Work Text:
August, 2017
Stiles looked around his bedroom. So many memories...
He remembered Scott’s first broken arm—trying to climb onto the roof so they could watch the stars. The countless sleepovers they had playing video games (in the summer, of course—Melissa would never allow it on school nights). He remembered his mother teaching him how to read, and that particular memory made a single tear fall. He sighed and brushed it away with his fingers.
He could still see Derek climbing through the window just to freak him out in the middle of the night—or at the most wildly inappropriate moments possible. The memory brought a smile to his face for the first time that day. He could picture Lydia stretched out on his bed, reading some old book, trying to figure out whatever dark creature was haunting them at the time. Or Malia climbing into his room just to spoon him through the night.
Now, it was just a generic, partially empty room—stripped of everything that made Stiles’ room his.
The feeling of an ending kept breaking his heart over and over again. Somehow, it felt like he was never coming back to this goddamn town. And even though that idea once excited him, now it just felt... inevitable.
He took a deep breath and closed the door behind him, heading slowly down to the first floor. His father was standing in the middle of the living room, bouncing on his heels, clearly nervous. Stiles knew this was a goodbye. Noah knew it too. That didn’t make it any easier.
“Did you pack everything?” the sheriff asked, still staring at the ground.
“Dad.” Stiles stopped in front of him. “Dad… look at me.”
Noah wiped the tears from his face, took a shaky breath, and looked up, locking eyes with his son.
“Will yo—will you visit?” He couldn’t help the small sob that broke in the middle of the sentence, and his fidgeting was worse than ever.
Noah pulled Stiles into a tight hug. “Of course I will, son. Whenever I can. I’ll be there.”
They stayed in that embrace as long as they could, but Stiles had to get going. It was a long trip, and he had a schedule to keep.
He got into the rental car and took one last look at the house he grew up in—his father standing in the doorway, a cruiser parked in the driveway, and the Jeep covered on the side. He was going to miss this. He was going to miss home. Miss his dad. Miss his Baby.
With a sigh, Stiles started the car and headed toward the final stop before his new life began.
He's nervous as he turns onto Derek’s street. There’s no reason to be, really—Derek’s not there anymore. Still, his hands tighten on the steering wheel. He knows he’s being a coward. He could’ve asked Malia for Derek’s new number. He could’ve called. But that’s the problem, isn’t it?
If he does it this way, maybe Derek never finds the letter. And if he never gets an answer, Stiles can pretend Derek just never saw it—not that he was rejected. He’s used to rejection. Hell, he practically expects it by now. Lydia is a pretty solid example of that.
But Derek… Derek is different.
He parks the Jeep in front of the building and heads inside. When he handed his keys over to Scott last night, he quietly slipped this one out of the bunch. He keeps telling himself it was just so he could come here one last time. It has nothing to do with the fact that he didn’t want anyone else following after him, invading this space. Of course not. That would be stupid. Even though he knows his scent will fade in a couple of days, tops, it still makes him feel better—like he’s leaving a piece of him to Derek and taking a little piece of Derek with him into his new life.
So suck it up, universe. He’s keeping the damn key.
He opens the front door to the building and heads straight for the stairs. Taking the elevator in an abandoned place like this? Yeah, no thanks.
When he unlocks the door to the loft and pushes it open, he's just about to step inside when he stops short. Someone's standing in the middle of the living room. Arms crossed. Silent. Watching.
“Derek? What—What are— I—What are you doing here?”
Derek raises an eyebrow, just one, in that annoyingly calm way of his.
“This is my loft… in case you forgot.”
Stiles flushes immediately. He looks down, taking another deep breath. (How many has it been already? Is he developing lung issues? Jesus.)
Derek clears his throat. “I just came to grab a few documents. I’m staying in Brazil for a while.”
“With… with Cora,” Stiles says, stealing a quick glance at him.
“Yeah.”
The silence between them is sharp. Heavy. And Stiles knows he made it this way. Still, he clutches the letter tighter in his fist, like it’s the only thing anchoring him.
“That for me?” Derek asks, nodding toward the letter in his hand.
Stiles’ heart jumps. Damn it. Of course it gives him away. But… He’s leaving. He may never see Derek again. So really—what is there to lose? He takes a breath and slowly closes the distance between them.
“It is,” he says, placing the letter gently in Derek’s hand.
He watches Derek begin to open the envelope, but reaches out quickly, laying his hand over Derek’s to stop him.
“Could you maybe… open it at your new place? Or at least after I’m gone? It wasn’t meant to be read right now.”
He offers Derek a small smile, and Derek—ever the unreadable man—nods, raising those signature eyebrows – yes, The Eyebrows.
“I came to say goodbye,” Stiles says softly. “And I figured you wouldn’t be here. Hence… the letter.”
He’s close now. Too close. And he knows it. He keeps thinking it would be so easy to just lean in... But not now. Not like this. Derek’s still frowning.
“You’re leaving?”
“College.”
Derek’s voice drops to almost a whisper.
“Are you… coming back?”
If Stiles wasn’t standing so close, he probably wouldn’t have heard it at all. He looks at Derek for a moment. Then, gently, he reaches up and smooths the frown from his brow—the one that always seems to live there. Derek freezes under the touch. Stiles hears the hitch in his breath, sees the flash of surprise in his eyes.
This is it.
His last chance.
He’ll never be this close again.
So Stiles does something he never thought he’d be brave enough to do.
He kisses him.
Just a soft brush of lips. Brief. Barely there.
But enough.
Derek doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t flinch. Just stands there—stunned.
“Goodbye, Derek,” Stiles whispers, and turns around.
He leaves quickly, not daring to look back.
It was a goodbye kiss.
Derek is still standing in the same spot. He hasn’t moved in what feels like forever, the letter clutched tightly in his hands, his breathing shallow and uneven.
He doesn't know how long it takes to recover from the shock. Just to be sure he’s not dreaming, he pinches his arm. It hurts.
He counts his fingers. Five. It’s real.
He slowly walks to the couch and sits down, still dazed. Patience has never been his thing. He opens the letter.
Hi Sourwolf,
It’s Stiles, in case the nickname didn’t give it away.
I’m leaving. Going to college, actually. Can you believe that?
I mean, sure, everyone knows I’m a genius, but after everything we’ve been through, I honestly didn’t think I’d live long enough to make it this far. And yet—here I am.
I don’t really know how to write letters, you know? I Googled it.
But forgive me if this is too long, or not long enough.Cut me some slack—it’s the first (and probably the last) letter I’ll ever write. You should already feel special just for that.
You’re probably wondering why I wrote this, right?
Sorry. I’m nervous. Can you tell?
I lo—
...I don’t want you to hate me. Not more than you already do, at least.
But there’s something you need to know.I’m in love with you.
I’ve been in love with you for years.
I’m sorry.You probably didn’t even want to know about the embarrassing crush the spazzy teenager had on you.
But calling it a “crush” doesn’t feel right. It’s more than that.
At first, yeah, I had a thing for you when you told us we were trespassing.Teenage me was very into brooding guys with tragic backstories, okay? And yeah, you probably could smell it on me when you shoved me into walls. (Which, by the way, I liked. Sorry. I know it was dumb. Teenage hormones. Stupid crush. My bad.)
But then you started changing.
You decided to start being… decent. (You were kind of an asshole at first—come on, just admit it.)
You turned Erica.She was my friend, in a way. I don’t know if you realize it, but you gave her something she never had before: a chance to live.
She’d only ever known pain and limitation until you came into her life.
You set her free, Derek. You gave her that.
And what happened to her wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t.
They were violent, unhinged, reckless werewolves who thought killing kids was a good idea. They were to blame. Stop carrying that weight alone. It wasn’t your fault.
Do you know when I realized I loved you?It was a Thursday night.
We were at the old train depot.
You were laughing with Isaac when I walked in—really laughing, not smirking or fake smiling. It was real.
Erica was pissed about something Boyd said, and he was smirking like a little shit.
And there you were, laughing with Isaac.
And for a second—just a second—your eyes flashed red. And it was beautiful.
Then you turned to me, smiled, and said, “Hi, Stiles.” No sarcasm. No venom.
Just… you.And I was gone.
You ruined me, Derek Hale. Condemned me to love you at sixteen, and I honestly don’t think I’ll ever stop.
I wanted you to know, because I’m proud to love you.
Because if someone asks me someday if I’ve ever been in love, I want to say yes.
And I’ll tell them how beautiful you are.
How kind and selfless.
How fiercely you love and protect your people.
How loyal you are—even when no one deserves it.
How forgiving you’ve always been.
I love you, Derek Hale.
And I think your eyes are the most beautiful thing about you. (And yes, I’ve seen the abs. I know what I’m saying.)
But seriously—hazel, red, gold—they’re all stunning.
But the blue ones? They’re something else. Exquisite.
The first time I saw them? My knees almost gave out, I swear to God.
I just wish you could stop blaming yourself for everything bad that’s ever happened. None of it was your fault. Not really.
You should get therapy. I mean that sincerely. It would help. A lot.
Anyway—
I wrote this because I wanted you to know all of it.
If you find this letter years from now and don’t feel the same, please just… burn it.
Forget it ever existed.
And if we ever see each other again, can you pretend like you never read it?
But...
If you do find this—
Ten years from now—and you do feel something...
I want to dedicate a song to you.
Yeah, I know. Total teenage girl move. But I heard it on the radio this week, and it’s stuck in my head.
It says:
This is the last song I'll write about you,
I need to move on, I think you do too,
You were all that I wanted, you know that you still are
'Cause I've been alright, but you showed me better
I know that we're changin' but nothin' feels different
I'm breakin' the silence to say—If in ten years' time I'm still on your mind,
Would you call and say you want this?
No matter where we are, you still have my heart
'Cause I locked it, and I promise—
You're the locksmith.I’m sorry if this hurts you. I really am.
But this is goodbye.
Or maybe... “I’ll see you someday.”
And if in ten years' time, I’m still on your mind—
Would you call me?
Yours. Always.
S. Stilinski
P.S.: I love you.
Derek folds the letter carefully, like it might shatter in his hands.
He holds it a moment longer between his fingers, staring at the paper as if trying to memorize every word, every curve of Stiles’ handwriting.
The loft is silent, save for the distant hum of the city outside. The sunlight bleeds gold across the floor, but it doesn’t warm him.
He closes his eyes.
Breathes in.
And for the first time in a long time—he cries.
Not like when he lost his family.
Not like when the world collapsed around him.
This is different. Softer. Human.
It doesn’t tear him open—it just hurts.
Love.
Stiles loved him.
Loved him despite the scars, the silence, the wreckage he carried behind his eyes.
Loved him truly.
And maybe the scariest part—Derek wanted to love him back.
But he didn’t know how.
Not yet.
He looks around the loft, stripped bare.
It hasn't felt like home in a long time.
And now, he realizes he’s been carrying more than memories here—he’s been carrying guilt, grief, fear...
And the belief that he didn’t deserve anything good anymore.
But Stiles… Stiles lit a match in all that darkness.
And Derek doesn’t know what to do with the light.
Yet.
He folds the letter one more time and tucks it carefully into his bag—between boring travel documents and Cora’s list of essentials.
He won’t leave it behind.
He won’t forget.
As he stands at the threshold, he glances back at the loft.
Just a space now.
But it held a moment that might change everything.
He exhales one last time and closes the door behind him.
END....?