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The Stilinski house had never felt this quiet.
Not because it actually was.
The old refrigerator still hummed in the kitchen. The grandfather clock still clicked away the seconds. Outside, a patrol car rolled lazily past, tires hissing against damp pavement after an afternoon shower. Somewhere in the backyard, a wind chime clinked softly whenever the breeze remembered it existed.
But inside, the silence was deafening.
Sheriff Noah Stilinski sat alone at the kitchen table, one elbow resting against the worn wood he'd eaten thousands of meals at over the years. His coffee had long since gone cold.
Chris and Peter had left two days ago. It wasn't unusual. Every now and then Peter had Hale business that required him to disappear for a day or two, and Chris occasionally found himself consulting on hunter matters that still lingered around the country. Sometimes they went together.
Sometimes they didn't. This time they had. Normally Noah appreciated the quiet. He'd watch old westerns. Read reports without Peter criticizing his handwriting or Chris quietly correcting his grammar. Maybe order takeout neither of them particularly liked.
Normally, not this time. This time every room reminded him they weren't there. Peter's leather jacket wasn't hanging over the dining chair where Noah constantly told him not to leave it. Chris's reading glasses weren't sitting on the coffee table next to whatever history book he'd inevitably fallen asleep halfway through.
The loft upstairs felt empty. Their bed felt enormous (which to be fair, it was.)
It had been a little over a year. A year. It still sounded strange when Noah thought about it. A year since somehow, he had ended up dating Peter Hale and Chris Argent. Somehow... both.
If someone had told Sheriff Noah Stilinski five years ago that he'd be living with Beacon Hills' former Alpha psychopath and the town's resident hunter while somehow being ridiculously happy, he would've laughed until he cried.
Yet here he was. Or...here he was trying to remember why they had chosen him. That thought had started innocently enough.
Why me?
Then another.
What exactly do I bring to this relationship?
Another.
What happens when they realize they deserve better?
He sighed heavily, rubbing both hands over his face.
The answers never came. Only more questions.
Peter and Chris fit together in ways Noah never could. They understood each other without speaking.
Years of fighting. Years of chasing one another. Years of trying to kill each other. Years of reluctantly respecting one another.
History. They carried decades of it.
Peter could make one sarcastic remark and Chris somehow knew exactly what he meant. Chris could give Peter one irritated look and Peter would roll his eyes before complying.
It was infuriating.. and fascinating.
Noah would sit there watching them silently communicate across a room and feel like he'd walked into the middle of a conversation that had started before he'd even graduated high school.
Peter remembered Chris from before Stiles had even been born. Chris remembered Peter before Noah had become sheriff.
Entire chapters of each other's lives. Entire wars. Entire heartbreaks.
Noah had shown up... later.
He leaned back in the chair. His eyes drifted toward the family photographs decorating the kitchen. Claudia smiled back at him. Young Stiles with missing front teeth. Baseball games. School pictures. Camping trips. Life.
His life.
It wasn't that Peter and Chris dismissed it. Far from it. They loved hearing stories about Claudia. Peter secretly adored listening to embarrassing stories about little Stiles despite pretending otherwise. Chris always asked thoughtful questions. They genuinely cared.
Yet Noah couldn't shake the feeling that he was different. Human and ordinary.
Chris was an experienced hunter. Strategic, disciplined and dangerous. Even without supernatural abilities he'd spent decades surviving monsters.
Peter...was Peter. An Alpha, fast, strong and immortal by comparison. Terrifying when necnecessary and protective beyond reason.
And Noah...could...write parking tickets.
He snorted despite himself.
"Wow," he muttered into the empty kitchen. "You really know how to sell yourself."
The joke landed with absolutely no audience. He pushed away from the table and wandered through the house. Old habit.nWhen he couldn't settle his thoughts, he walked. Through the living room, into the kitchen, through the Hallway and back again.
Peter once compared him to an anxious golden retriever pacing before a thunderstorm. Noah had threatened to arrest him. Peter had laughed.
His footsteps carried him upstairs. Their bedroom looked exactly as they'd left it. Peter's side somehow managed to look messy despite the man claiming to enjoy order. Chris's side remained almost military in precision. Noah's sat somewhere between. Middle ground, like always.
He sat on the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped beneath him. His hand absentmindedly brushed across Peter's pillow. Then Chris's. They still smelled faintly like them. His throat tightened.
"This is ridiculous," he whispered. "They're gone a few days."
Not two months. Not forever. A few days.
So why did the house feel abandoned? Because they had become home. That realization hurt more than he expected.
Losing Claudia had taught him something brutal. Home could disappear. People left. Sometimes because they chose to. Sometimes because they had no choice. Either way, they left.
He stood again before his thoughts could wander further. No. He wasn't doing this. He wasn't spiraling.
Downstairs again. He opened the refrigerator. Stared. Closed it. Opened a cabinet. Nothing looked appealing.
He settled on making coffee despite the fact he'd already had three cups. Routine made things feel normal.
The machine gurgled. Steam rose. The familiar smell filled the kitchen. For a few blessed minutes he focused solely on pouring grounds. Measuring water. Waiting. Simple things.
Human things.
His phone buzzed. Peter.nA simple text. "Still alive."
Noah smiled despite himself. Two seconds later another arrived. "Chris says to tell you we should be home tomorrow evening."
Then another. "He also says stop worrying."
Noah blinked. "...I wasn't."
His phone buzzed immediately, knowingly. "You literally frowned in your last selfie."
Another. "Your forehead wrinkle has its own zip code."
Another. "Eat something."
Noah laughed quietly. "You asshole."
He typed back. "Drive safe."
A pause.
Then Peter replied. "Always."
Another buzz. "Chris says he loves you."
Another. "I tolerate you."
Noah rolled his eyes. "Liar."
Peter's answer came almost instantly. "Obviously."
The warmth from those messages lingered exactly six minutes.
Then...the doubts returned. Because words were easy. People changed. Didn't they?
He carried his coffee to the back porch. Evening settled slowly across Beacon Hills. Crickets started singing. The woods beyond his property swayed gently. He watched the tree line.
Thought. Remembered. Peter had died there once. Chris had nearly died more times than Noah could count.
Hell...noah himself had nearly died a few times. Beacon Hills wasn't kind to anyone. Maybe that was part of it.
Peter and Chris had repeatedly proven themselves. They fought. Protected. Sacrificed. Saved people.
Noah...filled out paperwork afterward.
The thought lingered. Persistent. He hated it because logically he knew better.
Chris never treated him like he was weak. Peter certainly didn't. If anything Peter became almost insultingly protective whenever Noah was injured. Chris worried constantly. Both of them trusted him.
Loved him. Wanted him. So why couldn't Noah believe it?
Because loving someone and needing someone weren't always the same thing. And Noah wasn't sure they needed him. He stared out toward the darkening woods.
"If I disappeared..." The words escaped before he could stop them. "...what exactly would they lose?"
Silence answered.
The coffee had gone cold. He dumped it into the sink. Another pointless habit.
Night had completely settled now. The house felt darker.
He wandered into the living room. Sat. Stood. Turned the television on. Immediately muted it and then turned it back off.
His eyes drifted toward the small liquor cabinet tucked beside the bookshelf. He hadn't touched it in months. Peter rarely drank much despite appearances. Chris preferred wine.
Noah had promised himself after everything with Claudia that he'd never become dependent on alcohol.
His feet carried him toward it anyway. The cabinet door creaked softly. Inside sat several bottles. Most were gifts. One expensive bourbon Peter claimed tasted like "oak smoked through arrogance." A bottle of scotch Chris enjoyed on rare occasions.
Several unopened whiskeys collected over the years between all of them. Noah reached in. His fingers wrapped around one of the rum bottles. The amber liquid caught the warm kitchen light as he stood there in the middle of the quiet house.
He didn't unscrew the cap. He didn't pour a glass. He simply stood there...Staring at the bottle in his hand.
The rum burned. The first swallow made Noah cough. The second didn't. By the third, the warmth had settled in his chest, dulling the relentless noise in his head. He stood alone in the kitchen, one hand braced against the counter, staring at nothing in particular.
"What exactly do you bring to this relationship?"
Another swallow. The answer never came. The bottle became one glass. The glass became another. Then he stopped bothering with the glass altogether. No one was there to judge him. No Peter raising an eyebrow. No Chris gently suggesting he slow down.
Just him...and the silence.
At some point, his thoughts shifted.
Maybe...maybe he didn't need to compare himself. Maybe he simply needed to prove himself. Peter loved good food. Chris loved homemade meals.
He could do that. He smiled to himself. "Yeah..."
He pushed away from the counter a little too quickly, grabbing the edge before the room could tilt. "I can do that."
The kitchen slowly became organized chaos. A cookbook sat open beside a cutting board. Flour dusted the counter. Vegetables lay half chopped. The oven preheated with a cheerful beep.
Noah squinted at the recipe. "...tablespoon..."
He frowned. "Or..."
He looked at the measuring spoon. "...teaspoon?"
He shrugged. "Close enough."
He'd made Peter's favorite roast before. Many times, usually with Peter standing behind him making sarcastic comments. "You're over-seasoning."
"No such thing."
"There absolutely is."
"You're just uncultured."
Peter would inevitably steal something off the cutting board. Noah would smack his hand. Chris would calmly continue setting the table while pretending not to laugh.
God...he missed them.
His eyes watered. "Damn onions..."
There weren't any onions left to cut. The roast eventually found its way into the oven.
He smiled proudly. "There. See? I contribute."
—————
Then Chris. He wanted to make something for Chris too. Something special. A dessert. Chris always claimed dessert wasn't necessary. Then somehow managed to eat half of it. Noah had noticed. Chris insisted they were imagining things.
He found a recipe. Something simple. Or...simple enough.
The alcohol made the instructions swim across the page. He read the same sentence four times. "...fold..."
He stared into the bowl. "What am I folding?"
Flour exploded onto the floor. He laughed. Harder than the situation deserved.
"You'd laugh too," he informed the empty kitchen.
Another drink. Then another. Time stopped making sense. The oven timer beeped. He forgot why. He silenced it anyway, but didnt turn the over off.
He reached for the ceramic mixing bowl. His fingers missed. The bowl slipped. For one suspended moment he actually thought he'd caught it. Instead it smashed spectacularly across the tile.
Ceramic shattered in every direction. Cake batter splattered across cabinet doors.
Silence followed. Noah stared. Then his lower lip trembled.
"I'm..." He swallowed hard. "I'm sorry..."
His voice cracked despite no one being there. "I wanted..."
His shoulders shook. "I wanted you to have something..."
The tears came before he could stop them. He slowly lowered himself onto the kitchen floor beside the broken bowl. "I just..."
A hiccup escaped. "I wanted to prove..."
His words dissolved into quiet crying.
One bottle emptied. Then another opened.
The roast stayed forgotten in the oven. The shattered dessert remained scattered across the floor. Eventually Noah stopped crying.
Eventually he simply, stayed there, sitting against the cabinets. Bottle loosely hanging from his fingers. Watching absolutely nothing.
A day later...
The front door opened. Peter walked in first carrying an overnight bag over one shoulder.
"I still maintain," Peter announced, kicking the door shut behind him, "that if someone says 'this meeting will only take ten minutes,' they're lying."
Chris followed with considerably more luggage. "They weren't lying."
"They absolutely were."
"It lasted twenty-two minutes."
Peter pointed dramatically. "Exactly."
Chris sighed with the patience of a man who'd known Peter Hale for decades. "I don't think twelve additional minutes qualifies as a conspiracy."
"It does."
"No, Peter."
"It absolutely does."
Chris hung his jacket by the door. "I've missed arguing with someone intelligent."
Peter smirked. "I've missed winning arguments."
"You don't."
"I feel like I do."
Chris chuckled quietly. "I wonder what Noah's doing."
Peter inhaled deeply. His amused expression softened. "Home."
It came out almost unconsciously. Chris smiled. "Yes."
They'd both missed him.
———
Then Peter frowned. "...Do you smell..."
Chris sniffed. His expression changed immediately. "Burnt."
Peter's humor disappeared. "And alcohol."
They looked at each other. Neither spoke. Then both moved.
Peter reached the kitchen first. His footsteps stopped abruptly. "...Noah?"
Chris rounded the doorway. His breath caught. The kitchen looked like time had simply...stopped.
Several bottles littered the counters. Two more lay on their sides across the floor. Flour coated nearly every available surface. Something blackened sat forgotten inside the oven. The unmistakable smell of overcooked meat lingered beneath the stale scent of alcohol. Ceramic fragments surrounded a dried puddle of what had once been batter.
And curled awkwardly against the lower cabinets. Still wearing the same faded sheriff's T-shirt from two days ago.
Noah.
Peter's heart lurched. "Noah."
He crossed the room in three long strides, dropping to one knee. "Noah."
No response. Chris was already checking him. Pulse. Breathing. Pupils. Relief flooded his face. "He is alive."
Peter shot him an exasperated look. "I can hear him breathing."
"I know." Chris exhaled shakily. " But I needed to know."
Noah stirred slightly. A groan escaped him. "...Mm..."
Peter gently brushed hair away from Noah's forehead. "What the hell happened?"
His voice had none of its usual sarcasm. Only confusion and worry.
Chris slowly surveyed the room again. His gaze landed on the oven. He opened it. Inside sat what had once clearly been a roast. He frowned. "...Peter."
Peter looked over. Chris spoke quietly. "He was making your roast."
Peter blinked. "My...?"
His eyes returned to Noah. Chris looked toward the shattered ceramic. His expression softened further. "...And..."
He crouched beside the broken bowl. A cookbook lay nearby. The page was splattered but readable. Chocolate soufflé. Chris remembered mentioning months ago how his mother used to make one. He'd only said it once. "...This..."
Chris whispered. "He was making dessert."
Peter followed his gaze. Silence settled over the kitchen. Peter looked around again. The bottles. The ruined meal. The destroyed dessert. The tears dried on Noah's face. Something inside him twisted painfully. "This wasn't just drinking."
Chris slowly nodded. "No."
Peter looked back down at the sleeping sheriff. His voice was barely above a whisper. "...What were you trying to prove, beautiful?"
Noah only shifted slightly against the cabinet, completely unaware that the two men he loved had finally come home... and found him broken on the kitchen floor.
Peter slipped one arm beneath Noah's shoulders while Chris knelt to lift his legs.
"Easy," Chris murmured, though he wasn't sure whether he was speaking to Noah or Peter.
Together they carefully brought Noah upright. The sheriff groaned softly, his head immediately lolling forward until it rested against Peter's shoulder. Peter tightened his hold without hesitation.
"There you are, beautiful," he said quietly, his usual sharp wit nowhere to be found. "I've got you."
Noah mumbled something completely unintelligible.
"I know," Peter answered anyway.
Chris frowned as he took in Noah's appearance more closely. His T-shirt was wrinkled and stained with flour, dried batter, and whiskey. His jeans were no better, and there was a faint smell of stale alcohol clinging to him that made Chris's heart ache. "We should get him cleaned up."
Peter simply nodded. Neither of them mentioned the state of the kitchen.nNeither of them mentioned the bottles. That conversation could wait.
Right now... Noah came first.
The walk upstairs was slow. Noah's knees threatened to buckle more than once, and each time Peter tightened his grip before he could fall. Chris stayed close on Noah's other side, one hand steady against the sheriff's back. When they reached the bathroom, Peter leaned Noah gently against the vanity while Chris turned on the shower.
Warm water filled the room with steam.
"Not too hot," Chris said, adjusting the faucet slightly.
Peter nodded absently, his attention never leaving Noah. The sheriff's eyes fluttered open for only a second. "...Peter...?"
"I'm here."
A tiny nod.
"...Chris?"
"I'm here too."
Noah relaxed again almost immediately, trusting their voices more than his own balance.
Working together had become second nature over the past year.
Without discussion, they each fell into familiar roles. Chris carefully removed Noah's shoes and socks before unbuttoning his jeans. Peter kept one arm firmly around Noah's waist the entire time, allowing him to lean almost all of his weight against him.
"Sorry..." Noah mumbled thickly.
Peter frowned. "For what?"
"...Heavy..."
Peter actually huffed a quiet laugh. "You've wrestled me onto the couch after I've been shot."
Chris smiled faintly. "And you've dragged me through the preserve with a dislocated shoulder."
Peter looked down at Noah. "I think we can manage helping you into a shower."
Once Noah was undressed, Peter guided him carefully beneath the warm spray. The sheriff immediately shivered.nPeter stepped in behind him, wrapping both arms securely around his waist. "There."
Noah instinctively leaned back against Peter's chest. Safe and supported. Peter rested his chin lightly against Noah's damp hair. "I've got you."
Chris soaked a washcloth beneath the warm water before adding a small amount of soap. His movements were slow and respectful, more like a nurse caring for a patient than anything else. "I'm going to clean you up, Noah."
A sleepy hum answered him. Chris gently wiped flour from Noah's forearms. Then his hands. Sticky patches of dried batter disappeared beneath the warm cloth. Peter quietly supported Noah whenever his legs wobbled. Every so often Noah would sway. Peter simply adjusted his stance and held him a little tighter.
Chris worked carefully across Noah's shoulders. "There we are."
He rinsed the cloth. The smell of stale whiskey slowly gave way to soap. The flour disappeared. The dried tears on Noah's cheeks vanished beneath the warm water. Chris paused only once, noticing faint redness around Noah's eyes.
He exchanged a look with Peter. Neither spoke. They didn't need to.
Peter gently brushed wet hair back from Noah's forehead. "You scared us."
Noah didn't respond. Whether he hadn't heard or simply couldn't process the words, neither man knew.
Chris finished washing Noah before reaching for a clean towel waiting nearby. "I think that's enough."
Peter nodded. "Can you stand for one second?"
Noah blinked sluggishly. "...Maybe..."
"Good enough."
Peter kept one hand around Noah's waist while Chris wrapped the large towel around his shoulders. The second towel quickly dried his hair. Chris rubbed gently rather than briskly, knowing Noah likely had a pounding headache waiting for him.
Peter finally stepped out of the shower, guiding Noah with him. Water dripped quietly onto the bathmat. Noah shivered again.
"Let's get you warm."
Chris retrieved a pair of soft gray sweatpants from Noah's dresser. Peter recognized them immediately. His favorites. Comfortable and broken in from years of wear.
Chris found a faded gray T-shirt next. "The old Beacon Hills Sheriff's Department one?"
Peter nodded. "He likes sleeping in that."
Together they helped Noah dress. The sweatpants slid on easily. The oversized T-shirt hung loosely from his frame.
By the time they were finished, Noah looked less like the broken man they'd found on the kitchen floor and more like... himself.
Peter carefully sat Noah on the edge of the bed. The sheriff immediately sagged sideways. Peter caught him before he could tip over. Chris knelt in front of him. "Can you look at me?"
Very slowly...Noah lifted his head. Bloodshot blue eyes met Chris's. There was embarrassment, and somewhere beneath both... A deep sadness that neither Peter nor Chris had noticed growing over the past several weeks.
Chris reached up and rested a hand gently against Noah's cheek.
"You're home." Noah's lip trembled. "...You came back."
Peter's expression tightened. He moved closer, resting one hand on Noah's shoulder. "There was never a version of this where we didn't."
Noah closed his eyes. A single tear slipped down his cheek. Neither Peter nor Chris tried to stop it. For now, they simply stayed where they were, one beside him, one kneeling in front of him, making sure that, when Noah finally found the strength to face whatever had driven him to that kitchen floor, he wouldn't have to face it alone.
The three of them made their way downstairs at a pace dictated entirely by Noah. Peter never strayed more than half a step away. Chris quietly disappeared into the kitchen long enough to turn the oven off, throw away the ruined roast before the smell could linger any longer, and place a towel over the shattered ceramic until they could clean it properly. The bottles remained exactly where they'd found them.
They could wait. Noah couldn't.
A few minutes later, the three of them settled onto the living room couch. Or rather... Peter and Chris settled. Noah simply... folded into the space between them. His shoulders were slumped beneath the faded gray T-shirt. Damp hair curled slightly against his forehead from the shower, and despite the clean clothes and washed face, he still looked exhausted.
Peter watched him for a long moment. Normally, he'd crack a joke. Make some ridiculous comment. Tease Noah until he rolled his eyes and called him an ass.
Today...Nothing about this felt funny. Peter leaned back against the couch, crossed his arms over his chest, and fixed Noah with a look that was equal parts concern and determination.
"Alright," he said, his voice calm but unmistakably serious. "My beautiful Twunk...What the fuck happened?"
Chris sighed softly. "Peter..."
Peter glanced over. "What?"
"Be nice."
"I am being nice."
Chris gave him a look. Peter frowned. "...This is my nice voice."
"It isn't."
"It absolutely is."
Chris couldn't quite suppress the tiny smile tugging at one corner of his mouth before it disappeared again. He turned back toward Noah. His voice was infinitely gentler. "But seriously, Noah..."
Noah remained completely still. His hands were clasped so tightly together his knuckles had turned white. His eyes never left the hardwood floor. Silence stretched. Neither Peter nor Chris interrupted it.
Eventually...A tear landed on Noah's clasped hands. Then another. His breathing became uneven. Peter immediately uncrossed his arms. Chris instinctively shifted closer. Noah swallowed hard. When he finally spoke, his voice sounded painfully small. "I'm..."
He stopped. Shook his head. Tried again.
"I'm old."
Peter's brow furrowed. "Noah—"
"I'm just..." Noah whispered, talking over him. "I'm just a sheriff."
Another tear slipped free. "Human."
His shoulders trembled.
"There's..."His voice cracked so sharply he had to stop to catch his breath. "...absolutely nothing special about me."
The room fell silent. Chris blinked. It was so far from what he'd expected that for a moment, he simply stared. Finally he spoke. "I'm human too."
Noah immediately shook his head. "No."
Chris frowned. "No?"
"No."
"You and I are both human."
"No, Chris." Noah finally looked up. His eyes were bloodshot. His face blotchy from crying. "You don't get it."
Chris stayed quiet. Noah looked between the two men. "You were a hunter."
Chris opened his mouth. Noah kept going. "You spent your whole life fighting monsters. Protecting people. You know things I'll never know."
He looked toward Peter. "And him..."
His laugh came out broken. "He's..."
He gestured vaguely. "Peter."
Peter raised an eyebrow. "...Compelling argument."
Normally Noah would've snorted. Today he didn't even smile. "You're an Alpha. You've survived things I can't even imagine.You heal. You're strong. You've..." Noah rubbed both hands over his face. "You're Peter Hale."
Peter was oddly touched by how much weight Noah seemed to put behind simply saying his name. Noah looked back down. "And then there's me."
He laughed again. It sounded hollow. "I write parking tickets."
Chris's heart broke a little. "Noah..."
"I fill out paperwork. You both save people. I document it afterward."
Peter opened his mouth. Noah wasn't finished. "I kept looking around this house..."
His voice began shaking again. "And everything I saw belonged to one of you. The books Chris reads. The jackets you leave everywhere," he muttered toward Peter. "I kept thinking..."
He squeezed his eyes shut. "If I disappeared..."
Peter stiffened immediately. Chris's expression changed.
"...What would actually change?"
"Noah," Chris said quietly.
"I mean really."
His eyes found theirs again. "You two had decades before I came along. You understand each other without talking. You've fought together."
"We hated each other."
Noah ignored it, "Saved each other's lives....You have history. I've only been here a year." His lip quivered. "What happens when the novelty wears off?"
Peter stared at him. "What?"
"When you realize..." Noah's voice became barely audible. "...I'm not enough."
Noah gestured weakly toward the kitchen. "I thought..."
He sniffled. "I thought if I made your favorite roast..." He looked at Peter.
"...and your favorite dessert..." He turned to Chris. "...maybe I'd finally contribute something."
His breathing hitched. "I wanted to prove..." The words dissolved into sobs. "...that I was worthy."
Peter's face drained of color. Chris simply stared.
Worthy?
That was what this had been about?
Noah bowed his head into his shaking hands. "I love you both so much..."
His shoulders shook uncontrollably now. "I just...I don't know why either of you love me back."
Neither Peter nor Chris spoke. Not because they had nothing to say. Because, for perhaps the first time since either of them had met Sheriff Noah Stilinski...they realized they had completely failed to see the battle he'd been quietly fighting inside himself.
Noah's lower lip quivered. "I just..." His voice cracked again, barely above a whisper. "I just wanted to be worthy..."
Peter tilted his head, genuinely confused. "Worthy?"
Noah gave a tiny, broken nod. A hiccup escaped him as more tears rolled down his cheeks. "Yeah..." He rubbed futilely at his face. "Worthy... useful."
Peter blinked several times. "You are... useful."
Noah looked up with watery eyes. "I am?"
"Of course you are." Peter frowned, trying to put into words something that felt so painfully obvious to him. "You do that thing..."
Chris sighed. "Peter, no."
"What? I'm getting there."
Chris gently rested a hand over Noah's clasped ones. "Noah," he said softly, "you're usually the first one awake every morning."
Noah sniffled. "You make breakfast almost every day. Sometimes it's pancakes, sometimes eggs, sometimes you just throw bacon into a pan because I wandered downstairs looking like I hadn't eaten in a week."
Peter nodded solemnly. "Accurate."
Chris smiled faintly before continuing. "There's always a fresh pot of coffee waiting. Always."
His eyes softened as he looked at Noah. "I used to skip breakfast all the time. Even when Victoria was alive... even when Allison still lived at home."
His voice caught for just a moment. "I rarely sat down and actually ate in the mornings."
He gave Noah's hand a reassuring squeeze. "You changed that."
Chris continued before Peter could derail the conversation. "You ground us."
Noah frowned. "I what?"
"You ground Peter and me."
Chris glanced toward Peter with a small smile. "When he starts pushing and prodding everyone because he's bored..."
Peter looked offended. "I don't—"
"You absolutely do."
"...Continue."
Chris chuckled. "You tell him to relax."
Then he looked back at Noah. "And when I start overthinking everything..."
A knowing smile crossed Noah's face despite the tears. "You tell me to calm down."
Peter nodded enthusiastically. "You're the middle."
"The middle?"
"Our anchor," Chris corrected gently.
Peter immediately pointed at him. "Yes."
He turned back to Noah. "Our anchor that somehow puts up with our bullshit."
He started counting on his fingers. "While simultaneously dealing with Stiles' dramatics..."
Another finger. "Beacon Hills bullshit."
Another. "Sheriff department bullshit."
Another. "Stiles and Derek drama."
Noah blinked. "...You mentioned Stiles twice."
Peter didn't miss a beat. "Yes."
Chris pinched the bridge of his nose.
Peter continued anyway. "The boy deserves two mentions."
"He does not."
"He absolutely does."
Noah actually huffed a tiny laugh through his tears. Peter looked immensely pleased.
"Also," Peter said, leaning forward slightly, "like I was saying before..." Chris narrowed his eyes. "...You also do that amazing thing with your—"
"Peter."
"What?"
Chris gave him a warning look before turning back toward Noah. "Our point is..."
His voice became quiet again. "We aren't with you because you're 'useful.'"
Noah's eyes searched his.
"We love you because you love us."
Chris smiled warmly. "You are kind. You are smart.You are beautiful and you somehow put up with both of us despite us giving you countless reasons not to."
He let out a soft laugh. "You make this house feel like a home. You make Peter feel... calmer."
Peter looked personally attacked. "I resent how accurate that is."
Chris ignored him. "You make me remember to slow down."
Peter nodded, "You remind us to eat."
Chris continued, "You remind us to sleep and you remind us there's life outside monsters, hunters, paperwork, and whatever supernatural catastrophe Beacon Hills has invented that week."
Chris thumb brushed gently across Noah's knuckles. "You don't complete this relationship because you cook breakfast. You complete it because you're you."
Peter had remained suspiciously quiet for almost twenty whole seconds. Chris should have known it wouldn't last. Peter leaned forward before Chris could say another word. "...And that thing with your tongue doesn't hurt."
Chris closed his eyes. "...Christ, Peter."
"What?"
"Really?"
Peter looked entirely unapologetic. "He needed cheering up."
Chris stared at him. "That was your contribution?"
"It was an excellent contribution."
Noah stared at Peter for a long second. Then...a tiny snort escaped him.nIt caught him so off guard that he clapped a hand over his mouth. Another laugh followed. Wet with tears but unmistakably real.
Peter immediately straightened in triumph. "I fixed it."
"You absolutely did not," Chris replied.
"I made him laugh."
"You made an inappropriate joke."
"I made an effective inappropriate joke."
Chris shook his head, unable to stop the reluctant smile tugging at his lips. Beside them, Noah laughed again, a little harder this time. It wasn't enough to erase the hurt. It wasn't enough to silence the insecurities that had been building inside him for weeks. But for the first time since Peter and Chris had walked through the front door...the weight pressing on his chest eased just a little.
Peter folded his arms with a smug grin. "I'd like the record to show that my impeccable emotional support skills have once again saved the day."
Chris looked at Noah. "You see what I mean?"
Noah sniffled, wiping at his eyes.
Chris smiled. "You put up with that."
Peter gasped dramatically. "I am a delight."
This time Noah's laugh came a little easier.
The laughter lingered in the room, soft and genuine. It was simply enough to make the heaviness in Noah's chest feel a little less suffocating. Chris smiled at the sound, relief evident on his face.
"There you are," he murmured. "We've missed hearing that."
Peter leaned over first, cupping Noah's face with surprising gentleness before pressing a kiss to one cheek. Chris immediately followed, placing an equally affectionate kiss on the other. Noah's face warmed. "You two..."
Peter wasn't finished. He shifted closer until he was practically draped against Noah's side, burying his face against the sheriff's neck. He breathed him in with a contented little hum before nuzzling against the warm skin. "My beautiful Twunk," he murmured, the words accompanied by a satisfied little moan.
Noah rolled his eyes despite the blush climbing into his cheeks. "You are impossible."
"I've been told."
Chris chuckled and, without a word, wrapped both arms around Noah in a firm hug. Unlike Peter's playful affection, Chris's embrace was steady and grounding. Noah melted into it almost immediately. For several moments, none of them spoke. Peter finally broke the silence.
"So..." He glanced between the two of them. "Chris and I have been gone for three days."
Chris narrowed his eyes. "I don't like that tone."
Peter ignored him. "How about we hit the bed?"
Chris sighed dramatically. "Seriously, Peter?"
"What?" Peter looked genuinely confused. "It's not like you and I did anything."
"Wait..." Noah blinked as he looked between them. "Seriously?"
Peter nodded matter-of-factly. "Seriously."
"You... didn't?"
"Nope." Peter shrugged. "We didn't fool around at all."
Chris nodded once. "We didn't."
Peter smiled at Noah as though this should have been obvious. "We need our Twunk."
Noah stared at him. Peter spread his hands grandly.
"The Wolf..." He pointed to himself.
"The Silver Fox..." He pointed toward Chris, earning an exasperated look.
"...and the Twunk." He pointed proudly at Noah. "Three's the best company."
Despite everything that had happened, Noah couldn't help smiling. He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly.
"I... wouldn't have been mad if you two..." He looked between them. "...if you did something."
Chris immediately shook his head. He leaned in close. "He was insistent that you had to be involved."
Noah looked at Peter in surprise. "What?"
Peter simply shrugged, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. "I wasn't lying about that tongue thing."
Chris let out a long, theatrical sigh and tipped his head back toward the ceiling. "Oh, for fucks sake..."
He looked back at Peter. "Must you?"
Peter grinned without an ounce of shame. "Yes."
Noah laughed awkwardly. "What... why?"
Peter's expression softened beneath the teasing. "Because," he said simply, "you're mine too."
He reached over and squeezed Noah's hand. "I'm not interested in celebrating without you."
Chris smiled warmly. "Neither am I."
The sincerity behind their words settled over Noah more deeply than any joke had. Just an hour earlier, he'd convinced himself they would eventually realize they didn't need him.
Now they were telling him, in the most Peter-and-Chris way imaginable, that the relationship didn't feel complete without him there.
Noah swallowed around the lump in his throat. "...Thank you."
Peter immediately brightened. "So..."
He wiggled his eyebrows dramatically. "Bedroom, boys?"
Chris gave him an incredulous look.n"You somehow make everything sound ridiculous."
"And yet," Peter replied with a grin, "you keep agreeing to come with me."
Chris opened his mouth, closed it again. "...That's unfortunately true."
Noah laughed, the sound still a little shaky but far more natural now.
Together, Peter and Chris stood. Without a word, each slipped an arm around Noah's shoulders. Peter rested his head briefly against Noah's temple. Chris gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze.
The three of them walked slowly down the hallway together, leaning into one another as they went.
For the first time in days, Noah didnt feel like he was walking alone.