Chapter Text
Derek almost doesn’t answer the knock.
Nobody should be knocking on his door. Nobody even knows where this apartment is. That’s the entire point of it - fourth floor walk up, one working elevator, mail stuffed into a metal box that never locks properly. A place that smells faintly like old paint and quiet, where he can disappear.
And yet the knock comes again. Firm. Measured.
Authoritative.
Derek’s stomach drops.
He opens the door only halfway, chain still latched.
Sheriff Noah Stilinski stands there, coat dusted with November chill, scarf slightly crooked, eyes warm and assessing in the way only a parent and a cop can manage simultaneously.
Derek actually forgets how to breathe for a second.
“…Sheriff?”
“Derek.” Noah nods, then glances pointedly at the chain. “You gonna unlock that? Or are we conducting this whole conversation like a prison visitation?”
With a resigned sigh, Derek unlatches the chain and opens the door fully.
His apartment looks even lonelier with someone witnessing it. bare walls, the couch that has definitely seen better decades, a single plate drying in the rack.
Noah notices all of it, of course he does. But he doesn’t comment. He just smiles like he expected exactly this.
“Why are you here?” Derek asks, because being blunt is easier than being emotional.
“Well,” Noah says, brushing his hands together and rocking back on his heels, “I’m here to invite you to dinner.”
Derek blinks. “Dinner.”
“Thanksgiving dinner,” Noah clarifies. “Though, technically, we don’t really do Thanksgiving. Never felt right celebrating a holiday built on a lie. So at our place it’s just… a long weekend of good food and too much pie while Stiles is home from college.”
Derek’s brain skids on the words.
Stiles. Home.
Food. Invitation.
He shakes his head. “Why? Why would you invite me?”
Noah gives him a look like Derek just asked why grass is green.
“Because you shouldn’t be alone on a holiday weekend. Nobody should.”
“That’s not-” Derek rubs the back of his neck. “Sheriff, you’ve barely talked to me in the past three years. And the first real interaction we had, you arrested me for murder.”
“Ah.” Noah winces, but only a little. “In my defense, the circumstances were… unusual.”
“You handcuffed me.”
“You growled at me.”
“You put me in the back of the cruiser.”
“I’d do it again,” Noah says evenly, “if you ever actually deserved it. But you don’t.”
Derek has no idea what to say to that. Silence stretches.
Then Derek frowns slightly. “How did you even know where I live?”
Noah raises an eyebrow. “I’m the sheriff.”
“That sounds illegal.”
“Are you going to report me?” Noah asks, deadpan.
Derek’s mouth opens…closes.
No, of course he isn’t. Noah knows that. Derek knows Noah knows that.
It feels a little like being fondly bullied by your friends father.
It’s… new.
Noah pats Derek’s arm once. It’s brief, but grounding. “Look. You should come by. Spend the weekend with me and Stiles. It’ll do you some good.”
Derek is more confused than before. “I don’t understand. Why be… nice? Now?”
Noah’s expression softens, a quiet shift that feels almost paternal.
“Things change, son.”
The word hits Derek harder than he expects.
Son.
Like it’s natural. Like it’s true.
Noah steps back toward the stairwell. “We eat around six. Stiles is making his grandmother’s stuffing. If it comes out burnt, pretend it’s not. Trust me, it’s the only way.”
He turns to leave.
Derek stands frozen in the doorway, feeling something warm and unfamiliar tugging at his ribs.
“Noah,” he calls suddenly, voice rough. “Why me?”
Noah glances over his shoulder, eyes twinkling with that maddening, gentle knowing.
“Because I see the way you look at him. And I see the way he lights up when someone mentions you. Don’t worry…Stiles hasn’t realized that part yet.”
Derek’s breath stutters. “I-”
“Six o’clock,” Noah interrupts lightly. “Don’t make me come drag you there.”
Then he disappears down the stairs.
Derek remains at the door long after the hallway empties, heart thudding, throat tight, wondering when exactly his life changed without him noticing.
••••••
Derek should not be panicking.
He knows this logically.
Emotionally, his sanity is hanging on by the thinnest, most pathetic thread.
Because people don’t just… get invited to Thanksgiving-adjacent dinners without bringing something, right? That’s a rule. A universal human rule. Even wolves understand this. Pack gatherings always meant showing up with something.
So of course he should bring food.
Except his brain didn’t stop at “one dish.”
It turned into a frenzy.
By 10 a.m., Derek is pacing his kitchen, mumbling at himself and opening every cabinet like the right answer might physically jump out at him.
“What do normal people bring? A casserole? A dessert? …Wine? Do they even drink wine? Do I need wine?”
He ends up at the grocery store because it feels like a safe, neutral battlefield. He’ll pick one thing. One normal thing.
The problem is that the moment he walks inside, he spirals.
Because he sees pasta and thinks: Mac and cheese is comforting.
Sees sweet potatoes and thinks: Everyone likes sweet potato casserole, right?
Sees pie crusts and thinks: What if they don’t have any? Make backups.
Sees low sodium broth and thinks: Stiles is always yelling about his dad’s cholesterol…
By the time he checks out, he has enough food to feed a small army and the clerk keeps giving him pitying looks like, “heartbreak potluck?”
He doesn’t answer.
Back home, Derek cooks like the world is ending.
Three pies - apple, pecan, pumpkin. Because choice is important, apparently.
A homemade mac and cheese recipe he once learned from Laura and hasn’t made in years because it hurts too much to think about family during holidays.
A pasta salad with “optional vinaigrette on the side because some people hate dressing.”
A sweet potato casserole with the pecan crumble topping.
And three separate “healthy” dishes because Noah once said he was on statins and Stiles dramatized it like the man was dying tomorrow.
By the time everything cools and gets packed into containers, Derek’s counters are covered like he’s catering an event.
This is too much.
This is way too fucking much.
But it’s too late because it’s already nearly six, and the food is made, and he can’t show up empty handed because empty handed means ungrateful, unprepared, not good enough.
••••••
Derek gets to the Stilinski house three minutes early.
Which he considers on-time-but-still-rude, but he stays in the car gripping the steering wheel in a slow forming death grip.
His heart is doing something awful.
Like it’s crawling up his throat.
He imagines Noah opening the door, seeing all the food, and asking what the hell he thinks he’s doing.
He imagines Stiles laughing so hard he pulls something.
He closes his eyes and breathes deeply through his nose.
And when he opens them to see Stiles is at his window.
Stiles leans down and taps the glass lightly.
Derek yelps.
Actually yelps.
His head hits the ceiling of the SUV, his knee smashes into the steering wheel, and he fumbles to unlock the door with a dignity level of exactly zero.
Stiles opens it carefully, brows raised, mouth already tilting toward a smile.
“You okay there, big guy?” he asks, voice warm, amused in that soft way Stiles gets when he’s not trying to hide his fondness.
Derek wants to crawl into the vents and die.
He swallows. Hard. “I - yeah. I’m fine. I just…uh. I brought… food.”
He gestures toward the back seat.
Stiles looks.
He freezes.
Then he opens the back door fully because maybe his eyes are lying.
They’re not.
There are trays and containers and foil pans stacked in neat little towers.
Stiles slowly turns back to him.
“Derek. This is…this is a lot of food.”
Derek’s cheeks burn. “I panicked.”
Stiles laughs, but it’s soft. Surprise, not mockery. Like he’s touched, not entertained.
“You didn’t have to do all this,” Stiles says, stepping closer, eyes warm and earnest. “Seriously. We don’t… expect anything. Dad just wanted you there.”
“I know.” Derek tries not to wring his hands like a Victorian maiden. “But he didn’t have to invite me. Nobody ever invites me anywhere on holidays. So-” he exhales loudly, wishing he didn’t feel so exposed “-this is my way of saying thank you.”
For a moment, Stiles is quiet.
Then he smiles.
Really smiles.
The kind that softens every sharp line in his face, makes his eyes bright, makes Derek’s stomach drop in a way he absolutely refuses to analyze.
“That’s… actually really sweet of you.” Stiles’ voice goes gentler, almost shy. “Like insanely sweet. And Derek?”
Derek looks up, pulse too loud.
“I’m really glad you’re here,” Stiles says, cheeks pink, sincerity radiating off him. “Come on. Let me help you carry all this insanity inside before Dad thinks the pies are a hallucination.”
Stiles grabs some containers, ignoring Derek’s half hearted, embarrassed “I can do it”, and Derek grabs the rest.
As they walk toward the front door together, their shoulders touch just barely, a brush of warmth in the cold air.
Stiles doesn’t move away.
Inside the Stilinski house, everything smells like warmth.
Actual warmth - roasted turkey, melting butter, cinnamon, rosemary, yeast from fresh rolls, and something tart and sweet simmering on the stove.
But also… emotional warmth.
The kind that hits Derek in the chest the moment he crosses the threshold, like his ribs don’t know how to hold it.
He follows Stiles through the living room into the kitchen.
“Dude, you brought Thanksgiving reinforcements,” Stiles says, hip bumping the swinging kitchen door open.
But the second they step inside, Derek freezes.
Because the counters are already covered.
There’s a gorgeous golden brown turkey resting under a foil tent.
A glass dish of stuffing, browned perfectly on top.
A massive bowl of mashed potatoes dusted with cracked pepper.
A smaller ceramic bowl of cranberry sauce that looks homemade, and Stiles pipes up quickly:
“Made it myself. Store bought is a crime.”
There’s a dish of glazed green beans beside Noah’s cutting board.
A chocolate pie.
And a basket of still steaming homemade rolls, Noah’s handiwork.
Stiles notices Derek staring.
He follows his gaze around the kitchen.
And then his own eyes widen.
“Oh my god,” Stiles whispers. “No duplicates.”
Derek sets his dishes down carefully.
Mac and cheese, pasta salad, sweet potato casserole, the pies, and the smaller “healthy” side dishes sit proudly on the counter.
Stiles sets his own down next to them and looks between the two spreads like he’s witnessing some cosmic miracle.
“Derek,” he says slowly, “this is… weirdly perfect. Like… cosmically perfect. Like the universe actually coordinated a menu between us.”
Derek huffs, embarrassed. “I just… cooked.”
“No, no,” Stiles insists, pointing at the dishes. “You cooked like you were feeding the 101st Airborne. And yet, no overlap. None.”
He gestures dramatically between their food.
“Turkey, stuffing, potatoes, cranberry, green beans… chocolate pie. Versus… your starches, sides, casseroles, and three wildly unnecessary pies.”
“They’re not unnecessary if people like options,” Derek mutters.
Stiles grins. “You’re adorable.”
Derek freezes.
Stiles freezes.
They both pretend that word did not happen.
It hits them suddenly, this awkward, thick silence.
Not hostile.
Not even uncomfortable, really.
Just… unfamiliar.
Because Stiles left for college in late August, and Derek hasn’t actually seen him in person since then.
They’ve texted.
Sometimes often.
Sometimes accidentally at 2 a.m. when Stiles sends him memes or pictures of weird campus raccoons.
But seeing him in person, older somehow, a little broader in the shoulders, hair longer, wearing a soft sweater that brings out the warm gold in his eyes hits Derek in a place he didn’t prepare for.
Stiles fidgets with a spoon. Derek straightens a dish that doesn’t need straightening.
In the doorway, Noah watches them for a moment, clearly amused.
“Well,” Noah says finally, “this looks great. And by ‘great,’ I mean I had no idea we were feeding an entire village, but I’m not mad about it.”
Stiles snorts.
Derek’s lips twitch.
The silence breaks.
It doesn’t happen all at once.
More like a thaw.
Stiles opens the fridge to make space for the pies.
Derek moves to help.
Their hands brush.
Neither comments.
Noah sets the table and grumbles loudly about how “the good silverware” is missing until Stiles admits he took it to college and left it in his dorm.
Derek laughs - quiet, soft. He didn’t mean to, but it slips out.
Stiles stares at him like Derek just performed a magic trick.
“You laugh now?” Stiles says, pressing a hand to his heart theatrically. “This is new. This is growth.”
“Shut up,” Derek mutters, but there’s no bite to it.
Dinner comes together quickly.
Stiles carves the turkey like the overconfident menace he’s always been.
Noah corrects him twice.
Derek hides a smile behind his glass of water.
They sit with Derek on one side, Stiles across from him, Noah at the head.
And then conversation just… flows.
Not forced or stilted.
Just easy.
Stiles talks about college - his professors, the roommate he tolerates, the fact that he finally learned to cook something besides ramen (“Dean’s list and I still can’t poach an egg,” he says solemnly).
Noah shares stories from the station, none of which involve anything confidential but all of which involve at least one deputy doing something stupid.
Derek listens, offers dry commentary that makes Stiles wheeze, and occasionally shares small things:
A new book he read.
A repair job at his shop that went sideways.
The stray cat that has adopted his fire escape.
They eat. They laugh. They pass dishes back and forth until the table looks like a battlefield of crumbs and empty plates.
By the time dessert rolls around - Derek’s apple pie, Noah’s chocolate pie, Stiles’ weird cranberry sauce experiment - they’re leaning back in their chairs, pleasantly full, pleasantly warm, pleasantly… content.
Derek hasn’t felt this in years.
Maybe ever.
When Stiles catches his eye across the table, smiling that soft, warm, almost shy smile he’d given Derek outside by the car, Derek feels something loosen deep inside him.
Something he didn’t realize was wound so tight.
And for the first time in a very long time, Derek lets himself feel it.
••••••
He’s still full from three helpings of stuffing and at least two slices of pie, and the conversation has mellowed into something low and comforting. Stiles is leaning back in his chair, tapping his foot absently. Noah is sipping coffee, watching his son with an affection so palpable it makes Derek look away.
When he finally speaks, it’s quiet. Almost awkward.
“You, uh… you can keep the leftovers. All of them.”
Stiles perks up. “Seriously? Even the mac and cheese?”
“Especially the mac and cheese,” Derek mutters, suddenly embarrassed. “It was for you two anyway.”
Noah sets his mug down and squints at Derek with that particular brand of sheriff-turned-dad scrutiny.
“Why do you sound like you’re about to walk out the door?”
Derek blinks. “Because… the night is over? So I’m… going home.”
He says it like a question now, like maybe he missed something obvious.
Stiles’ eyebrows shoot up.
Noah, God bless him, just laughs. Actually laughs. Like Derek just said the most ridiculous thing he’s heard all week.
“Son,” Noah says, “I told you to come spend the weekend with us.”
Derek stares.
Speechless.
Confused.
A little lightheaded.
Because that’s not a thing people tell him.
The weekend?
With them?
He tries to find the word for the feeling swelling in his chest. It’s not panic. Not dread. Not even awkwardness.
It’s something… warm. Hopeful.
Something he’s afraid of naming out loud.
“I - what?” he says, very eloquently.
“You didn’t think I meant just dinner, did you?” Noah asks, amused.
Derek looks away.
His voice comes out small. “Yes. That’s exactly what I thought.”
Noah leans back in his chair and folds his arms like this is all extremely amusing to him.
“Well, I didn’t. I meant the whole long weekend.”
Stiles grins like a kid who’s been told Christmas is coming early.
Derek feels his pulse jump - too fast, too hopeful, too vulnerable.
Noah’s expression softens, but only just. “Derek… did you not bring anything other than the food you cooked?”
Derek swallows.
“Uh. No sir. I thought… I just thought you meant dinner.”
Stiles makes a noise between a gasp and an “oh my god.”
Noah sighs, but it’s fond, not frustrated. “Well I didn’t. So your options are simple: go home and pack a bag for the weekend… or borrow clothes from Stiles until Sunday.”
Derek’s mouth opens.
Closes.
Opens again.
Before he can even form a response, Stiles leans forward, eyes shining with delighted mischief.
“Ooh, wear my clothes, Sourwolf!”
Derek’s brain short circuits.
Wear Stiles’ clothes? Stiles’ shirts? Stiles’ sweats? Stiles’ scent?
He might actually combust.
“They won’t fit,” Derek says weakly.
“They will,” Stiles says with absolutely zero evidence. “Probably. Maybe. Mostly? Listen, the point is you can borrow whatever. My stuff is comfy.”
Derek’s heart is beating way too loudly for a room this quiet.
He looks at Noah.
“Are you sure?”
It comes out softer than he intends. Younger. Like he’s afraid the offer will vanish if he breathes wrong.
Noah’s face gentles.
A fatherly kind of warm.
“Son, if you leave now, you won’t come back.”
The words hit him dead center.
Because they’re true.
Not because Derek doesn’t want to return - he does, desperately - but because once he’s alone in that apartment, the silence will settle in. The doubts will creep back. The feeling of unworthiness will wrap around him like fog.
Noah stands. “Go get your bag, with me, or let Stiles dress you up like a college freshman. Either way, you’re staying.”
Stiles wiggles his eyebrows. “Do it. Choose chaos. Wear my hoodie.”
Derek’s chest tightens.
Confused. Thrilled. Terrified. Wanting.
All at once.
“…I’ll borrow your clothes,” he hears himself say, voice rough but certain.
Stiles beams bright and genuine and so stupidly pretty Derek forgets how to look away.
“Excellent choice,” Stiles says, already standing and gesturing toward the hallway. “come on, let’s find you something soft.”
And as Derek follows him - awkward but warm, nervous but… happy - he realizes something that hits him like a blow.
He would have spent this weekend alone.
He would have spent every holiday alone.
But not tonight. Not this time. Not with them.
Not with Stiles and Noah smiling at him like Derek belongs here.
Stiles leads him upstairs, bounding up the steps with the kind of bright, restless energy Derek has always associated with him, like he’s powered by caffeine, sarcasm, and stubborn optimism in equal parts.
Derek follows more slowly, one hand brushing the railing, hyperaware of how lived in this house feels. Every photo on the walls, every scuff on the banister, every faint echo of laughter, it’s all so painfully domestic. So warm. So unlike anything Derek has ever belonged to.
Stiles glances back over his shoulder, smirking.
“You know, you’ve climbed in through my window at least a dozen times, but you’ve never actually seen the rest of the house.”
Derek huffs, embarrassed. “I haven't done that in a long time.”
“Yeah, and yet the image of your broody ass crawling through my curtains at two a.m.? Burned into my memory forever.”
Stiles wiggles his eyebrows. Derek growls under his breath. It only makes Stiles grin wider.
At the top of the stairs, Stiles gestures broadly.
“Welcome to the grand tour, second floor edition.”
The hallway is narrow but cozy, carpet soft underfoot. There’s a hall closet on the left; Stiles opens it with a little flourish.
“Here we’ve got spare towels, backup towels, emergency towels, winter blankets, and, bonus, one weighted blanket Dad tried once and immediately hated.”
He points at it like it’s an artifact.
“You can use anything in here whenever. Seriously. Make yourself at home.”
Derek nods, throat tight with an emotion he doesn’t name.
Stiles moves to the next door, pushing it open with his hip. The bathroom.
Clean. Organized. A little crooked shelf stocked with two new toothbrushes still in their wrappers. The kind of thoughtful preparation that hits Derek unexpectedly, like a warm hand on his chest.
Before Derek can say anything, Stiles steps to the last door on the right and beams.
“And this - ta-da! - is your room.”
He flips on the light.
The room is small but inviting - a fresh duvet pulled tight over the bed, a soft lamp glowing on the nightstand. Someone even put a little basket on the dresser with travel sized soaps and lotion. There are a few books stacked neatly: a detective novel, an anthology of folklore, and - Derek’s heart stutters - an old, well worn copy of The Hobbit.
Stiles shrugs shyly.
“I figured you might like those. If not, you can throw ’em back at me, it’s fine.”
Derek stares at the room, swallowing around something that feels dangerously like gratitude.
“Dad changed the sheets this afternoon,” Stiles continues. “And the lamp is new, he thought the room needed more light. I put the books in here. So, uh… come and go from this room as you please this weekend.”
The invitation is simple, but it lands heavy.
Derek nods again, because words feel too big to push out.
“Okay,” Stiles says, upbeat again as he steps back into the hallway. “Now to my room.”
Derek’s pulse kicks up.
Stiles’ room hasn’t changed much since Derek last saw it - posters of cryptids and bands, desk cluttered with half finished projects, the same bed by the window he used to crawl through.
But Stiles… Stiles has changed.
He’s broader through the shoulders. His biceps tug the sleeves of the soft long sleeve he’s wearing. His waist is lean, his movements confident in a way that wasn’t there before. Derek feels his mouth go dry.
Stiles throws open the closet doors.
“Okay, so, I'll pull out the stuff that might actually fit you. Emphasis on might. Don’t judge the mess; I repacked my closet three times because apparently I have too many hoodies.”
He rummages through a stack and lifts a couple items triumphantly.
“These are the biggest ones. Sweatpants, joggers, a couple t shirts and a zip up hoodie that should fit you unless your shoulders decide to expand again.”
Derek takes the clothes, fingers brushing Stiles’ for a fraction of a second too long.
A spark. A shiver.
A mistake, because now his heart is in his throat.
Stiles doesn’t seem to notice, just keeps talking.
“You can take whatever you need. Seriously. And-” He gestures vaguely toward the room, cheeks pinking for some inexplicable reason. “You’re welcome to come in here whenever. If you need anything. Or just want to hang out. My room’s always open.”
It sounds friendly. Casual.
No hidden meaning.
Just hospitality.
But Derek…
Derek hears something else.
Something hopeful and terrifying under the surface.
Something that makes his wolf sit up and listen.
He swallows hard. “Okay.”
“Cool!” Stiles claps his hands once, too loud, like he’s also nervous and trying not to be. “Great. Awesome. Um. Right. Dinner cleanup. Or dessert. Or whatever we’re doing next.”
But Derek is still standing there, staring at him.
At the new muscle definition under his shirt.
At the soft flush on his cheeks.
At the gentleness and welcome in his voice.
And he thinks If he’s not careful, he’s going to fall head first into this.
Into Stiles.
Into the warmth of this house.
And the terrifying part?
He doesn’t think he wants to be careful at all.
••••••
Derek steps into the spare bedroom and sets the clothes down on the neatly made bed, running his fingers over the soft fabric. There’s something… grounding about this room. A space that isn’t his apartment, his shop, or some quiet corner where he hides from the world. For the first time today, the thought of staying here, letting himself exist without needing to be vigilant, doesn’t feel wrong. It’s strange, and a little scary, but mostly it feels… good.
He folds the clothes - awkwardly, since he’s more used to lifting heavy things than folding soft cotton - and stacks them neatly in the closet. A sense of nervous anticipation tugs at him. He’s still not used to being… wanted, invited, included. But that tug feels nice. Warm. Like sunlight through a dusty window.
Derek exhales slowly, trying to shake the swirl of thoughts in his head. Then he heads downstairs, curious, almost hesitant, to see what Noah is doing.
The living room smells like the lingering perfume of roasted turkey and buttered rolls. Noah’s sitting in his recliner, a half empty mug of coffee on the side table, eyes glued to the television. Football. Big, loud, chaotic football.
Derek pauses in the doorway, hands in his pockets. He’s never really cared about football, never even understood the rules, really. But there’s something calming in seeing Noah relaxed, the way he leans back with his mug, the slight grin that creeps onto his face when the game turns in his favor. It’s… domestic. Peaceful.
Without thinking, Derek lowers himself onto the couch across from Noah. The cushions sigh beneath him. The TV flickers light over his face. Derek feels a strange, hesitant connection forming, a quiet comfort in sharing a space without talking. He doesn’t understand why, but he finds himself… enjoying it. He watches the game, notices the players’ movements, the sounds of the hits and whistles, and his chest gradually eases. His shoulders unclench. He feels… present.
Then, from the kitchen, he hears it: Stiles, singing under his breath while scrubbing a pan, water splashing against the sides. It’s a bright, lively sound. Playful. Familiar. The pull in Derek’s chest tugs him from the couch. He excuses himself with a small ‘be right back’ and heads toward the kitchen.
Stiles is already working over the sink, soap suds covering his hands. He glances up at Derek, smiling, and Derek feels a flicker of warmth. He picks up a towel, drying a dish that Stiles puts in the sink, even though Stiles protests lightly.
“I can do it myself,” Stiles says, but there’s laughter in his tone, not annoyance.
“Shut up,” Derek snaps lightly, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth, “and let me help.”
Stiles laughs, a bright, rolling sound that makes Derek’s chest ache in that familiar, wonderful way. “Well, aren’t you a sassy bitch tonight.”
“I’m also a bitch that bites, so you might want to watch it,” Derek shoots back, deadpan.
The words hang in the air for a heartbeat before Stiles absolutely loses it, cackling so hard he drops a plate into the sink. Water and soap foam splash across both of them. Derek freezes for a second, heart hammering - not just from the hot water running down his arms, but from the pure, chaotic delight in Stiles’ laugh.
Stiles wipes at the water on his face, still laughing, and Derek feels a strange, dizzying mix of emotions - amusement, warmth, protectiveness, desire, and the lingering tingle of his wolf’s excitement. His lips twitch into a grin, almost involuntarily, as he reaches over to steady a wet dish.
“You’re a menace,” Derek mutters, though his voice is tinged with fondness.
“I’m a happy, soaking wet menace!” Stiles yells, spinning the sponge like a sword.
Derek’s wolf hums in his chest, enjoying every second of this chaotic, messy, moment. He can’t remember the last time he laughed like this, fully, without restraint. And as he dries the plates, watching Stiles dance around in the suds, soaked hair plastered to his forehead, Derek realizes something terrifying and exhilarating. he doesn’t want this night, or this weekend, to end.
He wants to stay here. With them. With Stiles. With Noah. Fully present, fully exposed, fully… part of it.
And if a little soap and water are the price for that, he’s absolutely fine with it.
As Derek is drying the last pan, brushing past Stiles in that comfortable, accidental-on-purpose way they’ve slid into all evening, footsteps approach from the hallway. Noah appears in the doorway, stretching his back with a soft groan.
He takes in the scene: Stiles damp from the dish splash incident, Derek with a towel tossed over his shoulder, the two of them squeezing into each other’s space at the sink. There’s a warmth in Noah’s eyes, a quiet fondness he doesn’t bother hiding.
“Well,” he says, voice low and amused, “you two look like you survived a war.”
Stiles splashes Derek with one last flick of water. Derek glowers. Noah pretends not to see it.
“I’m heading to bed,” Noah continues. “I’ve got a 5 a.m. shift tomorrow.”
Stiles winces. “Oof. Sorry, Dad.”
Derek straightens instinctively, respectful to a fault. “Goodnight, sir.”
Noah barks out a laugh - loud, genuine, startled. “Oh, no. Absolutely not. Don’t call me ‘sir.’ Makes me feel like I should be saluting someone. It’s Noah. Just Noah.”
Derek opens his mouth, closes it, looks a little like someone just told him to call a teacher by their first name. But Noah just claps him lightly on the shoulder before making his way out of the kitchen.
“I’m off Saturday and Sunday,” Noah says as he heads toward the hall. “You two figure out what you want the three of us to do this weekend. Movie night, puzzles, hiking, whatever. I’m not picky.”
Stiles rolls his eyes. “You say that like you don’t veto half my ideas.”
“That’s because half your ideas end with someone needing stitches,” Noah fires back over his shoulder.
Stiles gasps dramatically. Derek’s lips twitch.
Noah waves them off. “Goodnight, boys.”
His bedroom door closes a moment later, leaving the house quiet except for the faint hum of the heater and the soft dripping of the faucet.
Stiles leans back against the counter, pushing his damp hair off his forehead, and looks at Derek with easy familiarity, like Derek belongs here, like this is normal. His voice softens without losing its brightness.
“So,” Stiles says, “what’s the plan for the rest of your night?”
Derek lifts a shoulder in a shrug. “I… don’t know.” It’s honest. The truth is, he hasn’t thought that far ahead. He’s still experiencing the novelty of feeling settled, of not being on guard. He doesn’t quite know what people do after dinner in someone else’s house, especially this house.
Stiles gestures broadly, like the entire living room is his to offer. “Well, you’ve got options.” His grin is small, tilted, warm. “You can read in the spare room - we've got a bookshelf in here if you want something new. Or you can hang out with me. I was gonna watch a movie or some TV.”
He nudges Derek’s arm with his elbow, playful and gentle at once. “Whatever you want, dude. It’s your night, too.”
The offer sits between them, soft and open.
And Derek, who’s spent most of his adult life bracing for the next crisis, finds himself standing in a kitchen that smells like cranberry and soap, staring at a boy - no, a man - who feels strangely like home…
…and he realizes he’s not ready for the night to end either.
Stiles watches him with that sharp, perceptive look he’s always had. The one that used to irritate Derek to no end because it felt like Stiles could see straight through him. Now it just makes his stomach warm in a way he doesn’t want to examine too closely.
When Derek doesn’t immediately choose, Stiles eases off the counter and steps closer, close enough that Derek can smell his shampoo - citrusy, bright, the same as when he was a teenager, but the man wearing it now is different. Broader. Settled. Quieter in a way Derek finds grounding.
“You don’t have to decide right away,” Stiles says softly. “We’re not exactly on a schedule here.”
Derek nods, but he’s still frozen, stuck between wanting to avoid intruding and desperately wanting to stay in this warm pocket of domesticity.
Stiles seems to pick up on it. He always did have a knack for reading him.
“Okay,” Stiles announces, clapping his hands once. “New plan. You’re coming with me until you feel like deciding.”
Derek huffs. “That’s… not how deciding works.”
“It absolutely is,” Stiles argues as he turns toward the living room. “Also, you look like if I leave you alone too long, you’ll start Googling ‘what to do when someone invites you to stay the weekend.’ So. Supervision.”
Derek growls under his breath. It only makes Stiles smile wider.
Stiles plops onto the couch with the confidence of someone who’s never questioned whether he’s welcome in a space. Derek hovers next to it before Stiles pats the cushion beside him.
“Sit. I don’t bite.”
Derek raises a brow. “I do.”
Stiles chokes on a laugh - completely delighted. “Okay, wow, coming in strong with the werewolf flirting.”
Derek’s ears heat. “That wasn’t-”
“Sure, big guy.” Stiles gestures again. “Come on.”
Derek sits. Slowly. Cautiously.
The couch dips enough that Stiles naturally leans a little toward him, and Derek tries not to notice how their knees brush, how the air shifts warmer between them.
Stiles reaches for the remote but pauses. Looks at Derek again. Softer this time.
“I’m glad you’re here,” he says simply. No teasing. No irony. Just truth.
Derek swallows, throat tight. “Your dad invited me.”
“Yeah,” Stiles says, bumping his shoulder into Derek’s lightly, “because he likes you. And because he knows you shouldn’t be alone. And because-” His voice drops just a fraction. “-I wanted to see you.”
Derek doesn’t breathe for a second. Maybe two.
Stiles clicks on the TV as if he didn’t just emotionally sideswipe him. “So,” he says casually, “horror? Comedy? Action? I promise not to pick something with clowns. I know you have a thing about clowns - don’t deny it; I’ve seen you growl at the ones in store displays.”
Derek almost smiles. Almost.
He settles back into the couch, body easing by degrees.
“Surprise me,” he says.
Stiles beams full, bright, soft around the edges.
“Excellent choice.”
Stiles scrolls through movie options with lazy flicks of his thumb, but he’s only half paying attention. Derek can feel it, the air between them is quieter now, softer in that vulnerable way conversations get when the house is settling.
Derek shifts, turning just enough that he can watch Stiles without making it weird. Or at least, without making it more weird than he already fears he is.
“So,” Derek starts, clearing his throat as if he has to push past the old instinct to stay silent. “How’s school?”
Stiles perks up a little, like no one’s asked him that in a while. He leans back, arm draped along the couch behind Derek’s shoulders, close enough that Derek can feel the warmth of him through his shirt.
“It’s… hard,” Stiles admits. “Way harder than high school ever was. I actually have to study. Like, real studying. Not last minute caffeine fueled bullshit.” He huffs a laugh. “But there’s no supernatural crisis trying to murder me every three days, so that helps.”
Derek’s mouth twitches. “That would definitely free up some time.”
“Yeah.” Stiles sighs, a sound full and genuine. “I’ve been able to just… exist. Go to class. Read. Hit the gym. Hang out with people who don’t know anything about the supernatural. No blood, no claws, no running through the woods at two in the morning.”
There’s a note of wonder in his voice, like he never thought he’d get a normal life and suddenly found himself in one.
“It’s been quiet in Beacon Hills too,” Derek says. “No new creatures. No violent alphas. No cursed objects.”
Stiles snorts. “Everyone must’ve taken the drama with them when they left.”
Derek actually considers that and decides Stiles might not be wrong.
“Scott…” Derek starts carefully, “always attracted trouble. Being a True Alpha. Being… him.”
Stiles gives him a look so deadpan it’s almost surgical. “That’s a polite way of saying he’s a fucking dumbass.”
Derek raises a brow but doesn’t disagree.
The movie menu keeps cycling, lighting Stiles’ face in shifting blues and golds. Derek hesitates before asking, “What happened there? With you and Scott.”
Stiles’s thumb stills on the remote. His expression softens, not sad, exactly. Just… resolved.
“What do you mean?”
“You’re not close anymore.” Derek keeps his voice low, not prying, just inviting. “You used to be inseparable.”
Stiles breathes in slowly, then lets it go as if he’s been carrying this explanation around with nowhere to put it.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “We were.”
Derek waits and doesn’t push, just gives him the space.
Stiles shrugs, but it’s not the careless kind. It’s the kind that tries to make light of something heavy.
“I think I finally realized Scott’s never been there for me the way I was for him.” He swallows. “It was always one sided. I’d drop everything, literally everything, to help him. And when I needed something? When I needed him?”
A pause. Not dramatic. Just honest.
“He wasn’t there. Not really. And I just… outgrew it.”
The simplicity of those words hits harder than if he’d yelled.
Derek feels something twist in his chest - recognition, maybe. He knows all about people who show up only when it’s convenient.
“You deserve better than that,” Derek says before he can think to soften it.
Stiles looks at him. Really looks. Eyes warm. Bright. A little surprised.
“Yeah,” he says softly. “I think so too.”
The silence that follows isn’t uncomfortable.
It’s full. Settled. True.
And Derek, who came here expecting an awkward dinner at best, suddenly wonders how he’s supposed to make it through an entire weekend of this, of Stiles, without giving away just how much he feels.
They scroll a little longer, halfheartedly debating genres, arguing about whether Die Hard counts as a Christmas movie, before Stiles finally snaps his fingers.
“Oh! Bones. Comfort TV. Zero thought required. Perfect.”
Derek doesn’t argue. Mostly because he doesn’t care what they watch, and partially because the way Stiles brightens when he talks about his favorite shows is… nice. Warm. Infectious in a way Derek isn’t used to letting himself experience.
They settle in, Stiles curled sideways on the couch with a blanket thrown over both their legs, Derek sitting a bit too stiffly but pretending it’s normal.
The first episode rolls by easily - murder, banter, Brennan being literal, Booth being dramatic. Stiles comments on everything, laughing too loudly at jokes Derek doesn’t even think were meant to be jokes. Derek finds himself smiling anyway.
By the time the second episode starts, Stiles goes noticeably softer. His commentary fades. His eyes blink slower. His body relaxes inch by inch, until his knee bumps Derek’s thigh and just… stays there.
Derek pretends not to notice.
Then, somewhere between an interrogation scene and a lab montage, Stiles shifts. He pulls the blanket higher, scoots closer, and without any hesitation at all, lowers his head right into Derek’s lap.
Derek’s whole body goes rigid.
Every muscle. Every breath. Frozen.
He stares down at Stiles like he’s a wild animal that wandered up and fell asleep in his hands - beautiful, impossible, and absolutely not something he should touch.
Stiles doesn’t know what he’s doing. He can’t know.
Yet he tucks himself in, cheek pressed warm against Derek’s thigh, lips parted just slightly in sleep. His hair is longer than Derek remembered, softer looking, curling a little at the ends from the steam of the earlier dishes. He’s breathing deep and slow, eyelashes dark against his skin.
Derek stares. Can’t stop staring.
He doesn’t move for a long time. Afraid to breathe wrong. Afraid to wake him. Afraid to feel too much.
Just when Derek starts to think maybe Stiles is fully out, Stiles’ lips part and he says, almost slurred with exhaustion, “Is this… okay?”
He doesn’t open his eyes. Doesn’t lift his head. Just breathes the question into the quiet room.
Derek’s throat works around a swallow.
He lifts a hand - slowly, so he doesn’t spook either of them - and lets his fingers slip into Stiles’ hair. It’s even softer than it looks. Warm from the blanket. The strands curl around his fingers like they belong there.
“Yeah,” Derek murmurs, voice low, rough, honest in a way he usually avoids. “It’s okay.”
Stiles hums, a sound content and small and ridiculously trusting.
He leans into the touch, into Derek, like he’s done it a hundred times.
And Derek keeps combing his fingers gently through Stiles’ hair, long after the show becomes background noise, long after the episode ends, long after he realizes he should probably wake him, but he doesn’t.
••••••
Derek wakes to the soft, unmistakable sounds of someone moving around the house, drawers opening, the quiet clink of a mug, the low hum of an early morning radio from the kitchen.
He jerks upright on instinct. Or tries to.
Something heavy and warm is holding him down.
He looks down and freezes.
Stiles is still draped across his lap, dead asleep, face tucked just above Derek’s hip like it’s the most natural place in the world. His arms, both of them, are wrapped around Derek’s waist, fists curled lightly in the fabric of Derek’s shirt. One leg is thrown carelessly over the back of the couch, like he absolutely meant to sleep on him, not near him.
Derek’s heart lurches.
He hadn’t meant to fall asleep. He definitely hadn’t meant to stay here all night with Stiles clinging to him like some kind of affectionate barnacle.
And he really hadn’t meant for the sheriff to walk in and see.
Footsteps approach the living room.
Derek’s blood goes ice cold.
He tries to peel Stiles’ arms off gently, but Stiles only tightens his grip, burrowing in with a soft sigh that punches all the air out of Derek’s lungs. Absolutely no chance of escaping without waking him.
“Morning.”
Noah’s voice is calm. Too calm.
Derek looks up sharply, bracing for judgment, interrogation, maybe a lecture about boundaries and propriety and what the hell do you think you’re doing with my son?
But Noah just smiles.
A small, fond, absolutely not surprised smile.
“Looks like the two of you conked out.” He steps further into the room, sipping from his mug. “Stiles always did fall asleep in weird places when he’s comfortable.”
Derek blinks rapidly. “Sir - Noah, I can explain-”
Noah snorts. “Explain what? That the couch is comfortable?”
Derek’s face heats. “He, uh… sort of… laid down here. And I didn’t want to move him.”
Noah raises an eyebrow.
“I’m sure,” he says, amused. “Regardless, you should take him up to bed. He’ll sleep another five hours if he’s like this.”
Derek swallows. “I, uh, should I… wake him?”
“Only if you want him to be cranky,” Noah says cheerfully. “Just carry him. He’s a deep sleeper. And he’d sleep better in an actual bed instead of drooling on your shirt.”
Derek looks down.
There is a tiny damp spot where Stiles’ face is pressed to him.
Noah is still talking. “I’ll be home at five tonight. We’ll all have dinner together.”
We’ll all have dinner together.
The words hit Derek square in the chest, warm and bewildering.
Noah gives him a nod, a completely unfair little smirk, and heads toward the door.
“Shift starts early,” he calls over his shoulder. “Don’t drop my kid on the stairs.”
And then he’s gone.
Derek sits there for another full minute, heart pounding, staring down at the man curled against him like he belongs there.
He very carefully runs a hand through Stiles’ hair to soothe him before even attempting to stand.
And Stiles only snuggles closer, utterly trusting.
Derek feels his breath catch, panic and something softer tangled together in his ribs.
But he shifts forward anyway, ready to lift him.
Because Noah’s right.
Stiles should be in a bed.
And… Derek doesn’t really want to let go.
Derek carries Stiles up the stairs like he’s made of glass.
Which is ridiculous because Stiles is taller than he used to be, stronger too, and Derek has felt firsthand how stubbornly solid he is, but in this moment, limp with sleep and arms still faintly curled toward where Derek’s body had been, Stiles feels fragile in a way Derek can’t explain.
The house is quiet, just the soft hum of the heater and Stiles’ slow, even breathing against Derek’s shoulder. Derek shifts his weight carefully, nudging open Stiles’ bedroom door with his foot.
Derek lowers him onto the mattress gently, tucking the blanket around him. Stiles sinks into it with a sleepy sigh, stretching once before curling on his side.
Derek stands there for a beat too long, staring at Stiles soft hair mussed, mouth parted slightly, face relaxed and young in a way Derek hasn’t seen in years.
He forces himself to step back.
Good. He’s settled. Time for you to go. Get to the spare room. Don’t be weird. Don’t make this complicated.
He turns and a hand curls around his wrist.
Derek freezes.
Stiles’ fingers tighten, warm and clumsy with sleep.
“…don’t go,” Stiles mumbles.
The words are slurred, heavy, so quiet Derek almost thinks he imagined them.
Stiles’ eyes don’t open, he’s still drifting somewhere between dreaming and barely conscious.
Derek’s heart leaps painfully against his ribs.
“Stiles,” he whispers, trying to keep his voice steady. “I should-”
“Please.”
Stiles’ grip tightens. His voice cracks at the edges.
“Please don’t go.”
Derek’s breath stutters.
He doesn’t know it’s you.
He’s just tired.
He doesn’t mean it. Not like that.
You can’t climb in his bed like some…
Stiles tugs again, weak but insistent.
“…missed you,” Stiles murmurs. “Missed you, Derek.”
And Derek’s entire world goes silent for a second.
It’s not the words, it’s the way he says them.
Small. Honest. Like it’s a truth he never intended to let out.
Derek swallows hard.
You can’t stay. You’ll cross a line. He invited you here so you wouldn’t be alone, not so you could, what, curl up next to him like you belong? Noah trusts you. Stiles trusts you. Don’t screw that up. Don’t take advantage. Don’t.
Stiles gives another soft, broken sound, his fingers sliding up to hold Derek’s forearm like it’s a lifeline.
Something inside Derek cracks open.
He sits on the edge of the bed first, testing the air, making sure Stiles isn’t just grabbing onto the nearest warm body.
Stiles shifts immediately, relaxing, like the tension melts out of him at Derek’s nearness.
“It’s okay,” Stiles whispers into the pillow. “Just… stay. Please.”
Derek takes a shaky breath.
He asked. He wants you here. This isn’t you crossing a line. This is you saying yes to comfort he’s reaching for.
Very slowly, Derek climbs into the bed, careful, cautious, like approaching a skittish animal or a too beautiful dream.
The mattress dips; Stiles leans into the shift instinctively, drifting closer until his forehead rests against Derek’s shoulder.
Derek goes absolutely still.
His hand hovers awkwardly in the air before he finally lets it settle, feather light, against Stiles’ back.
It feels like stepping off a cliff.
It feels like relief.
And it feels right. terrifyingly, unbelievably right.
Stiles sighs in his sleep, the sound warm against Derek’s skin.
Derek stares at the dark ceiling, heart thundering, a quiet thought echoing through him.
Don’t fall. Don’t fall.
But God, he already has.
••••••
Derek wakes to warmth.
A kind he hasn’t felt in years. Soft, steady, anchoring. For a few seconds he drifts, still half caught in sleep, not questioning why his chest feels full or why his wolf is quiet for once. Then his brain catches up.
He’s wrapped around someone. Completely. Arms cinched around a waist, one leg slotted between another’s, his face tucked naturally into the space where shoulder meets neck.
Stiles.
The realization hits all at once, a cold jolt under all the heat.
He goes rigid. Carefully he starts to peel his arms back, mortified at how tightly he’d been holding Stiles all night. God, what must he think?
But before he can escape, Stiles’ hands shoot down and grab his forearms, jerking them right back into place.
The sudden movement drags Derek even closer, chest flush to Stiles’ back, and he lurches forward with a soft grunt. His nose buries itself fully against the warm nape of Stiles’ neck. The contact is accidental, too intimate, too revealing. Mist collects in Derek’s lungs and he inhales without meaning to.
A breath. Deep. Instinctive.
Stiles’ sleep warm scent hits him all at once - soft detergent, old books, warm skin, and something underneath that Derek has always tried not to name.
His wolf shudders in relief.
Stiles’ breath stutters, a tiny hitch he can’t hide.
Derek jerks his head back immediately, mortified. “Sorry, I didn’t - Stiles. I didn’t mean to-”
Still half asleep, voice rough and quiet, Stiles cuts him off.
“Do it again.”
Derek freezes.
The world narrows to the steady thud of Stiles’ heart - fast, but not fearful. To the tight grip still wrapped around his arms. To the warmth holding him in place like Stiles is afraid he’ll vanish.
“Stiles…” Derek whispers, rough with disbelief.
“Please,” Stiles murmurs, voice no louder than a breath. “It’s… nice.”
Something inside Derek cracks - gently, quietly. He leans forward again, slower this time, deliberate. His nose brushes the back of Stiles’ neck. And he breathes him in.
Stiles melts. Derek feels it, the tension sliding out of him, spine loosening against Derek's chest.
Derek closes his eyes.
This is dangerous.
This is everything I’ve wanted for so damn long.
This is going to ruin me.
But he stays.
And he breathes him in again and feels the way Stiles shivers, a tiny tremor that runs from the base of his skull all the way down his spine. It hits Derek like a punch, that quiet, involuntary reaction. Not fear. Not discomfort.
Want.
Derek’s fingers curl reflexively where they’re still locked around Stiles’ middle, and he immediately tries to loosen them again and tries to give Stiles space, to give him an easy out.
But Stiles doesn’t let him.
Stiles drags Derek’s arms even tighter around himself, like Derek is the only solid thing in the world and he’s terrified of waking up to find it gone. Stiles’ hands settle over Derek’s forearms, not gripping this time, holding. Grounding. Claiming in the softest, sleep rough way.
Derek’s voice comes out low, shaky. “Stiles… you don’t have to-”
Stiles interrupts again, barely above a whisper, the words thick with sleep “Don’t go.”
The plea is so quiet Derek almost misses it.
Almost.
It twists something deep in his chest. Something raw. Something that’s been aching and lonely and impossible for a long time.
Derek lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding and presses his forehead gently between Stiles’ shoulder blades. Stiles arches back into the contact like it’s instinctive.
They fit. God help him do they fit.
Stiles swallows, the movement shifting his neck against Derek’s mouth, and speaks again, softer, more vulnerable than Derek has ever heard him.
“I thought you’d be gone when I woke up.”
Derek’s entire body goes still.
Gone?
After the way Stiles clung to him earlier? After asking him to stay, whispering that he missed him? After falling asleep against him like he was safe?
His wolf snarls at the idea, fierce and protective and offended and Derek has to force his voice steady.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he says into Stiles’ skin. “Not unless you tell me to.”
Stiles lets out a long, shaky exhale, the kind that sounds like release, like relief. His fingers trail down Derek’s arms, slow, gentle, and then they lace with Derek’s, pulling Derek’s hands firmly against his own chest.
Derek feels Stiles’ heartbeat thudding under his palms. Faster now. Braver.
“Good,” Stiles whispers. “Then… stay right here.”
Derek presses closer, his chest molding to Stiles’ back again, his nose brushing the warm curve of Stiles’ neck. He breathes in, surrendering to it this time.
And Stiles shivers again, softer, leaning back until there’s no space left between them.
Derek doesn’t need to see Stiles’ face to know something’s shifting, he feels it first.
Stiles’ heartbeat flutters, light and rapid, a staccato rhythm against Derek’s palms. His breaths - soft, steady a moment ago - start coming faster, each one brushing the back of Derek’s hand where it rests over Stiles’ ribs. Derek’s wolf perks at the change, keyed in instantly, alert and confused.
“Hey,” Derek murmurs, tightening his arms just a fraction. “What’s wrong?”
Stiles swallows hard. Derek feels the motion ripple through his back.
“I… I want to do something but I don’t know if I can. I don’t know if you’ll let me.”
Derek’s eyebrows knit together. “You don’t need my permission to do things, Stiles.”
Stiles lets out a humorless puff of air - half laugh, half panic.
“I do when it involves you.”
That hits Derek like a hot wire pulled tight. His throat goes dry.
“What… what does that mean?”
Stiles shifts in his arms, turning slowly, hesitantly until they’re face to face on the pillow. His eyes are still heavy with sleep but bright with something sharper underneath, something vulnerable and shaking but determined. Derek goes utterly still.
“It means…” Stiles’s voice catches, but he pushes through it. “It means I want to kiss you so bad. I want to kiss you more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life.”
Derek’s chest caves in around his heart.
Stiles keeps going, quiet, raw, every word sounding like it costs him something to admit.
“But I don’t… I don’t know if that’s what you want. I don’t know if you’re just grateful for Dad inviting you for the weekend. Or if you like me. Or if you’ve missed me as much as I’ve missed you, or think about me as much as I’ve thought of you.”
Derek listens, every word flooding him, too much and not enough. His heart thunders so hard he’s sure Stiles can feel it. Because Stiles is wrong - every fear he has, every doubt - he’s wrong.
Derek has been aching with how much he wants him.
Every hour. Every day. Ever since he left.
Stiles inhales, shaky and resigned, like he’s preparing for the worst.
And Derek can’t let him finish that breath.
He leans in - slow enough to be sure, close enough to feel Stiles gasp against his lips - and then Derek kisses him.
Soft, at first. Testing. Asking. Telling.
Stiles freezes for a single heartbeat.
Then he melts, his hand flying up to Derek’s jaw, fingers sliding into Derek’s hair as he kisses him back like he’s been starving for this. Like he’s been waiting years.
Derek’s world narrows to warmth and breath and the soft exhale Stiles makes against his mouth.
The kiss deepens by degrees, slow and reverent, Stiles’ lips parting on a trembling sigh. Derek follows, answering the invitation before he even thinks about it, their mouths fitting together like something finally clicking into place.
Stiles breaks away just barely, their noses brushing, his breath shaking.
“So… that’s a yes?”
Derek huffs a quiet laugh, forehead resting against Stiles’.
“That’s a yes,” he whispers. “It’s always been a yes.”
Stiles lets out a shaky, breathless laugh. Derek feels it puff warm against his lips, and something inside him loosens, like an old wound finally unclenching.
Stiles’ hand stays at Derek’s jaw, thumb brushing his cheekbone like he’s mapping the moment into memory.
“Good,” Stiles whispers, eyes soft and blown wide. “Good, because I… I was really hoping I wasn’t completely misreading all of this.”
Derek huffs a quiet laugh and nudges their noses together. “You weren’t.”
“Okay, but I have been wrong about things before,” Stiles says, voice dipping into a ramble he can’t quite stop. “One time I thought a raccoon was a dog and almost brought it home so-”
Derek kisses him again, cutting off the spiral. This one is firmer, surer. Not testing. Not questioning. Just yes.
Stiles makes a soft sound and leans into it, curling closer until their chests are pressed together, until Derek can feel every unsteady beat of Stiles’ heart against his own.
When they part again, Stiles is smiling. Really smiling. Sleep soft and stupidly happy.
“You’re allowed to keep doing that,” he murmurs.
Derek brushes a hand through Stiles’ hair, pushing it back from his forehead. “Yeah?”
“Mmhm.” Stiles shifts closer, hooking a leg over Derek’s like it’s the most natural thing in the world and not something that’s short circuiting Derek’s entire nervous system. “In fact, it’s strongly encouraged.”
Derek laughs under his breath, low and warm, then stills when Stiles looks up at him with something earnest, something open and a little scared.
“I meant what I said,” Stiles says quietly. “I missed you. Every day. And I didn’t know if you missed me or if you were happier with me gone and-”
“No,” Derek says immediately, the word rough and certain. He cups Stiles’ cheek with a steady hand. “Not for a second.”
Stiles blinks fast, like he’s trying not to get overwhelmed. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Derek murmurs. “I thought about you constantly. I didn’t know if I was allowed to. Didn’t know if I should.”
Stiles leans in, pressing their foreheads together again.
“You should have,” he whispers. “Because I never stopped thinking about you. Not once.”
Derek’s chest tightens, but in a good way like the air is finally reaching places it hasn’t touched in a long time.
They settle closer, bodies fitting together instinctively, like they’ve done this a thousand times instead of just minutes.
Stiles sighs, content and warm, and lets his eyes drift shut.
“So… now what?” he asks softly.
Derek threads their fingers together under the blankets, thumb brushing the back of Stiles’ hand.
“Now,” he says, voice warm against Stiles’ mouth, “I kiss you again.”
And he does, a promise more than anything else, until Stiles melts against him and whispers, “Yeah… that sounds perfect.”
••••••
Steam curls thickly around Derek as he steps into the upstairs shower, the spray hitting his shoulders in a heavy, welcome cascade. His muscles loosen all at once.
He grabs the closest bottle without looking, pops the cap, and freezes the second the scent hits him.
Stiles.
Not just generic citrus or store brand clean.
No.
Warm amber. A sharp hint of cedar. Something bright underneath, like sun warm oranges and the faintest trace of clove.
Stiles’ scent. Concentrated. Distilled. Everywhere.
Derek’s breath stutters. His fingers tighten around the bottle.
He should put it back.
He doesn’t.
He pours it into his hand and starts working it into his hair. The smell blooms instantly, thick and dizzying in the hot air. It sinks into his skin, settles in his lungs, wraps around him like an embrace.
His shoulders press to the tile as he lets the water run over him and the scent seeps deeper, and it hits him, hard and low in his belly, that he’s standing naked in Stiles’ bathroom, bathing in Stiles’ scent, alone in a house where Stiles is downstairs, also showering, also naked.
A groan tears out of him before he can stop it. Quiet, but not nearly quiet enough for Derek’s own comfort.
He sets the shampoo down like it burned him… but the damage is done. His pulse is a heavy throb between his legs. His skin feels too tight.
He reaches for the body wash next, knowing exactly who it belongs to, and still flips the lid with a shaky thumb. The scent, stronger this time, warmed by the steam spills into his hands. Derek drags it over his chest, his stomach, his throat. Stiles’ scent smudges across every inch of him.
It’s too much.
It’s perfect.
He braces an arm against the tile, head hanging forward as water rushes across his back. His other hand skims lower, fingers brushing the inside of his thigh, then higher, and his breath shudders out of him in a harsh, needy sound.
He shouldn’t.
He absolutely shouldn’t, he’s a guest, he’s in Stiles’ space, Stiles’ shower, using Stiles’ things…
And still his hand wraps around himself before he can think better of it.
The pleasure hits like lightning. Sharp and Immediate.
He bites down on a curse, squeezing his eyes shut as his forehead presses to his forearm.
Stiles’ scent clings stubbornly to him, fills his lungs, slides between his ribs and straight into his bloodstream. Derek strokes himself slowly at first, trying to keep quiet, but his hips are already pushing into his fist, chasing friction with helpless little rolls.
He wonders, he can’t stop himself, if Stiles is doing the same thing downstairs.
If Stiles, warm and slick under his own shower spray, is touching himself thinking about Derek in his bed, Derek’s hands on his hips, Derek’s mouth on his neck.
The thought punches the breath out of Derek’s lungs.
His hand jerks faster.
He can practically hear Stiles’ voice - breathy, laughing a little, always on the edge of a ramble - whispering his name, begging in that soft cracked voice Derek thought he imagined earlier.
“God…Stiles,” Derek gasps, barely audible over the pounding water.
His knees nearly buckle. He swallows the sound that rises in his throat, turning it into a low groan grounded into the tile. His strokes get slower, tighter, his body trembling with how close he is.
All from Stiles’ scent.
All from wanting him.
All from imagining what Stiles might be doing right now.
When he finally comes, it’s with a quiet, gutted sound torn from deep in his chest, his body bowing into the spray as heat flashes bright behind his eyes.
He stands there afterward, breathing hard, water still beating down on him, the scent still heavy around him, making his legs feel unsteady.
And all he can think through the fog, through the aftershocks is if Stiles smelled this good on him now…what would it be like to have him pressed up against him skin on skin?
He shouldn’t think it.
But he does.
And he knows, deep down, that resisting this… resisting him… is only getting harder.
Derek stands there longer than he should, water pounding across his back, heartbeat slowing but not nearly enough. The fog in the bathroom is so thick he can barely see the tile in front of him, and he knows he should move, should rinse, should do anything other than stand here smelling like Stiles and trying to remember how to breathe like a normal human being.
His legs feel unsteady. Loose. A little too warm.
And underneath that warmth is the quieter, sharper truth. He just came in Stiles’ shower. Using Stiles’ soap. Thinking about Stiles’ mouth.
A flush creeps up his neck, hot even under the steaming water. Embarrassment, pleasure, guilt, want, everything tangled so tightly inside him he can’t pick apart where one ends and the next starts.
He rinses himself off slowly, methodically, as if pretending nothing happened will somehow make it true. It won’t. The scent still clings to him. He likes it. Hates how much he likes it.
By the time he turns off the water, the bathroom feels like a sauna. Derek grabs one of the towels Stiles had pointed out last night and wraps it around his waist.
And then he freezes.
Because he can hear the water running downstairs turning off.
Stiles’ shower.
Stiles is done.
His pulse jumps stupidly, too loud in his chest as he stands in the bathroom doorway dripping, towel slung low on his hips. He imagines, against his will, the sight of Stiles downstairs right now: hair wet and curling a little, shirt clinging to damp skin, cheeks tinted pink from the heat.
Derek swallows.
He needs to get himself under control before he sees him. Before he does something reckless. Before Stiles looks at him with that soft, open expression that unravels every boundary Derek thought he was capable of holding.
He steps into the spare bedroom and pulls on the clothes Stiles left out for him. The shirt is soft, slightly stretched in the shoulders well worn, well loved and the fabric smells faintly like Stiles’ detergent and body heat.
The scent settles around Derek like a hand on his chest.
He closes his eyes for a moment, inhaling thickly, grounding himself. It’s ridiculous how his body reacts.
He forces himself forward, down the hallway, down the stairs, fingers flexing anxiously at his sides.
And then he sees him.
Stiles is standing in the kitchen, toweling his hair, wearing a hoodie and sweatpants that hang deliciously low on his hips. His head pops up the second he hears Derek’s footsteps.
“Hey,” Stiles says, voice soft and warm.
Derek’s stomach flips so violently it nearly knocks him over.
“Hey,” Derek murmurs back, and it comes out lower than he meant. Rougher.
Stiles smiles small but bright, and Derek has to lock his knees to keep his body from reacting all over again.
“You, uh…” Stiles eyes him up and down, a slow once over that absolutely doesn’t help the situation, “…look good in my clothes.”
Derek feels a pulse of heat bloom in his chest, sharp and dizzying.
“I - thanks,” he manages. “Yours fit better than I thought they would.”
“Yeah, well.” Stiles shrugs, then rubs the back of his neck. “Guess I’m not as scrawny as you remember.”
Derek’s mouth goes a little dry.
He noticed.
Stiles hesitates, eyes softening as he takes Derek in again, slower, gentler this time, like he’s making sure Derek is really here and not some dream that slipped back into his bed for him to wake up alone from.
“You okay?” Stiles asks quietly.
Derek nods once, controlled.
If he speaks the truth (I was thinking about you in the shower) he’ll explode.
“Yeah,” Derek lies softly. “Just… morning.”
Stiles steps closer, smile growing, warm and crooked.
“Morning,” he whispers back.
Derek steps fully into the kitchen, letting the warmth of the room, and Stiles wash over him. The sunlight slanting through the blinds casts soft stripes across the floor, but all Derek can focus on is the way Stiles is standing there, damp hair sticking slightly to his forehead.
“It’s only ten,” Stiles says softly, and Derek freezes at the lilt in his voice. There’s something in the casual, slow drawl of the words, something that makes the back of Derek’s neck prickle and his stomach coil. “…We’ve got a lot of time before my dad comes home.”
Derek’s pulse jumps. Salacious. It sounds salacious to his ears.
“Yeah?” Derek says, his voice low and cautious, stepping closer until there’s maybe a foot between them. The air seems to hum between them. “…And what do you propose we do with that time?”
Stiles doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t hesitate. His voice is steady, bold, and entirely honest.
“I want you to fuck me.”
Derek’s breath catches. He inhales sharply, fingers clenching at his sides. Did Stiles really just say that? He has to take a step back, and then forward again, drawn in, because God, he’s never seen Stiles like this. Never heard him speak like this.
“I’ve… I’ve never been with a guy before,” Derek admits, voice rough, almost breaking. “…I haven’t… been with anyone since Kate.”
Stiles blinks, then shakes his head gently, small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “I’ve never been with anyone ever, so… we’re on even playing fields.”
Derek’s chest tightens, a low growl rolling through his throat, possessive, sharp, uncontrollable. The idea that no one else has ever touched Stiles like that, that he’s entirely untouched in this way… it twists his insides. His fingers flex, craving, needing, wanting to claim what’s already his.
Stiles takes a tentative step closer, and the air between them thickens, warm and heavy. His eyes are locked on Derek’s, unwavering. “I want you,” he whispers, voice shaking just slightly with urgency and anticipation. “…I’ve wanted you for a long time.”
Derek swallows, heat crawling up his neck, a slow, suffocating need building in his chest. His hands lift, almost unconsciously, brushing along Stiles’ arms as if testing the waters. “You’re sure?” he asks, though the answer is written all over Stiles’ body - posture taut, chest rising fast, eyes darkened with want.
“I’m sure,” Stiles says, stepping into Derek’s space, his body brushing against Derek’s without hesitation. The closeness, the scent, the warmth, it’s all too much and just right at the same time. “I want you. I need you.”
Derek’s mind goes blank, instincts taking over. He leans in slowly, careful, letting his lips hover over Stiles’ in a heated, tense pause. His hand moves to the back of Stiles’ neck, fingers threading through damp hair, tilting his head slightly, drinking him in.
Possession, want, and something more tender, more desperate, all collide in that moment. Derek’s breath mixes with Stiles’, the room shrinking until there’s nothing else but heat, longing, and the unspoken promise between them.
And as Derek finally closes the distance, lips brushing, teeth grazing, a low groan of surprise and need escapes Stiles. Derek’s wolf stirs, quiet and eager, as he realizes what he’s going to do next, and how badly he wants it.
Derek and Stiles move up the stairs in near silence, each step heavy with tension and anticipation. The air between them hums, thick and charged, every small brush of their hands setting sparks that seem to linger long after the contact ends. Derek can feel the heat radiating from Stiles, feel the rapid thump of his heartbeat through the hoodie pressed against his chest. It’s intoxicating, and it has Derek gripping the banister tighter than necessary, grounding himself in the moment, trying to slow down before they get lost entirely.
Once they’re in Stiles’ room, Derek pauses at the threshold. Stiles steps closer, eyes wide, lips parted, chest rising and falling too fast. Derek swallows against the tightness in his throat, his hand moving almost automatically to cup Stiles’ cheek, thumb brushing lightly over the soft skin.
Stiles leans into the touch, letting out a shaky breath, and murmurs, “I’m… I’m ready.”
Derek nods, voice low and rough. “Me too.”
Their movements are slow, deliberate. Derek lifts the hem of Stiles’ hoodie, letting his fingers trace the line of his ribs, the curve of his waist. Stiles shivers, pressing closer, murmuring Derek’s name. Derek hesitates for the briefest second before hooking fingers under the fabric and sliding it off over Stiles’ head, revealing bare skin, pale and soft, scented with him.
“God… you’re… so… perfect,” Derek breathes, voice breaking on the words. Stiles laughs softly, almost nervously, and ducks to press his forehead against Derek’s chest. “You’re not so bad yourself,” he whispers, fingers gripping Derek’s sides as if holding on for dear life.
Derek’s hands roam with evident hunger, sliding over shoulders, down the spine, tracing the warmth of Stiles’ hips. When he finally gets his hands under Derek’s shirt, Stiles’ fingers tremble slightly over his chest, over muscles that flex and tense under the touch. Their eyes meet, and it’s a mixture of wonder, fear, and unspoken longing, a recognition that they’re about to cross a line that can’t be uncrossed.
Clothes drop to the floor piece by piece, forgotten and discarded, until there’s nothing between them but skin and heat and the shuddering awareness of the other’s touch. Derek’s fingers trace the lines of Stiles’ body like memorizing a map, every inch of him foreign and thrilling. Stiles’ hands mirror the motion, learning, exploring, pressing into the planes of Derek’s chest, the curve of his shoulders, the hard line of his jaw.
It’s intimate. It’s tender. It’s fiercely, painfully raw. And it’s hot. Every graze of fingers, every brush of lips, sends shockwaves through them both, unsteady gasps filling the room. Derek feels his own body responding immediately, every nerve alight with want, every touch heightening the ache he’s carried for years.
When they finally press together fully, foreheads touching, breath mingling, the connection is more than just physical. It’s emotional - stumbling, messy, honest. Each gasp, each shiver, each whispered name is a thread weaving them together in a way neither of them has been with anyone else.
Derek’s lips find Stiles’ again, slower this time, savoring, letting the emotion of wanting, of longing, of finally having him wash over both of them. And as their hands roam, touching places neither has been touched before, Derek feels a heat that’s more than just skin deep, more than lust. It’s protective, possessive, tender, and utterly consuming all at once.
When Stiles moans Derek’s name for the first time, a broken, breathless sound, Derek swallows hard and whispers back Stiles name.
Derek’s breath trembles as he braces one hand above Stiles’ head on the mattress, the other wrapped around Stiles’ hip, holding him in place while they move together in a rhythm that feels nothing like what Derek expected.
He hadn’t planned any of this. He definitely hadn’t planned on feeling like his heart was rattling against his ribs, or that every small sound Stiles made would go straight to his spine like an electric shock.
Stiles is on his back beneath him, thighs parted to cradle Derek between them, one hand gripping Derek’s bicep and the other tangled in Derek’s hair like he needs the anchor. His cheeks are flushed, his lips parted, and his breath comes in quick, shaky pulls as Derek strokes him slow, steady, thumb circling lightly at the head like he’s learning Stiles by feel.
“Derek…” Stiles says, voice breaking around the syllables, and Derek’s hips stutter because God, he didn’t know his name could sound like that.
He fits his forehead to Stiles’ temple, eyes squeezed shut, because if he looks too long he’s going to lose himself completely. Stiles’ free hand trails down his side, shaking, until he finds Derek’s own cock and wraps his fingers around it. Derek lets out a raw, startled sound and Stiles shivers at the noise.
“Lets not have sex,” Derek pants, trying to get the words out, “not like this. I don’t want this to just… be a thing. One time.”
Stiles turns his head so their lips brush, soft and accidental. “I know,” he whispers, breath warm against Derek’s mouth. “Me neither. I want… all of it. With you.”
The words go straight through Derek, far deeper than Stiles’ hand stroking him in shaky, experimental motions. Derek’s heart twists, something aching and hopeful breaking free inside him. He kisses Stiles, slow but hungry, and Stiles moans into his mouth, hips lifting into Derek’s hand. The sound is soft and needy, and Derek has to bite back a curse because that sound is going to ruin him.
“More,” Stiles gasps against his lips, “please Derek. don’t stop.”
And God help him, Derek couldn’t if he tried.
He keeps stroking Stiles, deliberate and tender, feeling every tremor run through him. Stiles’ wrist flexes around him, not as smooth but desperate, honest, and Derek feels himself getting close embarrassingly fast, not from the touch but from the look on Stiles’ face - open, trusting, undone.
“You’re so… God, Stiles,” Derek groans, his voice low, strained. “The sounds you make.”
Stiles whimpers, hips thrusting helplessly, and Derek’s body reacts instinctively, pushing closer, their movements messy and shared. Derek feels the tightening in Stiles’ body, the way his breathing breaks into short little bursts.
“Derek, I’m-”
“Yeah,” Derek whispers against his jaw, “I’ve got you. Let go.”
Stiles does with a soft, strangled cry, back arching, hand fisting in Derek’s hair as he spills between them. Derek doesn’t stand a chance, Stiles’ voice, the heat in his eyes, the way he clings to Derek like he’s the only solid thing in the room, Derek comes with a low, guttural moan, burying his face in Stiles’ throat.
For a moment, neither of them moves. Their breaths tangle in the quiet. Derek’s hand loosens around Stiles, sliding up to rest over his racing heart, and Stiles’ fingers trail through Derek’s hair absently, like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.
When Derek finally lifts his head, Stiles is looking at him with something soft, something impossibly deep.
“Hey,” Stiles whispers, smiling just a little.
Derek’s chest tightens. He leans in and kisses him because for the first time in years, maybe ever, he wants the future more than he fears it.