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Derek should have moved Stiles hours ago, but every time he considered waking him, Stiles shifted closer and made the sensible choice feel needlessly cruel. The movie had ended sometime after midnight, leaving the television dark and the rebuilt Hale house unusually quiet. Firelight moved across the old stone fireplace and the newer oak beams overhead, warming the room with shifting shades of amber while the forest pressed close against the windows. Wind moved through the pines beyond the porch, brushing branches against the roof in soft, uneven scratches that Stiles had once described as the house trying to communicate.
Everyone else had already gone. Lydia had left alone, waving away three separate offers to follow her home because she was perfectly capable of driving six miles without an escort. Scott, Allison, and Isaac had departed together after a brief argument over who was driving and whether Isaac could control the music from the back seat. Allison had eventually taken Scott’s keys, Scott had kissed her cheek, and Isaac had stolen the front passenger seat before either of them noticed what he was doing. Peter had disappeared shortly afterward, claiming that watching the three of them negotiate their relationship was exhausting enough without staying to watch Derek and Stiles avoid theirs.
Stiles had thrown a piece of popcorn at his head. Peter had caught it without looking, eaten it, and left with a satisfied expression that Derek had wanted to remove from his face.
Now Stiles was asleep against Derek’s fully shifted body with one arm resting across Derek’s ribs and his fingers buried in the thick fur beneath Derek’s shoulder. His cheek pressed into the softer fur around Derek’s neck, and one knee had somehow ended up wedged between Derek’s hind legs as though Stiles had been determined to occupy as much space as possible even while unconscious.
It had happened before, though neither of them acknowledged it afterward. Stiles occasionally fell asleep during a movie or after a difficult night, and Derek stayed beside him until morning because waking him seemed unnecessarily cruel. The first few times, Derek had carried him upstairs to one of the guest rooms. Stiles had complained that the mattress was too firm, the pillows were suspiciously decorative, and Derek was warmer than the blankets while being significantly less likely to collapse beneath him.
Derek had ordered him to stop using an alpha as furniture. Stiles had responded by settling more comfortably against his side and asking whether the furniture accepted tips.
Their strange routine should have bothered Derek more than it did. He disliked being touched without warning, and even the pack had learned to give him space when he was shifted. Stiles ignored that boundary with the careless confidence of someone who had never believed Derek’s rules applied to him. He leaned against Derek, buried his hands in Derek’s fur, and scratched behind his ears while insisting he was conducting important biological research.
Derek allowed it because Stiles trusted him. That was the explanation he repeated whenever the truth became too difficult to examine.
Stiles smelled different when he slept. The sharp edge of his anxiety faded, his heartbeat settled, and the tension he carried through his shoulders slowly released. Tonight, traces of cinnamon gum and coffee clung to him beneath laundry detergent, and the citrus shampoo Derek had disliked from the moment Stiles started using it. The artificial scent was too bright and sharp, covering the warm, familiar smell that belonged to Stiles alone.
Beneath the shampoo, Derek could detect the fear and exhaustion Stiles had carried into the house. He had laughed through dinner, argued with Peter, and interrupted the movie every few minutes to explain why the characters were making terrible decisions. None of it had hidden the way his pulse jumped whenever his phone vibrated or how often his hand drifted toward the scar along his side. The injury had healed months ago, leaving a pale line across his skin, but Stiles still touched it when memories caught him off guard.
Now he smelled safe. His breathing was deep, his body loose against Derek’s, and the hand tangled in Derek’s fur wasn’t holding on because he was frightened. Stiles trusted him enough to sleep beside Derek’s claws and teeth without hesitation, and that knowledge touched something Derek had spent years forcing into silence.
Derek lowered his muzzle and breathed into Stiles’s hair. He wanted to keep Stiles close. He wanted the couch, the house, and his own skin to carry Stiles’s scent after the Jeep disappeared down the driveway. The wolf wanted the same thing in reverse. It wanted Stiles marked with the quiet evidence that he had slept safely beside Derek and belonged among the people Derek protected.
The instinct was neither reasonable nor harmless. Stiles had never given him permission to think of him that way, and Derek knew better than to encourage desires built from possession and fear. Wanting people had never brought him anything except blood, grief, and empty rooms where a family should have been. He should have lifted his head, nudged Stiles awake and told him it was time to go home.
Instead, Derek dragged his tongue over the side of Stiles’s hair. Stiles made a soft, irritated sound but didn’t wake. His fingers tightened in Derek’s fur as he tucked his face more securely against Derek’s neck, and the small movement weakened what remained of Derek’s restraint. Derek licked the same spot again, replacing the citrus with his own scent while several strands flattened against Stiles’s head.
He paused to examine the result. The front of Stiles’s hair stood in uneven spikes while the side had been pressed flat, which wasn’t an improvement by any reasonable standard. Derek knew he should stop before Stiles woke and demanded an explanation he wasn’t prepared to give, but the wolf had settled for the first time in weeks. The restless pressure beneath Derek’s skin had quieted, leaving behind a satisfaction he had no right to feel.
Derek lowered his head for another pass. Stiles’s eyes opened just as his tongue swept across Stiles’s temple.
They remained frozen together for several seconds. Stiles’s cheek was still pressed into Derek’s chest, his arm remained draped across Derek’s ribs, and his fingers hadn’t released their grip. His eyes were unfocused with sleep, but confusion quickly sharpened into suspicion as he stared at Derek’s muzzle hovering inches from his face.
“Did you just lick my head?” Stiles asked, his voice rough from sleep but filled with unmistakable disbelief.
Derek pulled back and turned toward the television. The screen remained black, but he studied it as though something important might appear if he waited long enough.
“No, you don’t get to do that,” Stiles said as he pushed himself upright. His legs were still tangled against Derek’s, forcing Derek to shift so he wouldn’t slide from the couch. “Your ears are the size of satellite dishes. I know you heard me, and your tongue was attached to my temple about three seconds ago.”
Derek kept his gaze on the television. He could feel Stiles watching him, and the sudden jump in Stiles’s heartbeat told him exactly when Stiles discovered the damp strands.
“Oh, that’s disgusting.” Stiles held his wet fingertips in front of Derek’s face. “How many times did you do that?”
Derek turned his head just far enough to glare at him. Stiles pulled his hand back, though he looked more offended than intimidated.
“That wasn’t an insult to your personal hygiene. I’m sure you’re a very clean wolf, but there’s still a socially acceptable limit on how much saliva one person should wake up wearing.” Stiles climbed from the couch and nearly caught his foot beneath the coffee table. Derek moved instinctively, but Stiles recovered before he could help and hurried toward the mirror near the hallway. “What did you do to my hair?”
Derek followed him, unable to keep a trace of satisfaction from returning when he saw the full result. One side of Stiles’s hair was plastered against his skull while the front rose in damp, uneven spikes. A longer strand curved over his forehead, and several strands near his ear were still glistening.
Stiles stared at his reflection with growing outrage. “I look like I lost a fight with a lawn mower.”
A huff escaped Derek before he could stop it. The style was terrible, but the scent clinging to Stiles still pleased the wolf.
“You don’t get to laugh. This is your fault.” Stiles turned around, though the accusation faded when he saw Derek’s posture. His expression became cautious as he studied Derek’s lowered head and flattened ears. “Why are you looking at me like I’m about to hit you?”
Derek stepped back before Stiles could approach. He could hear the exaggeration in Stiles’s disgust, but fear had already taken hold, convincing him he had crossed a boundary that couldn’t be repaired. The wolf’s satisfaction vanished beneath the weight of what he had done while Stiles was asleep.
“Hey, I’m not actually furious,” Stiles said as he followed. “I’m confused, slightly damp, and probably going to need a shower before this dries into some kind of werewolf styling gel, but I’m not angry with you.”
Derek shifted beside the couch. The transformation was quick and familiar, fur withdrawing as bones and muscle returned to their human shape. He stood barefoot and bare-chested in the sweatpants he had left folded near the fireplace, then crossed his arms because he needed something to keep his hands occupied.
“You should go home,” Derek said. He kept his voice flat, hoping Stiles would accept the order without hearing what it cost him.
Stiles stared at him. “You were grooming me thirty seconds ago, and now you’re throwing me out?”
“I shouldn’t have done it.” Derek looked past him toward the windows, avoiding the damp mess of his hair and the concern gathering in his face. “It won’t happen again.”
The house became quiet except for the fire shifting in the hearth and the wind moving through the trees. Stiles didn’t head toward the door. His heartbeat rose instead, confusion hardening into frustration as he took a careful step closer.
“Why did you do it?” Stiles asked. When Derek refused to answer, his voice dropped into something quieter and more serious. “I’m not making fun of you now. I want to understand.”
“It was instinct,” Derek said. The explanation sounded weak, but the truth would be worse. “I allowed it to get too close to the surface.”
“You licked my hair, Derek. You didn’t attack anyone.”
“You don’t know what it meant.”
“That’s why I’m asking.” Stiles dragged both hands over his face, then remembered what was in his hair and wiped his palm against his jeans. “This would be much easier if you occasionally answered a direct question instead of acting like every conversation is an interrogation you can survive through silence.”
Derek’s jaw tightened. “You were asleep, and I took advantage of that.”
The sentence hurt, but he needed Stiles to understand why it couldn’t happen again. Derek had allowed desire and instinct to make a choice Stiles hadn’t been awake to make for himself.
Stiles’s anger faltered. “You think this is about consent.”
“It should be.”
“It is, and you should’ve asked before treating me like a puppy with dirty fur. That doesn’t mean you committed some unforgivable crime.” Stiles moved closer, bringing the warmth of his scent with him. “Tell me what it meant. I can’t decide how I feel when you refuse to explain what happened.”
Derek looked toward the hallway leading to the downstairs bathroom. He could still smell the citrus in Stiles’s hair beneath his own scent, and he hated it for reasons that had nothing to do with the fragrance. It reminded him that Stiles had another home, a bedroom Derek had only entered through windows during emergencies, and mornings that began without Derek anywhere near them.
“I wanted my scent on you,” Derek admitted. The words sounded too honest in the quiet room.
Stiles stopped moving, and his heartbeat stumbled. “Because I’m pack?”
Derek could have accepted the easier explanation. Pack members carried traces of one another from shared rooms, training, and physical contact. Stiles might have believed him or at least pretended to believe him so neither of them had to face the alternative.
“Not only because you’re pack,” Derek said. He watched Stiles understand, and the hope that entered his scent frightened him more than rejection would have.
“So, it was territorial,” Stiles said carefully. “You wanted me to smell like I belonged to you.”
“You don’t belong to me.” Derek’s response came out harder than he intended. “You’re not something I can own or claim.”
Stiles flinched as though Derek had struck him. The movement was small, but Derek noticed it immediately, along with the sudden bitterness entering his scent.
“Right. Of course not,” Stiles said, covering the hurt with a thin smile. “That would be ridiculous, especially since we’re not doing anything besides falling asleep on each other and apparently participating in one-sided grooming rituals.”
“That isn’t what I meant.”
“I know exactly what you meant.” Stiles took a step toward the hallway. “You wanted me close until I woke up and noticed. That seems to be our entire relationship.”
Derek’s fear turned into anger because anger was easier to control. “There is no relationship.”
The words stopped Stiles. His shoulders went rigid, and Derek heard the sharp breath he tried to hide before he turned back.
“Okay,” Stiles said after a moment. “That’s clear.”
Derek should have stopped. He should have apologized, admitted that the sentence was a lie, and explained that Stiles had become too important for Derek to trust himself with him. Instead, he saw hope fading from Stiles’s face and decided destroying it completely would be safer than leaving enough for him to stay.
“You keep turning things into something they’re not,” Derek said. He forced his hands to remain at his sides even as every instinct demanded that he reach for Stiles. “You stay too late, fall asleep wherever you want, and ignore every boundary I set. I let it happen because arguing with you is exhausting, not because it means anything.”
Stiles stared at him. His face lost its usual restless expression, becoming so still that Derek wished he would yell instead.
“Arguing with me is exhausting,” Stiles repeated. “That’s why you let me sleep against you.”
“Yes.”
“That’s why you call me at two in the morning and sit on the phone without talking.”
Derek felt his control slipping, but he forced himself to nod. “You answer.”
Stiles’s mouth tightened. “That’s why you bring food to my house, fix the Jeep when I don’t ask, and show up whenever I have a bad night.”
“You need someone watching you because you don’t know when to stop.”
The lie tasted bitter. Derek could hear the damage in Stiles’s heartbeat, but he kept going because some frightened part of him believed pain now would spare Stiles worse pain later.
Stiles gave a short laugh that contained no amusement. “You know, I thought you were scared. I thought maybe you wanted something and didn’t know how to say it, but apparently I’ve been inventing an entire relationship because you were too tired to tell me to get off your couch.”
Derek’s claws pressed against the inside of his fingertips. “Apparently.”
Stiles waited for him to take it back. When Derek didn’t, he nodded once and crossed the room to collect his jacket from the armchair near the front door. The wolf surged forward in immediate panic, but Derek locked his knees and remained where he was as Stiles shoved his arms into the jacket with rough, uneven movements.
“You got what you wanted,” Stiles said. His back remained turned, though Derek could see the tension across his shoulders. “I understand now, so you don’t have to worry about me misreading anything again.”
“That’s probably best,” Derek answered. The words scraped against his throat, and Stiles’s hand froze on the zipper.
“Yeah,” Stiles said quietly. “Probably.”
He found his keys on the small table beside the door. Derek listened to every step, the uneven rhythm of Stiles’s breathing, and the painful speed of his heart as he crossed the old wooden floor. Derek knew he could still stop this, but stopping it meant admitting how badly he wanted Stiles to stay.
Stiles reached for the handle. “For what it’s worth, I wasn’t disgusted by what you did. I was surprised, and my hair looks terrible, but I wasn’t disgusted by you.”
Derek closed his eyes. Stiles opened the door, and cold night air moved through the house, carrying the scent of damp earth and pine into the room while pulling Stiles’s warmth toward the porch.
Derek imagined the door closing. He pictured Stiles driving down the dark road with that empty expression, then returning to the house days later and treating Derek with careful distance. He imagined no more late-night calls, no hand buried in his fur, and no warm weight settled against his side.
“Stiles, wait.”
Stiles remained in the doorway, but he didn’t turn around. “You’ve made yourself painfully clear.”
“I lied.”
The confession came out roughly, almost swallowed by the wind moving through the trees. Stiles looked back over his shoulder, and Derek saw anger replacing some of the hurt in his face.
“Which part?” Stiles asked. “You said a lot of useful things.”
“All of it.” Derek crossed the room but stopped several feet away, unwilling to trap him between his body and the open door. “I’m not tired of arguing with you. I don’t let you stay because it’s easier than making you leave, and I don’t call because I think you need supervision.”
Stiles tightened his grip on the handle. “You’re only saying that because I’m leaving.”
“I’m saying it because I thought I could watch you leave.” Derek forced himself to hold Stiles’s gaze. “I thought it would be safer if you hated me, but I can’t let you believe you imagined everything between us.”
“Safer for who?”
“For you.”
Stiles’s expression hardened. “You don’t get to humiliate me and call it protection.”
“You’re right.”
“No, I don’t think you understand.” Stiles stepped back into the house but left the door open behind him. “You heard my heartbeat. You knew every word was hurting me, and you kept going because making me feel stupid was easier than admitting you were afraid.”
Derek couldn’t defend himself. “Yes.”
Stiles looked startled by the admission, but his anger remained. “You don’t get points for agreeing with me.”
“I’m not asking for any.”
“Then what are you asking for?”
Derek glanced toward the open door. The sensible answer was nothing. He had already proven he could turn fear into cruelty quickly enough to destroy whatever trust existed between them.
“I’m asking you not to leave believing I don’t want you here,” Derek said. His voice was quieter now, stripped of the anger he had used as armor. “You can still go. I won’t stop you, but the truth is that I want you here more than I know how to handle.”
Stiles’s heartbeat remained painfully fast. “You have a terrible way of showing it.”
“I do.”
“You always admit that like recognizing the problem fixes it.”
“It doesn’t.” Derek took another careful step, though he stopped when Stiles’s shoulders tightened. “I wanted my scent on you because you were asleep beside me and trusted me. You felt safe, and for a few minutes I let myself believe that you might keep choosing to come back.”
“I have kept coming back.”
“That doesn’t mean you should.”
Stiles’s expression twisted with fresh anger. “There you go again. You’re deciding what I should want because you’re scared of hearing what I actually want.”
“People who get close to me get hurt.”
“People who stay away from you get hurt too, mostly because you say vicious things until they leave.” Stiles released the door and folded his arms across his chest. “You nearly got exactly what you wanted tonight. I was walking out, and I wasn’t planning to come back.”
The thought tightened painfully around Derek’s ribs. “I heard you.”
“Then do something with it.” Stiles’s voice broke around the words, and he looked away before continuing. “Don’t stand there acting like being aware of the damage is the same as repairing it.”
Derek stared at him, uncertain what Stiles expected. Apologies had rarely repaired anything in Derek’s life and promises seemed meaningless when fear had made him break so many of them.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “Not only for licking you while you were asleep. I’m sorry I used the things I do for you as weapons because I knew they mattered to you.”
Stiles looked at him again. “Why do they matter to you?”
“Because you matter.” Derek opened his hands and forced the claws threatening beneath his fingertips to remain hidden. “You stay after everyone leaves because you know I hate the silence. You talk through movies because you notice when I’m getting trapped inside my own head. You fall asleep against me because you trust me, and every time it happens, I want to keep you there.”
Some of the rigid tension eased from Stiles’s shoulders, though his expression remained guarded. Derek continued before fear could close his throat again.
“I bring food because you forget to eat. I fix the Jeep because you keep driving it when it isn’t safe, and I call you because hearing you breathe reminds me I’m not alone. None of it is obligation. None of it means nothing.”
“Then what does it mean?”
“It means I’ve wanted you for longer than I should have.” Derek felt exposed beneath Stiles’s stare, but he refused to look away. “I kept telling myself it would stop if I created enough distance. It didn’t.”
“You just tried to create that distance with a wrecking ball.”
“I did, and I won’t deliberately hurt you to force you away again.” Derek saw the doubt in Stiles’s face and didn’t blame him for it. “I can’t promise I won’t be afraid. I can promise I’ll tell you before that fear turns into something cruel.”
Stiles shut the front door, cutting off the cold draft, but he kept his keys in one hand. “I’m still angry.”
“You should be.”
“I’m not staying because you confessed at the last possible second and suddenly everything’s fixed.”
“I don’t expect it to be.”
Stiles studied him with an intensity that made Derek feel as though every layer of defense had been removed. “Tell me what you want without explaining why you shouldn’t want it.”
Derek had spent years attaching warnings and apologies to every desire. Saying what he wanted plainly felt more dangerous than facing claws or gunfire.
“I want you to stay,” he said. “I want you beside me when I’m shifted, and I want to be the person you call when you can’t sleep. I want to kiss you, and I want to know whether you’ve been staying because you wanted the same thing.”
Stiles’s keys slowly lowered to his side. “I have.”
Relief moved through Derek so sharply that he almost stepped forward. He held himself still instead, aware that wanting Stiles didn’t erase what he had done.
“You don’t get to push me out every time this scares you,” Stiles said. “If we do this, you have to talk to me before you decide I’m better off without you.”
“I will.” Derek swallowed against the tightness in his throat. “I might be bad at it, but I’ll talk to you.”
“That’s a start.” Stiles set his keys on the table, removed his jacket, and draped it over the back of the armchair. The movement revealed that he was staying, at least for now, but the lingering anger in his scent kept Derek from assuming he had been forgiven. “You’re going to have to earn back some of the trust you just stepped on.”
“I understand.”
Stiles approached him slowly, stopping close enough so that Derek could feel the warmth coming from his body. His gaze moved over Derek’s bare chest before rising to his face, and his heartbeat accelerated again.
“You said you wanted to kiss me,” Stiles said.
“I do.”
“Then ask.”
Derek looked at his mouth before meeting his eyes. “Can I kiss you?”
Stiles remained silent long enough that Derek wondered whether the answer had changed. Then he placed one palm against Derek’s bare chest, directly over his heart, and slid the other around the back of Derek’s neck.
“Yes,” Stiles said. “You can kiss me.”
Derek lifted a hand to Stiles’s face and touched him carefully, giving him time to retreat. When Stiles leaned into his palm, Derek closed the distance and brushed his mouth against Stiles’s. The first contact was restrained, almost painfully gentle, but Stiles made the next choice. His fingers tightened at the back of Derek’s neck, and the hand against Derek’s chest slid to his shoulder as he pulled Derek closer.
The restraint Derek had carried for months broke beneath the movement. He wrapped one arm around Stiles’s waist and deepened the kiss, feeling Stiles press against his bare chest. Stiles tasted like cinnamon and the coffee he had consumed hours earlier, while the rapid beat of his heart thudded against Derek’s ribs. Derek could feel the warmth of Stiles’s palm against his shoulder and the careful pressure of his fingers in Derek’s hair.
Stiles shifted closer, and Derek’s hand spread across the small of his back. The kiss carried the anger they hadn’t resolved, the fear Derek had nearly allowed to destroy them, and every unfinished moment that had brought them to this room. Derek wanted to pull Stiles closer until nothing could separate them, but wanting had already made him careless once that night.
He slowed the kiss and forced himself to pull away before instinct could make another decision for both of them. Their foreheads remained pressed together as they struggled to steady their breathing, and Stiles kept his hand over Derek’s heart as though he needed to feel that it was still racing.
“This doesn’t mean I’m not mad anymore,” Stiles said. His fingers remained curled around the back of Derek’s neck, weakening the warning.
“I didn’t think it did.”
“It does mean I want to try this.” Stiles searched his face before adding, “You and me, I mean. Not the surprise grooming.”
Derek’s mouth curved slightly. “We’re together?”
“We’re cautiously together, pending your ability to avoid emotionally destroying me before breakfast.”
“I can work with that.”
“Good, because I still need a shower.” Stiles touched the side of his hair and grimaced. “Your tongue did things to my head that nature never intended.”
Derek’s relief tightened into something else when Stiles moved toward the hallway. The thought of water removing his scent stirred the wolf, but Derek refused to hide behind anger again.
“You’re washing it off,” he said.
Stiles stopped near the bathroom door and looked back. “There’s saliva in my ear, Derek.”
“You smelled like me.” The words came out more openly than Derek intended. “I know you need to wash your hair, but the wolf doesn’t like it.”
Stiles studied him. “You think I’m washing away what happened.”
“Part of me does.”
“That part of you is dramatic, which explains why the two of us keep ending up in situations like this.” Stiles opened the bathroom door and reached inside to switch on the light. “I’m still washing it. Your scent might mean something to you, but it has to be my choice too.”
“You’re right.”
Stiles pointed at him. “That was a much better answer.”
The downstairs bathroom had been rebuilt with the rest of the house, though Derek had kept the design simple. Gray stone covered the shower walls, dark wood framed the mirror, and a narrow window high on the wall looked toward the forest. Stiles turned on the water and tested the temperature before pulling his shirt over his head.
The pale scar along his side became visible beneath the bright bathroom light. It curved across his ribs, thin and uneven where the claws had once torn through skin. Derek remembered pressing both hands against the wound and listening to Stiles’s heartbeat weaken beneath them. The memory tightened his chest, and Stiles noticed where he was looking.
“It’s fine,” Stiles said, rubbing his thumb along the edge of the scar. “It only bothers me when I’m tired or when the weather changes.”
“You were touching it during the movie.”
“I was tired, and Lydia picked a movie where everyone made terrible survival decisions. It was stressful.” Stiles unbuttoned his jeans, then paused and looked toward the shower shelf. “You do realize I don’t keep shampoo here, right?”
Derek leaned against the doorframe. “I’m aware.”
“So, my options are your shampoo, your shampoo, or whatever this unmarked bottle is.” Stiles picked up a plain container and narrowed his eyes at it. “Is this body wash, conditioner, or something Peter uses to preserve his unnatural youth?”
“Don’t open that.”
Stiles immediately put it down. “Your shampoo it is.”
He stepped beneath the spray, and water flattened the damp spikes before running over his face and shoulders. Derek watched the strongest traces of his scent wash away, though the knowledge that Stiles had chosen to remain in the house kept the wolf from pushing forward.
Stiles reached for Derek’s shampoo and examined the label. “Cedar and sage. Of course it is. You found a way to make your hair smell like an expensive forest.”
“You use too much.”
“I haven’t even opened it.”
“You always use too much shampoo.”
Stiles looked at him through the open shower door. “That sounded judgmental coming from someone who used his tongue instead.”
Derek stepped closer and reached for the bottle, but Stiles held it away. The challenge lasted only a moment before Stiles’s expression softened into something more cautious.
“Come in and help me,” Stiles said.
Derek hesitated. “You don’t have to do that because the wolf is upset.”
“I’m not inviting the wolf. I’m inviting you.” Stiles held his gaze as water ran down his face. “You wanted to put your scent on me. This time, we can do it with permission and without leaving my hair standing in four directions.”
Derek pushed away from the doorframe and hooked his thumbs beneath the waistband of his sweatpants. Stiles’s eyes flicked downward before snapping back to Derek’s face, and the quick change in his heartbeat would have been amusing if Derek weren’t equally nervous. He removed the sweatpants, left them beside Stiles’s clothes, and stepped beneath the spray.
The shower was large enough for both of them, but Stiles still ended up close when Derek reached around him for the shampoo. Water ran through Stiles’s hair and over the lean lines of his shoulders, washing away the last stiff traces of saliva.
Derek poured a small amount of shampoo into his palm. “Turn around.”
Stiles obeyed, though he remained visibly tense. “I need you to appreciate how much trust I’m showing right now. You’ve already proven you can’t be left unsupervised near my head.”
“I appreciate it.”
“You’re allowed to make a joke, Derek. I’m angry, not holding a funeral.”
Derek worked the shampoo between his palms. “We could hold one.”
Stiles glanced back suspiciously. “For what?”
“Your citrus shampoo.”
“My shampoo isn’t even here.”
“That’s why this is the perfect time to bury it.”
Stiles stared at him before a reluctant laugh escaped. “You’ve been waiting for an opportunity to murder my shampoo, haven’t you?”
“It started the war.”
“You licked my head because you were jealous of a bottle of citrus shampoo.”
“I didn’t say jealous.”
“You didn’t have to.”
Derek placed his hands carefully against Stiles’s hair. He used his fingertips to massage the shampoo into Stiles’s scalp, beginning near his temples before moving slowly toward the back of his head. The cedar and sage replaced the artificial citrus, blending with the warmth of Stiles’s skin and the steam gathering inside the shower.
Stiles became quiet. Some of the tension eased from his shoulders, and after a moment, he leaned slightly into Derek’s hands.
“Is this all right?” Derek asked.
“Yeah.” Stiles’s voice softened beneath the sound of the water. “It’s better than all right.”
Derek continued, careful to keep his claws from surfacing. His fingers moved through Stiles’s hair, loosening the strands his tongue had pressed together and working the shampoo gently against his scalp. Stiles stood vulnerable beneath his hands, but this time he was awake, aware, and choosing to remain there.
The difference mattered more than Derek could explain. His chest tightened with shame when he remembered how easily he had nearly driven Stiles away.
“I’m sorry,” Derek said. “For all of it.”
Stiles tilted his head but didn’t turn around. “That’s a large category.”
“I’m sorry I touched you without asking, and I’m sorry I tried to punish you for noticing what I wanted.” Derek’s hands slowed as he worked the shampoo through the front of Stiles’s hair. “I’m especially sorry I made you believe the things between us only mattered to you.”
Stiles covered one of Derek’s hands with his own, holding it against the side of his head. “That part hurt the most.”
“I heard it in your heartbeat, and I kept going anyway.” Derek swallowed before continuing. “I don’t expect you to forget that.”
“I won’t.” Stiles turned beneath Derek’s hands until they faced each other. Soap clung to his hair, and water followed the angles of his face before running down his neck. “I’m also not going to spend the rest of the night punishing you after you apologized. We’ll deal with it if it happens again.”
“It won’t.”
“Good.” Stiles turned toward the spray again. “Now rinse this out before your expensive forest shampoo gets in my eyes.”
Derek guided him beneath the water, shielding his face with one hand while using the other to work the soap from his hair. Foam slid down Stiles’s neck and back before disappearing into the drain, leaving behind Derek’s shampoo and the familiar warmth of Stiles beneath it.
When the last of the soap was gone, Stiles turned and slid his arms around Derek’s neck. His wet skin was warm against Derek’s chest, though Derek waited until Stiles leaned closer before resting his hands against Stiles’s waist.
“Do I still smell like you?” Stiles asked.
Derek lowered his face toward Stiles’s damp hair and breathed in. The shampoo was his, but beneath it remained everything that made Stiles himself. “Yes, but you still smell like you.”
“That sounds better than smelling like your property.”
Derek’s hands tightened slightly before he forced them to relax. “You’re not.”
“I know.” Stiles touched Derek’s back and held his gaze. “I don’t mind smelling like my boyfriend as long as I get to decide when and how.”
The word settled into Derek with a warmth the shower couldn’t explain. “Boyfriend?”
“You already agreed we’re together.”
“You said cautiously together.”
“That still includes the title unless you’d prefer emotionally unstable wolf associate.”
“Boyfriend is fine.”
Stiles smiled for the first time since their confrontation, then pulled Derek into another kiss. It was slower than the first, without the anger and desperation that had followed them to the front door. Derek turned them enough to shield Stiles from the strongest part of the spray, and Stiles stayed close when the kiss ended, his fingers tracing the wet hair at the back of Derek’s neck.
They remained beneath the water until it began to cool. Afterward, Derek gave Stiles one of his shirts, and Stiles pulled it over damp skin without making his usual complaint about Derek owning several nearly identical black shirts. The fabric carried Derek’s scent, but watching Stiles choose to wear it quieted the wolf in a way the earlier grooming never could.
When they returned to the living room, the fire had burned down to glowing embers. Derek shifted and stretched across the couch while Stiles hesitated beside him for only a moment before settling against his side. His fingers threaded through the fur behind Derek’s ears as he rested his head against Derek’s shoulder.
“Just so we’re clear, becoming your boyfriend doesn’t give you unlimited grooming privileges,” Stiles said. “There will be boundaries, consent, and absolutely no surprise hairstyles.”
Derek rested his muzzle across Stiles’s lap and looked up at him. Stiles narrowed his eyes when Derek turned his head toward the inside of his wrist.
“I recognize that expression, and the answer is no.” Stiles moved his hand out of reach, then returned it to the fur behind Derek’s ear. “You nearly ruined this tonight. Don’t make me regret staying.”
Derek closed his eyes beneath the slow movement of Stiles’s fingers. He couldn’t promise that fear would never speak louder than reason again, but he could promise not to turn that fear against Stiles.
He pressed his muzzle into Stiles’s open palm without licking him. Stiles understood the concession and rested his hand against Derek’s face, trusting him enough to remain close despite everything that had nearly driven him away.