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The pack had been gathering for a casual dinner. Isabelle, Lydia, and Allison were throwing together plates in the open kitchen while Scott grilled on the balcony. Peter leaned against the counter, sipping a glass of whiskey, keeping half an eye on Isabelle as always, even if she pretended not to notice. The rest of the pack was sprawled across the couch and barstools, laughter echoing through the space like it belonged there.
But then—then—Stiles walked in with Derek trailing behind him, and something was different.
Not in the big dramatic way. No passionate make-out session at the door, no declarations. But the way Derek stood just a little closer than usual. The way Stiles leaned into him when he talked. The subtle, content grin on Derek’s normally guarded face.
Then Stiles reached out. Grabbed Derek’s hand like it was normal. Like it was easy. Like they hadn’t spent over a decade dancing around it like a pair of emotionally repressed figure skaters.
Isabelle screamed.
“FINALLY!” she bellowed, startling Scott enough that he dropped a spatula full of burgers through the grates.
Lydia, who had just taken a sip of wine, choked with an equally excited screech. “Ten years, you two! OVER TEN YEARS!”
Stiles blinked, cheeks flushing bright red. “W-what?”
Derek grunted, but didn't let go of his hand.
“Oh, no no no,” Isabelle marched forward, face alight with unfiltered joy, grabbing both of them by the shoulders. “You don’t get to just waltz in here all casual, all smug and domestic, like you haven't been each other’s person for years. The only surprise is that it took this long to admit it.!”
Peter chuckled lowly from behind her. “If I hadn’t met Isabelle when I did, I was going to go after Stiles myself.”
Isabelle spun on her heel like she’d been shot. “WHAT?!”
Peter grinned like the devil in a bespoke suit. “I’m kidding... although it would’ve been like dating a male version of you.”
Her jaw dropped in scandalized offense. “How dare you? Stiles is way more chaotic. Like... spazztastic. That man once fought a mirror because he thought his reflection blinked first. And he doesn’t shower nearly enough. I have scent control.”
Peter raised his glass in mock solemnity. “And that’s why I chose you.” He winked.
Lydia leaned into Isabelle’s side, still laughing, eyes glossy with joyful disbelief. “I feel like I’m witnessing an eclipse. Like the universe just finally realigned itself.”
“I know!” Isabelle threw her hands up. “They’ve been in denial longer than I’ve been back in Beacon Hills!”
“Hey!” Stiles huffed, still holding Derek’s hand, but clearly embarrassed. “We weren’t in denial. We were... working through... complicated—”
“You called it primal and meaningless, remember?” Lydia cut in.
Derek let out a deep sigh and muttered, “I was trying to keep boundaries.”
“You were trying to keep your pants on,” Isabelle teased, arms crossed, but eyes soft. “And you failed. Repeatedly.”
Stiles buried his face in Derek’s shoulder. “Oh my god, can we go back to when nobody knew?”
Derek didn’t move away. In fact, he pulled Stiles just a little closer, rubbing a thumb across his knuckles. “I like it better now.”
And just like that, the entire room softened. The teasing quieted into warmth. Into that kind of happiness that settled in bones.
Isabelle bit her lip, beaming. “I’m just... so damn happy for you guys.”
Peter, watching her, smiled behind his glass. He didn’t say anything—but the look in his eyes said it all. He understood this kind of joy. He lived it, too.
Lydia raised her glass. “To slow burns, spontaneous combustion, and finally making it official.”
“To Stiles and Derek!”
Everyone echoed it.
Even Derek muttered a reluctant, “...Thanks.”
And Stiles, blushing but grinning like a damn fool, added, “We’re still not doing the cutesy couple names.”
“Too late,” Isabelle said, tossing him a wink. “I already put 'Sterek' on your wine glasses, and I'm making you matching shirts!”