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Stiles shoved open the front door just as his dad was grabbing his keys off the hook by the stairs.
“Whoa, timing,” his dad said, sliding on his coat. “Dinner’s in the fridge. Meatloaf. Again.”
“Yeah, I figured. We’ve been on a three-day meatloaf streak. Pretty sure I’m developing a loaf-shaped stomach,” Stiles muttered, kicking off his shoes.
His dad gave him a knowing look. “Try not to burn it this time. Or the kitchen.”
“No promises,” Stiles said with a smirk. “Have fun saving Beacon Hills from petty theft and mysterious woodland growls.”
“Love you, kid.”
“Love you too, old man,” Stiles replied, brushing past him.
The door shut with a soft click, and just like that, the house settled into silence.
Stiles exhaled slowly. The kind of tired sigh that came from a long day of pretending he had his life together. “Cool. Meatloaf for one and a night full of existential dread. Just the usual.”
He dropped his backpack halfway up the stairs, like always, and made a beeline for his bedroom. His sanctuary. The one place where he could obsess over obscure supernatural lore in peace without anyone judging him... well, anyone human, anyway.
He flopped into his desk chair, booted up his laptop, and opened about ten tabs at once. ADHD in full force. He was currently neck-deep in a fascination with forest witches—particularly the creepy Eastern European kind with riddles and curses.
“Okay,” he muttered to himself. “If a witch binds your tongue with hair and silver thread... does it count as polite not to scream?”
He was halfway through an article titled ‘Twelve Signs You’ve Been Cursed by a Slavic Forest Spirit’ when the air in the room shifted. It was subtle, like a pressure drop—or the feeling of being watched. And not in the hot-celebrity-on-the-red-carpet kind of way. More like paranormal activity but make it personal.
He turned his head.
And shrieked.
“DUDE! What the actual hell?!”
Derek was standing in the far corner of his room like some kind of sexy cryptid, arms crossed, silent, and shadowy.
Stiles clutched his chest like a Southern grandmother. “Were you just... standing there?! How long have you been there? And why?! You can’t just silently Batman your way into my space! That’s how horror movies start!”
Derek didn’t move. Didn’t say a word. Just stood there like a monument to Grumpiness and Perfect Jawlines.
“Seriously, are you trying to kill me? Because congrats, you almost did. Hope you enjoy explaining that to my dad.”
Still nothing.
Stiles waved a hand. “What is this, Teen Wolf meets Paranormal Mime Hour? Say something! Grunt! Snarl! Breathe weirdly!”
Derek pointed at his own face.
Stiles blinked. “Okay. This again. You’re pointing at your face. Is there something on your face? Is your jaw locked? Did you forget how to be a person?”
No answer.
“Wait.” Stiles sat forward. “You can’t talk. Can you?”
Derek nodded once, slow and serious.
Stiles gasped. “Oh my god. Did a witch curse you?!
Are you cursed?!”
Another nod.
“You’ve gotta stop running into cursed women in the woods, man,” Stiles muttered, turning back to his laptop. “Hang on. I’ve got a database for this.”
Derek perched on the edge of the bed as Stiles pulled up his digital bestiary. He muttered to himself while clicking through tabs, opening bookmarked PDFs, and simultaneously pulling out an actual leather-bound journal filled with his scribbled notes and highlighter rage.
“So, there’s like, three main types of witch curses. Vocal locks, spirit binds, and emotional debt triggers—ooh, this one looks spicy.”
He glanced over. “Any weird physical symptoms? Rash? Hair loss? Uncontrollable need to listen to Taylor Swift?”
Derek glared.
“Hey, I’m just saying, if a witch cursed me, I’d be ten feet deep in folklore and Midnights by now.”
He kept skimming.
“Okay. Here. Found one. Some witches curse you by stealing your voice until you say—or do—something you’ve been holding in. Something personal. Vulnerable. Ugh, emotions. So exhausting.”
He turned to Derek, waving his notebook dramatically. “So. What haven’t you said, Sourwolf? What truth is trapped in your beautifully tragic soul?”
Derek didn’t answer. Just stood and began pacing again, arms tight across his chest. His brows were furrowed, lips pressed in a firm line, jaw clenching and unclenching like he was chewing on guilt.
Stiles watched, eyes narrowing. “Okay, now I’m nervous. You only pace like that when something’s seriously eating you. Did you kill someone? Please tell me it wasn’t me.”
Derek stopped pacing, took a deep breath, then grabbed a notebook and pen from the desk. He hesitated—hesitated, Derek Hale hesitated—then began to write.
When he flipped the first page around, it read:
'There’s something I’ve needed to say for a long time. But I didn’t know how. I didn’t think I was allowed to.'
Stiles sat up straighter, heart thudding.
Derek wrote more.
'You talk a lot. And sometimes you drive me insane. But you’re also the only person who makes me feel like I’m still human. Like I matter. And that scares the hell out of me.'
Stiles’ throat went dry.
More writing.
'I didn’t say anything because I figured you’d never want someone like me. You’re bright. Alive. And I’m... me.'
Stiles opened his mouth, then closed it again.
'I’m in love with you. I have been. And I didn’t know how to say it until I couldn’t say anything at all. So... can I kiss you?'
There was a long beat of silence.
Then—
“WHAT,” Stiles practically shouted. “What?! What the hell is happening?! Are we in a rom-com right now? Did I fall into a fanfiction dimension?!”
He looked at the paper. Then Derek. Then the paper. Derek again.
His brain full-on crashed.
“You—you’re in love with me? You? Mister Grumpy Growl-Face? That’s what the witch curse was about?! That’s what you were too afraid to say?!”
Derek gave him a look that was 40% pleading, 60% “please shut up,” and 100% heart-melting.
Stiles flushed from head to toe. “Okay. Yeah. Yes. You can kiss me. Please. Before I implode.”
Derek stepped forward and gently pulled him up by the hand, cupping his face with a tenderness Stiles didn’t know Derek was capable of.
And then he kissed him.
Soft, slow, warm.
Stiles melted instantly, knees turning to Jell-O, hands grabbing onto Derek’s hoodie like a lifeline.
When they finally pulled apart, Derek’s voice—gravelly but back—broke the silence.
“I meant what I wrote. I love you.”
Stiles blinked, wide-eyed and breathless.
“I love you too, you ridiculous, cursed werewolf.”