the tension in Derek’s neck, the way his back is too straight. He doesn’t sit. Doesn’t soften.
“You don’t get to disappear on me. Not after that night. Not after what I said.”
“That’s exactly why I did.”
The words hang in the air, sharp and uneven.
Stiles exhales, slow and shaky. “You’re scared.”
Derek turns his head slightly. Not quite enough to meet his eyes. “You should be resting.”
“I’m not here to talk about bandages, Derek.”
Silence.
“You ran to me,” Stiles says quietly. “You fought for me. You carried me. You looked at me like I meant something, and then— you vanished. Why?”
Derek finally looks at him. There’s something fractured in his expression. Not broken, not like before. Just... exposed.
“I didn’t want to hear you say it again,” he says. “Not when you were bleeding. Not when I could pretend you didn’t mean it.”
Stiles flinches. “Pretend?”
“I thought it was the pain talking. Shock. Maybe something you needed to say to survive.”
Stiles takes a step closer. “And now?”
Derek’s throat works. “Now I know you meant it.”
They stare at each other. Neither moves. Neither breathes.
Then, Stiles says, very quietly, “And that’s what scares you the most, isn’t it?”
Derek doesn’t deny it. In his eyes something flickers, the hope of avoiding this conversation.
Stiles doesn’t stop. Doesn’t drop his gaze. Doesn’t let Derek look away.
“You didn’t ask for it back,” he says, voice steady. “The spark. You didn’t chase it. You didn’t fight for power. You didn’t kill anyone. And yet— it came.”
Derek says nothing, but something shifts behind his eyes. Almost pain.
“You think that makes it worse, don’t you?” Stiles goes on. “You think you don’t deserve it because you didn’t earn it the way people expect. Because it wasn’t bloody or dramatic or tragic enough.”
“I don’t think I deserve anything,” Derek mutters.
“Well, tough,” Stiles snaps. “Because you do.”
Derek blinks. Slowly. Like the words don’t make sense.
Stiles moves to sit beside him on the edge of the bed. Not touching. Just close. Close enough that their knees almost brush. Close enough that Derek could lean into him if he dared.
“I saw you,” he says softly. “When you stood there, your eyes glowing, your jaw set, your hands steady. I saw what the spark saw.”
“And what’s that?”
“A protector. A leader. Someone who fights without asking anything in return.” Stiles lets out a shaky breath. “Someone I trust with my life.”
Derek shakes his head. “You shouldn’t.”
“You saved me.”
“I’ve failed before.”
“I don’t care.” The words come out fast, sharper than he meant. He exhales and slows. “I don’t care if you think you’re broken. I don’t care if you think you’ve done too much or lost too much or carry too much. You’re not the same man you were. And you’re not some lone wolf who gets to vanish when things get hard. Not anymore.”
Derek stares at the floor. “I thought being an Alpha meant strength,” he says. “Power. Command. I thought I’d have to be hard to carry it again.”
Stiles watches him. “Maybe once. But not now.”
Derek glances at him, uncertain.
“I think it came back,” Stiles says, “because you finally stopped running from what you are. Because you fought not for dominance, not for revenge, but for someone. Your pack”
Derek doesn’t speak. He just sits there, still and silent, like he’s waiting for the words to break him.
And maybe they do. But not in the way he feared.
“You are my Alpha,” Stiles says, barely above a whisper. “Not because of your spark. Not because of your red eyes. Because you make me feel safe. Because you make me want to be brave.”
Derek’s jaw tightens. His hands curl into fists.
Stiles reaches out. Not boldly. Not dramatically. Just... honestly. He places his hand gently over Derek’s.
Derek doesn’t move.
“You said you didn’t know how to accept it,” Stiles murmurs. “Then let me.”
Silence stretches. Long. Thick. Quiet.
Then, slowly, Derek turns his hand over and laces their fingers together.
—
Their fingers stay joined. Still. Unmoving. But the connection is real. Solid. Warm.
Derek looks down at their hands like he doesn’t quite believe it. Like it might vanish if he breathes too hard. His thumb twitches once, then stills.
Stiles doesn’t push. Doesn’t speak. Just lets the quiet settle around them again, not empty this time, but full. Of things unspoken, things newly understood.
“I used to think,” Derek says at last, voice low and rough, “that wanting something meant I’d lose it.”
Stiles turns to him. Doesn’t interrupt.
“Every time I tried,” Derek continues, “it ended the same way. Pain. Loss. People getting hurt.” He swallows, the sound catching in his throat. “So I stopped. Wanting. Hoping. I thought... maybe if I didn’t let myself feel it, I couldn’t break it.”
Stiles nods. Just once. “That’s not how it works.”
“I know.”
Silence again.
Then Stiles leans in slightly, enough that their shoulders brush. “You didn’t break anything,” he says. “You held it. Protected it. You carried me through the woods like I mattered. Like I wasn’t just some idiot who got himself hurt again.”
Derek lets out a breath. Barely a sound. But his body shifts. Less tension. Less steel. “You did matter,” he says.
“Then say it.”
Derek meets his eyes. And this time, he doesn’t look away. “You matter.”
Stiles smiles. Not wide. Not smug. Just enough to show he heard it. Really heard it. “You too.”
Their hands are still clasped. Derek’s thumb moves, slow, across the back of Stiles’s fingers.
“I’m not good at this,” he says.
“Neither am I.”
Derek breathes in, deep and steady. “But I want to try.”
Stiles’s heart stutters.
He doesn’t speak right away. Doesn’t need to.
He lifts their joined hands and presses them to his chest, over his heart, letting Derek feel it.
“Then let’s start here.”
Derek nods. Once. And doesn’t let go.
—
They’re still sitting on the bed.
The air between them has shifted, not heavy, not charged, just warm. Quiet in a way that Stiles didn’t think he’d ever get to feel with Derek. Not like this. Not this close, this still, this safe.
Derek’s hand is still in his, fingers curled, thumb brushing over his knuckles now and then. His gaze is steady, but softer than before. Less guarded. More open. As if something inside him has finally stopped holding its breath.
Stiles isn’t sure who moves first.
Maybe he leans in. Maybe Derek does. Maybe the space between them just... gives up.
But the moment their foreheads touch, something settles deep in Stiles’s chest. A calm he didn’t know he’d been chasing. A certainty that doesn’t need explaining.
“Do you want this?” he asks quietly, not moving back.
Derek doesn’t hesitate. “Yes.”
It’s not loud. It’s not desperate. It’s just true.
Stiles closes his eyes, just for a second. Feels the word sink in. Then tilts his head the smallest bit and breathes,
“Okay.”
The kiss is slow.
Not the kind that crashes or burns. Not fire. Not lightning. Just heat. Gentle. Solid. Real.
Derek kisses like someone who hasn’t let himself want this in years, someone who’s learning how to be soft again. His lips are warm, careful. Not hesitant. Just reverent. Like he knows what this is. Like he doesn’t want to rush it.
Stiles moves closer, hands coming up to cradle Derek’s jaw, thumbs grazing the edge of his cheekbones. He feels the shiver that runs through him, the way Derek leans into the touch like he doesn’t realise he’s doing it.
They kiss again, deeper this time. More sure.
When they break apart, Stiles doesn’t open his eyes at first. Just rests his forehead against Derek’s and breathes him in. Skin, warmth, the scent of rain and something that’s always just been Derek.
Derek is the one who speaks. “You’re the only person who makes me feel like I could be something good.”
Stiles opens his eyes. “That’s because you are.”
Derek swallows, eyes locked on his. “I don’t always know how to be.”
“You don’t have to. You just have to be here.”
“I am.”
“Good.”
They sit there like that for a while. Breathing. Existing. Letting the world slow down.
Later, when they move to the couch downstairs, Stiles brings the blanket with him and wraps it around them both. Derek lights the fire. Neither says much, but it doesn’t matter. There’s nothing more that needs saying right now.
Stiles ends up with his legs draped over Derek’s lap, head resting on his shoulder, their hands still joined beneath the folds of the blanket.
“You do realise we’re going to have to tell the others,” Stiles mumbles.
“Eventually.”
“They’ll freak.”
“Probably.”
“Scott might cry.”
Derek huffs. “He’s not that emotional.”
Stiles grins against his shoulder. “He cried when you fixed his motorbike.”
“That was different.”
“He said it felt symbolic. A friendship blooming.”
A pause. Then Derek reluctantly adds, I “then he went away.”
Stiles snorts, and Derek’s arm tightens around him.
The fire crackles. The storm has long since passed, but its echo remains in the quiet rhythm of the flames, in the gentle weight of their bodies against each other, in the slow, steady beat of something beginning.
Stiles closes his eyes.
And for the first time in what feels like forever, he falls asleep knowing exactly where he belongs.