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There were bad days, and then there were days when Derek Hale wondered if the universe had personally circled his name on a clipboard and written, Destroy this man before lunch.
At 8:17 a.m., his boss called him into the conference room.
“We’re restructuring.”
At 8:26, Derek was carrying a cardboard box containing a coffee mug, three architecture magazines, a framed photograph of himself and Laura, and a desk plant he’d forgotten to water since March.
At 9:03, he discovered his car had been towed.
At 9:15, he learned it had not merely been towed.
It had been repossessed. Apparently Jennifer had stopped making the payments three months earlier. Which was interesting, considering Derek had been transferring her the money every month.
At 10:11, he arrived home in an Uber he could barely afford and found Jennifer in their bedroom with another man.
By 10:14, Derek was standing in the hallway holding his cardboard box while Jennifer pulled on a robe and said, “This isn’t what it looks like.”
Derek looked at the shirtless man behind her. Then at Jennifer.
“I’m an architect,” Derek said. “Spatial awareness is literally part of my job.”
“Former architect,” Jennifer corrected.
That was the moment Derek decided divorce was definitely the correct choice.
Unfortunately, Jennifer had anticipated him. “The apartment is in my name.”
Derek stared.
“You said that was easier for the lease.”
“It was.”
“You used my money for the deposit.”
Jennifer folded her arms. “Derek, don’t make this ugly.”
Something inside him snapped. Not dramatically. Derek Hale didn’t do things dramatically. It was more like the quiet breaking of a very old support beam.
“Keep the apartment,” Derek replied flatly. Jennifer blinked. “Keep everything.”
Then Derek picked up his box and walked away.
At 12:42 p.m., his mother opened her front door. Talia Hale took one look at her thirty-four-year-old son standing on the porch with one cardboard box and said, “I knew that woman was wrong for you.”
Derek closed his eyes. Of course she did.
---
By evening, Derek was back in his childhood bedroom. Talia had preserved it with the dedication of a museum curator. His lacrosse trophies lined one shelf. His high school yearbooks occupied another. The walls had been repainted, thank God, but the carved wooden wolf his father had made him still sat on the dresser.
“You can stay as long as you need,” Talia announced from the doorway.
“Thanks, Mom.”
“But.”
There it was. Derek turned.
“You’ll need structure.”
“I’m unemployed, not twelve.”
“You’ve clearly lost your way.”
“I lost my job.”
“And your wife.”
“She cheated on me.”
“Which means you ignored warning signs.”
Derek stared at her.
Talia sighed. “I’m only trying to help.”
Those words had haunted Derek’s entire childhood. Talia Hale was always trying to help. Helping Derek dress properly. Helping him choose friends. Helping him decide which hobbies were worthwhile. Helping him apply to colleges. Helping him understand that talking to someone nobody else could see was inappropriate behavior for a boy his age.
Derek’s gaze drifted toward the closet. He hadn’t thought about that in years.
“Get some sleep,” Talia said. “Tomorrow, we’ll discuss your résumé.”
“We?” But she was already gone.
Derek groaned and fell backward onto the bed. Something beneath the mattress cracked.
He frowned. Then reached underneath. His fingers closed around a small wooden box.
Derek froze. No. Absolutely not. He pulled it out. The box was painted bright red, though the color had faded with age. Crooked black letters decorated the lid.
DEREK’S STUPID STUFF. KEEP OUT.
Below that, in different handwriting:
ESPECIALLY TALIA.
Derek remembered. He remembered hiding things inside it. Comic books. Candy. A slingshot.
And...Derek opened the lid. A marble rolled across the bottom. Black, swirled with gold.
His stomach dropped.
“Oh, no.”
The marble began to glow.
“Oh, no, no, no—”
It exploded. There was a flash. A bang.
Then someone landed face-first in Derek’s laundry basket.
“Ow!”
Derek stood perfectly still.
The person struggled upright. Long limbs. Messy brown hair. Red hoodie. Mismatched socks. A grin Derek remembered better than his own childhood face.
“DER-BEAR!”
Derek screamed. Stiles Stilinski screamed because Derek screamed.
Then Stiles threw himself across the room and tackled him onto the bed. “My best friend!”
“You’re not real!”
Stiles gasped. “Rude.”
“You disappeared.”
“You locked me in a marble.”
“I was eight!”
“And yet somehow already emotionally constipated.”
Derek shoved him away.
Stiles bounced upright. He looked exactly as Derek remembered him, except older.
Derek frowned. “You aged.”
Stiles examined himself. “Huh.” He flexed. “Nice.”
“You’re supposed to be imaginary.”
“Still rude.”
“You’re impossible.”
“That’s closer.”
Derek stared at him.
Stiles grinned. “You remember what you called me?”
Derek groaned. “No.”
“Oh, come on.”
“No.”
Stiles jumped onto the mattress. “Say it.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Say my name, Sourwolf.”
Derek’s eyes narrowed. Stiles spread his arms.
“Drop Dead, Stiles!” Derek covered his face.
At eight years old, he had apparently lacked creativity.
Stiles had been the loudest, most irritating imaginary friend in human history, forever encouraging Derek to climb trees, steal cookies, draw mustaches on family portraits, and tell Talia exactly what he thought about matching sweater vests.
Every time disaster followed, Derek yelled, “Drop dead, Stiles!”
Stiles loved it. He’d eventually started introducing himself that way.
Then Talia decided Derek was too old for imaginary nonsense. Therapy followed. So did the box. Eventually Derek stopped seeing Stiles. He had forgotten him entirely.
Until now.
Stiles crouched in front of him. “So.”
“So?”
“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
Stiles looked around. “You’re thirty-something, sleeping in your childhood bedroom, and wearing a wedding ring while producing enough misery to power Seattle.”
Derek looked at his hand. Slowly, he removed the ring. “My wife cheated on me.”
Stiles’ expression changed. The mischief vanished. “Oh.”
“I lost my job.”
“Oh.”
“My car got repossessed.”
Stiles blinked. “Jesus, Derek. Did you kick a witch?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Okay.”
Stiles stood. Then cracked his knuckles. “Who are we destroying first?”
---
Derek learned something important the following morning. Adults could apparently still see Stiles.
Which became obvious when Talia walked into the kitchen and found him sitting on the counter eating whipped cream directly from the can.
She screamed. Stiles screamed. Derek kept drinking coffee.
“Who are you?”
Stiles sprayed whipped cream into his mouth. “Drop Dead, Stiles.”
Talia dropped her purse. Derek almost smiled. Almost.
“You.”
Stiles pointed the can at her. “Me.”
“You were imaginary.”
“Seems like a skill issue.”
Talia looked at Derek. “You brought him back?”
“Accidentally.”
“You need to get rid of him.”
Stiles put a hand over his heart. “Still charming.”
“Derek.”
Something familiar curled inside Derek. Obedience. He had spent his entire life responding to that tone.
But Stiles was watching him. Waiting. “No.”
Talia blinked. “No?”
“He’s not hurting anyone.”
Stiles immediately knocked a bowl off the counter. It shattered. Derek closed his eyes.
“Emotionally,” Stiles clarified.
---
Chaos followed. Stiles replaced every photograph of Jennifer in Derek’s phone with pictures of roadkill.
He signed Derek up for a pottery class. He mailed Jennifer a glitter-filled envelope labeled PERSONAL BELONGINGS.
“You sent glitter?”
“Biodegradable glitter.”
“That doesn’t make it better.”
“It makes it environmentally responsible revenge.”
He rearranged Talia’s spice cabinet alphabetically by country of origin. He replaced her morning decaf with espresso. He dyed three of Derek’s shirts pink.
“That was an accident,” Stiles insisted.
“You wrote PRETTY PRINCESS across one.”
“Separate incident.”
And somehow, impossibly, Derek started laughing again.
It surprised him the first time. A sudden, sharp sound escaped when Stiles attempted to repair the toaster, launching bread across the room. Stiles froze. Derek froze. Then Stiles smiled. Not his chaotic grin.
Something softer. “There you are.”
Derek looked away.
---
Jennifer appeared four days later. She stood on Talia’s porch wearing expensive sunglasses.
“I think we should talk.”
Derek nearly said yes automatically. Then Stiles appeared behind Jennifer.
He was wearing one of Talia’s floral scarves tied around his head and silently miming being strangled.
Derek bit his cheek.
Jennifer frowned. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“I made a mistake.”
Stiles held up a handwritten sign.
SHE MADE SEVERAL.
Jennifer continued. “We had something good.”
Another sign.
HE DID. YOU HAD HIS CREDIT CARD.
Derek folded his arms. “You stopped paying for my car.”
Jennifer sighed. “It was complicated.”
STEALING IS COMPLICATED NOW.
“You slept with someone else.”
Jennifer removed her glasses. “I was confused.”
Stiles produced another sign.
ABOUT WHICH PENIS WAS YOUR HUSBAND’S?
Derek choked.
Jennifer stared. “What are you looking at?”
“Perspective.”
“Derek, please.”
Once, those words would have worked. Jennifer crying. Jennifer apologizing. Jennifer explaining until Derek somehow became responsible for forgiving her.
But Stiles was standing behind her. And suddenly Derek remembered being eight years old. Standing in this same doorway while another kid from school mocked his ears. Derek had wanted to disappear. Stiles had appeared beside him and whispered, Bite him.
Derek hadn’t. But he had told the kid to leave. Sometimes Stiles’ suggestions were terrible. The intention behind them usually wasn’t.
“No,” Derek said.
Jennifer blinked. “No?”
“I don’t want you back.”
Her face hardened. “Your mother said...”
“My mother doesn’t decide this.”
Behind Jennifer, Stiles slowly lowered the sign. Talia, listening from the hallway, stiffened.
Derek continued. “You don’t decide what I deserve either.” He stepped back. “I do.”
Then he shut the door. Silence. Stiles stared at him.
Derek exhaled. “Well?”
Stiles launched himself at him.
“My baby’s growing up!”
“Get off.”
“You established boundaries!”
“Stiles.”
“You used an ‘I’ statement!”
“Drop dead.”
Stiles beamed. “There he is.”
---
Laura helped Derek find an apartment. Cora found him a lead at a smaller architecture firm. Derek applied without showing Talia the application first. That felt oddly revolutionary.
Three weeks after losing everything, Derek stood inside a small second-floor apartment overlooking a neighborhood park.
The floors creaked. The kitchen was tiny. The bedroom window stuck halfway open. Derek loved it.
“You’re sure?” Talia asked.
“Yes.”
“You could stay home longer.”
“I know.”
“I only wanted you to be safe.”
Derek looked at her. For once, he heard what existed underneath the criticism.
Fear. Talia had lost people. She had tried to control Derek’s life because, somewhere along the way, control became synonymous with protection. That didn’t make it healthy. But it made it understandable.
“I know,” Derek said.
Talia’s eyes softened. “I’m sorry.”
Derek hugged her. Across the room, Stiles pretended to gag. Derek flipped him off behind Talia’s back.
---
That night, they sat on the apartment floor eating pizza from the box. Stiles had been strangely quiet all evening.
Derek noticed eventually. “You okay?”
“Yep.”
“You’re lying.”
“Growth.”
Derek nudged him.
Stiles sighed. “This is usually how it works.”
“What?”
“You stop needing me.”
Derek frowned.
“When kids grow up. When they stop being scared. When they figure themselves out.”
“You disappear.”
Stiles picked at the pizza crust. “Eventually.”
Something unpleasant twisted in Derek’s chest.
“No.”
Stiles looked up. “No?”
“No.”
“Derek...”
“You’re not leaving.”
“That’s not exactly your call.”
“You’re real now.”
“Debatable.”
“You broke my mother’s blender.”
“Allegedly.”
“She watched you do it.”
“Witness testimony is notoriously unreliable.”
Derek laughed. Then he realized Stiles was fading. Just slightly. His edges shimmering.
Derek’s smile vanished. “Stiles.”
“It’s okay.”
“No.”
“Derek.”
“No.”
Stiles smiled sadly. “You don’t need Drop Dead Stiles anymore.”
Derek grabbed his wrist. Solid. For now.
“Maybe not.”
Stiles swallowed.
“But I need Stiles.”
Silence. The fading stopped.
Stiles stared at him. “You gigantic emotionally constipated bastard.”
Derek pulled him closer. Stiles came willingly. Their foreheads touched.
“You’ve been driving me insane since I was eight.”
“Romantic.”
“You ruined three shirts.”
“Improved.”
“You terrorized my mother.”
“Public service.”
“You sent my ex-wife glitter.”
“Still proud.”
Derek smiled. Then kissed him. Stiles froze. For approximately half a second.
Then he grabbed Derek’s shirt and kissed him back hard enough that they nearly tipped over onto the pizza.
When they separated, Stiles looked stunned.
“Wait.”
Derek raised an eyebrow.
“Were you in love with your imaginary friend this entire time?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“I was eight.”
“Childhood crush.”
“Drop dead.”
Stiles’ grin returned. Bright. Impossible. Real.
“You first, Sourwolf.”
Derek pulled him back in. The pizza went cold. The apartment remained half unpacked. Derek still didn’t have a car. His new job wouldn’t start for another week. His divorce wasn’t finalized. His mother would probably have opinions about all of this.
For once, Derek didn’t care. His life had fallen apart.
And somehow, underneath everything everyone else had chosen for him, he’d found something he’d buried a long time ago.
Not Stiles. Himself. Stiles just happened to be there too. Which, Derek suspected, meant his life was going to be significantly louder from now on. He could live with that.
I leaned into the movie’s gleefully chaotic imaginary-friend premise while making Derek’s arc specifically about reclaiming the choices he’s spent his life letting Talia, Jennifer, and everyone else make for him.
—
END.