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It started, like many terrible things in their life, with Peter Hale.
Specifically, Peter Hale leaning against the kitchen counter in nothing but boxers (he stole from Noah), eating a peach like it had personally offended him. It was just before 8:00 AM. Chris had gotten three hours of sleep, Noah was still nursing his first cup of coffee, and Peter… well. Peter was already in rare form.
“Would you still love me if I was a worm?”
Noah didn’t even look up from the paper. “What kind of worm?”
Chris blinked. “I—what?”
Peter took another messy bite of the peach, juice trailing down his wrist. He gestured with the fruit. “You heard me. If I was a worm. Little squiggly thing. No arms. No legs. Just vibes. Would you still love me?”
Chris stared. “What kind of question is that?”
“The important kind,” Peter replied, dropping the pit into the sink. “You know, the kind that defines the depth of your devotion. The kind that answers: Do you love me for my sparkling personality or my dangerously tight ass?”
Noah raised his mug. “It’s the ass.”
“Thank you, Stilinski.”
Chris dragged a hand down his face. “Why are we talking about this?”
“Because,” Peter said, spinning to face them dramatically, “TikTok said that asking your partners if they’d still love you as a worm reveals the true soul of the relationship.”
Chris turned to Noah. “Is that a real thing?”
Noah didn’t even blink. “Sadly, yes.”
Peter smirked, pointing between them. “So. Would you?”
Chris opened his mouth. Closed it. Stared at his coffee like it might contain answers. “How would that even work?”
“Oh, God,” Peter moaned dramatically. “So it’s conditional love, then. That’s what I’m hearing.”
“I don’t—I just—would you even still have thoughts as a worm?” Chris demanded.
Peter gasped. “How dare you question my intellectual capacity in worm form!”
Noah finally looked up. “Peter, baby, we’d keep you in a very nice terrarium.”
Chris choked. “That’s enabling!”
“Oh, I see,” Peter said, hands on his hips. “So you’d keep me like some pet, while my Alpha dignity withers inside a plastic cage filled with moss and regret.”
Chris stood, clearly trying to hold onto his sanity. “You’re the one who brought up becoming a worm!”
Peter ignored him. “Noah would probably build me a whole custom habitat. With twinkly lights. And a heating pad. And tiny books I can’t read anymore because I don’t have thumbs.”
Noah nodded slowly. “That’s… honestly, yeah. That sounds accurate.”
Peter turned, fluttering his lashes. “See, this is why Noah is the favorite.”
Chris groaned, looking heavenward. “I trained to kill werewolves. I studied ancient bestiaries. I’ve hunted the supernatural for decades. And now I live with a man asking me if I’d love him as an earthworm.”
Peter shrugged. “I'd be a sexy dirt noodle. You’re welcome.”
Noah snorted hard into his coffee.
Chris turned to him, betrayed. “Don’t encourage him.”
Peter, undeterred, slid into Chris’s personal space. “What would you do with Worm Peter, hmm? Would you hold me gently in your calloused, hunter hands? Whisper sweet nothings? Carry me in your pocket like a forbidden secret?”
Chris looked one breath away from praying. “I’d put you on a hook and fish with you.”
Peter gasped, slapping his chest. “Murder! You’d murder me for sport?!”
Noah, voice dry, murmured, “It’d be the most useful you’ve ever been.”
Peter whirled. “Et tu, Stilinski?”
Chris pinched the bridge of his nose. “I am begging, so begging, for just one normal morning.”
Peter stepped back with exaggerated offense. “You know what? No. I withdraw the question. You both failed. I’ll find someone else to cherish me in my hypothetical annelid form.”
Noah raised a brow. “Like who?”
Peter narrowed his eyes. “Lydia. She’d cradle me in her palm and read me Oscar Wilde.”
Peter sighed dramatically and flopped into the armchair, limbs sprawled everywhere. “Honestly, the disrespect. I bring passion, danger, and an ass sculpted by gods, and this is the thanks I get?”
Noah finally set down his mug, stood, and walked over to Peter. He leaned down, kissed Peter’s forehead, and said solemnly, “We would love you. Worm or not.”
Peter blinked up at him.
Chris watched them both suspiciously.
Noah added, deadpan, “We’d feed you compost, keep your habitat clean, and name you Wiggles Hale.”
Peter lit up like Christmas morning. “That’s adorable. I love it.”
Chris muttered, “I think I’m having an aneurysm.”
Peter stretched like a smug cat. “You’re just mad because I’d still get laid as a worm.”
Chris stared. “How—how would that even—”
“I’m just saying,” Peter continued, completely ignoring him, “a sexy dirt noodle like me? Someone would find a way.”
Noah turned away, shoulders shaking.
Chris glared at both of them. “Why are we like this?”
Peter smirked. “Because you’re tragically in love with a chaos gremlin and a man who enables him.”
Noah saluted with his coffee. “Can confirm.”
Chris turned to the sink, muttering, “Should’ve stayed in France.”
Peter called after him, “But then you’d never meet Worm Peter, our future child-slash-pet-slash-erotic enigma!”
Chris slammed the cupboard shut. “You need a warning label.”
Peter’s voice floated back, syrupy sweet. “Would you still love me if I had a warning label?”
Chris didn’t answer.
Noah did.
“We do. Every damn day.”
Peter stilled.
For just a moment, one single moment. he looked genuinely moved.
Then he smirked.
“Even when I’m wriggling?”
Chris groaned so hard it echoed.
Peter laughed like a man victorious.
Noah just raised his mug and said softly, “To our sexy dirt noodle.”