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Noah Stilinski is at the stove, cooking something that smells decent, if not exciting—dad food. The news murmurs in the background. Stiles leans against the doorframe, bouncing one foot nervously, arms crossed over his chest like a shield.
Noah glances at him. “You’re hovering.”
“I'm not hovering.”
“You’re doing the thing where you linger and don’t talk. That’s hovering.”
Stiles inhales, slow and deep. Exhales too fast.
“Okay. Right. So. I need to tell you something.”
Noah turns off the stove. Fully. Because that tone—that one he knows from scraped knees and deeper confessions—demands full attention. He turns to face his son, arms folded.
“Alright. Go ahead.”
Stiles opens his mouth. Closes it. Fidgets. Then blurts—
“I think I’m into guys.”
Beat.
Noah raises an eyebrow. “Okay.”
“Just... okay?” Stiles echoes, a bit thrown.
“Well, it’s not like I didn’t see this coming.”
“What?!”
Noah just gestures vaguely at him. “Stiles, come on. You have the fashion sense of someone who’s perpetually confused about their identity.”
Stiles looks down at his open flannel over a worn Batman shirt and plaid pajama pants showing mismatched socks. “Rude. This is peak bi-panic attire.”
“That’s not a thing.”
“It should be.”
Noah suppresses a smirk. “So… when did you figure it out?”
Stiles shrugs, hopping up to sit on the counter. “I dunno. Maybe when Derek entered my life? But not really. Like… maybe the seed was planted back then. You know, hot broody werewolf throwing me into walls, growling all the time, glaring at me like I personally offended his ancestors…”
“Charming.”
“I thought so,” Stiles mutters under his breath. “But yeah, it wasn’t then. Probably definitely after Malia.”
“Wait—after Malia?”
“Yeah. Turns out, losing your virginity doesn’t automatically make everything clear. Surprise!”
Noah leans against the opposite counter, arms crossed. “So… Derek, huh?”
Stiles groans, covering his face. “Don’t make it a thing, Dad.”
“You made it a thing.”
“Okay, yes, fine, I had a crush on him! Well have. Mostly. Kind of. Still slightly ongoing.”
“And does he know?”
“God, no. And it’s probably not mutual. I mean, the man barely talks, let alone flirts.”
“He did save your life a lot.”
“Yeah, well, he does that for everyone. It's like his brooding love language. If he’s even into guys. Which—jury's out. Could go either way. But honestly? I might just be... I don't know. Dereksexual.”
Noah snorts. “That’s definitely not a thing.”
“Now that definitely should be!”
“You’re full of things that shouldn’t be things tonight.”
“Welcome to the inside of my head, Dad. It’s a crowded and chaotic place.”
They fall into a pause. The kind that’s just heavy enough to be sincere, but comfortable too.
Noah straightens, walking over. He puts a hand on the back of Stiles’ neck and squeezes gently. “Look. However you label it, or don’t—gay, bi, Dereksexual—doesn’t matter to me. I just want you happy, and safe, and not spiraling into a tornado of self-doubt every time your heart gets involved.”
Stiles gives him a watery smile. “Too late.”
“I know. But I’ll be here to help pick up the pieces. Even if Derek doesn’t.”
Stiles pauses. “...You do know he could totally hear this conversation if he was anywhere within like a hundred yards, right?”
“Then I hope he hears that if he breaks your heart, I will shoot him.”
“Dad!”
“I said if. And with non-lethal rounds. Probably.”
They both laugh—relieved, slightly embarrassed, but stronger for it.