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Noah Stilinski leaned against the kitchen counter, mug in hand, eyes tracking Peter through the window as the man prowled around the backyard barefoot. Shirtless, of course. As usual. The Hale family seemed to believe clothing was optional once you hit a certain square footage of trauma.
Chris sat at the table, one leg crossed over the other, still in his Henley and jeans from patrol earlier. His coffee had gone cold. He hadn’t noticed.
Noah didn’t speak for a long minute. Then, carefully, he asked, “You ever wonder what the hell this is?”
Chris looked up, brow furrowed. “This?”
“This,” Noah repeated, gesturing vaguely toward the window. “Us. Him. All of it.”
Chris’s eyes flicked to the backyard. Peter had his head tipped back, soaking in the sun, like some goddamn Roman statue come to life. Arrogant bastard. Beautiful bastard.
Chris exhaled. “Yeah. I do.”
There was another silence. The kind that wasn’t awkward but held weight. Noah sipped his coffee.
“You ever think about… I don’t know. What it means?” Noah said, voice low. “Like, for you. Who you are.”
That was the real question, wasn’t it?
Chris looked down at his hands, fingers tapping slowly against his thigh. “I’ve been thinking about that more than I’d like to admit.”
Noah waited.
“When I was younger,” Chris started, “I didn’t question anything. It was black and white. Men were with women. Hunters killed monsters. You married, you had a kid, you went to church on Sundays. You didn’t ask what you wanted. You followed tradition.”
He swallowed. “And then… Victoria died. And everything started to blur.”
Noah was quiet, respectful. Chris continued, voice lower now.
“There was this one night. Fifteen years ago. I was angry. Grieving. Peter was in heat. I cornered him in the old warehouse. I was trying to push down everything. I kissed him.”
Noah raised an eyebrow. “You kissed Peter?”
Chris let out a dry laugh. “More like he kissed me, and I didn’t stop him.”
“And?”
“I didn’t hate it,” Chris admitted. “But I told myself it was nothing. Stress. Grief. Heat-fueled hormones. I buried it.”
Noah nodded slowly. “And now?”
Chris gave him a long, thoughtful look. “Now… he kisses me and I still don’t hate it. I think about it more than I should. And you—” He paused, almost sheepish. “You make it all feel… steadier. Like it doesn’t have to be chaos.”
Noah blinked at that, surprised. “I’m steady?”
Chris smiled faintly. “You’re a human anchor between a hunter and a werewolf. You make this possible.”
Noah looked down into his mug, feeling something warm and tight in his chest. He wasn’t used to being the one people leaned on. Usually he was the one fixing messes. Cleaning up after everyone else’s disaster.
“Do you think that makes you…” He struggled. “I mean, are you—?”
“Gay? Bi?” Chris shook his head. “I don’t know. I don’t care, honestly. I just know I want to be here.”
Noah stared at him. “That’s… fair.”
He hesitated. “I always thought I was straight. Married Claudia, had Stiles, dated a few women after. But I’ve always noticed people. Appreciated them. Doesn’t matter what gender.”
Chris tilted his head. “Heteroflexible?”
Noah laughed. “God, what a word.”
“You’re the one who started this conversation.”
“I was expecting you to say something reassuring and move on.”
“Nope. Introspection’s a bitch.”
Noah took another sip of coffee and exhaled. “I don’t know what label fits. Or if any do. All I know is when you kiss me, it’s good. And when Peter touches me, I melt. And when you both fall asleep on the couch like giant, snoring furniture, I feel… peaceful. Like I don’t want to be anywhere else.”
Chris didn’t say anything for a second. Then: “Yeah. Me too.”
The back door opened with a lazy creak, and Peter strolled in shirtless and smug, toweling off his hair like he’d just come from a spa instead of the backyard. “Are you two brooding about feelings again?”
“Just your effect on the emotional stability of fully grown men,” Noah muttered.
Peter tossed the towel aside, grabbed a slice of leftover pizza from the counter, and took a bite. “Ah yes. My specialty.”
Chris shook his head, but there was fondness in his eyes. “We were talking about labels.”
Peter stopped for a second mid-chew, then shrugged. “Those little sticky ones? Or the big neon kind people like to scream about online?”
Noah gave him a look.
Peter swallowed and leaned against the counter. “Never bothered with them. Never made sense to me. If someone’s interesting and wants me, and I want them, then it happens. I don’t care what they are. Never did.”
Chris blinked. “So, you’ve always been…?”
“Flexible. Fluid. Wildly fuckable.” He grinned. “Take your pick.”
Noah rolled his eyes. “So it’s not a crisis for you.”
Peter tilted his head, something quieter in his expression now. “It was. Once. I was seventeen. Kissed a boy in the locker room after basketball practice. My father saw. He didn’t speak to me for two weeks. After that, I stopped explaining myself to anyone.”
There was a beat of silence.
“I’m sorry,” Noah said quietly.
Peter shrugged again, more defensive now. “I’m not. Made me sharper. Meaner. But also made me honest. I know what I want.”
Chris stepped closer, not quite touching. “And what’s that?”
Peter’s eyes flicked between them. “This. Us. Whatever the hell it is. I don’t need a label to know when something feels right.”
Noah felt it then—quietly, overwhelmingly—that rightness they’d all been circling. The way Chris’s steady presence grounded them both. The way Peter's chaos filled in their cracks. The way he felt… at home.
Chris reached out, brushing his fingers against Noah’s hand. Peter didn’t say anything, but he leaned into Noah’s side, warm and solid.
They had something real—complicated, unconventional, confusing as hell—but it was theirs.
Labels could wait.