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Stiles had had crushes. Stupid ones, really. Random, fluttery feelings over classmates who never knew his name, fictional characters who wrecked his heart, and one regrettably hot college TA who he thought he could impress with his knowledge of obscure military tactics and a “clever” pun about Napoleon’s complex. (Spoiler alert: it didn’t work.)
He’d kissed people. A fair amount, if he was honest. Drunken fumbling in the back of parties, making out in the woods during bonfires, experimental kisses with friends that led to nothing but giggles and awkward eye contact after.
He'd had sex too. Lost his virginity to Malia. They didn’t talk about that. Not because it was bad—because it wasn’t. It just… didn’t mean what he thought it should. Not then. Not now.
But love?
No. Not really.
Not until him.
Until Derek Hale.
It wasn’t even some dramatic moment, no sweeping music or rain-soaked confessions. Just Derek, sitting on the porch of the rebuilt Hale house one summer evening, a beer in his hand, Stiles beside him, in a flannel and sunburnt, laughing too loud at something Derek said—something stupid and dry and sarcastic that made him snort-laugh so hard he spilled half his beer down his shirt.
Derek rolled his eyes, but his lips twitched with the faintest, softest smirk.
And it hit Stiles like a fucking freight train.
Oh. Shit. It’s you.
It was the realization that Derek saw all of him—annoying, talkative, hyper, anxious him—and didn’t try to fix it. Didn’t try to tame or change him. Just sat there, silent but steady, sometimes exasperated, always there. The kind of constant he’d never really known he needed until it was just… there.
Love wasn’t fireworks. It was Derek remembering how he took his coffee and setting it down beside him without a word. It was the way he reached out during a panic attack and pressed their foreheads together until the world stopped spinning. It was the stupid little leather bracelet Derek wore that he swore wasn’t because Stiles made it when he was bored one day, but they both knew the truth.
Stiles had never had this before.
Not like this.
Not with someone who could shatter him if they wanted to, but instead held him like something precious. Like something real.
And yeah, he still panicked sometimes. Still blurted out dumb jokes and overanalyzed the quiet. Still waited for it to fall apart. But Derek? Derek would just look at him, tired but patient, and say, “I’m not going anywhere.”
And that was it.
That was love.
Stiles didn’t say it right away.
He felt it long before the words ever made it to his mouth.
Weeks went by—nights tangled up in sheets, lazy mornings with coffee neither of them remembered making, the comfort of routines neither of them had dared to imagine they'd get to share. Still, Stiles kept it inside, the three words growing heavier each time he looked at Derek and thought you have ruined me for anyone else, ever.
He almost said it once, when Derek was half-asleep on the couch, hair damp from the shower and his head resting on Stiles’ thigh, his hand curled loosely around Stiles’ wrist like he was anchoring them both.
Stiles had brushed a hand through that dark hair and whispered, “God, I love you,” so quietly he wasn’t sure if he’d actually said it out loud.
Derek didn’t stir.
Maybe that was the safest way to say it the first time. When it didn’t count. When no one could hear him but the silence.
But the truth was, Derek had already said it first—in his way.
He said it when he followed Stiles to D.C. for that FBI internship and rented an apartment five blocks away without being asked.
He said it when he kept that dumb Sheriff badge keychain on his keys, the one Stiles gave him as a joke, the one that jangled every time Derek got home and threw them in the bowl by the door.
And eventually, Stiles stopped being afraid of it.
It happened one evening, quiet and unremarkable—like most important things are. Derek was cooking. Cooking. And it smelled amazing, and the windows were fogged up with warmth and spice and the mundane magic of domestic life.
Stiles leaned against the counter, watching him stir something in a pan. Derek glanced at him over his shoulder, and Stiles could feel it.
Not a freight train this time. Not a punch in the chest. Just that slow, building tide of this is home.
So he said it.
Not dramatically. Not perfectly.
Just:
“Hey. I love you.”
Derek stilled for a second, then turned, brow raised like he couldn’t believe it took this long.
“Yeah,” Derek said, voice quiet. “I know.”
Stiles blinked. “Did you just Han Solo me?”
Derek snorted and walked over. Pulled him in by the shirt and pressed their foreheads together. “I love you too, idiot.”
“Okay, well, now I feel all soft and warm inside. I hate it.”
“No, you don’t.”
Stiles smiled. “Okay. Maybe I don’t.”
There were still going to be bad days. Panic spirals. Arguments that lasted too long. Hurt feelings and the occasional plate sacrificed to dramatic hand gestures. But there would also be this. Home-cooked meals. Warm beds. Shared jokes. Safe silences.
Because Derek wasn’t just his first love. Stiles hoped Derek was his forever love.