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Derek Hale had fucked a lot of people in his life.
Men. Women. Alphas. Betas. Strangers. Brief sparks of heat that never meant anything the second the sweat cooled and the clothes went back on. It had been primal, instinctual—werewolf stuff. Scent and want and need and dominance. No feelings. Just release.
Feelings were reserved. For women. Always women. At least, that’s what he’d told himself.
Until recently.
Until him.
Lupa help him—Stiles Stilinski.
The same kid who used to trail after Scott like a caffeinated, ADHD-fueled puppy. The same kid who poked and prodded at Derek's patience like it was a broken vending machine and sarcasm was the only currency he had.
The same kid who now—at twenty-six—stood taller, laughed louder, fought harder, and still drove Derek up the damn wall.
It had been ten years since that first eye-roll, that first groan of, "Can you just shut up for five seconds?"
Ten years of near-deaths, broken ribs, full moons, betrayals, alliances, and trauma stitched together with uneasy laughter and accidental trust.
And somewhere in the middle of all that, Stiles had become... not just some kid anymore.
Derek didn’t know when it happened exactly. When “he’s so annoying” turned into “he’s kinda funny.” When “he talks too much” became “his voice is comforting.”
When “he’s in the way” shifted to “if anyone lays a hand on him, I will rip their throat out with my teeth.”
It wasn’t like Peter and Isabelle—whatever dark, tangled obsession that was brewing between them. Peter stalked her with the kind of hunger that made the air around him crackle. Isabelle, who had become a werewolf—finally accepted what she was—but still refused to admit what Peter meant to her. It was complicated. Messy. Deep.
This? This wasn’t like that.
Derek didn’t want Stiles like Peter wanted Isabelle.
Not in the possessive “mark you as mine” way. Not yet anyway. Not out loud.
But there was something.
A spark. A hitch in his breath when Stiles smiled at him like they shared a secret. A warmth in his chest when Stiles cracked a stupid joke and bumped his shoulder against Derek’s like they were still teenagers.
It wasn’t lust. It wasn’t about sex. Not this time.
It was watching Stiles throw his arm around his twin sister’s shoulder, tugging her in close, both of them grinning like they’d survived hell and came back stronger.
It was Stiles helping Malia fix a broken door, laughing when she threatened to bite him.
It was Stiles staying behind to help Derek clean up after a hosted party.
It was... feelings.
Feelings for a man.
Derek had never let himself go there. Not really. Not before.
But now? Now he caught himself looking. Wanting.
And when he saw Stiles crouched on the porch one evening, hoodie sleeves shoved up, one hand absently petting a stray grey cat that had taken a liking to him, Derek had the strangest urge to sit beside him.
Not to fuck. Not to fight.
Just to be.
Derek stepped onto the porch, boots heavy against the worn wood. Stiles didn’t flinch, just looked up and gave him that lopsided, lazy smile that made Derek’s heart twist in a way he wasn’t prepared for.
“Cat’s name is Gandalf,” Stiles offered. “Because he’s old and wise and kind of a drama queen.”
Derek nodded, crouching down slowly. Gandalf didn’t move.
“Fitting,” he said softly.
Stiles smirked. “I was gonna name him ‘Grumpy,’ but that felt a little too on the nose. Might’ve summoned you by accident.”
Derek huffed a quiet laugh. “I’m not that bad.”
Stiles just bumped their shoulders together and let the silence stretch.
It wasn’t nothing.
And maybe Derek wasn’t ready to say it out loud.
Maybe he wouldn’t for a long time.
But this—this first flicker of something new, something terrifying and exhilarating and real—
It was definitely not nothing.