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The first crack of thunder woke Noah Stilinski at 2:17 in the morning.
Not because the storm was particularly violent. At least, not yet. It woke him because he was a father.
There were certain sounds a parent learned to sleep through after seven years of raising twins. Doors closing. Toilets flushing. Feet padding down hallways. The occasional mysterious crash followed by complete silence because one (or both) of his children had decided that if they didn't make another sound, perhaps their father wouldn't investigate.
Thunder, however, had recently joined the list of things Noah's brain apparently considered an emergency.
Mostly because of Isabelle.
He opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling. Rain pattered steadily against the bedroom window. Wind whispered through the trees outside, making branches scrape faintly against the siding. Then lightning flashed.
Noah counted without meaning to.
One. Two. Three.
Thunder rolled somewhere in the distance. He sighed and pushed himself upright. "All right."
He rubbed both hands over his face before throwing the blankets aside. Isabelle hated nighttime storms. Daytime storms were apparently acceptable. She didn't like them, exactly, but she could tolerate them. Nighttime storms were different because, according to his seven-year-old daughter, you couldn't see what the thunder was doing.
Noah had tried explaining several times that thunder wasn't actually doing anything. This had not helped. He'd also tried explaining that thunder was sound caused by lightning rapidly heating the air. That had helped even less. Apparently science was useless when one was seven.
Noah opened his bedroom door and stepped into the hallway. He expected to find Isabelle already there. Usually she appeared within minutes of the first rumble, dragging her blanket behind her and carrying the stuffed wolf Peter Hale had given her months ago. She would stand silently beside Noah's bed until he woke up, which was significantly more terrifying than simply climbing into bed like a normal child.
Noah had opened his eyes at three in the morning more than once to find his daughter staring at him from six inches away. He'd nearly had a heart attack the first time.
The hallway was empty. Noah frowned. "Belle?"
Nothing.
Another flash lit the hallway.
One. Two. Three. Four. Thunder followed. Noah waited. Still nothing. "Huh."
Maybe she'd slept through it. That would be new. He walked toward the twins' bedrooms anyway.
Stiles' door was open. Noah stopped. That was considerably more concerning. Stiles slept with his bedroom door shut because Isabelle had absolutely no respect for personal boundaries and considered seven in the morning an acceptable time to launch herself onto her brother's bed.
Noah pushed the door wider. "Stiles?"
Empty. His eyebrows climbed. Now he was awake. He crossed the hallway and checked Isabelle's room. Also empty. "Kids?"
A muffled sound came from downstairs. Noah closed his eyes. Because why would his seven-year-old twins remain upstairs during a thunderstorm when they could apparently wander around the house in the middle of the night?
He headed downstairs. "Stiles? Isabelle?"
Another flash illuminated the living room. This time the thunder followed almost immediately. BOOM.
The windows rattled. Noah jumped despite himself. "Fuckin Hell!"
A tiny voice came from somewhere near the couch. "Daddy said a bad word."
Noah stopped. He turned slowly. Two little heads appeared over the back of the couch. One dark. One blonde. Noah stared at them. Stiles stared back. Isabelle blinked innocently. Noah put his hands on his hips. "What are you two doing?"
"Nothing," Stiles said immediately.
That answer had never once meant nothing. Noah walked around the couch. He stopped.
The entire space between the couch and coffee table had been transformed into some kind of makeshift bunker. Blankets were stretched from the couch cushions to the coffee table. Pillows covered the floor. Two flashlights, several stuffed animals, three comic books, a bag of pretzels, two juice boxes, and what appeared to be half the contents of Isabelle's bedroom had been shoved underneath.
Noah stared. "Why is there a fort in my living room?"
"It's not a fort," Isabelle informed him.
"No?"
"It's a house."
Noah looked around the actual house surrounding them. "Belle, sweetheart, we already have one of those."
Stiles rolled his eyes. "Not that kind of house."
"Of course not."
"This one's safer," Isabelle explained.
Noah's amusement faded slightly. He crouched beside them. "Safer from what?"
Thunder rumbled again. Isabelle's shoulders rose toward her ears.
"The storm?"
She nodded. Noah softened. "You could've come gotten me."
"We were gonna," Stiles said.
Isabelle immediately turned toward him. "No, we weren't."
Stiles frowned. "Yeah, we were."
Noah held up one hand. "Okay. Before this becomes a presidential debate, somebody tell me what happened."
Stiles pointed accusingly at his sister. "She woke me up."
"You were awake!"
"I was almost asleep."
"You were talking to yourself."
"I don't talk to myself."
"You do too."
"No, I don't."
"You were pretending you were Batman."
Stiles' eyes widened. "You weren't supposed to hear that!"
"You were loud!"
Noah pressed his lips together.
Do not laugh. Do not laugh at your son.
Stiles looked at him suspiciously. "Dad."
"I'm not laughing."
"You look like you're laughing."
"I'm absolutely not."
Isabelle giggled. Stiles glared at both of them. Another flash crossed the windows. Isabelle stopped laughing. Her little hand reached automatically for the stuffed wolf beside her.
Noah noticed, but he also noticed something else. She didn't run or cover her ears. Instead, Isabelle stared toward the window. "One... two... three..."
Stiles joined her. "Four... five..."
Thunder rolled. Isabelle released a breath. "That one's farther."
Noah blinked. "Where'd you learn that?"
"Uncle Peter."
Of course. Noah should have known. His daughter spent enough time at the Hale house that he'd started seriously considering whether he needed some kind of custody agreement with Peter. "Peter taught you to count?"
Isabelle looked offended. "Daddy, I already know how to count."
"Right. Sorry. Forgot about the seven years of extensive mathematics education."
"I'm in second grade."
"Exactly."
"He said you count after lightning and then thunder and if there's more numbers, it's farther away."
Noah nodded. "That's actually right."
Isabelle's expression immediately became smug. Noah narrowed his eyes. "Don't look so pleased that Peter Hale knows basic weather safety."
"He knows lots of things."
"I'm sure he does."
"He's very smart."
"Mm-hmm."
"And scary."
"Definitely."
"And pretty."
Noah froze. Stiles made a disgusted face. "Ew."
Isabelle shrugged. "He is."
"He's old."
"He's not old!"
"He has wrinkles."
"Everybody has wrinkles!"
"Dad doesn't."
Both children looked at Noah. Noah slowly pointed toward the blanket fort. "Get back in your house."
They disappeared beneath the blankets. Noah shook his head.
Seven. They were seven years old. He was going gray. He would be lucky to not be completely gray before either of them reached middle school.
Noah lowered himself onto the floor beside their construction and lifted the edge of the blanket. "Room for one more?"
Stiles scooted backward immediately. Isabelle grinned. "Daddy!"
Noah crawled beneath the blanket. His knees protested. His back protested. Every adult joint in his body seemed personally offended by the decision.
"This," Noah grunted as he maneuvered himself between several pillows, "was easier twenty-five years ago."
"You had forts when you were little?" Isabelle asked.
"No. We lived outside and fought dinosaurs."
Stilea eyes widened. "Really?!"
Isabelle giggled, "He's joking."
"I know that."
"You looked like you believed him."
"I did not."
"You did too."
"Did not."
"Did too."
Niah sighed "Guys."
Noah settled against the couch with one twin tucked on either side of him.
For a few minutes, they listened to the rain. It sounded different underneath the blankets. The whole world had shrunk to the three of them, a flashlight glowing between their legs and rain whispering against the windows beyond their little fabric walls.
Noah looked down at Isabelle. "Still scared?"
She hesitated before nodding. "A little."
Stiles glanced at her. "You said you weren't."
"I didn't say that."
"Yeah, you did."
"No. I said I wasn't hiding."
Stiles frowned. "We're literally under a blanket."
"It's a house."
"It's a fort."
"House."
"Fort."
"Guys." They stopped again. Noah looked at Isabelle. "What's the difference?"
She picked at the stuffed wolf's ear. "I'm being brave."
Noah smiled gently. "You are."
Isabelle shook her head. "No. I mean that's what Uncle Peter told me."
Noah waited.
"He said you can be scared and brave at the same time."
Something in Noah's chest tightened. Of all the things he expected Peter Hale to teach his daughter, that hadn't exactly been near the top of the list.
Isabelle continued seriously, "Because if you're not scared, then you don't need brave."
Noah stared at her. Seven years old. Messy blonde hair. Pajamas covered in little moons and stars. Tiny bare feet tucked beneath her, clutching a stuffed wolf. And somehow delivering a lesson adults twice Noah's age occasionally failed to understand.
"That's pretty smart," he said quietly.
"I told you Uncle Peter's smart."
"I heard you."
Stiles looked thoughtful. "So if you're scared of something and you do it anyway, you're brave?"
Isabelle nodded eagerly. "Yeah!"
"What if it's stupid?"
She frowned. "What?"
"Like if you're scared to jump off the roof, but you do it anyway."
Noah immediately pointed at him. "No."
"I didn't say I was gonna!"
"Good."
"I'm just saying."
"Find another example."
Stiles thought. "What if you're scared of broccoli?"
Isabelle stared at him. "You're not scared of broccoli."
"What if I was?"
"Then you'd be weird."
"You're weird."
"You're weird."
"You're both weird," Noah said.
The twins looked at him. Noah smiled. "Genetics."
Thunder cracked overhead. Isabelle screamed. It wasn't a huge scream. More of a startled squeak. But she immediately threw herself against Noah, both hands grabbing his shirt. Stiles jumped too.
For several seconds, nobody said anything. Then Isabelle whispered, "That one was really close."
"Yeah," Noah said, wrapping his arm around her. "It was."
She pressed her cheek against his chest. Her heart was pounding. Noah rubbed his palm slowly over her back. "It's okay."
"I'm still brave," she whispered.
Noah kissed the top of her head. "Absolutely."
She stayed curled against him. Stiles shifted closer too, although he attempted to disguise it by reaching for the pretzels.
Noah glanced down. "You scared too?"
"No."
Thunder boomed again. Stiles nearly dropped the bag. Noah raised an eyebrow. Stiles stared straight ahead. "No."
"Right."
"I'm not."
"Didn't say you were."
"You made a face."
"What face?"
"The dad face."
"I have a dad face?"
"Yeah."
Isabelle nodded against Noah's chest. "You do."
"What does my dad face look like?"
Both twins immediately attempted identical impressions of him, lowering their eyebrows and pursing their lips.
Noah stared. "That's what I look like?"
"Yes," they said together.
"I do not."
"You do," Isabelle said.
"All the time," Stiles added.
"Especially when Stiles does something."
"Hey!"
Noah laughed.
Thunder rolled again, but this time it was underneath the sound of three Stilinskis laughing inside a blanket fort at nearly three o'clock in the morning.
Isabelle eventually pulled away from Noah. "Daddy?"
"Yeah, baby?"
"Can we sleep down here?"
Noah looked around. "In the living room?"
"In our house."
"This is not a house."
Isabelle gasped.
Stiles pointed at him. "See? I told you. Fort."
"Traitor."
"You can't call your brother a traitor."
"Why?"
Noah opened his mouth and then closed it. "Actually, never mind. Yes. We can sleep down here."
"Really?"
"Really."
Both twins cheered.
"Quiet," Noah hissed. "It's three in the morning."
"There's nobody else here," Stiles pointed out.
"I know. You're waking me up."
"You're already awake."
"Technicality."
They rearranged the pillows while Noah retrieved another blanket from upstairs. When he came back down, Isabelle and Stiles had somehow expanded their structure to consume nearly the entire living room.
Noah stopped at the bottom of the stairs. "What happened?"
"We re-reno....vate.. d," Stiles announced.
"You renovated."
"Yeah."
"In the ninety seconds I was upstairs?"
"We needed more room."
Noah looked at Isabelle. She nodded solemnly. "We're a growing family."
Noah stared at her. "Where did you hear that?"
She shrugged. He decided he didn't want to know. Eventually, all three of them managed to squeeze beneath the blankets again.
Noah lay on his back. Stiles curled against his left side. Isabelle curled against his right. It reminded him of when they were babies.
Not that he'd tell them that. They were seven, after all. Almost eight, according to Isabelle, despite the fact that eight months apparently qualified as almost.
Lightning flashed.
"One," Isabelle whispered.
"Two," Stiles continued.
"Three," Noah added.
"Four."
"Five."
Thunder followed.
"Farther," Isabelle said sleepily.
"Yep."
The rain continued tapping against the windows. Noah stared up at the blanket ceiling.
"Daddy?"
He turned his head. Isabelle's mismatched eyes watched him in the dim flashlight glow. "Yeah?"
"Is this home?"
Noah frowned slightly. "The blanket fort?"
"House."
"Sorry. The blanket house?"
She shook her head. "Here."
Noah's expression softened. "The Stilinski house?"
"Yeah."
"Of course it is."
She thought about that. "But the Hale house feels like home too."
There was something almost cautious in her voice now, as though she wasn't sure whether she was allowed to say it. Noah understood. He brushed blonde hair away from her forehead. "It can."
Her eyebrows scrunched together. "You can have two homes?"
"You can have a lot of places that feel like home."
"Even if you don't live there?"
"Sure."
"But home is where you live."
"Sometimes."
Stiles rolled onto his side. Apparently he wasn't as close to sleep as Noah had assumed. "Then what's home?"
Noah looked between his children. He could have given them the simple answer. The house. Their bedrooms. Their address. The place they came back to every day.
But somehow, lying beneath a blanket in the middle of the living room while rain fell outside, that answer felt incomplete. "Home is where you know you're safe," Noah said.
Isabelle listened.
"It's where you're allowed to be scared. Or sad. Or angry. Or silly. It's where people know you and love you anyway."
Stiles made a face. "Even when Isabelle steals my stuff?"
"I don't steal!"
"You stole my red marker."
"You weren't using it!"
"It was in my room!"
"Guys."
They stopped. Noah sighed. "Yes, Stiles. Even when your sister steals your markers."
"See?" Isabelle whispered.
"That doesn't mean you can steal my stuff!"
"I borrow."
"You don't give it back!"
"I was gonna!"
"When?"
"Eventually."
Noah covered his eyes. He could practically hear Claudia laughing at him somewhere.
"Go to sleep."
"I'm not tired," Stiles said.
He yawned immediately afterward.
Isabelle giggled. "You yawned."
"No, I didn't."
"You did!"
"No."
"Yes."
"Sleep," Noah repeated.
They finally quieted. Another streak of lightning flashed outside. Isabelle counted softly. "One... two... three... four... five... six... seven..."
The thunder was distant now. Barely more than a rumble.
"It's leaving," she whispered.
"It is."
Noah felt her relax. A few minutes passed. Then her little hand found his. Noah squeezed it.
"Daddy?"
"Mm-hmm?"
"If the thunder comes back, will you still be here?"
Noah turned his head. There were questions children asked that sounded simple because children hadn't yet learned how to disguise the things they really needed to know. He tightened his fingers around hers. "Yeah, Belle."
"Promise?"
"I promise."
She smiled. Stiles reached blindly across Noah's chest until he found Isabelle's other hand.
She looked at him. "What?"
"Nothing," Stiles muttered.
"You're holding my hand."
"No, I'm not."
"You are too."
"Go to sleep."
Isabelle smiled. She didn't let go. Neither did Stiles. Noah lay between his children as the storm moved farther across Beacon Hills, listening as their breathing gradually became slow and even.
The living room was a disaster. There would be pillows everywhere tomorrow. Pretzel crumbs were definitely getting ground into the carpet. Someone had spilled juice near the coffee table, and Noah was reasonably certain one of his good blankets had been secured to a chair using what looked suspiciously like police-issue handcuffs.
He would deal with that in the morning. For now, his son slept against one shoulder. His daughter slept against the other. Their hands remained linked across his chest.
Lightning flickered faintly beyond the windows. The thunder came several seconds later. Isabelle stirred. Her fingers tightened around Noah's hand. But she didn't wake.
Noah smiled and kissed her forehead.
"Still brave," he whispered.
Outside, thunder rolled through the darkness. Inside, beneath blankets and pillows and one structurally questionable roof, three Stilinskis slept tangled together.
Because maybe Isabelle was right. Maybe this ridiculous thing really was a house.
But Noah was right too. Home wasn't the walls around them. It wasn't an address. Home was Stiles reaching for his sister's hand when he thought nobody would notice.
Home was Isabelle knowing she could be afraid without ever having to be ashamed of it. Home was the absolute certainty that when the thunder came, someone would still be there when it stopped.
And tonight, that was enough.