Archive of Our Own ^beta

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Stiles stuffed another sweatshirt into the duffel bag on his bed and glanced around the apartment with a sigh. It was mostly empty now, just a few things left to box up, and the vacuuming his dad was insisting on doing himself for some reason.

“Dad,” Stiles called, “you don’t have to vacuum so intensely. It’s not like I’m getting my security deposit back. Remember the Great Salsa Incident of sophomore year?”

From the other room, Noah Stilinski’s voice floated back. “I’m ignoring that memory, thanks. Besides, it’s about pride, not refunds.”

Stiles snorted and dropped into his desk chair, grabbing his phone as it buzzed.

Derek Hale:
Heard you got the job. Coming back to Beacon Hills, Detective Stilinski?

Stiles blinked in surprise. Derek hadn’t messaged him in a while - not out of anything weird, they just… kept in touch on and off. Birthdays, pack check ins, the occasional meme Stiles couldn’t resist sending.

Stiles:
Yeah. Got the official call yesterday. I’m pretty excited. Feels weird, though. Four years and now I’m just... back.

Derek:
The pack’s throwing you a welcome home party. It’s supposed to be a surprise, but I figured I’d warn you, because the last thing anyone needs is you walking into a dark room with a legally holstered firearm.

Stiles burst out laughing.

Stiles:
God bless you for that. I genuinely might’ve drawn on Boyd out of sheer reflex.

Derek:
Pretty sure he’d take it as a compliment.

“Everything okay in there?” Noah asked, walking into the room with the vacuum hose looped over his shoulder like a Ghostbuster.

Stiles grinned, holding up his phone. “Derek says the pack is throwing me a surprise party. Or, they were.”

Noah raised a brow. “And he told you?”

“He said he didn’t want anyone to get shot.”

“Reasonable.”

They both chuckled, and then it was quiet for a beat - just the hum of the vacuum and the weight of this moment finally settling in.

Noah leaned against the doorway and looked at his son, not as a kid packing for college, but as a man coming home.

“I’m proud of you, you know,” he said.

Stiles looked up, suddenly ten years old again and trying not to let it show. “Thanks, Dad.”

“You worked your ass off. You could’ve gone anywhere after this, but... you chose home.”

“Yeah,” Stiles murmured, gaze drifting toward the window. “I missed it. Even the stupid trees. And the danger. And the crime rate. And the fact that you can’t go two blocks without bumping into a werewolf or a banshee or a homicidal druid.”

Noah smiled. “Don’t worry. It’s all still here waiting for you.”

Stiles’ phone buzzed again.

Derek:
Also, I’m making the cake. Boyd says I shouldn’t but don’t worry. I watched at least three YouTube videos.

Stiles:
Oh no. What flavor of disaster are we talking?

Derek:
Red velvet. Probably.

Stiles snorted again, shoulders relaxing. It felt good. Like maybe coming home didn’t mean falling into old patterns. Maybe it meant building something better.
~~~~

The Hale property looked… different.

Not renovated different, though there were clearly a few upgrades, but lived in different. There were fairy lights strung up across the porch and into the trees, casting a soft golden glow over the backyard. A few folding tables were set up with food, mismatched chairs scattered around a fire pit that already had flames crackling in it.

It felt like a home.

“Surprise!” came five voices at once as Stiles stepped into the yard.

He startled anyway, hand twitching toward his hip out of reflex before he caught himself. “Okay, wow. I knew about it and I still almost unholstered. Thanks, trauma.”

Kira was the first to reach him, laughing as she practically launched herself into his arms. “You’re back! You’re actually back!”

Stiles stumbled under her weight but wrapped his arms around her with a grin. “And you’re not a desert dweller anymore!”

She pulled back and smacked his arm lightly. “I was with the Skinwalkers, not turning into one.”

“Details,” he said, eyes crinkling.

Boyd was next. He didn’t say anything right away, just wrapped Stiles in a firm, grounding hug that made Stiles press his face briefly into Boyd’s shoulder.

“I missed you,” Stiles mumbled.

“You better have,” Boyd said, then stepped back so Isaac could lunge forward dramatically and say, “You’ve been gone forever, I’ve had to hug Peter out of desperation, do you know what that does to a person?”

“Causes trauma,” Stiles guessed, laughing.

“Exactly,” Isaac huffed, wrapping him up in another hug. “You look good, Stiles. Grown up. Like a sexy detective.”

“I am a sexy Detective,” Stiles said, mock serious. “Respect me.”

“That’s a terrible mistake,” came Peter’s voice from nearby. “Giving Stiles a badge.”

“Peter,” Stiles said, deadpan.

“Stiles,” Peter replied with faux warmth, swirling a glass of wine. “Still regrettably alive, I see.”

“Still dramatically uninvited to things, yet always present,” Stiles shot back, but with no real heat. If anything, it was comforting to know some things never changed.

Then his gaze shifted.

Derek was standing near the fire pit, hands tucked into the pockets of a fitted hoodie, jeans worn at the edges, soft smile tugging at his lips.

And it wasn’t a smirk. Not a bitter twist of the mouth. It was happiness. Genuine, quiet happiness.

And it tugged at something deep inside Stiles, something he hadn’t realized had been waiting to be pulled.

“Hey,” Derek said, voice warm.

“Hey yourself,” Stiles replied, a little hoarse. “You did all this?”

Derek shrugged one shoulder. “Kira bullied me into letting her take over most of it. But the cake is mine. Fair warning.”

“You actually baked?” Stiles asked, eyes wide with amusement.

“I tried,” Derek said, deadpan. “Whether it’s edible is a mystery only time will solve.”

Stiles smiled, and it felt different. Like it reached places that had gone quiet over the years. “It’s good to see you.”

Derek’s eyes softened. “It’s good to see you too.”

And for a moment, standing there surrounded by flickering light and laughter and people who felt like home, Stiles wondered if maybe what he’d been missing all along wasn’t Beacon Hills…it was this. The pack. The people. Derek.

Especially Derek.

The party was in full swing by the time Stiles had a plate in hand and a warm cider in the other. Music played low in the background - some mix Kira had apparently curated just for him, which meant it was a perfect blend of chaotic energy and nostalgic comfort. Fairy lights danced gently in the trees overhead, twinkling like stars that had decided to come to the party too.

Isaac was recounting some absurd story from his time in France, something about mistaking a vampire for a performance artist, and Peter was interjecting with entirely unhelpful commentary from his place in an Adirondack chair. Kira kept dragging Boyd into awkward dancing on the grass, laughing breathlessly each time she tried and failed to dip him.

And Derek...

Stiles didn’t even pretend he wasn’t staring.

Derek was relaxed. His posture was loose, easy. His smile - God, that smile - kept making appearances like it belonged there, soft and real and entirely unguarded. He moved from group to group effortlessly, making sure everyone had food, drink, a blanket if they looked cold. He ruffled Isaac’s curls when he passed behind him, handed Boyd a second plate without being asked, and most surprising of all… he laughed.

Like, actually laughed. The kind of deep, rolling sound that made Stiles’ chest ache with how much he’d missed hearing it. Maybe he’d never really heard it quite like this before.

Stiles was mid bite of a bacon wrapped jalapeño when someone tapped his shoulder.

“Time for cake,” Derek said, standing just a little too close, just enough for Stiles to feel the warmth radiating off him.

“You say that like you’re not putting lives in danger,” Stiles teased.

Derek arched a brow. “Do you trust me or not?”

And Stiles… did. Without hesitation. “Lead the way, Cake Alpha.”

They gathered around the folding table now cleared of chips and takeout containers, and Derek carefully lifted the lid from a cake box like it was a sacred relic.

Stiles blinked. “Okay, wait. That looks insanely good.”

It was red velvet. dense and moist, layered with cream cheese frosting so smooth it looked like glass. There were shavings of dark chocolate around the edges, and someone (Kira, clearly) had written WELCOME HOME, STILES in tidy cursive on top.

Derek ducked his head, embarrassed. “Boyd helped. A little.”

“‘A little,’” Boyd said from behind him. “I handed you the spatula once and told you not to overmix. You were weirdly intense about it.”

“I watched a video. I wanted to do well,” Derek muttered.

Stiles grinned and took a bite as Derek handed him a plate.

And then his eyes widened.

“Oh my God,” he said through a mouthful. “Derek. Derek, what the hell.”

“What?”

“This is amazing! Like, holy crap. You didn’t just bake, you baked. What are you? Why are you like this? Have you been hiding secret domestic skills this whole time?”

Derek looked genuinely pleased. “You like it?”

“I love it. I want to marry this cake. I want to elope with it and live in a cozy cabin where I can eat it forever.”

Derek laughed again, and Stiles caught the light flush on his cheeks as he leaned casually against the table. “I’m glad you’re home,” Derek said, voice softer now, more private under the buzz of laughter and clinking plates.

Stiles glanced up at him, that strange tug in his chest returning. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Me too.”

A few hours later, when most of the pack had collapsed into various chairs and blankets around the fire, headlights swept across the yard.

Stiles turned just as his dad stepped out of the cruiser, still in uniform, looking tired but happy.

“Dad!” Stiles called, jogging over. “You made it!”

Noah smiled, arms open as Stiles pulled him into a hug. “I wouldn’t miss it. Had to finish paperwork and kick Parrish off patrol. He was brooding.”

“That’s his default setting.”

Noah squeezed his shoulder and stepped back, his gaze sweeping over the yard, the food, the soft golden glow of lights in the trees. “They did this for you?”

Stiles nodded. “Derek mostly. Kira helped. Boyd made sure there were enough snacks for an army.”

Noah’s eyes found Derek across the yard, still by the fire, talking with Isaac, relaxed in a way he never used to be. “He’s… different,” Noah murmured.

“Yeah,” Stiles said, watching him. “He really is.”

Derek looked up then, as if sensing Stiles’ gaze, and smiled.

Stiles smiled back, heart skipping for reasons he didn’t want to unpack just yet.

But he would. Eventually.
~~~~

By the time the last paper plate was tossed and the final blanket folded, the backyard had settled into a quiet hum of crickets and the low crackle of the fire. The party had gone on longer than planned, but no one seemed eager to break the spell of comfort and warmth.

Kira had long since curled up under a blanket on a lounge chair, half asleep with her earbuds in. Boyd and Isaac had disappeared inside with a mutual agreement that “sleep was happening now or someone would die,” and Peter had theatrically declared he was “retreating to his lair” before vanishing into the house.

Stiles stayed by the fire, legs stretched out, fingers toasting near the flames, a second (okay, third) slice of cake on the plate beside him. He didn’t know when Derek had returned to his side, only that he was suddenly there again, sitting on the low stone ledge of the firepit, hoodie sleeves pushed up to his elbows, expression soft and quiet.

Stiles let the silence sit for a while. It wasn’t awkward. It was just… peaceful.

“This place feels different,” he said finally, nodding toward the house. “Like it’s not just a pack house, it’s a home now.”

Derek smiled faintly, not looking at him. “That was the goal.”

“How’d you do it?”

He shrugged. “Time. People. Letting them in. Letting myself stay.”

Stiles looked at him then, really looked, and marveled at how much had changed. The tension that used to cling to Derek’s shoulders was gone. There were lines in his face, sure, but they were from smiling just as much as frowning now. He looked settled. Solid.

It made Stiles feel both proud and… something else. Something he wasn’t ready to name.

“So,” Derek said after a pause, glancing at him sideways. “You want to crash here?”

Stiles blinked. “Wait, what?”

“If you don’t feel like driving back to your dad’s,” Derek said, nodding toward the house. “There’s a room. Yours, if you want it.”

Stiles stared at him, startled into silence.

“There are enough rooms for everyone,” Derek added, slightly unsure now. “Isaac’s upstairs. Kira’s across from Boyd. Peter has a room in the back corner. Yours is…well, it’s across the hall from mine, if that’s okay.”

Stiles blinked again. “You… you made me a room?”

Derek’s mouth tugged into a lopsided smile. “It’s been ready a while. I figured you’d come back eventually.”

And just like that, something in Stiles’ chest cracked open. He didn’t know what to say, not really. So he just nodded, his voice suddenly softer.

“Yeah. I’d… I’d like that. Thanks.”

Derek stood and offered him a hand. “Come on. I’ll show you.”

Stiles took it.

And the warmth that curled through him had nothing to do with the fire.
~~~~

The inside of the Hale house was warm and low lit, the kind of cozy that only came from being full of life. Soft yellow light spilled from sconces on the walls, casting long shadows over old wood floors. The hum of a dishwasher rumbled in the background. Somewhere upstairs, someone was playing music too quietly to identify.

Derek led the way up the stairs barefoot, hoodie sleeves pushed back again, his steps soft and familiar. Stiles followed silently, one hand grazing the railing, still a little off balance. not from fatigue, but from the lingering weight of he made me a room.

At the end of the hall, Derek stopped in front of a closed door and turned to him. “It’s not much,” he said, almost shy. “But it’s yours.”

He opened the door.

And Stiles… stopped.

It wasn’t a guest room.

It was a room.

The walls were painted a soft blue gray, and one of them was covered in shelves, filled with books. His kind of books. Mythology, classic mysteries, battered paperbacks of old sci fi novels. There was a simple desk tucked against the window, a brand new looking lamp on top of it, and beside it: a cork board. Empty, but waiting.

The bed was full sized, neatly made with plaid sheets and a cozy dark comforter. There was a hoodie tossed over the footboard, Stiles’ old hoodie, his worn red Beacon Hills lacrosse one. Folded, like it belonged there. Like it had been waiting for him.

The nightstand had a wireless charger. A basket on the floor near the closet held a pair of fuzzy socks and a Beacon Hills Sheriff Department hoodie two sizes too big.

And the scent - Dereks scent, earthy and sharp and warm - was layered into the room like it hadn't been aired out regularly, like it had been part of the room all along.

Stiles turned in a slow circle, completely overwhelmed. “You… Derek, you did all this?”

Derek lingered in the doorway, one hand braced on the frame. “I wanted you to have a place here. In case you ever came back.”

Stiles’ throat felt tight. “I didn’t even know if I would.”

Derek shrugged. “I did.”

That made Stiles look at him again, really look at him. At the quiet way Derek existed now, with patience and steadiness. At the way he didn’t make grand gestures but left room for people, trusted they’d show up eventually.

“You kept the hoodie,” Stiles said, gesturing to the bed.

Derek huffed a soft laugh. “You left it in the trunk of your Jeep the summer you left for school. I figured if I gave it back, you’d forget it again. So I just… held onto it.”

Stiles didn’t know what to say.

His chest was full - of warmth, of memory, of something new but not unfamiliar.

He stepped forward and ran a hand across the desk, then looked back at Derek, voice quieter now. “This is the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me.”

Derek tilted his head slightly. “It’s just a room.”

“It’s not,” Stiles said. “It’s a place. My place. You gave me that.”

Home.

Derek nodded once and stepped back into the hall. “Goodnight, Stiles.”

And Stiles smiled, eyes soft as the door clicked gently shut behind him.

“Goodnight, Derek.”
~~~~

Stiles had always been an early riser when his brain wouldn’t shut up. And apparently, his first morning back in Beacon Hills was no exception.

He was barefoot in the Hale kitchen before six, hoodie thrown over a wrinkled t-shirt, hair a disaster, and hands already busy. He’d found everything he needed with embarrassing ease pans in the drawer under the stove, mixing bowls in the cabinet next to the fridge, spices lined up alphabetically (which, okay, definitely Kira’s doing).

By six-thirty, the kitchen smelled like heaven. Pancakes stacked high on a platter. Eggs - scrambled, fluffy, lightly salted - kept warm in a covered bowl. Hash browns golden and crispy. Toast buttered and lined up on a plate like edible bricks.

He was just plating the bacon when he heard soft footsteps behind him.

“Smells amazing,” Kira said, hair up in a bun and wrapped in a blanket like a burrito. “You cook?”

Stiles grinned. “College makes you learn things. Especially when you live with someone who thought ‘instant mac and cheese’ was a food group.”

She hopped onto the counter, legs swinging, and grabbed a piece of toast. “Everyone’s gonna lose their minds. Derek usually just makes eggs and weird green smoothies.”

“Blasphemy,” Stiles muttered, sliding the last of the bacon onto the platter.

That’s when the second set of footsteps padded into the kitchen, barefoot and slow. Stiles looked up, and his spatula nearly slipped from his hand.

Derek.

Hair completely rumpled, clearly fresh from bed. Sweatpants hanging low on his hips. No shirt. Slightly dazed.

And absolutely, stupidly, unfairly hot.

Stiles breathed, “Holy shit.”

Kira snorted loudly and coughed into her toast. “Subtle.”

Stiles didn’t even try to deny it, just turned back to the stove, cheeks flushed, suddenly very focused on flipping pancakes that were already done.

Derek blinked sleepily at the spread on the island. “You cooked all this?”

“Apparently I did,” Stiles said, still not looking directly at him. “You’re welcome, don’t sue me if the hash browns change your life.”

Derek smiled, slow and genuine, and reached past him to grab a fork. “Thanks. This is… amazing.”

“I do what I can to serve the people,” Stiles mumbled, totally not watching the way Derek’s back flexed as he reached for a plate. Totally not biting the inside of his cheek when he sat down and leaned forward on his elbows like a goddamn Calvin Klein ad.

More footsteps followed. Isaac arrived next, hair spiked in ten directions, yawning like a cat. Boyd came in just after, still stretching out his shoulders. Even Peter, somehow both too awake and too smug, strolled in with his coffee already made.

“You spoil us,” Peter said, sipping dramatically. “What a welcome change.”

“I’ll make a tip jar,” Stiles said, tossing a napkin at him.

As they all gathered around the island, the conversation picked up, sleepy bickering, thank yous, Kira doing little victory dances over the hash browns. Derek stayed quiet, eating steadily, occasionally glancing at Stiles when he thought no one was looking.

But Stiles noticed. And he might’ve looked back. Just a little.

Then Isaac, halfway through his second pancake, nudged Boyd and said casually, “Hey, now that Stiles is back, we can move the Jeep finally.”

Derek froze mid bite.

Stiles blinked. “What?”

Isaac, unaware of the nuclear silence that followed, added, “You know. The garage. You can-”

“Isaac,” Derek said quickly, voice calm but firm.

Isaac winced. “Oops.”

Stiles turned fully, crossing his arms. “Okay. Someone explain why my Jeep, which has been in my dad’s driveway for four years, is a thing now?”

Derek stood, plate in hand, and met Stiles’ gaze. “Come with me.”

Peter made an obnoxious kissy face behind his coffee cup as Stiles followed Derek out of the kitchen.

They went through the house, past the living room, to a hallway Stiles hadn’t paid attention to last night. At the end was a door he hadn’t noticed before…thicker, newer.

Derek opened it and flipped on a light.

It was a garage.

Clean. Organized. And there, sitting under a fitted cover, was his Jeep.

Or… was it?

Because when Derek pulled back the cover, the paint didn’t look faded. The tires looked new. The leather seats - he hadn’t had leather seats. The inside was spotless, and there was a brand new stereo system installed.

Stiles turned slowly, heart beating too fast. “What the hell, Derek?”

Derek looked almost shy. “It started with just storing it. Your dad said you didn’t want to sell it, so I kept it here. But I didn’t like the way it was sitting. the engine needed work, brakes were shot, the wiring was a mess. So I fixed it.”

Stiles blinked, stunned.

“And then I figured,” Derek went on, rubbing the back of his neck, “if you ever came back, I wanted you to have it ready. So I kept going.”

“You renovated my Jeep,” Stiles said, voice a little faint.

Derek glanced at him. “Yeah.”

There was a long pause.

“Is this, like, a werewolf love language thing?” Stiles asked.

Derek snorted, startled. “Maybe.”

Stiles stepped closer to the Jeep, then looked back at Derek, his voice softer now. “Thank you. Seriously. I… don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything,” Derek said, just as quiet. “You’re home. That’s all that matters.”

And Stiles’ heart - stupid, inconvenient, traitorous heart - did something warm and wild in his chest.
~~~~

Stiles moved back in with his dad as opposed to getting his own place. There was something comforting about familiar creaky floorboards, the smell of coffee from the old machine that still sputtered every time it brewed, and his dad’s voice drifting from the kitchen while NPR murmured in the background.

Also, Derek was there.

A lot.

Not just pack related visits. Not just stopping by. Full on sitting at the table, sipping coffee from his own mug (his own mug), flipping through case files with his dad like it was the most normal thing in the world.

Stiles blinked the first time he saw them like that - his dad leaning in, pointing at a highlighted paragraph, Derek murmuring something low and focused in response.

His dad didn’t even look up. “Hey, kid. There’s a muffin for you in the oven.”

Derek did look up. Smiled.

And Stiles, halfway between suspicious and heart squeezed, asked, “Are you two, like… work married now? Is that a thing I have to emotionally prepare for?”

Neither of them dignified that with a response.
~~~~

He caught Boyd organizing the spice cabinet alphabetically. Kira was wearing Derek’s sweatshirt. Peter and his dad had what could only be described as a thinly veiled insult war in the driveway that somehow ended with Peter helping rehang the porch light. Isaac dragged Stiles to a late niight movie with the pack and accidentally fell asleep on his shoulder.

Everything was bizarre.

Everything was perfect.
~~~~

Stiles started officially at the station a month after returning.

His desk was technically in the Beacon County Sheriff’s Department office, but unofficially, he was floating - taking weird reports, shadowing detectives, liaising with Beacon Hills sheriff deputies, and keeping an eye out for anything with teeth, claws, or an affinity for human organs.

The first time he walked into the bullpen and saw Derek leaned over his dad’s desk his stomach did something he refused to name.

“You’re here a lot,” he said, dropping a file in the inbox.

Derek didn’t look up. “We’re going over a suspicious missing persons case. Could be nothing. Could be druidic.”

“Fun,” Stiles muttered. “I hope it’s nothing. But also I kind of hope it’s druidic. I’m not proud of that.”

Derek smiled. “I know.”

Late nights at the station became routine. Sometimes it was Stiles and his dad. Sometimes it was Stiles and Derek. Occasionally, all three of them together, trading theories over cheap takeout and open case folders.

Stiles started keeping energy bars in his desk drawer. Derek brought protein smoothies in unmarked mason jars. They argued about evidence handling and laughed about it by the time they reached the parking lot.

The first time Stiles stayed at the pack house because it was “too late to drive home,” no one blinked.

The third time, Boyd had already folded his laundry and left it at the foot of the bed.
~~~~

Sundays became Stilinski Family Dinner night. Sometimes it was just Stiles and his dad. But more often than not, Derek was already there when Stiles arrived, helping slice vegetables, cleaning dishes as they went, eyes crinkling at some story Noah told for the hundredth time.

“You’re just here for the roast chicken,” Stiles accused one night, bumping shoulders with him.

Derek shrugged, amused. “Maybe.”

Later, Noah nodded toward Derek over the top of his reading glasses and said casually, “You know he built the planter boxes out back?”

Stiles blinked. “The ones I thought were from Home Depot?”

Noah grinned. “Nope. Derek. And he comes by to help water the tomatoes if I get busy.”

Stiles didn’t answer right away. Just looked through the kitchen window at the backyard, where Derek was standing barefoot in the grass, talking to Kira and Isaac while the porch light buzzed overhead.

And for the first time, Stiles really understood something that had been sneaking up on him ever since he came home:

Derek wasn’t just around.

He belonged here.
~~~~

The pack house was quiet.

Most of the others had gone to bed hours ago. Kira had crashed mid movie on the couch. Boyd had disappeared to his room with a book, and Isaac had passed out face down on the beanbag in the living room. Even Peter had slunk off with a muttered, “Try not to emotionally implode where I can hear it.”

But Stiles was still awake, sitting out on the back steps with a hoodie pulled over his head and a mug of tea going cold in his hands.

The stars were out. The backyard smelled like damp grass and cut wood, and the planter boxes, Derek’s planter boxes, were full of tiny green things reaching toward the moonlight.

He heard the screen door creak open and close behind him, and didn’t need to look to know who it was.

Derek sat down beside him, close but not touching, and sighed softly. “Couldn’t sleep?”

Stiles shook his head. “Nah. Brain’s being loud.”

They sat in silence for a minute, the kind that didn’t need filling.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you something,” Stiles said eventually, voice low.

“Yeah?”

“When did it happen?”

Derek glanced at him. “When did what happen?”

Stiles finally looked at him, squinting slightly in the dark. “You. This. All of… you now. You’re not-” He gestured vaguely. “You’re not the guy I left behind when I went to school.”

Derek was quiet for a long beat, then said, “Somewhere between Kira coming back and Peter deciding he wanted to be part of things again, I realized I couldn’t keep waiting for life to feel less temporary.”

Stiles blinked, surprised.

“I kept thinking I’d leave,” Derek said. “Go somewhere else. Start over. But every time I packed a bag, something pulled me back. A hunt. The pack. Your dad.” He gave a wry smile. “You.”

Stiles’ breath caught in his throat. Just a little. Just enough to feel it.

Derek didn’t look at him. Just stared straight ahead, voice calm. “I started fixing things. The house. The Jeep. Myself. I thought if I made a life here… maybe it would stop feeling like I was surviving and start feeling like I was living.”

Stiles’ heart ached a little at that. “And does it?”

Derek nodded once. “Yeah. It does.”

Stiles glanced down at his tea, now completely cold, and whispered, “You’re really good at this, you know. Being a person. Being… part of things.”

Derek gave him a sideways look. “It took a long time. And a lot of mistakes.”

“I made plenty of those too.”

“I know.”

They both smiled, faint and quiet.

A breeze passed over the yard, rustling through the leaves. Stiles watched the planter boxes sway slightly.

“I used to think of this place as a stop between disasters,” Stiles said softly. “Like every time I came back, it was just until the next bad thing happened.”

“And now?” Derek asked, just as soft.

Stiles looked at him, really looked.

“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “But you being here makes it feel a little less like a stop. And a little more like… home.”

Derek’s eyes met his, steady and unreadable.

Neither of them said anything else.

But they didn’t need to.

Not yet.
~~~~

It hit him on a Thursday.

No special date. No dramatic life or death situation. Just a totally average, mildly overcast Thursday.

He was sitting at his dad’s kitchen table, sipping lukewarm coffee and sorting through files, when it suddenly settled over him like a weighted blanket made of clarity and doom:

He liked Derek Hale.

Like, not just liked liked. Not just the casual he’s-hot-and-I’m-human appreciation. No. This was the real deal. The I-want-to-make-him-breakfast-and-listen-to-him-rant-about-window-insulation-and-maybe-touch-his-face-sometimes kind of like.

It was horrifying.

Stiles sat back in his chair, staring blankly at the wall like it had personally betrayed him. “Nope,” he muttered. “Nope nope nope. It’s fine. I can be normal about this.”

Because he could, okay? He was twenty three, a law enforcement professional, a grown man with a desk and a gun and a health insurance plan that maybe kinda sucked but still existed. He had survived the supernatural, college finals, and Peter Hale’s brand of emotional terrorism. He could survive a little inconvenient yearning.

He wasn’t going to spiral.

He wasn’t going to do anything stupid like pine or blush or imagine what Derek smelled like up close when he was sleepy and-

“Stop it,” Stiles hissed, slapping the side of his own head like he could knock the feelings loose.

He took a deep breath. Sipped his coffee. Focused.

He could handle this. Derek was his friend. Derek was calm and steady and respected boundaries. Stiles could absolutely have one (1) normal, platonic heartache like a normal person without turning it into a Broadway production of Hopeless Idiot: The Musical.

Everything was fine.

Then the front door opened.

And in walked Derek Hale.

In. Full. Baseball. Uniform.

White pants that were definitely doing unspeakable things to his thighs. Cleats. A crimson res jersey that clung to his chest like it had been tailored by God. A baseball cap pulled low over his eyes.

Stiles blinked.

Derek tipped the cap up and said loudly, “Hey. Ready, Sheriff?”

And Stiles…Stiles forgot how to breathe.

He made a sound. It wasn’t a word. It might have been a high pitched wheeze. Or maybe a squeak. Maybe both. His mouth was open, and absolutely nothing coherent came out.

His brain short circuited. Every attempt at adult composure exploded like confetti in a wind tunnel.

Be normal? Nope. Cool, chill, collected? Dead. Deceased. Buried.

He was twenty three going on thirteen with a crush the size of the goddamn moon.

Noah walked in, grinning when he saw Derek. “Oh good, you’re here. Give me two seconds to grab my glove.”

Derek nodded and glanced at Stiles as Noah disappeared down the hall. “You okay?”

Stiles, who still hadn’t managed a single syllable of human language, nodded like a malfunctioning bobblehead.

Derek tilted his head. “You sure?”

“Yup,” Stiles said, voice high and thin. “Totally. Great. Normal. I am very normal right now.”

Derek smiled - smiled, damn him - and adjusted his glove under one arm. “You wanna come watch? We’re playing the fire department. Kira’s umpiring. Finstock is coaching. It’s going to be chaos.”

“Oh my God,” Stiles whispered.

“What?”

“Nothing,” he choked out. “I mean yes. I mean - maybe. I have a thing. Or I don’t. I could have a thing. But I could move it.”

Derek blinked at him.

Stiles stared at his chest.

God, the jersey. The buttons.

He was going to die.

He was going to absolutely die.

Noah returned then, cheerful and completely unaware of his son’s slow implosion. “Alright, let’s go win this thing.”

Stiles waved vaguely, lips numb, and Derek gave him one last look before following the Sheriff out the door.

And the moment it closed behind them, Stiles dropped his face into his hands and groaned.

“So much for being normal.”
~~~~

Stiles told himself - very calmly, very rationally - that he was going for support.

It had nothing to do with the fact that Derek had walked into his house looking like the illicit fantasy lovechild of an MLB highlight reel and a romance novel cover. Nope. Nothing to do with the white baseball pants or the way his forearms looked under that jersey or the-

Focus, Stiles.

He parked at the Beacon Hills Rec Field just as the sun started to dip, casting everything in warm gold. The bleachers were filling up slowly, half the town showed up any time the Sheriff’s Department played the Fire Department. It was a tradition. A chaotic, injury prone, weirdly emotional tradition.

Stiles adjusted his hoodie and climbed the bleachers.

Peter was already there.

Of course he was.

He sat like a king on his perch, sunglasses on despite the fading light, legs crossed, sipping from a to go coffee cup that Stiles would bet real money contained wine.

“You’re late,” Peter said without looking at him.

“I’m literally early.”

“You’re late to your inevitable breakdown,” Peter clarified. “Derek’s already warming up.”

Stiles didn’t respond. He didn’t need to. Because that was the moment he saw it.

The uniforms were red - Beacon Hills crimson, with gold lettering and black piping along the sleeves and collar. Derek stood near first base, stretching lazily, a red cap backwards on his head, and…

“Oh my god,” Stiles whispered.

Peter smirked. “Ah. You’ve seen it.”

The back of the jersey. In bold, gold block letters:
HALE
24

“Twenty-four,” Stiles breathed, nearly rocking forward off the bleacher.

Peter hummed innocently. “Isn’t that your old lacrosse number?”

Stiles’ heart was in his throat. “Why would he-? That’s… That was mine.”

“I believe he said it was lucky,” Peter said, taking a smug sip of his drink. “Or maybe he just likes the way it looked on someone he couldn’t stop staring years ago.”

Stiles covered his mouth.

“I’m going to combust,” he muttered into his palm.

Peter patted his shoulder. “Do it quietly. You’re blocking my view.”

Stiles barely heard him. His brain was too busy replaying Derek’s shoulder muscles shifting beneath that jersey. The curve of his back. The stupid number 24 pressed right between his shoulder blades like a goddamn declaration.

“Do you think he knows?” Stiles asked, still staring.

Peter snorted. “Darling, if he doesn’t, we’ve failed you both. But I’m beginning to think you’re the slower one here.”

Stiles opened his mouth to reply, and that was when Derek turned toward the bleachers.

He spotted Stiles instantly.

And smiled.

Small, quiet. But unmistakably for him.

Stiles’ stomach dropped to his knees.

Peter didn’t look up, but he smirked knowingly. “You should probably breathe.”

Stiles did not, in fact, breathe.

Because Derek adjusted his cap, jogged toward the dugout, and called over his shoulder, “Hey Stiles. You better cheer loud!”

Stiles' voice cracked on the, “Oh my god I totally like him.”

Peter grinned. “Welcome to reality, babe.”
~~~~

By the bottom of the third inning, Stiles was barely hanging on.

The game was absurd.

Kira was umpiring with an air of cheerful chaos, making confident calls that were probably legally questionable. Isaac had stationed himself beside the bleachers with a massive foam finger and was heckling everyone indiscriminately. Finstock - yes, Coach Finstock, who had apparently appointed himself team coach - was yelling a constant stream of motivational threats like, “YOU THINK THE FIRE DEPARTMENT LOSES OUT OF CHARITY? HIT THE BALL LIKE YOUR LIFE DEPENDS ON IT, HELLBOY!”

But none of it mattered.

Because Derek was walking up to the plate.

And Stiles was dying.

He watched from the fourth row up, clutching a plastic soda cup like it could anchor him to the mortal plane. Derek adjusted his grip on the bat and rolled his shoulders back. The red jersey stretched across his chest, sleeves hugging his biceps like they were personally blessed by some divine baseball deity.

Stiles made a quiet sound in his throat. Something between a gasp and a choke.

Peter, beside him, didn’t even look. “Should I call an ambulance or just let nature take its course?”

But Stiles couldn’t answer. Because Derek stepped into the batter’s box, planted his feet, and-

“Oh no,” Stiles whispered. “The pants.”

Peter hummed. “Ah, yes. The baseball pants. So many emotional casualties.”

Stiles wasn’t listening. His eyes were locked on Derek’s thighs. The way they flexed when he shifted his stance. The subtle torque in his hips when he rotated to check his swing. The sweat glistening at the back of his neck.

“Is that…does he know he looks like that?” Stiles asked, voice high and a little broken.

Peter smirked. “Yes.”

“Rude.”

“He’s trying to win a game. You’re trying to survive your sexuality. These are very different battles.”

Then the pitcher wound up.

The ball flew.

Derek swung.

The crack of the bat echoed like thunder. The ball soared into the air, deep into left field, past the fence, out of the park.

Home run.

The crowd erupted.

Stiles stood up so fast he nearly knocked over a family of four.

“WHAT THE F-” He slapped a hand over his own mouth, eyes wide, heart pounding like a war drum. Derek jogged the bases with easy confidence, his hat bouncing slightly with each step, the number 24 gleaming under the field lights like a cruel, beautiful taunt.

He rounded third, heading for home.

Stiles nearly blacked out.

Peter calmly sipped his drink. “So how’s that chill thing going for you?”

“I’m going to bite him,” Stiles said, dazed. “I’m going to climb that fence and bite him.”

Peter raised a brow. “I think that’s a foul. Unless it’s foreplay.”

Stiles just kept staring, watching Derek jog into the dugout to high fives and cheers, chest rising and falling with false exertion, his grin so wide and happy it made something inside Stiles ache.

Because it wasn’t just the body or the swing or the pants or the stupid sexy competence.

It was Derek.

And Stiles was so far gone he might as well have sent himself a postcard.
~~~~

Beacon Hills Sheriff Department had won.

Barely.

There had been three pulled hamstrings, one suspiciously convenient power outage, and a shouting match between Kira and the fire chief that ended with her being awarded MVP for calling balls “based on vibes alone.”

But still, they won.

The field was a mess of celebration. Derek had been mobbed by half the pack after the game, including Isaac climbing him like a tree while Kira shrieked, “I told you to use your glutes, oh my God!” Boyd just handed Derek a water bottle and muttered something that made him smile.

A real, wide, open smile.

Stiles sat frozen on the bleachers, still holding his now flat soda, legs locked in place, brain rebooting on loop.

The pants. The jersey. The number. The sweat. The thighs. The bat. The way his ass looked rounding second like it had a gravitational pull. His stupid perfect shoulders. The damn way his hat curled his hair in the back. The forearms. THE-

Stiles buried his face in his hands and made a soft strangled sound.

“Still alive?” Peter asked, annoyingly amused.

“No,” Stiles croaked. “I’ve died. I’ve died and I’m haunting this bench now. A ghost of thirst.”

Peter patted his shoulder. “Arousing. But tragically unsurprising.”

Stiles peeked through his fingers just in time to see Derek pull his jersey up to wipe sweat off his face, flashing several glorious inches of stomach before tugging it back down.

Stiles let out a noise that was one hundred percent not FDA-approved.

And then Derek turned toward the bleachers.

Stiles panicked.

He tried to fix his hoodie, but it caught on his wrist. He attempted to straighten his spine, but managed to jab his own rib with his elbow. He cleared his throat and absolutely choked on air.

By the time Derek got to the bleachers, Stiles looked like he’d barely survived a wind tunnel.

“Hey,” Derek said, hair damp under his cap, cheeks flushed from the game, still glowing from the win.

Stiles blinked up at him. “Huh?”

Derek chuckled. “You good?”

No, his brain screamed. Your pants are a crime and I want to kiss your stupid smiling face and hold your hand and maybe let you ruin me emotionally.

Stiles said, “I’m great! Totally great. Loved the - uh, sport. Big fan of balls. I mean games. Sports games.” He cleared his throat. “Solid pants. I mean performance.”

Derek raised an eyebrow, visibly holding back a laugh. “You sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine,” Stiles squeaked, voice several octaves above human range.

Derek nodded, clearly not buying it. “Your dad’s grabbing dinner with some of the department. Can you give me a ride back?”

Stiles stared.

At the pants.

And nodded. “Yes. Yes, please. You should… go get your stuff.”

Derek smirked. “I’ll be quick.”

As he turned away, Stiles let out a desperate breath and flopped back on the bleachers like he’d just barely survived battle.

Peter stood, stretched, and said, “I give it a week.”

Stiles wheezed, “Until what?”

“Until you break and jump his bones.”

And honestly? At this point?

He wouldn’t even be surprised.
~~~~

The drive home should’ve been peaceful.

The night air was cool, the roads were mostly empty, the windows were down, and the sound of tires on pavement hummed low and steady beneath them.

Stiles gripped the steering wheel with both hands like it was the only thing tethering him to sanity.

Derek sat in the passenger seat, legs stretched out, cap turned backwards now, his game jersey unbuttoned and clinging damply to his chest over a black undershirt that was doing nothing to hide anything.

He had one arm resting along the window, the other holding a half drunk water bottle between his legs, and Stiles was absolutely losing his mind.

“You’re quiet,” Derek said after a while, glancing over at him.

“I’m always quiet,” Stiles said immediately. Too immediately.

Derek huffed a laugh. “Sure you are.”

Okay, not great, Stiles thought. Too defensive. Say something casual.

“So,” he said, voice slightly strangled, “good game. Congrats on the homerun. That was, like. Wow. Solid batting. Big hits. Great… baseball.”

Derek smiled, faint and warm. “Thanks.”

Don’t look at the smile, Stiles told himself. You looked at the smile. Abort. Abort.

He cleared his throat. “Is twenty four a coincidence? Or…”

Derek turned his head slightly, resting his cheek on the back of his wrist. “It’s your old lacrosse number.”

Stiles’ heart did a hard thump.

“I remember,” Derek added, almost shy. “You were captain senior year. You were… fast.”

Stiles blinked hard at the road. “You watched me play?”

Derek didn’t answer right away. “Sometimes. From the bleachers. You didn’t see me.”

Stiles had to actively stop himself from swerving into a tree.

He watched me play. He remembered my number. He’s wearing my number. He’s sitting next to me like that shouldn’t matter. Like he’s not casually radiating hot post sports energy and making my brain shut down one muscle at a time-

“You okay?” Derek asked again, a little more gently this time.

“I’m great!” Stiles said, voice way too loud. “I’m - I’m so okay it’s offensive. Honestly I might be too okay. Dangerously okay.”

Derek turned to look at him fully now, brows slightly furrowed, concerned but amused. “You sure?”

“Yup.” Stiles didn’t dare look back. “Yup. Totally fine. Not thinking about baseball pants at all. Why would I be. Ha. So.”

Derek blinked. “Baseball-?”

“NOPE,” Stiles said, loud and immediate, eyes locked on the road. “Didn’t say anything. Nope. You must be tired.”

Derek laughed.

Actually laughed.

And Stiles was convinced this was the end. He was going to crash into a mailbox and die tragically horny and unkissed by Derek Hale.

Derek leaned back again, smirking slightly, clearly aware something was happening but not pushing it. “You’re really bad at being subtle.”

“I know,” Stiles groaned. “You don’t have to tell me.”

Derek tilted his head. “It’s kind of cute.”

Stiles did a full body flinch.

“What?”

“Your face,” Derek said simply. “You’re all red.”

Stiles slammed a hand over his cheek with one hand and swerved slightly before recovering. “I’m driving a vehicle, you can’t just say things like that!”

Derek just laughed again, leaning his head back against the window. “Relax. I’m not teasing. Just… observing.”

“Well stop that,” Stiles muttered, flustered beyond repair. “It’s dangerous. There are consequences.”

Derek’s smile went crooked. “I’m starting to hope so.”

Stiles almost drove into a bush.

By the time they pulled up to the Hale house, Stiles was convinced his skin was humming. Everything felt loud - the engine idling, the crunch of gravel under tires, the sound of Derek breathing beside him.

He threw the Jeep into park and shut it off but didn’t move.

Derek didn’t either.

For a few seconds, the only thing Stiles could hear was the ticking of the cooling engine and the thud of his own heartbeat in his ears.

“So,” Derek said softly, still not looking at him, “thanks for the ride.”

Stiles nodded. “Yeah. No problem. Anytime. Literally. You could text me at two in the morning and say ‘I need a lift’ and I’d be like ‘sure, let me just put pants on,’ unless of course you preferred me not wearing pants, which, I mean, some people have a thing for that, not that I’m saying you do, obviously, unless you-”

Derek turned his head, brows raised, lips twitching like he was trying very hard not to laugh.

Stiles slapped a hand over his mouth. “I hate myself.”

“No, you don’t,” Derek said, smiling. “You just talk when you’re nervous.”

“I’m not nervous.”

“You’re vibrating.”

Stiles narrowed his eyes. “That’s just my natural charisma.”

Derek opened his door and stepped out, stretching, arms above his head. The jersey pulled up just enough to flash another sliver of skin. His hat had been ditched somewhere between Main Street and the Hale House, and his hair was a perfect, sweaty mess.

Stiles stared.

Then muttered, way too low: “I’d let you pin me with that bat.”

Derek paused mid stretch.

The silence that followed was so loud it may have caused a localized shift in gravity.

Stiles’s eyes went wide as the words fully registered. "Oh my God," he breathed, horrified. "I said that out loud."

Derek slowly turned back toward the Jeep, his expression unreadable. But his eyes…his eyes flashed red, just for a split second. A flicker of heat, unmistakable.

Stiles swallowed hard.

Derek walked back to the passenger door but didn’t get in. Instead, he leaned in through the open window, one forearm braced on the roof, so close Stiles could see the sharp edge of his jaw and the pulse ticking in his throat.

“You really have no filter, do you?” he said, voice low and rough.

Stiles blinked up at him. “I - it’s broken. My filter. Totally shredded. Never recovered from puberty.”

Derek just looked at him for a long moment.

“You coming in, or are you planning to spend the night in the driveway fantasizing about sports equipment?”

Stiles made a noise that wasn’t human and may have come from another dimension.

He scrambled out of the Jeep, practically tripping over his own feet. “Coming in! I’m coming in. But not like - that kind of coming in, that’s not what I meant, I just meant…walking. I’m walking. Into your house. With my - my feet. Because that’s normal.”

Derek let out a quiet laugh, already halfway to the door. “You’re a disaster.”

“You chose to get in my car, Hale. This is on you.”

Derek opened the door, glancing back at him, voice warm and amused and just slightly rough “Can’t say I regret it.”

And then he disappeared inside.

Stiles stood on the porch, blinking, heart absolutely hammering.

He put both hands on his face and whispered, “What the fuck is happening.”

Stiles stepped into the house behind Derek and tried, desperately, to remember how legs worked.

The kitchen lights were soft - warm yellow glowing against hardwood, stainless steel appliances, and a half finished pack of cookies on the counter. Derek moved like this was just another night. Like he wasn’t walking around in baseball pants that should honestly come with a warning label and maybe a chaperone.

He opened the fridge, grabbed a bottle of water and an apple.

Stiles leaned against the doorway, trying to act like his soul wasn’t in a blender.

“You want anything?” Derek asked, glancing over his shoulder.

Stiles blinked. “Yes. No. I mean - I’m good. I already ate. Something. Earlier.”

Derek raised an eyebrow like he knew that was a lie, but didn’t push.

He shut the fridge with his hip - Jesus Christ - and padded into the living room barefoot, bottle tucked under one arm, apple in hand.

Stiles, completely helpless to stop himself, followed like a duckling.

Derek dropped down onto the couch with a soft grunt, back slouching, knees spread slightly, relaxed and so unfairly there that Stiles nearly tripped over the rug.

He just stood there, eyes wide, lips parted, staring at the full display of post game muscle and smug comfort.

Derek bit into the apple again and looked up. “You gonna sit?”

Stiles blinked. “Yeah. Yeah, I just - uh, don’t want to be a nuisance. Or like, breathe too loud.”

Derek smirked. “I think you’re safe.”

Stiles sat on the very edge of the couch like it might explode if he got too comfortable.

Then, after a beat he said, “So, um. You’re… you’re not gonna change?”

Derek looked down at himself, then back at Stiles. “No,” he said simply. “Don’t think I will.”

Stiles made a soft wheeze of a sound. “Right. Sure. Of course. Totally normal. Why would you? It’s not like you’re actively destroying my will to live with your thighs or anything.”

There was a long pause.

Derek’s chewing slowed.

Stiles froze.

His brain short circuited.

“Did I - did I say that out loud too?” he whispered.

Derek’s eyes lifted slowly, a flicker of something sparking behind them. Amusement. Heat. Awareness.

“You did,” he said softly.

Stiles slapped a hand over his own mouth and groaned into his palm. “I want to walk into the ocean.”

Derek laughed. Full on laughed. Low and warm and fond, like he wasn’t even a little mad about it. Like maybe he didn’t hate hearing it.

“You really have no self preservation,” Derek said, still smiling as he tossed the apple core into the trash can beside the couch without looking.

Stiles peeked at him from between his fingers, cheeks burning. “I think my soul just left my body.”

Derek stretched his arms along the back of the couch, one ankle resting casually on the opposite knee, looking completely, unfairly relaxed. “Is it the pants?”

Stiles groaned. “Of course it’s the pants, Derek. Are you kidding? They’re - they’re doing things. I don’t even know if they’re legal.”

Derek tilted his head, a hint of something playful curling around his smile. “Should I wear them more often?”

Stiles just whimpered.

Stiles wasn’t sure when Derek had started teasing him.

Not just the casual, subtle stuff either. No, this was full on, expertly delivered, surgical level torment. The kind where Derek knew what he was doing and chose violence.

He sat there on the couch, stretched out like the smug, stoic wolf-shaped problem he was, thighs on full display, eyes dark with amusement, and a little smirk tugging at his stupid mouth like it knew.

“Or, I mean,” Derek said, like this wasn’t a federal crime, “if the pants are that distracting, I can take them off.”

Stiles made an actual choking noise.

“What - no. Wait. I mean what? That’s illegal. I’m pretty sure that’s illegal. You can’t just say things like that.”

Derek tilted his head. “Why not?”

“Because I’m fragile, Derek! I’m barely hanging on over here!” Stiles waved a hand at his own face. “Do you see this? Do you see what you’ve done to me? I’m one more stretch away from licking the carpet just to get the taste of desperation out of my mouth!”

Derek blinked. “That was… vivid.”

“I’m spiraling,” Stiles said, deadly serious. “You’ve turned me into a thirst goblin. A full on pant sniffing, jersey loving, vaguely feral horn monster.”

Derek's lips twitched. “Just vaguely?”

“Oh my God,” Stiles moaned, flopping back on the couch. “This isn’t fair. I was doing so well. I was chill. I was going to be a normal adult person with totally non chaotic, quiet feelings, and then you showed up in those pants like - like Baseball Jesus and now I’m just-” He threw his hands in the air. “Ruined.”

Derek just watched him, eyes practically glowing with how hard he was holding back laughter. “Baseball Jesus?”

“Don’t act like you don’t know,” Stiles said, sitting back up and pointing at him. “You walked into my house like a sin. With your cap and your number twenty four and your thighs that were sculpted by God after watching too many sports movies. And now you’re just sitting here, legs open, like some kind of challenge.”

Derek stretched, slowly, arms behind his head. “Am I?”

“YES.”

Derek let out a low hum. “Interesting.”

Stiles grabbed a throw pillow and screamed into it.

Derek chuckled and leaned a little closer. “You could’ve said no to the invite. Could’ve said you didn’t want to come in.”

“Oh yeah, because that would’ve helped,” Stiles groaned. “Then I’d just be lying awake in bed thinking about your thighs and dying like a Victorian poet.”

Derek blinked. “Is that not what you’re doing right now?”

“I AM A SHADOW OF A MAN,” Stiles said dramatically, sprawled sideways now. “YOU HAVE TURNED ME INTO LONGING AND REGRET.”

Derek’s eyes glinted, dark and sharp, but his smile was warm when he nudged Stiles with his foot. “You’re kind of an idiot.”

“Don’t care,” Stiles said. “Still staring at your thighs.”

Derek didn’t move.

Didn’t cover up.

Didn’t change.

He just leaned a little closer and murmured, “Good.”

And that good?

That good was low and smug and just a little possessive, and it hit Stiles like a truck. Like a sexy, red-jersey-wearing semi of doom.

His brain threw up a white flag. His dignity curled up and died.

He gave Derek a wide eyed stare, mouth slightly open, fingers twitching with the effort of not touching him.

And then, finally, Derek leaned back again, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

Stiles exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for twenty years.

“I’m gonna need a cold shower, five therapy sessions, and possibly a restraining order I take out on myself,” he muttered.

Derek’s voice was still smug as hell when he said, “You’re welcome to stay the night.”

Stiles covered his face and whispered, “Fuck.”
~~~~

Stiles lay flat on his back in his room at the pack house, eyes wide open, arms at his sides like a man awaiting execution.

The ceiling stared back.

Mocking him.

He’d taken a shower - cold. He’d changed into sleep clothes - Derek's. He’d even tried breathing exercises Lydia had once sent him after a panic attack in college.

None of it worked.

Because a few walls away, Derek Hale was asleep. Or lounging. Or stretching. Or still wearing those pants. And the knowledge of that alone was enough to keep Stiles’ heart rate clocking in somewhere between “nervous squirrel” and “final boss battle.”

He threw an arm over his eyes and groaned into the void.

Knock knock.

He bolted upright, blanket flying off, heart in his throat.

The door creaked open and there, backlit by the soft hallway light, stood Derek.

In a t-shirt and sweats now, thank god, but still barefoot, hair still mussed, holding a steaming mug between his hands like some kind of brooding tea summoning night spirit.

“Hey,” Derek said quietly. “You okay?”

“Y-yeah,” Stiles lied. “Totally. Why wouldn’t I be? I’m great. I’m lying down like people do when they’re not dying inside. Normal.”

Derek blinked slowly. “I heard your heartbeat.”

“Jesus,” Stiles wheezed. “What are you, wire tap?”

Derek stepped inside, gentle but deliberate, and handed him the mug. “Chamomile. It helps.”

Stiles took it like it might explode. “Thanks,” he said, awkward. “That’s very, uh… thoughtful.”

He didn’t drink it. He just… held it. Warm and fragrant in his hands, while Derek looked at him like he could see through him, straight past the sarcasm and straight into the barely contained chaos.

“You really okay?” Derek asked again, softer now. Concerned. Real.

And that? That gutted him.

Because Derek had no idea.

No idea that Stiles was sitting here actively trying not to lose his entire soul over the fact that Derek was this sweet, and this observant, and wore baseball pants like a weapon and didn’t even know it.

“Yeah,” Stiles said again, and then his mouth opened.

Because of course it did.

And what came out was: “It’s not my heart rate, it’s just that my brain is screaming about how soft you are, and how your thighs could crush me, and how I want to die in your laundry pile.”

Derek froze.

Stiles froze harder.

The silence that followed was deafening.

“Oh my god,” Stiles whispered. “I am broken. My brain to mouth filter is just gone. Dead. Buried next to my pride. Do you have, like, a shovel I can use to dig my own emotional grave?”

Derek stood there.

Still holding the doorknob.

Looking at Stiles like he didn’t know whether to laugh, cry, or launch himself across the room.

And then slowly, he stepped forward, into the room, the door swinging shut behind him.

He took the tea from Stiles’ trembling hands and set it on the nightstand.

Then - voice low, unreadable - he said “If you’re trying to freak me out… it’s not working.”

Stiles blinked. “Wait, what?”

Derek looked at him. Really looked. Eyes dark, steady. “I’m not scared of what you’re feeling.”

Stiles stared at him, heart pounding loud enough to wake the entire supernatural community.

Derek continued, softer, like this wasn’t a monumental thing. “And I’m not pretending I haven’t noticed.”

Stiles swallowed. “Okay. Wow. You’re being, like… unreasonably chill about this.”

“I’m not chill,” Derek said. “I’m…” He hesitated. Then smiled, small, wry, devastating. “I’ve been waiting for you to catch up.”

Stiles opened his mouth.

Nothing came out.

Just a noise.

A helpless, stunned, absolutely wrecked noise.

Derek stood and took a step back toward the door. “Get some sleep.”

And then he added with a little smirk…

“You’ll need it.”

And left.

Stiles stared at the door for a full minute before flopping onto the bed face first and letting out a muffled yell into the mattress.
~~~~

The next morning, Stiles seriously considered faking his own death.

It would be easy. He’d watched enough true crime documentaries to pull it off. He could leave a cryptic note and vanish into the woods. Let someone else deal with the trauma of having told Derek Hale anything about his thighs in those pants.

But then someone knocked on the door and said, “Breakfast is ready!” in Kira’s sunshine and honey voice, and Stiles figured that if he died here, at least he’d get pancakes first.

He shuffled into the kitchen wearing borrowed sweatpants and his own Beacon County Sheriff’s Department hoodie. Hair a mess. Eyes wide. Soul hovering. He clutched his mug like a lifeline.

The pack was already seated.

Boyd, calmly buttering toast.

Isaac, already halfway through a waffle, syrup on his lip.

Kira, grinning like she knew everything.

Peter, drinking coffee like it was wine, one eyebrow arched with purpose.

And Derek.

Still looked so hot.

Except now he’d traded the jersey for a fitted gray t-shirt that clung to his arms and shoulders like sin. He was barefoot, sitting at the table like a man who hadn’t just wrecked someone’s sanity with his voice and then told them to sleep well.

Stiles sat down with all the grace of a man awaiting trial.

“Morning,” Boyd said mildly.

“Hi,” Kira chirped.

Isaac just smirked. “Sleep well?”

Peter sipped his coffee. “Or not at all?”

Stiles pointed his fork at them. “I hate you all so much it makes me dizzy.”

Kira giggled. “You’re bright red.”

“Side effect of my soul trying to escape my body,” Stiles muttered, stabbing a pancake like it had wronged him personally. “It’s fine. I’m fine. Nothing to talk about.”

Peter smirked. “I disagree.”

“Of course you do.”

Derek, to his credit, didn’t say a word. He just drank his coffee and looked at Stiles. Occasionally. Casually. Like he wasn’t doing anything. But every time Stiles met his eyes, Derek’s mouth twitched into the kind of smile that knew things.

It was worse than teasing.

It was confident.

It was mutual awareness.

And Stiles was not prepared.

“You’re staring,” Derek said eventually, low and casual.

Stiles blinked. “No I’m not.”

“You absolutely are,” Peter added helpfully.

“I have eyes!” Stiles hissed. “They’re functional! What do you want from me, a blindfold?”

Derek raised an eyebrow. “You said I was soft.”

Kira dropped her fork. Isaac wheezed. Boyd smiled into his coffee.

“I SAID A LOT OF THINGS,” Stiles shouted, flailing slightly. “I was…compromised! I was emotionally unsupervised! You showed up with tea and thighs and gave me whiplash, okay?!”

There was a long beat of silence.

Then Derek said, very calmly, “You still want to die in my laundry pile?”

Stiles made a noise that was half gasp, half squeal, and buried his face in his hands.

Peter patted him on the back. “There, there. At least it’s a death with dignity.”

“I’m never speaking again,” Stiles muttered into his palms.

Derek’s voice dropped lower. “Shame. I like your mouth.”

THUD.

That was Isaac falling out of his chair.
~~~~

Stiles fled.

It wasn’t graceful.

It wasn’t even smart.

But the second he heard the water turn on in the bathroom - heard it through the wall, the pipes groaning, the distinct sound of Derek Hale in the shower - his brain lit up every emergency exit sign it had and screamed: RUN.

Because he was five seconds away from doing something disastrously irreversible. Like knocking on the door. Or walking in. Or joining him.

And Derek? Derek would’ve let him.

That was the problem.

So now Stiles was back at the Stilinski house, breathless, still in borrowed sweatpants and his hoodie, pacing his childhood bedroom like it had personally betrayed him.

He threw a pillow across the room.

“Okay,” he said out loud, dragging both hands through his hair. “Okay, Stiles. Breathe. Breathe. Just - what the actual fuck was that?!”

He turned and paced the other direction. His feet thudded against the hardwood floor.

“He made me tea. He walked into my room like a cozy, smirking forest god and handed me herbal betrayal. And then he smiled and said things like ‘I’ve been waiting for you to catch up’ like we’re in a romcom instead of my slow psychological collapse.”

He paused.

Threw his other pillow.

“And then this morning he just…he just sat there! Like it wasn’t a crime against humanity! Like his thighs don’t have their own gravitational field!”

He started pacing again, faster.

“I can’t - I can’t tell if he’s serious or if he’s just humoring me. Like, ‘Oh poor Stiles, he’s flailing and horny and emotionally compromised, let me give him some attention until he settles down like a feral cat.’”

He stopped in front of his mirror.

Looked himself in the eye.

“You almost got in the shower with him,” he whispered.

He pointed at his reflection.

“You. Almost. Got. In. The shower. With Derek Hale.”

The reflection did not deny it.

Stiles collapsed onto his bed like a man defeated.

He groaned into the comforter. “I don’t even know if he likes me or if this is some kind of long con where he’s trying to kill me with thirst.”

A pause.

“And honestly, if it is? It’s working.”

He rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling.

“I am so completely fucked,” he said to no one. “Like, not in the good way. In the ‘I need to move to another country and become a llama farmer’ kind of way.”

A knock came at the front door downstairs.

Stiles sat up sharply, heart skipping a beat.

“…No,” he whispered. “No way. He’s not - he wouldn’t-”

Another knock.

Slower. Heavier.

More familiar.

Stiles let out a high pitched noise and flailed out of bed, panic flooding his veins like lava.

“OH MY GOD HE FOLLOWED ME.”
~~~~

Stiles crept down the hallway like the floorboards might explode.

He was not emotionally equipped to face Derek at his own front door, not after fleeing the pack house like a cartoon animal. His heart was doing jumping jacks in his chest. His palms were sweating. His mouth tasted like regret and syrup.

He cracked the door open just enough to peek out.

Yup.

There he was.

Derek Hale. Standing on the porch. In the morning sun. In tight fucking jeans. T-shirt clinging to his chest, hair still slightly damp from the shower, like he hadn’t chased Stiles into the depths of emotional oblivion just hours ago.

He held something up.

Stiles blinked.

“My phone?”

Derek nodded. “You left it charging. Kira noticed.”

“Oh,” Stiles said, blinking again. “Thanks.”

Derek tilted his head slightly. “You okay?”

And Stiles - Stiles should have lied. Should’ve said yes, taken the phone, and shut the door. Should’ve given himself time to breathe. To reboot. To un-spiral.

But his mouth, as always, had other plans.

“I’m melting down,” he said, voice high and immediate.

Derek blinked. “What?”

“I’m melting down,” Stiles repeated, stepping back and opening the door wider. “Like actively. It’s happening in real time. I left because I was five seconds away from joining you in the shower and I wasn’t sure if you’d let me or laugh or worse, do it just to be nice, and I can’t figure out what’s happening, Derek, and my brain’s a disaster and I kind of want to climb you like a tree and also cry, and honestly I haven’t ruled out doing both at the same time.”

Derek stared at him.

Stiles stood in the open doorway, panting slightly, hoodie slipping off one shoulder like his dignity was trying to escape.

Then very softly Derek said, “I wouldn’t have let you in the shower just to be nice.”

Stiles blinked. “Huh?”

“I wouldn’t do that,” Derek repeated, stepping inside now, door closing behind him. “I’m not playing a game with you, Stiles. This isn’t teasing. I’m not humoring you.”

“You’re not?” Stiles said, voice cracking.

Derek shook his head, voice calm but serious. “No. I like you. A lot. I’ve liked you. For a long time. And I’ve been giving you space to catch up because you left and grew and built this whole life, and I didn’t want to mess with that. But now you’re here. And we’re…here.”

Stiles stared up at him, breath caught.

“You’re not imagining this,” Derek said. “I want you. You. Not just the part of you that says wild things and runs away in borrowed pants. All of you.”

Stiles opened his mouth.

No sound came out.

His whole body felt like a tuning fork.

“I don’t know what to do with that,” he admitted finally. “I was literally upstairs talking to my bedroom wall about your thighs.”

Derek smiled, soft now. “I like your brain.”

“It’s unwell.”

“I know,” Derek said gently. “But I still want it. I want you.”

Stiles took one shaky step forward. “Like… in the ‘kiss me’ way or in the ‘stay for pancakes’ way?”

“Yes,” Derek said.

And that was it.

That was all it took.

Stiles launched forward and grabbed Derek by the front of his shirt, dragging him forward and kissing him like the world was ending - like he was ending - finally, finally giving in to the thing they’d both been circling like stars pulled into the same gravity well.

And when Derek kissed him back?

It was gentle at first. Then hungry. Steady. Grounding.

It was the kind of kiss that promised everything.

And when they pulled apart, just barely, breathing into each other’s space, Stiles whispered, “So just to be clear… I’m allowed in the shower next time?”

Derek laughed.

And kissed him again.

They didn’t make it past the hallway.

Derek had him pressed gently against the wall, one hand braced beside Stiles’ head, the other cradling his hip. His mouth moved slowly, deliberately, from Stiles’ lips to the corner of his jaw, then lower, grazing the slope of his throat.

Stiles was gasping. Not because he couldn’t breathe, but because he could, and that alone was somehow worse.

Because this was real.

Derek was kissing him like he meant it.

Like there was no rush, no game, no teasing left between them.

Just heat.

And want.

And something terrifyingly close to tenderness.

Stiles tilted his head back, gave Derek more room, more skin, his fingers fisting in the soft fabric of Derek’s t-shirt.

“Oh my god,” he breathed. “This is happening. You’re - you’re doing things. To me. Right now.”

Derek hummed low against his skin. “I’m aware.”

“No, but like…you’re kissing my neck, and my brain’s shutting down, and you smell like cedar and citrus soap and I think I’m fried.”

Derek laughed quietly and nuzzled just under Stiles’ jaw, inhaling deep.

“You’re scenting me,” Stiles said, dazed. “You’re literally scenting me right now. That’s a real thing that’s happening.”

“Yes,” Derek murmured, dragging his nose along the curve of Stiles’ neck. “Because you’re mine.”

Stiles whimpered. “Okay, see, that? That’s so not helping. Now my bones are jelly and I think I just stopped being a functional human being. This is like… sensory overload. Emotionally. Romantically. Sexually. Spiritually. You’re ruining me in all four dimensions.”

Derek smiled against his skin and gently scraped his teeth along the pulse in Stiles’ throat, not biting, just there.

“I’m gonna start crying,” Stiles warned. “Like full on, ugly sobbing because I’ve wanted this for so long before i even realized it and I didn’t think I could have it and now you’re just here and you’re gentle and you smell like comfort and your thighs are an act of God and-”

“I like your voice,” Derek murmured.

Stiles blinked. “What?”

“I like when you talk. Even when you ramble. Especially when it’s about this.” Derek pulled back just enough to look him in the eye. “Because I’ve wanted this too. I’ve wanted you. Every piece. The chaos, the heart, the soul. The way you fill a room. The way you fight for people. The way you make me feel like it’s okay to be seen.”

Stiles swallowed hard.

“I like the way you look at me,” Derek continued softly, thumb brushing across Stiles’ hip. “Like I’m worth something. Even when I didn’t believe it. Even when I was half feral and broken. You still looked at me like I mattered.”

“You do matter,” Stiles whispered, overwhelmed. “You - you’re not just the guy with the eyebrows and the growling and the tragic backstory. You’re…you’re kind. You take care of people. You made me pancakes. You keep tea in the house even though you don’t drink it. You watch out for everyone, and you don’t even expect them to notice.”

“I don’t need them to,” Derek said. “But I like that you do.”

Stiles felt his breath stutter.

Then Derek leaned in again, slow and steady, and kissed just below his ear, right where his skin went hot and flushed.

“You smell like want,” Derek whispered. “Like pack. Like mine.”

“I am,” Stiles whispered back before he could stop himself. “Yours. I want to be. For as long as you’ll let me.”

Derek pulled him in, arms wrapping tight around his waist, and just held him.

Not possessive.

Not claiming.

Just real.

And for the first time since all this started, Stiles finally went quiet, not because he ran out of words, but because he didn’t need them anymore.

They didn’t move far.

Just the couch - Derek guiding him down gently, like Stiles was something breakable and precious and maybe even a little wild. And Stiles clung to him like the world might fall away if he let go.

They were tangled now. Stiles half in Derek’s lap, Derek half out of breath, and neither of them ready to stop.

Because now that the words were out, they wouldn’t stop coming.

“I love you,” Stiles said suddenly, like it had just hit him in the chest. “I do. I think I’ve loved you since you almost murdered me in that burnt out house and I was like, ‘Wow. Hot.’ Which, in retrospect, says some troubling things about me.”

Derek chuckled, warm and low. “You were seventeen. I think you get a pass.”

“And then,” Stiles barreled on, “you got broody, and noble, and saved my life more times than I can count, and I’d lie awake thinking about your hands and your back muscles and that one time you wore jeans that were frankly irresponsible.”

He paused, blinked hard. “And it wasn’t just the hotness. It was the way you looked at people, even when you were hurting. The way you took care of me and Boyd and Isaac. The way you didn’t flinch when I wouldn’t shut up.”

“I liked it when you didn’t shut up,” Derek murmured, lips grazing his temple.

“You’re gonna regret saying that.”

“I really won’t.”

Stiles let out a breathless laugh and cupped Derek’s jaw, thumb brushing over the stubble there. “You’re so…God, Derek, you’re so fucking beautiful it makes me stupid. Like, medically. I think my IQ has dropped five points since you walked in here.”

Derek tilted his head, letting Stiles touch him, his eyes soft. “Tell me more.”

“Oh my god, you’re into it.” Stiles grinned, a little feral. “Okay. Okay, you asked for it.”

He gestured wildly. “You’ve got these arms that look like they’ve lifted actual trees, but then your hands are gentle. You’ve got a voice that could make people kneel, but you speak so soft when you care. And don’t get me started on your back…your back, Derek. It’s like someone painted a masterpiece out of angst and wolf genes.”

Derek laughed again, deep and fond, eyes crinkling.

“And those thighs,” Stiles went on, voice rising, “are not pants compatible. They’re a public safety risk. I have to look away sometimes so I don’t combust on the spot. And your neck? I want to bite it. I want to claim you like I’m the alpha, and I know I’m not, but my stupid lizard brain is like ‘lick it, mark it, keep it.’”

Derek’s eyes flashed red for a second, hot and instinctive.

Stiles gasped. “See?! That! That’s not fair!”

Derek surged forward and kissed him again - hungry now, open mouthed and deep, tongue sliding against Stiles’ like he wanted to swallow every word.

When they broke apart, Stiles was panting.

“Tell me one more time? I haven't responded yet.” Derek murmured against his lips.

Stiles blinked. “What?”

“That you love me.”

“I do,” Stiles whispered, breath hitching. “I love you so much I think my chest might cave in from the pressure.”

Derek cupped his face, thumb brushing his cheek, eyes blazing. “I love you too.”

And he said it like it wasn’t even hard.

Like it was a truth he’d been carrying for years and only now got to say out loud.

Like it was freedom.

“I love your voice,” he said softly, kissing down the side of Stiles’ throat again. “I love the way you talk about me like I’m more than what I’ve done. I love that you see me, even when I didn’t.”

Stiles made a soft, broken noise.

“I love your hands,” Derek went on, pulling one up to kiss Stiles’ fingers. “I love your chaos. I love how you never stop fighting. I love how you love.”

Stiles practically melted.

“And,” Derek added, his mouth ghosting over Stiles’ ear, “I love that you think about my thighs.”

Stiles groaned, burying his face in Derek’s shoulder.

“I told you you’d regret it.”

“I don’t,” Derek said, grinning into his skin. “Not even a little.”
~~~

The couch was a mess of limbs and quiet breaths.

Stiles was half sprawled across Derek’s chest, one arm thrown possessively over his ribs, the other tangled in his dark hair. Derek’s fingers traced lazy circles on Stiles’ back, eyes closed, completely lost in the moment like the world outside had ceased to exist.

They’d been talking for hours, the kind of talk that unspools everything you think you’re holding tight - your fears, your hopes, your unspoken desires - and turns it into something solid and real.

Somewhere in the blissful quiet, neither of them noticed the front door opening.

Noah Stilinski stepped inside, boots thudding on the floor, keys jangling.

He paused.

Then he cleared his throat.

Derek’s eyes snapped open.

Stiles jerked upright, cheeks flaming a brilliant red, hair tousled, utterly disheveled in the way that only happens when you’ve been tangled up with the love of your life for hours.

Noah took it all in, glanced at Derek, then at Stiles, and grinned.

“Well, would you look at that,” he said dryly, folding his arms. “Caught you two knuckleheads snuggling like teenagers.”

Stiles launched into full on word vomit mode.

“Oh, Dad! It’s not like…well, it is like that, but it’s also, you know, really serious now and we talked a lot about feelings and emotions and stuff and Derek’s not scary anymore and he made me pancakes yesterday and I think he’s going to kill me with those thighs but in a good way and I can’t believe this is real and also I probably should’ve cleaned the kitchen but I got distracted and-”

Derek just watched him with a soft, fond smile, brushing a stray lock of hair from Stiles’ forehead like he was the most precious thing he’d ever seen.

Noah shook his head, chuckling.

“Son, I’m really happy for you. And Derek? You’re stuck now. No returns, no exchanges. This is permanent.”

Derek’s lips twitched into a grin.

“Yeah,” he said low, voice warm. “I’m stuck.”

Stiles looked at both of them, heart pounding, eyes shining.

“I’m the luckiest idiot alive.”

Noah clapped a hand on Derek’s shoulder.

“Welcome to the family, Hale.”
~~~~

It hadn’t even been a full week since the couch-incident-that-changed-everything, and Stiles was already digging through boxes in his new (permanent) room at the Hale house.

The pack house.

His pack house.

Peter leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, smirking like he owned the place - which, technically, he did.

“Well, well,” Peter said with that trademark dry drawl, “Look who’s already claimed real estate. What’s the rent like? Or did Derek cut you a sweetheart deal?”

Kira was perched on the bed, tossing him a pillow with a grin. “You do realize this is a lifetime commitment, right? No backing out now, baby.”

Stiles grinned, unfazed. “Guess I’m officially one of you now. Which means all the teasing and shade is just love, right?”

Peter gave him a mock glare. “Love wrapped in merciless sarcasm, but sure.”

Derek appeared behind them quietly, leaning in the doorway with an amused look Stiles instantly recognized.

“So,” Derek said, voice low and mock-offended, “You’re setting up shop in your own room?”

Stiles nodded, grinning. “Yeah. I figured I’d unpack the essentials. You know, clothes, work stuff, probably some ridiculous comics.”

Derek’s brow furrowed. “Don’t you want to share a room with your boyfriend?”

Stiles blinked. “Wait… that’s an option?”

Peter and Kira burst out laughing.

“That’s an option?” Stiles repeated, voice rising in disbelief. “Fuck yes, I want to move into your room!”

Derek’s face lit up like someone just handed him the moon on a silver platter.

“Good,” he said quietly, stepping forward. “Because I don’t do lonely.”

Stiles smirked, dropping a box onto the floor. “Then it’s settled. Welcome to the new, improved, very much cohabitating Stilinski-Hale suite.”

Peter shook his head, grinning. “You two are impossible.”

Kira threw him a wink. “But also adorable.”

Derek pulled Stiles into a tight hug, his voice just above a whisper, “I’ve been waiting for this.”

And for once, Stiles didn’t have a single word to say - only a smile that said everything.

Stiles stood in the middle of the room, arms full of half unpacked boxes and random clutter - a chaotic mix of worn comic books, stacks of detective case files, favorite hoodies, a few vintage movie posters (rolled up, because who knew where to put them), and an obnoxiously large collection of novelty mugs.

The room around him was sleek, quiet, and very Derek Hale.

Smooth gray walls, clean lines, a bed made without a single wrinkle, and not a speck of dust.

Stiles exhaled, eyeing the pristine calm like it was a challenge.

“Okay,” he muttered, setting down a box with a thud. “This is about to officially be the messiest the Hale house has ever been.”

Derek appeared in the doorway, arms crossed, watching with that unreadable expression.

Stiles bit his lip. “Hey, uh… I hope you don’t mind my stuff. I mean, it’s a lot. And loud. And, well, kind of the opposite of this whole zen vibe you’ve got going on.”

Derek stepped inside, closing the door behind him. He looked around, then back at Stiles with a soft, slow smile.

“Stiles,” he said quietly, “I don’t care if you fill the room with comic books and weird mugs and piles of clothes. This is your space now, too.”

Stiles blinked. “Really? You’re not… annoyed or anything?”

Derek shook his head. “No. It’s good. It’s you. I like it.”

Stiles felt a warm flush creep up his neck. “You like my chaos?”

“I like all of you,” Derek said, stepping closer. He took a comic from the top of a pile and flipped it open, pretending to read. “Besides, now I have an excuse to steal your mugs for coffee.”

Stiles laughed, relief spilling out in a rush.

“You’re seriously cool with this?”

Derek nodded, fingers brushing a stray lock of hair off Stiles’ forehead. “I’m with you. Whatever that looks like.”

Stiles leaned into the touch, heart full.

“Guess I’m not changing anytime soon, then.”

“No,” Derek said softly, pulling him close. “And I wouldn’t want you to.”
~~~~

The morning light filtered softly through the kitchen windows, filling the Hale house with a quiet warmth.

Stiles had just flipped a pancake and was carefully assembling his breakfast plate when the bathroom door creaked open.

Derek emerged like a damn Greek god - his dark hair damp, still tousled from the shower, and sliding effortlessly into his baseball uniform. The familiar red jersey clung to his broad shoulders, and those pants…

Those pants.

They were the same ones Stiles had been obsessing over since the first game - tight, perfectly sculpted, emphasizing every muscle, every curve of Derek’s powerful thighs.

Stiles froze mid bite, eyes locking onto Derek like he’d just materialized out of a dream.

Then, with a clatter that echoed through the kitchen, Stiles dropped his plate, shards of ceramic scattering across the hardwood floor.

Kira blinked at him, wide eyed. “What the hell, Stiles? You okay?”

Stiles blinked, voice coming out in a rapid fire tirade.

“It’s the pants, Kira! The pants! The thighs! They’re a goddamn menace! A public safety hazard! Like, seriously, how is it even legal to have thighs that powerful in pants that tight?! I swear, I’m gonna lose consciousness just looking at them!”

Kira just snorted.

“So… how long do you think it’d take Derek to choke me out with those things before I pass out?”

Stiles turned to Peter, eyes glittering with a manic mix of admiration and terror.

“Seriously, Peter. You’re the one who’s into that shit. What’s the verdict? Ten seconds? Eight? Five if he’s really trying?”

Derek caught their conversation from across the kitchen, a slow, amused smile curling his lips as he approached.

“Why don’t we find out sometime,” he said low, voice thick with teasing promise. He reached out, brushing a stray lock of hair behind Stiles’ ear, eyes dark and heavy.

“You might not last long,” Derek murmured, leaning in close enough for Stiles to feel the heat of his breath on his skin. “But I’ll make sure it’s worth it.”

Stiles’ heart hammered like a drum. He swallowed hard, caught somewhere between mortified and thrilled.

Derek’s hand slid down to rest on Stiles’ hip, fingers warm and possessive.

“So,” Derek continued, voice silky, “how about we call it a training session? I’ll show you just how dangerous these thighs really are.”

Stiles let out a breathless laugh, nearly melting into Derek’s touch.

“God, you’re impossible.”

Derek just smirked.

“And you? You’re exactly where I want you.”
~~~~

The sun beat down over the makeshift baseball field where the game was in full swing, the crowd’s cheers mingling with the clatter of bats and the thud of running feet.

Stiles sat on the bleachers next to Peter, gripping a cold soda but hardly tasting it. Because Derek was a walking, breathing weapon of distraction.

From the pitcher’s mound to the outfield, Derek moved with a confident grace, but it was the little things that had Stiles melting: the way Derek stretched his long arms high above his head, flexing just enough to make the red jersey ride up slightly and reveal a flash of toned skin; the way his thighs flexed powerfully every time he took a step; the careless roll of his shoulders that spoke volumes.

Peter was beside him, openly cackling as he watched Stiles slowly lose his composure.

“You’re screwed,” Peter whispered with a grin.

Stiles shot him a look, but his eyes never left Derek.

He knew Derek could see him. Hell, he was pretty sure Derek was watching him like a predator sizing up prey.

That thought made a wicked smile creep onto Stiles’ lips.

Quietly, barely above a breath, he started muttering filthy little things he wanted to do to Derek right there in the sunlit field.

“God, those thighs. I want to wrap my hands around them and pull you close. Rip that jersey off and leave kisses all down your neck. Make you forget how to breathe.”

Derek, standing by first base now, caught Stiles’ voice, soft but impossible to miss.

His dark eyes flickered red for just a second.

Then, mid stride, Derek nearly tripped over the base, stumbling awkwardly as if his own body betrayed him.

Stiles bit back a laugh, cheeks burning.

Peter doubled over beside him, cackling loudly.

“You just did that,” Peter said, nodding at Derek’s stumble. “You’re a menace, Stilinski.”

Stiles leaned back, flushed and smiling.

“Oh, it’s definitely on now.”

From the field, Derek shook his head with a grin, shooting Stiles a glare that was half amusement, half promise.
~~~~

The door to their bedroom clicked softly behind them, shutting out the world - and everything except the heavy, electric hum between them.

Derek didn’t waste a second.

Before Stiles could even catch his breath, Derek’s hand was on his wrist, fingers curling around it with a quiet strength that pinned Stiles against the doorframe.

The other hand slid up to cup Stiles’ jaw, tilting his face upward.

Their eyes locked. dark, blazing, and full of a hunger that had simmered beneath the surface for far too long.

Then Derek’s mouth crashed down on his, fierce and demanding.

Stiles gasped into the kiss, knees weakening, heart pounding in a wild, relentless rhythm.

He wrapped his arms around Derek’s neck, pulling him closer, needing every inch of heat, every fiery brush of lips.

But as the kiss deepened, something wild broke loose inside Stiles.

Words spilled out; rapid, frantic, unfiltered.

“I can’t - Derek, you’re killing me. Like, literally, I think I’m gonna combust right here in front of you. Your mouth feels like heaven, and those hands? Don’t even get me started on what they do to my skin. And your voice - oh my god, your voice - when you tell me to keep talking, I swear I lose my mind. I’ve never wanted anyone this much in my entire life, and you make me feel like I’m the only person in the world and also like I’m about to combust and also like I want to stay right here forever. How are you real? How do you make me feel so fucking alive and so completely helpless at the same time?”

Derek’s breath hitched, and a slow, low chuckle rumbled in his chest.

He leaned in, brushing his lips softly against Stiles’ temple, his voice rough but steady.

“Keep talking,” he murmured. “It’s keeping me from losing control.”

Stiles’s eyes fluttered open, heart soaring.

“Really?” he whispered, voice trembling.

“Really,” Derek confirmed, pressing a slow kiss just below Stiles’ ear.

Stiles shivered, biting his lip.

“Well then,” he breathed, “I’m not shutting up anytime soon.”

The room was filled with soft laughter, heavy breaths, and whispered confessions as they gave in to the beautiful chaos between them - words and touches weaving a fierce, tender symphony.

Derek’s hands moved with gentle authority, exploring, claiming, grounding.

Stiles’s words tumbled out in a breathless flood, each one fueling the fire between them.

And in that moment, pinned against the door with Derek’s lips on his skin and his words filling the air, Stiles knew he was exactly where he belonged.