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The little fishing boat rocked gently against the dock, sunlight glittering across the lake while Chris loaded the cooler aboard.
Noah stood several feet away with his arms crossed over his chest. "No."
Peter glanced over the top of his sunglasses. "You haven't even gotten on it yet."
"Exactly. I'm demonstrating excellent judgment."
Chris sighed as he stepped back onto the dock. "Noah, it's a boat."
"It's a floating piece of metal held above an abyss by physics and optimism."
Peter's mouth twitched. Chris stared at his boyfriend. "You've been shot."
"Yep."
"Attacked by werewolves."
"Several times."
"Kidnapped."
"More than once."
"Possessed by an evil spirit."
"That was Stiles."
"You walked into a supernatural war armed with your son's baseball bat."
Noah pointed at him. "That was a very good bat."
Peter finally lost the battle and laughed. Noah's glare snapped toward him. "You shut the hell up."
"I'm sorry." Peter wasn't remotely sorry. He pushed his sunglasses onto the top of his head, blue eyes sparkling with delight. "I'm just trying to reconcile the terrifying Sheriff Stilinski I've heard so much about with the man currently being intimidated by a fourteen-foot fishing boat."
"I'm not intimidated."
"The boat isn't even moving."
"It's moving right now."
Peter looked at it. The boat bobbed approximately half an inch. He looked back at Noah.
Noah's eyes narrowed. "Don't."
Peter immediately raised both hands. Chris rubbed a hand over his face. "Why did you agree to come?"
"Because you two said we were going fishing."
"From a boat."
"That part was suspiciously absent from the original proposal."
Peter stepped closer, slipping an arm around Noah's waist. "Come on, Sheriff. I'll protect you from the terrifying lake."
"I hate you."
"No, you don't."
"Currently reevaluating."
Chris climbed into the boat and held out his hand. Noah stared at it. Then at Peter. Then he glanced at the boat. Peter's teasing expression softened.
That tiny shift Noah had learned to recognize over the years, the moment Peter stopped being an asshole because he'd realized something wasn't actually funny anymore.
Peter squeezed his hip. "We don't have to go."
Noah blinked. Chris's expression softened too. "He's right."
And somehow that made everything worse. Noah looked between his boyfriends, irritated by the sudden understanding in their faces. "I didn't say I couldn't do it."
"No one said you couldn't," Chris replied.
Peter nodded. "And no one's going to think less of you if you don't."
Noah stared at them for another moment. Then he muttered, "Fuck both of you."
Peter grinned, "Later, definitely."
Chris groaned at Peter. Noah grabbed Chris's hand. Peter kept one arm firmly around his waist. And Sheriff Noah Stilinski stepped onto the boat.
It rocked. "Oh, fuck this."
Peter's arms immediately locked around him from behind while Chris caught Noah's forearm. Noah muttered, "You're gonna need a bigger boat."
"I've got you," Peter chuckled.
"So do I," Chris said.
Noah stood frozen between them. The boat settled. Nothing happened. No capsizing. No humiliating obituary explaining that the Sheriff of Beacon Hills had survived werewolves, hunters, kanimas, Darachs, berserkers and his own child only to be murdered by recreational fishing.
Slowly, Noah breathed out. Peter kissed his temple. "Strongest man on the boat."
Noah elbowed him. Peter laughed. Chris shook his head and started untying them from the dock. Twenty minutes later, they were out in the middle of the lake.
And Noah had to admit,
quietly, privately and absolutely never where either of his boyfriends could hear him,
it was beautiful.
The shoreline had become a distant ribbon of green. Sunlight danced over the water, warm against Noah's skin, while the boat drifted lazily beneath a cloudless blue sky. Chris sat near the bow with a fishing rod in his hands. Peter had stretched himself across one of the benches like some ridiculous oversized cat, bare feet propped against Noah's thigh.
Noah looked at them. His partners. The hunter and the werewolf. Silver and wolf. Two men who, by every law of the supernatural world, should probably have killed each other years ago (not for the lack of trying).
Instead, Chris was telling Peter to get his foot away from the tackle box. Peter deliberately moved his other foot onto it. Chris threatened to throw him overboard. Peter reminded him that werewolves were excellent swimmers.
Noah smiled. Maybe strength wasn't standing alone. Maybe it wasn't pretending you weren't afraid. Maybe it wasn't carrying everyone else's weight until your knees buckled beneath it. Maybe sometimes strength was admitting that the boat scared the shit out of you. And stepping onto it anyway.
Especially when there were two pairs of hands waiting to catch you.