Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It started with Stiles being nosy.

Which, honestly, wasn’t new. What was new was that Derek was actually home when Stiles came knocking—er, more like when he let himself in because Derek still hadn’t learned about locks.

Or maybe he just didn’t think anyone was stupid enough to barge into a werewolf’s loft uninvited. Well, that's what Stiles was for.

“Before you bite my head off,” Stiles said, stepping inside, “this is pack business. And before you ask—yes, it’s actually pack business. Not me using pack business as an excuse to check in on your emotional well-being, which I would never do because that would be ridiculous.”

He dropped a few bags on the ground, barely making it back upright with the small tower of books he was balancing. They teetered to the side in a cartoonish manner, threatening to slide out of his grip one after the other.

Stiles countered this with a quick pit maneuver to face the wall- legs spread wide, books secured against his chest. He tossed his head back to throw a quick look of triumph over his shoulder. 

Derek was already glaring at him from across the room, standing near the bookshelves with his arms crossed. He looked… slightly disheveled, which was weird. His henley was rumpled, the sleeves pushed up, and Stiles caught a faint trace of something warm in the air—garlic, maybe? Olive oil?

Whatever it was, it smelled good.

“I’m busy,” Derek said, voice flat.

“So busy you can’t spare five minutes for some critical pack strategizing?”

Derek arched a brow.

“…Okay, fine, it’s not that critical,” Stiles admitted, dropping the books and slipping his hands into his hoodie pocket. “But I was in the area, and I figured I’d pop in, check on my favorite growly werewolf, make sure you weren’t sitting in the dark brooding, plotting your next aggressive display of—”

“Stiles.”

“Yes?”

“Leave.”

Stiles scoffed. “Wow. Rude.”

Derek pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling sharply, and turned away. Stiles could practically see the way he was grinding his teeth, the sheer force of will it was taking not to physically remove him from the premises.

So, naturally, Stiles stayed put.

And when Derek stalked toward the kitchen, Stiles followed.

Which—okay, fine, maybe that was pushing it, but he was curious. Because it was definitely food he smelled, and Stiles had never, in all his years of knowing Derek, even once seen him cook.

The kitchen was surprisingly tidy, but not in an unused way. A cutting board sat on the counter, a knife resting beside some freshly chopped herbs. There was a pan on the stove, something sizzling in olive oil, and next to it—

Stiles’ eyes zeroed in on the bottle of wine, already uncorked.

“Oh my God,” he blurted, grinning. “Are you having a fancy little night in? Cooking, drinking wine—Derek, is this your soft era?”

Derek scowled, grabbing the pan to give it a shake. “I don’t have an era.”

“No, no, you do, and it’s this.” Stiles gestured at the scene before him, utterly delighted. “You’ve been hiding this whole domestic side, and frankly, I feel betrayed.”

Derek sighed, muttering something under his breath that sounded a lot like why are you like this? but he didn’t kick Stiles out, which was a win in itself.

Stiles took that as permission to continue snooping. “So what’s the deal here?” he asked, peering into the pan. “What are we working with?”

Derek side-eyed him. “We aren’t working with anything.”

“Semantics,” Stiles waved him off. Then he pointed at the wine. “And what’s this? You always struck me as more of a whiskey guy.”

Derek hesitated.

Which was interesting.

Finally, he muttered, “I like wine.”

Stiles grinned. “You like wine.”

“Drop it.”

“Oh, no, I definitely won’t be dropping this,” Stiles said, already reaching for the bottle. He turned it in his hand, noting the label. “Barolo. Sounds fancy.”

Derek rolled his eyes. “It’s not fancy.”

“You say that, but this is, like, a real wine,” Stiles pointed out. “Not the stuff you get in a box or a bottle with a screw top.”

Derek made a face like he couldn’t believe he was even entertaining this conversation. “You don’t drink wine.”

“Sure I do,” Stiles said. “Just, you know… whatever’s cheap and gets the job done.”

Derek huffed a laugh—an actual laugh—before shaking his head and reaching for another bottle. He placed it on the counter top, then grabbed two glasses from the cabinet. In one very graceful motion, Derek turned back to face Stiles, fixed a pair of dark rectangle shaped frames to his face, uncorked the bottle with his teeth, and poured them both a glass. 

Stiles blinked. “Wait, are we doing this?”

Derek shrugged. “You’re not leaving, and I don’t feel like arguing.”

Stiles grinned. “Derek, I knew you had a heart in there somewhere.”

Derek grunted. "This one is a bit sweet, you should like it."

Stiles was basically vibrating in his seat with excitement. 

"I didn't know werewolves didn't have 20/20 vision- or are those to compliment your aesthetic? No offense, but you totally seem like the type- what's the prescription on those-"

“Drink your wine, Stiles.”

At first, it was casual. Derek poured small tastes, explaining things Stiles barely understood—acidity, tannins, finish. Stiles, naturally, exaggerated every reaction just to see if he could get Derek to crack a smile. 

“Okay, this one’s a little vinegary, yeah?” he said after the second glass.

Derek leveled him with an unimpressed look over the top of his glasses. “It’s dry.”

“That’s what I said.”

Derek shook his head. “Not even close.”

“Agree to disagree.”

Derek ignored him and instead plated the very fancy meal he'd been laboring over as he effortlessly poured Stiles' third glass. Stiles swirled the light yellow liquid around, took a sniff- not that it was making any difference for him- and allowed himself a small sip. Good. He liked this one! 

A plate slid under Stiles' nose. 

"Eat."

"Dude, I can handle my alcohol-" 

"Take a few bites, then taste the wine again...tell me what you think."

Eyeing Derek cautiously, Stiles poked his fork into what looked like cod covered in a clearly labored over sauce-

"It's coconut miso sea bass...with broccolini and garlic herb mashed potatoes, the red stuff is chili oil-"

Derek stopped short when he looked up from his own plate that he was using to reference the meal he'd so wonderfully prepared- and found Stiles smiling at him with narrowed eyes. He quickly looked back down, the steam from his food fogging his glasses-but...a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth- was he- bashful?!  Stiles took an eager bite, the flavors sending his taste buds into orbit. He couldn't help the sound he made as he leaned back in his chair, hands gripping the bar top. 

"Holy fuck."

"Language."

"Right- Derek, when did you learn to cook like this, and why am I just finding out?"

"I've always cooked like this." He said, taking a bite of his food and finally looking up to meet Stiles gaze. "Do you like it?"

"Like it?" Stiles rolled his eyes in exaggeration. "This is marry me level of cooking, Gordon himself is shaking in his boots somewhere British"

Derek huffed a laugh and reached for his glass. Stiles mimicked him, watching closely as Derek leaned forward to cheers, their glasses clinking.

The third glass went down easier than expected, and the fourth… well.

Stiles wasn’t sure when they stopped being strategic about the whole tasting aspect and just started drinking. They'd migrated to the living room, Derek taking the stand to school Stiles on undertones, but the glasses were getting heftier and heftier. Derek would pour a small amount for Stiles and in turn fill his own glass 3x over.

Somewhere between the fifth and sixth glass, Derek got up to grab another bottle, and instead of returning to the chair he’d started in, he sat next to Stiles on the couch.

He didn’t say anything about it, didn’t acknowledge that he’d moved closer. He just handed Stiles another glass and leaned back, legs spread wide, completely at ease.

And that was new.

Derek never looked at ease.

At some point, Derek stopped making sense. Which—frankly—was hilarious, because Derek Hale was always the most painfully logical person in the room. Even when he was growling or throwing people into walls, there was always a rigid, predictable structure to how he functioned.

But now? Now Derek was sitting way too close, his head tipped against the back of the couch, mouth slightly parted as he watched Stiles with this lazy sort of focus.

The usual sharp edges of his personality had softened at the edges, unraveled just enough for the wine to sneak in.

And that would’ve been fine. Really.

Except Derek was talking. Not brooding. Not offering clipped one-word responses or grunting through interactions like an actual caveman. Talking. And not even about werewolf business or the various ways Stiles was an annoyance. No, Derek Hale—serial glarer, resident fun-hater, king of all things broody—was sitting here, pleasantly tipsy and explaining the origins of Syrah grapes.

And Stiles?

Stiles was fascinated.

Because sure, he could say it was the wine, say it was the shock of learning that Derek had thoughts beyond “kill” and “protect” and “be mildly inconvenienced by Stiles Stilinski.” But it wasn’t just that. It was the way Derek’s voice dipped, smooth and low, when he got into the details.

It was the way his hands moved—expressive, confident—as he talked about terroir and barrel-aging techniques, like this was something he actually cared about. Like this was something that mattered to him.

And that—more than anything—was what had Stiles hooked. Because Derek Hale wasn’t supposed to care about things like this. He was supposed to be all sharp teeth and bad tempers, not someone who leaned back into a couch, a half-smile on his lips, drunk off wine and warmth.

Stiles didn’t know what to do with that. Which was exactly why he decided it was time to call it a night.

“You’re drunk,” Stiles said, suddenly.

Derek tilted his head slightly, considering. “Maybe.”

“Right, Professor Somm, I think we should wrap this up before you start lecturing me on stemware shapes.”

Derek smirked, tilting his head just slightly. “You should care about stemware shapes.”

“Oh my God,” Stiles muttered, rubbing a hand over his face. “Yeah, okay, that’s the final sign. Time to get you horizontal.”

Derek’s lips twitched.

Stiles froze. “Not like that,” he clarified immediately, pointing a warning finger at him.

Derek let out a low chuckle, deep in his chest, and—okay. That should not have sent a ripple of heat curling through Stiles’ spine. This was fine. Totally fine. Derek wasn’t helping, though.

Instead of scoffing and rolling his eyes, instead of making some sarcastic quip about Stiles being too much, Derek just looked at him. Heavy-lidded. Steady. Like he was waiting for something.

Stiles’ stomach flipped. But he wasn’t doing this. Not while Derek was clearly past his usual walls of self-control, softened by alcohol and good conversation. Not when this would absolutely turn into a thing.

A thing Stiles would have to think about in excruciating detail later. A thing that would make it impossible to look Derek in the eye without remembering the way he was sitting—his body loose, comfortable, the sharp lines of his face relaxed for once.

Yeah. He was not doing this.

“Alright, up we go,” Stiles announced, standing too fast and immediately regretting it. His head spun, but he powered through, grabbing Derek’s wrist and attempting to haul him up.

Derek didn’t budge.

Stiles frowned, bracing himself and trying again. “C’mon, dude, help me out here.”

Derek huffed out a low laugh, but finally, finally shifted forward, letting Stiles pull him up—except his balance was terrible, and instead of standing like a normal person, he staggered into Stiles, pressing their bodies together for a solid three seconds before Stiles managed to right them.

He absolutely did not register how warm Derek was.

Nope.

Didn’t notice it at all.

This was fine.

Totally fine.

“Okay, big guy,” Stiles muttered, steadying him. “I swear, if you go full dead weight on me, I’m just leaving you on the floor.”

Derek grunted. “No, you won’t.”

“Yeah?” Stiles shot back, adjusting his grip as they half-stumbled toward the bedroom. “Wanna test that theory?”

Derek didn’t answer.

Which was concerning.

Because Derek always answered.

Stiles risked a glance at him, noticing the way his lashes were drooping, the way his head tilted just slightly toward Stiles’ shoulder.

Oh.

Oh, he was really out of it.

“Christ,” Stiles muttered, nudging him. “I thought werewolves had superhuman metabolism.”

Derek let out a slow breath. “Doesn’t mean I can’t get drunk.”

“Yeah, clearly.” Stiles sighed, half-dragging him the last few feet toward the bed. “Alright, here we go. Nice and easy.”

Derek dropped onto the mattress with a thud, exhaling sharply as he sprawled on his back.

For a second, Stiles just stood there, catching his breath, the room seeming to have a mind of it's own as it danced in his vision.

Then—Derek moved.

He reached for the hem of his shirt, half-heartedly tugging it up like he was going to pull it off. Abs. Lot's of them. Dark swirling hairs surrounding Derek's bellybutton flexed as he did, marching into the most chiseled 'V' line Stiles had ever seen-

Stiles’ brain shut down.

“Whoa, okay, nope,” he said, grabbing Derek’s wrist before he could go any further. “We are not doing the shirtless thing tonight.”

Derek blinked at him, slow and deliberate. “I sleep better without it.”

“That’s nice,” Stiles said, absolutely not thinking about that in any way, shape, or form. “But you’re also barely conscious, so let’s keep the clothing situation stable, yeah?”

Derek exhaled, the corners of his mouth twitching like he was amused.

Stiles had a very bad feeling about that.

“Fine,” Derek murmured, settling back against the mattress.

Stiles nodded, satisfied. “Good. Great. Now, just—lay there and do the whole ‘sleeping it off’ thing, and we’ll figure out what werewolf hangovers look like in the morning.”

He leaned down to remove Dereks rather expensive looking glasses-

And was immediately yanked forward.

“What the—?”

Stiles barely had time to react before he was falling, Derek’s grip firm around his wrist as he dragged Stiles down.

The world tilted.

The bed gave.

And suddenly—

Stiles was pinned.

Again.

Trapped beneath Derek Hale.

“Jesus Christ, dude,” Stiles sputtered, wriggling under him. “You gotta stop doing that.”

Derek hummed against his shoulder, his breath warm. “You’re warm.”

“Yeah, well, so are you,” Stiles muttered, twisting in place. “Now get off.”

Derek didn’t move.

Of course he didn’t.

Instead, he made a soft, almost content sound and shifted closer. 

Derek created a human straightjacket- burying his face into Stiles' neck, his heavy leg coming to rest over the small of Stiles' waist in a way that made it impossible to move his entire lower body.

Stiles wiggled again, his left arm already numb under Dereks weight. He flexed his wrist to tap what he could of Dereks back. To his (half-hearted) disappointment, Derek shifted his lower body until they fell into each other like puzzle pieces. It wouldn't take a genius to discover that Derek had an extra piece that wasn't accounted for until now. Now that it was resting on Stiles' inner thigh.

Stiles froze.

Oh, no.

No, no, no.

This was not happening.

But Derek was right there, all warmth and steady breathing, his weight pressing Stiles into the mattress in a way that left nothing to the imagination. Unfortunately, Stiles considered his imagination one of his strongest skills. 

“This is so not okay,” Stiles muttered, trying to extract himself.

Derek sighed against his collarbone. “You talk too much.”

“I do not,” Stiles shot back automatically.

Derek hummed again, his fingers flexing just slightly where they rested near Stiles’ hip.

And that—that was dangerous.

Because Stiles could handle the wine-drunk rambling, and he could handle Derek sitting too close, but this?

This was something else.

Something charged.

And Stiles was very much not thinking about the way Derek’s breath ghosted against his neck, or the way his weight settled just right, or the way his grip hadn’t loosened even slightly—

A thud echoed from the front of the loft.

Stiles’ head snapped up.

The door swung open.

And—

“Are you kidding me?”

Stiles knew that voice.

Isaac.

He squeezed his eyes shut for one long, agonizing moment before tilting his head toward the door.

Isaac stood in the entryway, his face frozen in an expression of pure disbelief.

There was a beat of absolute silence.

Then—

“What exactly am I walking into?”

Stiles groaned. “This is not what it looks like.”

Isaac arched an eyebrow. “Oh? Because it looks like you’re literally under Derek.”

“Wow, great observation, Sherlock.”

Isaac smirked. “So it is what it looks like.”

Stiles scowled. “No.”

Isaac tilted his head. “Then what is it?”

Stiles opened his mouth—then closed it again.

Because—yeah. There was no good explanation for this.

Isaac let out a low whistle. “Wow. Scandalous.”

“Oh my God,” Stiles muttered, shifting beneath Derek’s weight. “If you’re not here to help, you can leave.”

Isaac snorted. “Oh, I’m definitely staying for this.”

He scented the air and gagged.

"My God, this room reeks."

Stiles groaned.

Derek, for his part, hadn’t moved. He was still completely relaxed, half-asleep, his face pressed against Stiles’ shoulder like this was the most comfortable he’d ever been in his life.

Which—great.

Just fantastic.

Isaac grinned. “So, should I start calling you Mrs. Hale now, or…?”

Stiles glared. “If I had the ability to throw you out of a window, I would.”

Isaac smirked. “But you don’t.”

Stiles let his head fall back against the pillow. “This is my actual nightmare.”

Isaac snickered.

Derek snored softly against his neck.

And Stiles—

Stiles resigned himself to his fate.

Chapter Text

Stiles lay there for a long moment, mentally cataloging every single bad decision that had led him to this exact predicament.

Derek still had him pinned.

Isaac was still watching with that insufferable smirk.

And Stiles still had no way to fix any of this without making it worse.

“Alright,” he exhaled, shifting under Derek’s weight again. “We’re gonna—yeah, we’re gonna have to do this the hard way.”

Isaac leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “Oh, please do. This is the most fun I’ve had all week.”

“Do you ever just leave quietly?” Stiles gritted out, giving one last, desperate push against Derek’s shoulder.

Derek growled—a low, barely conscious sound—and tightened his grip.

Stiles froze.

Isaac's eyebrows shot up. “Oh. He’s a clingy drunk.”

Stiles’ entire body screamed for release from this hell. In any other circumstance this would have topped the charts on Stiles' 'fuck yeah' list of moments he'd kill to relive again for the first time. Derek, on top of him- minus Isaacs irritating presence, of course- and very little thick clothing between them? Yeah, easy jerk-off material to add to his reserve. He could replace this with at least 3 shirtless Derek moments, and one of those involved too much water and just the perfect amount of wet fabric cling. This unfortunately was not, any other circumstance.

“No, no, no,” he muttered under his breath, wiggling harder. “Derek, buddy, I need you to—”

Derek let out another growl, shifting his weight—and somehow, impossibly, making it worse.

Stiles groaned.

Isaac wheezed. “Oh. my. God.”

Derek's tongue flicked out to sample the skin behind Stiles ear, his soft tongue grazing the shortened hairs at the nape of his neck. Because obviously the charged cuddling wasn't enough for Derek. No. No, Derek had to drag his tongue up from the dip in Stiles' shoulder back to the base of his ear- his tongue quickly replaced by blunt teeth sending waves of heat curling low in his belly as they softly closed on his earlobe. 

Stiles wanted to die.

“Okay!” Isaac clapped his hands together, grinning. “I have officially seen enough.”

“Oh, have you?” Stiles snapped, face burning.

“Yep,” Isaac said brightly. “I’m good. This is getting filed under ‘top ten best things to happen in this hellhole of a town.’”

Stiles inhaled sharply through his nose. “If I haven't reminded you yet, I hate you.”

Isaac shrugged, then gestured lazily to Derek. “Want me to help?”

Stiles let out a strangled sound. “If you’re just now offering, I swear to—”

“Alright, alright.” Isaac held up his hands. “Don’t get your panties in a twist.”

Stiles didn’t have time to be mad about that, because Isaac was suddenly moving, stepping forward and gripping Derek’s shoulder. He sighed a breath of relief, positioning his hands under his shoulder to assist Isaac in lifting his dead weight. Not that Isaac needed the help, but Stiles would be damned if Isaac tried to file Stiles under the 'princess in distress' category when he inevitably shared this moment with the pack later. If Derek didn't have super healing, Stiles would have left deep purple indicators in the shoulder pressed into the soft flesh of his cheek, as a reminder. 

“C’mon, big guy,” Isaac said, giving him a shake. “Time for bed. Preferably without your personal human blanket.”

Derek grumbled low in his throat.

Then, to Stiles’ utter horror—

He nuzzled closer, the grip on his waist tightened painfully. 

Stiles saw actual stars.

Isaac howled with laughter, doubling over. “Holy shit. He likes you.”

Stiles was never drinking wine with Derek again.

“Isaac,” he gritted out, “if you don’t fix this, I’m telling everyone about the time you cried at that ASPCA commercial.”

Isaac immediately sobered. “Low blow.”

“Fix it.”

With a dramatic sigh, Isaac reached down and finally did something useful, prying Derek’s arm away and helping shift his weight to the mattress.

Stiles launched himself out of reach, rolling onto the floor with a graceless thud.

Isaac blinked down at him. “That was pathetic.”

Stiles groaned, face buried against the hardwood. “I never want to touch another person again.”

Isaac snickered. "and consider this the only experience you have in bed with another person?"

Meanwhile, Derek was finally sprawled out properly in bed, one arm resting over his stomach, his breathing deep and even.

Like he hadn’t just made Stiles question his entire existence.

Stiles exhaled slowly, dragging himself upright.

Isaac grinned at him. “So. Wanna talk about it?”

Stiles glared.

Isaac’s grin widened. “No? Nothing to share? Just—accidentally got full-body cuddled by Derek Hale and have zero thoughts about it?”

Stiles scowled. “You enjoy my suffering way too much.”

Isaac didn’t even pretend to deny it.

With a long, exhausted sigh, Stiles scrubbed a hand over his face. “I’m leaving.”

“You’re fleeing.”

“Yep.”

Isaac laughed again but let him go, leaning against the wall with the air of someone who was absolutely going to be texting the pack about this within the hour.

Stiles didn’t care.

He needed to get out of here.

Before he started thinking about the way Derek had looked at him all night.

Before he started thinking about how nice it had been to just talk to him.

Before he started thinking about the way Derek had held onto him like he wanted to.

Before he started thinking about how easy it would have been to let him have his way if Isaac hadn't shown up.

Nope.

None of that.

It was fine.

Totally fine.

He was absolutely, 100% not freaking out about any of this.

He didn't even make it to his Jeep before the tightness in his belly pushed everything up and out of him, spewing the better part of his night all over the front tire of Roscoe. 

That bastard.

Poor Roscoe. 

Poor Stiles! Stiles was a victim! And he'd loved every second of it! His stomach lurched again. 

"I have to get home." he said, miserably. "I need to sleep this off"

"Weak!"

Stiles wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes searching for the disembodied voice throwing taunts at him when he was already down. What the hell?

Isaac was half in, half out of the window, hands cupped around his mouth as he fixed it to shout again.

"Weak!"

Stiles stared in disbelief. 

A flash went off, accompanied by the sound of a lens shutter. Isaac genuinely smiled at him and promptly closed the window. 

Stiles drove home.

Stiles made it inside, without waking his dad, and without throwing up again, despite the way his stomach rolled with each step he took.

Stiles gave himself a pat on the back.

Stiles 100% did not jerk off in the shower to the thought of Derek's tongue mapping the rest of his body like a cartographer. 

Nope. 

That absolutely 100% did not happen...more than once.

How could you blame him?! He was human.

Anyone, human or supernatural would kill to have the night he just had with Derek, but somewhere, deep down, very deep down, Stiles was losing it. 

Stiles was in full-blown freak-out mode.

Which wasn’t exactly new territory for him, but this? This was a whole new brand of disaster.

Because this wasn’t pack business. This wasn’t supernatural horror. This wasn’t some impending threat that needed to be solved.

No.

This was Derek Hale, clinging to him like a personal body pillow, making a low, satisfied sound against his skin. Gripping his hips like his stupid, drunken life depended on it. Licking Stiles in places he wasn't even supposed to know existed. And Stiles’ stupid, traitorous brain had liked it.

He'd more than liked it. He wanted more. 

More.

There was only one way to go about rectifying this situation and that was total and utter avoidance. 

Yep.

Derek would wake up tomorrow morning, hopefully feeling like shit, not an ounce of memory logged in his brain of the previous night. And Stiles? Stiles would act like none of this ever happened. He was good at that. 

Wine?

What wine?

Stiles doesn't drink wine. 

Nope.

He's actually allergic. 

Allergic to the difference between a $400 bottle of Opus One and Yellow Tail...and the way Derek smiled each time he poured another glass. The way his eyes crinkled at the corners behind the frame of the glasses Stiles never knew he wore. How his chuckles turned into deep belly laughs that sent his head reeling backwards over his broad shoulders. How he adjusted his glasses to sit on a very specific and pre-determined spot on his nose as he squinted to read the fine print on each label. The label on a bottle he gripped effortlessly with one hand when any normal person would need two. The same large hand that found hold on his waist, anchoring him in the heat of his broad form as he fit so perfectly under him. The way his fingers flexed into soft tissue as he ghosted his tongue over Stiles mole-spotted skin.

Yeah.

Stiles took another shower. 

-

Derek wanted to die.

His head was pounding, his mouth felt like sandpaper, and the second he sat up, his stomach lurched in a very unfriendly way.

He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, forcing himself to focus, to catalog his surroundings.

His bed. His loft. His pants still on.

Okay. Decent start.

The night before was…hazy. Disjointed. He remembered the wine, remembered Stiles showing up, bickering in the kitchen, but beyond that—

He groaned.

Stiles.

Talking.

Sitting close.

Laughing.

The pieces started shifting into place, slow and uncomfortable.

Derek didn’t drink often. He liked control too much for that. But last night? Last night had been different. He’d been comfortable, and that— that was the part that was messing with him.

Because he wasn’t supposed to be comfortable around Stiles Stilinski.

And yet, here he was.

Head pounding. Stomach churning. Vague, fragmented memories of warmth and soft laughter curling at the edges of his mind.

And then—

Something primal.

Rough around the edges. Heated. 

He groaned. 

What the hell happened?

Why was he alone? Had he chased Stiles away? It was clear he'd obviously had too much to drink but there a gnawing feeling that maybe something had gone wrong- that he'd been wrong. Stiles usually finds any excuse to camp out in Derek's home- eating his food, running up his electricity bill with an endless stream of movies, and going through his things. Derek can smell that Stiles has been gone for a while now, the familiar parts of him muted to his senses. Derek rewinds again: cooking, Stiles, banter, wine, alone.

A knock.

Derek looked up slowly as his bedroom door opened, providing access to the sunlight he'd strategically blocked out with heavy daytime curtains. Den stuff.

Isaac poked his head in. 

"Morning big guy."

Derek dropped his head back into his hands. 

Isaac slipped into the room and shut the door behind him. Derek listened as he slowly made his way over, presenting him with a cup of tea.

"How ya doin?"

"I can hear the smile in your voice." Derek grunted. 

He took the cup from Isaac. 

"Had a good night? You went through about six of your most expensive bottles of wine, you know."

Derek paused.

"How do you know how much I paid for them?"

Isaac softly slapped Derek on the arm. "Dude, I'm an authorized user on your account. I can see everything."

Derek took a sip of the tea and set the cup down on the floor. Isaac immediately stood up. 

Instead of rising to his feet to manhandle Isaac, which would have been their normal, Derek gripped his stomach and curled over in pain. Isaac was beaming. He could say whatever he wanted and Derek wouldn't be able to do a thing. He was going to take full advantage. 

"So...how much do you remember?"

"What do you think, Isaac" he answered. 

Isaac smiled impossibly harder. 

Derek chanced a look up at him. "Where is Stiles?"

"Gone."

"Gone?"

Isaac shrugged. "Gone. He went home last night. So, you really don't remember anything?"

He didn't answer.

He did look pale.

Standing up with much difficulty, Derek started across the room, reaching out to use Isaac's shoulder for balance, missing the small flinch he couldn't control as he passed by. The door opened and closed in one swift motion and then the entire house grew silent. Isaac pulled his phone out and opened his messages. 

To Scott: I'm thinking lunch at Dereks. What say you?

A moment. 

Isaacs phone chimes- he has an unread message on the screen.

He opens it. 

To Isaac: Me thinks that's a great idea. What are we having?

Derek is throwing up.

Isaac is smiling. 

To Scott: Pasta. 

Isaac shouldn't.

He really shouldn't.

But he's having so much fun.

And Derek will probably kill him as soon as his strength returns, so...

To Scott: and wine. 

Chapter Text

Basil.

Basil is the key to a good—no, great—robust pasta sauce. It contains a natural sweetness that balances the acidity of tomatoes, building a flavor profile that’s both complex and comforting. It should be added fresh, toward the end of cooking, to preserve its vibrant punch—something dried basil could never deliver.

Isaac stared at his phone in disbelief.

Basil.

This would’ve been great information to have about an hour ago. Currently, he was an hour too far into the culinary disaster bubbling on Derek’s fancy stovetop.

Rosemary.

He’d added fucking rosemary.

Instead of a well-balanced masterpiece, he’d made something aggressively awful. A sauce that was neither sweet nor savory—just bitter and wrong. But lucky for him, he didn’t give a single fuck. Not even a flying one. Because as soon as the pack walked through that door, he was going to drop the bomb of all bombs.

Stiles and Derek. Together. In bed. Cuddling.

And sure, it would’ve been a much juicier story if he’d walked in five minutes later, but he was working with what he had. Still, it was a big deal. Enough to cause a stir. Enough to flip the dynamic on its head.

The what if.

The “basically” of it all.

Stiles and Derek basically slept together.

Last night, when Isaac got home, the scent hit him all the way from the front door. The loft reeked of hormones—thick in the air, clinging to the walls, smothering every bit of fresh O2 available. He gagged. Briefly considered leaving Derek to enjoy whatever night he’d had planned- and he almost did. But one thing changed his entire trajectory.

“You talk too much”

“I do not”

….Stiles.

Isaac shut the door with a single lazy push and pivoted, eyes glowing gold. Stiles. Derek. Stiles and Derek. His grin was slow, wicked. His focus locked on Derek’s door. One heartbeat later, he was across the loft and pushing it open without hesitation.

He found way more than he expected.

Ho.

Ly.

Shit.

Stiles AND Derek. In bed.

Click. The burner under his pas-shit sauce went off.

“Stiles and Derek, underneath the sheets” he hummed, rinsing the pasta with cold water before dumping it into the questionable concoction, stirring until they were evenly coated.  

“K-I-S-S—”

“Isaac!” Lydia called, stepping into the loft. She coughed. “God, I hope that smell isn’t lunch.”

“—I-N-G.”

‪‪❤︎‬‪‪❤︎‬‪‪❤︎‬

The pack was silent.

Bowls untouched. Eyes wide.

Jackson leaned forward like he was preparing to deliver a legal argument. “So you’re telling me... that Stiles and Derek... fucked?”

“Like, my Stiles? Stiles Stilinski?” Scott added, nodding towards Jackson for backup.

“Basically,” Isaac grinned.

“When you say ‘basically,’” Erica interjected.

“Yeah, is it ‘walked in while one was getting bent, and the other, doing the bending’ basically-”  Jackson said.

“Or ‘hot-and-heavy making out, may as well have been fucking’ basically?” Scott added.

“Basically,” Isaac said again, with a short shrug.

“Dude-“ Jackson shot up like a rocket. His bowl tipped. Isaac’s terrible pasta sauce sloshed across the table like a red tidal wave.

“Dude, my food” Isaac jumped up, sprinting for paper towels. When he shot back into the dining room, the entire bowl was upturned. Isaac froze.

 Jackson shrugged, sheepish but unbothered. “Sorry, man. Anyway, run that story again-slowly, because I’m not buying it. Derek got drunk? Slept with Stiles? And you’re still alive? Bullshit. How drunk was he? And where is Derek, anyway?”

The pack exchanged murmurs of agreement.

“He went for a run”

“A run? After drinking?” Jackson scoffed. “Okay that’s enough fucking around Isaac. First, you invite us over for what I thought was a good time, then you serve us whatever the hell that shit was-“

The front door slid open, hitching as if caught on something. The pack turned.

Derek’s head appeared first. Then the rest of him stumbled in, one slow, labored step at a time. He gripped the wall like it was the only thing holding him upright.

The lingering smell of vomit hit the room like a truck.

“Oh,” Jackson whispered, covering his mouth.

Derek either didn’t notice them or didn’t care. He dragged himself across the loft, slammed his bedroom door shut, and collapsed with an audible thump.

Isaac quietly shut the front door, letting the click echo through the loft.

Jackson lowered himself into his chair, pale and shaken. His eyes drifted to his ruined pasta.

Isaac sat back at the head of the table. Derek’s seat. But today? He was in charge. Alpha for a day. And he was enjoying every second of it. Nothing would top the day he’s had for the rest of his life probably, and he would take full advantage of it. That included taking claim of his Alpha’s spot. Derek may never forgive him but surely Stiles would. Eventually. Isaac was willing to wait that long.

He looked around the room, smug. Lydia met his gaze with narrowed, knowing eyes—calculating, as always. Scott and Jackson still looked sick. Erica grinned, sharp and delighted.

“So.” Isaac said, basking in it. “Any more questions?”

‪‪❤︎‬‪‪❤︎‬

Stiles sat frozen in his Jeep, knuckles white around the steering wheel, staring at Derek’s loft like it was a live grenade.

This was fine. Totally fine.

He’d just walk in, grab whatever crap he left behind, maybe throttle Isaac, and walk right back out. Derek wouldn’t remember. Hell, Derek had so much wine that Stiles was sure the last three days would be a fuzzy blur to him. Which was good. He didn’t need to talk about it. They didn’t need to talk about it.

If he acted unfazed, so it would be.

In and out. Simple.

No weirdness. No surprises.

Stiles took a long, shaky breath and forced himself out of the car.

The second he stepped into the loft, he knew something was wrong.

Not monster-wrong. Not end-of-the-world-wrong. Just... pack-wrong.

All eyes turned to him. Predatory. Expectant.

They weren’t supposed to be here. This wasn’t part of the plan. And the one person he kind of hoped would look at him wasn’t even glancing up- too busy (probably) pretending to read a book.

He froze.

Erica was grinning like she knew every one of his sins.

Lydia arched a brow, that dangerous sparkle in her eye.

Scott wouldn’t look at him.

And Isaac? Isaac looked downright gleeful.

“Oh hey, Stiles,” Isaac said, draping an arm over the back of the couch. “How’s your back? You okay?”

Erica giggled.

Stiles blinked. “You did not—”

“Oh, I did,” Isaac said, grinning wider. “Big guy, you should see Stiles’ face right now. Hey! Is this what he looked like last night? Oh you probably don’t remember anyways”

Derek—who had been quietly flipping through a book—froze too. His gaze slowly shifted; Stiles could feel the weight of it as it settled upon him.

Derek slowly closed his book, eyes narrowing. “What are you talking about?”

Isaac practically purred, “You don’t remember? You and Stiles got real cozy last night.”

Stiles felt his soul leave his body.

Derek’s head lifted, eyebrows high. “What?”

Erica snorted. “You know. Cozy. Like two spoons in a drawer.”

Stiles wanted to die. Right here, right now.

“No,” Stiles snapped, way too quickly. “We did not.”

“Oh, but you did,” Isaac countered. “You were on him like a weighted blanket, Derek. A drunk, cuddly, possessive weighted blanket.”

Scott squinted. “Stiles, you don’t even like wine?”

Stiles turned scarlet. His legs felt like jelly. His brain? Complete static.

Derek’s fists clenched. His whole body stilled.

Lydia, bored and sipping her drink, looked up. “Stiles, you’re terrible at hiding your embarrassment. Besides, It’s kind of cute that you two finally hooked up.”

Stiles whirled on her. “Are you serious?! We did not hook up!”

“Sure.” She gave him a wink and raised her glass.

This couldn’t be happening. Not like this.

Not in front of everyone.

Not when Derek was looking at him like that.

And the worst part?

Derek just watched- his lips pressed thin, eyes flicking between Isaac and Stiles like he was waiting for someone to say something that would make sense of this nightmare.

The silence? It was killing Stiles.

These asshats—his friends—were practically dragging him in front of a firing squad, and the one other person responsible was sitting there like a damn statue, letting Stiles take the fall for both of them. He hadn’t climbed into that bed alone. He’d been trapped. Trapped beneath the very body he’d daydreamed about being under—but not like that. Consent was like, Stiles middle fucking name! Unless Derek was into that…Stiles could be into that too…but without these fuckers knowing!!

“Alright, this is ridiculous,” Stiles snapped, fists clenched at his sides. He wanted to bolt, or maybe laugh it off, but his feet stayed rooted to the floor. The awkwardness in the room felt like it was pressing in on his chest, heavy and suffocating.

“Nothing happened,” he blurted, pointing straight at Isaac. “He’s just being a little shit—because that’s what he does.”

Isaac pressed a hand to his heart in mock offense. “I’m wounded. Really, I am.”

“Nothing. Happened.” Stiles repeated, louder this time. “Derek didn’t—there was no c-cuddling.”

Jackson snorted, dragging out the stutter with a smirk.

“C-c-c-can’t even get a sentence out now, huh?”

Isaac didn’t let up. “Oh, right. Because that wasn’t cuddling. Stiles was practically melting into Derek. Scratch that—under Derek. Arms and legs… all three of them.”

Stiles jaw hit the floor.

Isaac doubled over, collapsing into Jackson as they both lost it, laughter bubbling up until there were tears in their eyes. Erica sauntered over and placed a hand on Stiles’ shoulder, all faux-sympathy.

“Don’t worry, Stiles,” she said, smoothing down the wrinkles in his shirt like she was preparing him for a funeral. “Honestly, I’m glad Isaac walked in. You probably wouldn’t have survived the full night—and that’s coming from experience.”

Stiles shoved her hand away, face burning. “I will end you, Isaac.”

He tried to sound threatening, really, but his voice cracked halfway through, uncertain and too raw. He felt exposed. Every jab, every laugh, made the air harder to breathe. The room was spinning, and it wasn’t funny anymore. Not to him.

“S-shut up,” he muttered, barely audible.

“Stiles, Stiles,” Isaac sing-songed, grinning wide. “How did you get him to cook for you first? Do you always get wined and dined before a good-”

“Enough.” Derek’s voice finally cut through the noise—low and strained.

Derek’s eyes flicked up, meeting Stiles’, unreadable but intense. Stiles couldn’t hold the stare. Not with how that gaze twisted something deep in his stomach.

Because even if Derek hadn’t remembered everything before, he sure as hell remembered now.

Derek stood abruptly, the force of his movement rattling the chair as he tossed his book down onto the empty seat beside him.

“Enough!” he snapped, louder this time. Isaac’s grin vanished.

Silence.

Derek clutched at his lower abdomen, and for a terrifying second, Stiles thought he might actually hurl—which would completely destroy whatever shred of dominance he’d just asserted. And if that went, then Stiles had no buffer left. Not with this pack of jackasses.

“Stiles.”

Stiles’ head snapped up.

Derek was folding his glasses with calm, deliberate movements and tucking one arm into the collar of his shirt like he had all the time in the world. But his jaw was tight. His voice clipped.

This was it.

This was the moment it all fell apart. Whatever weird, fragile, unexplained thing had started between them last night? Done. Derek probably didn’t even remember the good parts—the weirdly soft moments when things didn’t feel like a mistake. He probably just remembered the mess. The tangle. The awkwardness.

And now? He was going to kill him.

Stiles briefly debated which method Derek would go for. Snap his neck? Drain him dry through a neck wound inflicted with his teeth? Maybe something poetic like turning him and burying him alive under a foot of mountain ash. That’d keep the wolves out and make sure no humans heard him scream. His dad would never even find his body. Just a missing persons report and an empty room.

God. His dad.

“Stiles.”

The sound of his name pulled him back again. The edges of his vision swam, dark spots curling into the corners. He blinked fast, trying not to tip over.

“Let’s take a walk,” Derek said evenly.

Oh.

Yeah, he was definitely about to die.

Chapter Text

Search > Find My > People

Stiles tapped through til he found the little blip with a burger emoji, doing what looked like pacing around the station. He glanced up at Derek’s back—which, by the way—hadn’t turned once to make sure Stiles was still there. Not that he needed to. Super hearing. Super sense of smell.

He could probably knew that Stiles had eaten a granola bar for breakfast just from the crumbs stuck under his fingernails. 

And his senses in general, which acted like his eyes in the back of his head, which meant no turn-y around-y for Derek as he led Stiles to what was probably his final resting place. 

Stiles looked back at his phone. 

That little blip was still moving, and in a few hours it would be still. Then moving erratically. Then gone.

His dad would get the call and the entire building would be ten toes down in the preserve searching for his sons body parts scattered about the preserve. 

God, would it be a call? Or just a knock at the door, a quiet “We’re so sorry, John.” From one of the guys at the department? Would it even be open-casket? Would there be enough of him left for one of those?

Or would Derek take pleasure in listening to the panicked calls over the radio from every officer unlucky enough to come across another piece of him, their frenzy trying to figure out which parts of him fit where- and which parts Derek had too much fun hiding 

Stiles could feel his heartbeat pounding in his ears, drowning out the crunch of the earth beneath his sneakers. Blood drums in his ears, all thunder and panic and fear. 

Would Derek at least be so kind as to leave his bottom half intact? He really didn’t want his dad to have to stitch his balls back together just to give him a proper burial. Stiles wasn’t sure what came after this life, but if there was a next step, he was pretty sure having all your parts was a decent start. 

WHAM!

Stiles backpedaled from the solid fucking wall that was Derek’s WAY too muscular back. The man was completely stationary. Derek looked over his shoulder at him for the first time, and Stiles realized he’d been so caught up in his own spiraling he didn’t notice the stop. 

He picked up his phone, brushed It off, and froze. 

Derek inhaled. A deep, deliberate breath. 

Stiles didn’t give him the chance to speak. 

“Listen, Derek, can I just say something really quick? Great, hey, man, I-- I get it. I think I get it, right? Like, it’s me. I’m-- my name is Stiles and I know what I look like, and you know what I smell like, which—hopefully is decent, but I’m guessing probably not great all the time. Anyway, contrary to Scott’s very loud opinions, I actually DO like wine. And for the record, I enjoyed your night. THE night, overall. The wine, the food, the whole vibe. Did I ever say thank you? Because—thank you. It was—really, it was great.”

Derek turned to face him, arms crossing.

“Please don’t kill me,” Stiles said quickly, holding up a hand. “At least not here. I know you probably don’t want to walk much further, but if you’re gonna rip my throat out and scatter me across Beacon Hills, the least you can do is pick a nicer spot. I’m just saying, my soul’s gonna be stuck wherever you do it, and the way your eyes look right now says you’re gonna enjoy this, which is fine, but I’m begging you, man—that is like, my only request”

“Stiles.”

“Yes!” he yelped, going instantly still. “….yes?”

“Sit down.”

Stiles sat. 

Derek scowled, stepped forward, and ignored the way Stiles instinctively flinched like he was about to be smacked. Instead, Derek gripped him by the biceps and guided him firmly to—

A bench? A fucking bench?

Stiles blinked. He looked around. Trail markers, weathered signage, more benches. They aren’t in the middle of nowhere. Just…a clearing.

His right leg started bouncing. His hands were trembling. 

He couldn’t bring himself to look up. 

“Stiles.” Derek said, this time quieter. Gentler.  

Stiles exhaled a shaking breath.  

“Look, man, I’m really sorry Isaac’s such an ass. I didn’t-- neither of us knew he’d walk in when he did. I swear I wouldn’t have said anything--“

“Stiles, please. Shut up.” 

“Yep. I can do that” Stiles winced. 

He gripped the edge of the bench as Derek uncrossed his arms and sat beside him. It helped a little—Derek being on the same level—but even now, he couldn’t meet his eyes for long.

“I need to apologize,” Derek said, staring straight ahead. “It shouldn’t have gone as far as it did. And I’m sorry I... lost control. It shouldn’t have happened.”

Stiles nodded once, eyes on the toe of his shoe as it dragged a line into the soft earth.

His stomach twisted. Tightened. Caught fire in that specific way that only pure, unfiltered rejection could spark. He knew what was coming next. He could see it in the way Derek’s posture closed off, could feel it in the way the silence swallowed them whole. The next few moments would likely pitfall his self-esteem for the rest of his life. 

He’d enjoyed that night. More than enjoyed it, he’d loved every moment. 

He tried very hard to be mature about the situation. Not wanting to take advantage of Derek in the slightest, because he was a decent human being, but when Derek fit his nose into the crook of his neck to scent him, he knew he was done for. Less like his begging for freedom, and more in-line with how many times he’d jerked off to the memory of it, nothing would ever top that night. 

Stiles cherished that night.

He wished Isaac hadn’t shown up. Wished they’d had more time.

Sure, it was a messy night. Derek had been tipsy, maybe too much so, and Stiles knew it wasn’t fair to let himself get his hopes up. But still—those fifteen minutes were the first time he’d ever seen Derek so…comfortable. So, unlike whatever version of him they got on a daily basis. He’d SEEN Derek, the real one, the one he let roam free in the quiet of the night when no one was watching. And it was the first time Stiles felt truly wanted. Like someone saw him and wanted him. And now Derek was about to apologize away every second of it.

He couldn’t handle that. Not today. Maybe not ever.

So he stood up, quick and sharp enough to startle them both.

“You can apologize for getting drunk,” he said quietly. “You can apologize for cooking, or for pulling thirty bottles of wine out like it was a test flight to Napa. But please, please don’t apologize for doing it with me.”

His voice cracked just a little on the last word.

“Please.”

Derek’s eyes found his. Locked in.

The forest was still around them. Birds chirped in the distance. Leaves whispered overhead, light shifting softly between branches and shadows.

His mouth opened, but the words died on his tongue.

“Fuck,” he muttered, dragging a hand through his hair. “Stiles—”

“Can I ask you something?”

Derek exhaled through his nose, then nodded once, placing his hands on his hips.

“Do you remember everything?”

“Yes. No. I think so—yeah.”

“After we moved from the couch?”

Derek looked away. Then down at his feet. He sat down.

“I remember you helping me up. Getting me to my room, and…” His voice trailed off.

He cleared his throat, chancing a glance at Stiles. “I remember you under me—”

“You pulled me there, by the way.”

“Shut the fuck up, Stiles.”

“Right. Yep.”

“And I remember… not letting you go. Not much after that.”

Stiles took a slow step forward. Nervous energy radiated off him, jittery and unsteady, but he moved closer until he was right in front of Derek—close enough to tower over him slightly. He knew the proximity made Derek uncomfortable; Derek leaned back against the bench, eyebrows pulling together in quiet warning.

“Could I help you see it?” Stiles asked, softer now. He dropped to his knees in front of Derek, turned his back, and tugged down the collar of his shirt. “Can—can you just see what I saw? And then I’ll live with whatever you decide.”

Derek hesitated. Stiles expected resistance, maybe an argument. He didn’t expect the firm shove that tipped him forward, palms slapping the ground to catch himself.

He turned his head to glare—but Derek was already there, gripping the back of his neck, steady and warm.

Derek froze for a moment, just looking. The skin of Stiles’ neck was pale and exposed, stretched tight over a vulnerability he rarely showed. Derek’s expression faltered. His eyes softened.

And then he sank his claws in—slow and deliberate—into the tender flesh at the base of Stiles’ skull.

Stiles hissed through his teeth, body tensing. But he didn’t pull away.

Derek closed his eyes. Let the heat of the contact draw him in. Let the scent of fear laced with trust—sharp and bright—drag him back.

And then—

Everything shifted.

Not physically. Not really. But his mind tilted, sideways and sharp, and suddenly it wasn’t the bench beneath him or the cold air of the preserve pressing at his skin. It was the bed. His bed. Sheets tangled around their legs, breath fogging warm in the low lamplight. And Stiles—Stiles was beneath him, eyes wide, mouth parted.

Derek could feel it now. The ache in his muscles. The overwhelming need to protect, to hold, to stay. The wolf in him had curled tight around Stiles’ warmth, like it had been waiting years just to rest.

He’d held him. Not out of instinct.

Not just that.

Because he wanted to.

Because when Stiles had touched his face—palm trembling but steady—Derek hadn’t flinched. He’d leaned into it.

He’d drunk in the scent of Stiles’ arousal like it was air and he’d been starving for it.

In the vision, he’d buried his face in the crook of Stiles’ neck. Breathed him in like Stiles was the only thing keeping him grounded. Because maybe he was.

He’d gripped Stiles’ waist and dragged his tongue along the salty-sweet skin of his neck, still damp with sweat. Then his teeth had followed—chasing heat until they found the base of his ear. Stiles’ pulse sent shockwaves through his teeth as they pressed deeper. He'd toyed with the soft flesh there until Stiles made a sound that twisted hot and low in Derek’s gut.

He could take him right here.

Stiles would be his.

The flush on his lips, the half-lidded eyes dark and heavy with lust—Derek could keep that. Could hoard it. Because it was his to see, and his alone.

Derek stood abruptly; his hand still wrapped around Stiles’ neck. His chest heaved, lungs fighting for air that wouldn’t come fast enough.

Stiles let out a startled gasp as Derek yanked him off balance. They stumbled—both of them trying to find their footing, working against each other in a few tangled, clumsy seconds.

Then everything went still.

With one sharp movement, Derek retracted his claws. Then, without a word, he turned Stiles—spinning him on one knee with supernatural precision and stopping him exactly where he wanted him.

Kneeling.

Stiles looked up, startled. 

Derek was already watching him—half-lidded eyes, pupils blown wide, mouth parted, face flushed.

He was panting, chest rising and falling in sharp bursts. Through his parted lips, Stiles could see the flash of his fangs—but that was the only part of him that had shifted.

Derek’s gaze dropped—from Stiles’ eyes to his mouth—lingering there before trailing slowly back up.

He reached out, fingers curling beneath Stiles’ jaw.

The tension was suffocating.

With the pad of his thumb, Derek traced the curve of Stiles’ bottom lip. Stiles parted his mouth subconsciously when his breath hitched—and Derek paused. Then, to Stiles’ quiet shock, Derek’s thumb pressed in, slipping just inside his lower teeth. Stiles’ tongue flicked forward—instinctive, involuntary—and touched it.

That was the moment everything snapped.

Derek pulled back like he’d been burned. He blinked hard a few times, stepping away, putting space between them as quickly as he could.

He finally filled his lungs.

“We need t-to go back” Derek stuttered, nearly tripping over his own feet. 

Stiles scrambled upright. 

“Derek-- “

“Lets go, Stiles!” Derek snapped, already turning on his heel. 

Stiles watched him put a few yards of space between them before he sighed and followed.

“Fuck.”

“Okay so I’m putting fifty bucks in that Derek is deflowering our little Stiles right now, anyone else?”

“Isaac I’m starting to think you set all of this up” Scott said, eying him suspiciously. 

“Dude, how would I even do that?” Isaac asked, lounging across the arm of the couch like this was game night and not a pack crisis.

“I don’t know, but it feels like something you’d do. Like you manifested it.”

“That’s slander,” Isaac said, grinning. “And also, not legally binding.”

“When did you even start betting?” Jackson asked, folding his arms.

“This isn’t betting,” Isaac said, mock-offended. “This is science. I’m testing a hypothesis.”

“He caught them, by the way,” Scott added to the room like it was a courtroom exhibit. “Not sure if you guys missed that part. Walked right in on them. Didn’t even knock. That’s not weird to you?”

“There were noises!” Isaac shouted, vindicated. “Which is like an invitation if you’re me. You think I’d pass up the opportunity to watch Derek scramble to put pants on like a virgin in a teen movie? That’s like two years worth of blackmail-”

“That’s disturbing on so many levels,” Jackson muttered.

“Lyds, back me up. It’s science, right?” Isaac asked.

Lydia didn’t even look up from her phone. “If you call me Lyds again, I will crush your windpipe with my heel.”

“Fair. That’s fair.” Isaac grinned. “Anyway, I’m just saying-- Derek hasn’t come out of that room looking like that in, what, ever? Hair a mess, no shirt, bruises in weird places? Stiles, being the weird places? That man needed to get laid if you ask me.”

Scott winced. “I did not need that visual.”

“Oh, please,” Isaac said. “You’re just mad I clocked it first. Some of us are gifted observers. Some of us.”

“There’s something deeply wrong with you,” Jackson muttered. “And I’m in for twenty. On Stiles being the one who jumped him.”

Isaac pointed at him, delighted. “Now that’s the spirit. Anyone else? Lydia?”

“I will not dignify this nonsense with money,” Lydia said. “But if I did, I’d bet on Derek crying after.”

Isaac paused. “Okay. You know what? That’s the energy we need.”

“Wait—did he actually cry?” Scott asked, eyes wide.

“I don’t know, but now I need to,” Isaac said. “Someone check his tear ducts. Jackson, use your rich kid binoculars or whatever.”

“I hate this,” Scott muttered.

“You love this,” Isaac shot back. “Admit it. Derek Hale being the one who caught feelings first? That’s gold.”

Scott hesitated.

Then sighed. “I’m in for ten. On Stiles being the one who leaves Derek ruined.”

“YES.” Isaac fist-pumped. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

He snatched the money from the group and began counting the (small, very small) stack of cash.

“Wait—how are we supposed to know who started what without seeing memories?” Lydia asked.

Silence.

Everyone turned to Isaac.

“That’s, like, the least of our worries,” he scoffed.

“Isaac. How would we know?” Scott repeated, deadpan.

“Just watch Derek’s memories. It’s super easy.”

“You think he’s just going to kneel and let me do that?!” Scott exclaimed.

“Well, of course not.”

Another long pause.

“Isaac, give me back my fucking money,” Jackson said, stepping forward.

Isaac shrank into the corner of the couch, clutching the cash like it was a newborn. “Dude, no way. All bets are final.”

“I’ll show you what a final ass-kicking looks like, you son of a bitch—”

Jackson leapt across the couch and tackled him, ripping at bills while smothering Isaac into the armrest. Typically, the pack would step in. They had enough rough housing for each of them during their training sessions so when skirmishes like this broke out, they were often quickly resolved. This time, however, Scott, Lydia and Erica simply sat back down. Jackson had it handled.

A dollar bill fluttered down past Scott’s face. Lydia glanced at it, catching the smear of blood on the edge before it disappeared. Then—crack—Jackson landed a solid punch.

“So,” she said, smacking her lips, “are you just now finding out about Stiles’ little crush, or have you always known?”

“It was so obvious,” Scott said.

“So you just figured it out.”

“Yes.”

She sighed. “This entire group shares the same brain cell.”

Erica cleared her throat. Lydia turned to her slowly… then deliberately turned back to Scott, ignoring her.

“Hey!—”

The front door slammed open with a loud BANG!—sucking all the air out of the room. Everyone froze as Derek blew past, not looking at anyone, and disappeared into his room with the door snapping shut behind him.

Their heads turned back toward the door.

Stiles stood there, frozen in place.

Scott stood up. Stiles had tears in his eyes.

“Stiles?”

“Hey,” Stiles said, his voice hoarse. “Hey, Scott.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” he scoffed, weakly. He threw a thumb over his shoulder. “I’m gonna head home. I’m not feeling so great.”

He turned fast and left before anyone could stop him.

Scott took a step to follow, but a hand landed on his shoulder—Isaac, face a bruised and blood-smeared mess, still healing, smile wobbly on a split lip.

“I’ll go talk to him,” Isaac said quickly.

“You’re not getting out of that,” Scott warned, motioning to Jackson, who was now calmly walking up behind Isaac like a very polite predator.

Jackson placed a firm hand on Isaac’s shoulder.

“Isaac,” he said, smiling wide. “C’mere.”

Isaac turned to Scott with wide eyes, pleading. “Scott—”

Scott slipped away, already heading for the door.

“Stiles!” he called out, just as the Jeep’s engine sputtered to life. He jogged down the steps, waving his arms.
“Stiles, wait!”

The engine cut off.

Stiles slumped forward in the driver’s seat for a second before he opened the door. He didn’t get out—just leaned an arm on the window frame and looked at Scott, jaw tight, eyes rimmed red.

“What?” he asked, voice flat.

Scott slowed to a walk, hands raised like Stiles was a spooked animal.
“Just… talk to me, man. Please.”

Stiles blinked slowly, like the effort of being was too much.

“I don’t want to talk.”

“Okay,” Scott said. “Then don’t talk. Just… don’t leave like that.”

Stiles huffed a breath, somewhere between a scoff and a sigh. “Scott, I’m— Look, it’s fine. I’m fine. I just need—space.”

Scott tilted his head, watching him. “Did something happen?”

“Nothing happened.”

Scott raised an eyebrow.

Stiles stared back, then let his head fall against the steering wheel. “God.”

“I’m Scott,” Scott said.

A pause.

Scott’s eyes twinkled as he watch Stiles try his best to hold back his smile. It cracked quickly, the small laugh was enough permission for Scott to squeeze into his space for a hug. He pushed Stiles’ head back so he could see his face, and dropped his head level so they were eye to eye. 

“Stiles.”

“What, Scott”

“What did he say?”

“He’s sorry it was me”

Scott laughed. 

Laughed. 

Stiles’ head shot up. 

“Is this all a joke to you?” He seethed. “You all sat there and made fun of me and now you’ve come out here to finish it off, haven’t I gone through enough today?!”

Stiles pushed Scott, and for all it was worth, it should have worked, but Scott was almost as solid as Derek these days, so the two degrees Stiles was able to shift him pissed him off even more. 

“Get the fuck out of the way Scott, I’m going home!” he shouted. 

Scott didn’t move. He didn’t flinch when Stiles shoved him, didn’t budge when he yelled. He just stood there with his stupid calm expression like he got it, like he wasn’t the enemy here, and that only made Stiles feel worse.

“Stiles, come on—” Scott started gently.

But the front door slammed open.

“Enough of this,” Lydia snapped.

They both turned.

She stormed down the porch like a woman possessed, one hand locked in the front of Derek’s shirt, dragging him behind her like a misbehaving dog. Derek let it happen — let himself be hauled forward — because of course he did. He looked like a man trudging toward the guillotine.

Stiles blinked. “What the—?”

Lydia didn’t stop until they were right next to Scott, right in front of Stiles. She shoved Derek a step ahead and jabbed a manicured finger into his chest.

“Say it!” she barked.

Derek blinked at her. “Lydia—”

“Say. It.”

“I already apologized.” He gritted out. 

“Nobody gives a fuck about your apology’s, Derek” she snapped. “You’re toying with his feelings and this needs to stop. You better say it, and what ever it is that you say, it better be right.”

Derek hesitated, glancing at Stiles. He looked like he wanted the earth to swallow him whole — like a centuries-old werewolf about to confess to a teenage boy. But he took a breath.

Then another.

Then:

“I’m not doing this in front of everyone”

“This entire ordeal has been in front of everyone!” ….Isaac. The group turned around to find Isaac, battered but alive, near the building entrance. 

“Derek, just say it-“

“Dude, spit it out already-“

“Can I take Stiles’ place if he’s not ready?”  Erica chimed in.

Derek roared. 

The roar cut through the air like a blade.

Everyone froze.

Erica’s smirk dropped. Scott instinctively stepped in front of Stiles. Birds took flight in the distance, and somewhere out in the woods, something howled back.

Derek was halfway shifted — eyes glowing molten red, claws out, chest heaving like he was barely holding himself together.

“Quiet!” he growled.

Silence.

No one dared breathe.

Derek’s eyes snapped to Isaac. “You don’t get to joke about this.”

Then to Erica. “And you definitely don’t.”

Erica held up her hands. “Jesus, okay. Just trying to lighten the mood.”

“You’re not helping,” Lydia muttered, not even looking up from her phone as she typed something — probably logging the exact decibel level of Derek’s roar for her records.

Derek turned to Stiles.

And this time, no one interrupted.

His voice dropped — still rough from the shift, still vibrating from the power of the roar, but now it was quiet. Controlled. Focused entirely on the boy in front of him.

“I’m not good at this,” he said. “You know that. You’ve always known that.”

Stiles blinked, breath catching in his throat.

“I made a mistake,” Derek said, voice low but steady. “I was irresponsible. With my actions… and with you.”

Stiles didn’t respond. He didn’t move.

“I want everyone out,” Derek growled. “Out. Now.”

Isaac didn’t hesitate. He slipped away from the house like he’d never been there to begin with, head down. Jackson didn’t say a word, just stepped aside, eyes fixed on the ground.

The pack drifted toward Stiles’ car, gathering in uncertain silence as Derek disappeared back inside. A moment later, the door slammed — hard enough to shake the porch and send a crash echoing from within.

The sharp sound of shattering glass cut through the air.

Erica winced. “Ugh. I just bought those.” She ran a hand through her hair. “Fucking hell, Derek.”

“I’m going to go home” Stiles said. They acknowledged him quietly. 

“Don’t worry Stiles,” Erica said. “He’ll come around to coming on you”

“Erica!” Lydia exclaimed. 

She raised her hands in mock offense (and surrender).

Stiles slammed the door and peeled out, taking petty satisfaction in the coughing and cursing behind him as the pack disappeared in a cloud of dust and gravel. He needed to get as far away as possible—fast—before anyone caught wind of the embarrassment practically radiating off him.

Unfortunately, it seemed today was the day he discovered a very specific kink… in public. Fantastic.

Scowling, he shifted in his seat, readjusting his pants with a groan of frustration, and pressed harder on the gas. Fucking werewolves. 

Chapter Text

Three weeks.

Three fucking weeks.

That’s how long it had been since Derek Hale told Stiles he was sorry. Not sorry in the “oops, got a little handsy” kind of way—but the real kind. The final kind. The “that shouldn’t have happened, and I can’t do this with you” kind. The kind that left him staring at the ceiling until the sun began pointing out things in his room to highlight, even when his body begged for rest.

He hadn’t gone to a single pack meeting since.

His phone—once flooded with chaotic updates, Isaac’s god-awful meme choices, and group chat nonsense—had gone eerily quiet. No buzz from Derek. Not much from Scott besides the occasional “You still alive?”.

Lydia had liked an old tweet of his once, and he still wasn’t sure if it was an olive branch or her simply manipulating the algorithm for fun.

He’d been holed up in his room more days than not. The blinds stayed drawn. His laptop sat dusty. Even his conspiracy board was untouched—no new string, no frenzied scrawls about supernatural anomalies. Just silence. A whole lot of it.

Plotting Isaac’s downfall had kept him busy at first. It gave him something to look forward to. But as the days dragged on, even his desire to permanently silence the overgrown gremlin started to fizzle. Which sucked, because he'd been on a roll. Isaac would’ve been begging for mercy by the time Stiles was finished with him for the stunt he pulled.

Interrupting and all.

But lately… Stiles didn’t care about that anymore. Not when everything he did just reminded him of the gaping hole Derek had carved into his chest and curled up inside for the few glorious hours they’d shared.

The next few hours that could have been.

Stiles lay sprawled across his bed, a cold bottle of pinot grigio sweating gently against his chest. It was the cheap stuff—screw-top, two-for-one at the gas station. He didn’t even like white wine that much, but it was cold and kind of citrusy and didn’t taste like heartbreak going down.

So, he drank it.

Alone.

From a chipped coffee mug that said Property of the FBI, because all his actual glasses were dirty.

He thought about the skin-contact wine Derek had shared from his secret-secret stash—a bottle he kept tucked behind dusty books like it was some kind of eldritch artifact. He remembered the slight tart aftertaste, the sweetness of it, how good it would’ve tasted if it had been balanced with Derek’s kiss. He even remembered the accidental brush of Derek’s thumb against his mouth—sweet and soft, and now gone for good.

He’d never get to go further than that again.

“Tragic,” he muttered to no one in particular.

He’d tried keeping busy. Folded all his laundry. Cleaned out the fridge. Alphabetized his dad’s DVD collection. Twice. Started a 1,000-piece puzzle of a vineyard at sunset—because irony—and made it to about 200 pieces before giving up, because half of them were sky and he wanted to set it all on fire.

He even tried reading one of Lydia’s loaned wine guides, but it was full of pompous phrases like “tannin-forward” and “bouquet lift.” All he could think about was Derek leaning in close that night, whispering, “You can’t serve Barolo in a Bordeaux glass, Stiles.”

The only lift he got from remembering that tented the days-old pajama pants slung haphazardly around his waist.

God. The nerve.

Stiles rolled to his side and groaned into his pillow. “You can’t serve Barolo in a Bordeaux glass.” Like he was some kind of uncultured child.

Okay, fine—he was, but that wasn’t the point.

“I like wine,” he mumbled at the ceiling. “I could learn about stemware. I could be the kind of person who-- knows stuff.”

He sat up. The bottle sloshed and nearly tipped. He caught it, narrowed his eyes at the screen on his nightstand, and grabbed his laptop.

Fine. If Derek thought he was just some dumb, eager kid with a crush and zero wine knowledge, Stiles was going to prove him wrong.

He typed: “How to understand wine better.”

Enter.

Top hits:

• Wine for Dummies
• What is Tannin and Why Should You Care?
• Stemware Shapes: A Guide to Not Looking Like an Amateur

He clicked the last one out of pure, bitter spite.

An hour and forty-five minutes later, Stiles had learned three things:

1. He’d been holding his wine glasses wrong.
2. He’d been pronouncing most of the names wrong.
3. Gas station wine was not, in fact, “real” wine.

He collapsed onto his back and sprawled out on the bed like a tragic Victorian widow.

Fuck.

“No wonder he didn’t take me seriously,” he muttered, shoving his laptop away. “I’ve been drinking red wine out of a mason jar like a heathen.”

Humiliation settled over him like wet cement. His mug—half-full of warm wine now—sat beside him, abandoned. His laptop screen dimmed, then blacked out, and he didn’t bother waking it up.

The rest of the night passed in a haze.

He vaguely remembered brushing his teeth—pretty sure he spit into the kitchen sink instead of the bathroom one. At some point, he put the mug of wine in the fridge, uncovered. He didn’t remember plugging in his phone. He woke up the next morning with one slipper still on and a wine stain on the shoulder of the same hoodie he’d worn for three days straight.

He smelled like regret and failed potential.

When the sun finally pierced through the crack in his curtains, it aimed directly for his eyeballs. Stiles groaned and flopped an arm over his face, but the damage was done. He was awake. And worse—sober.

For a minute, he let himself sit in it—the guilt, the self-loathing, the Derek-shaped ache he couldn’t quite scrape out of his chest.

But something shifted.

Not dramatically. It wasn’t an “aha” moment sent from the heavens. But something tugged. A little sharper than before. A flicker of indignation, or maybe pride.

Because yeah, Derek Hale was broody and gorgeous and probably carved by Greek gods—but he wasn’t better than Stiles. He didn’t get to swoop in and kiss him and then toss him aside like a kid playing pretend.

No. Stiles was enough.

And he was going to prove it.

He sat up slowly, like a man emerging from a grave. His bones popped in protest. His body felt forty-seven years old.

“Alright, asshole,” he muttered to himself, “you want someone who knows stemware? You got it. I’ll become the goddamn glass whisperer.”

He took a shower. A real shower.

One that didn’t end with him whispering Derek’s name while he came—and he was really proud of that, thanks for asking.

He shaved. Brushed his teeth in the correct room. Changed into actual pants—with buttons and everything. Then he scrambled some eggs, toasted a piece of bread, and ate like someone who had a plan.

Because he did.

He was Stiles Stilinski, and he had goals.

His phone went into one pocket, his wallet into the other. Keys looped over his fingers. He opened the front door and blinked into the daylight like a raccoon emerging from a crawlspace.

He didn’t have anything to prove to Derek.

He had everything to prove to himself.

He was going to go find himself a wine glass worthy of Barolo and then politely shove it up Derek’s smug, perfect ass.

Because how hard could it fucking be?

Hard.

Very, fucking, hard.

Impossible.

Stiles liked that word better.

Because he’d been circling this uppity glassware store for hours with a stupid YouTube video on repeat and he could not for the life of him identify a Bordeaux glass to save his life. He didn’t even need a Bordeaux glass but if he was going to serve Barolo in the right glass, he needed to know what a Bordeaux glass was first and NOTHING in this store had signage and maybe this is just what Derek was talking about and perhaps he was indeed, an uncultured child—

“Excuse me, can I help you find something?”

Holy shit holy shit holy shit.

Stiles felt like a child in a candy store, except, the candy was like, job applications and Stiles was severely underqualified for every single one.

Panic.

Straight PANIC.

“Sir?”

“Hi,” Stiles turned slightly to give the man his full attention. It wasn’t his fault he was probably sent over to scope the scene given Stiles probably looked like he was pacing from the security room.

The man was older than him by far and definitely cleaner cut, white hair quaffed very delicately, expensive glasses that Stiles actually liked, heavy around the middle, and tied together with a very flamboyant scarf.

“I’m looking for a Bordeaux glass but really I’m looking for whatever you serve Barolo in, the first ask is to make sure I know what a Bordeaux glass looks like, the second ask is to compare”

His smile wavered and stiles quickly received a very sharp once over.

“Are you here alone?” he asked, looking for what stiles assumed would be his guardian

“I am”

“Are you old enough to drink?”

“Do you serve alcohol or housewares?”

“You might have more luck at the Walmart across the street”

Stiles bit back a “so would you”, opting instead for a very audible deep breath.

A finger shot up in the air.

“Let me get you someone with more patience—I mean, experience, one moment”

He sauntered away and left stiles stewing in his own frustration.

It just took one good push. One good push and he could level this bitch in two minutes flat. Who would be laughing then? Only him, because that pretentious ass would be grabbing the biggest broom and dustpan known to man—

“I hope you like sweeping, motherfucker-“ Stiles seethed under his breath and lifted an arm--

“I’m sorry honey, did you say something?”

Stiles spun on his feet and nearly took out a row of stemless glasses with his elbow. The woman, very kind looking, might he add—smiled back at him from behind rather large frames as she awaited his reply,

“Yes, I do, need help, lots of it, apparently.”

“What can I find you, dear?” she asked, her voice as smooth and warm as honey. The woman had a halo of dark gray curls, gold earrings that swayed when she walked, and the kind of voice that made you want to spill your entire life story and accept cookies afterward.

Stiles took a breath like he was about to confess a crime. “Okay. So. I’m looking for a glass for Barolo. Not to drink it—well, yes, to drink it—but also to understand why it’s not just any glass. And I know that sounds like something someone says to sound impressive, but I swear to God it’s not. There’s a video on YouTube that keeps yelling at me about bowl sizes and oxygenation and I haven’t understood a single second of it. I’m going to combust.”

The woman blinked slowly. Then she smiled like she had seen a hundred Stiles in her lifetime and had loved every single one of them. “Well, that sounds like a noble mission.”

“You’re mocking me, right? That’s fair.”

“Not at all,” she said, laughing. “You’re just a little lost. Wine can be like that. It’s a whole world with its own language.”

“That language should come with subtitles,” Stiles muttered.

“Come with me,” She motioned for him to follow, walking with surprising speed for someone in orthopedic shoes. “You don’t need subtitles. You need the right guide.”

Stiles followed her dutifully, like a duckling imprinting on the first competent adult he’d encountered in three hours.

“I’m Martha, by the way,” she said over her shoulder.

“Stiles.”

“Well, Stiles, first things first—Barolo is a wine that likes room. So you want a large, wide bowl. Something that lets it open up, stretch its legs. Think Burgundy-style, but with a taller lip and a little more discipline.”

“Okay,” he said slowly, watching her pull a glass from the shelf with the precision of someone choosing an instrument from a surgical tray. “So that’s not a Bordeaux?”

“No, darling,” she said, holding up a second glass. “This is a Bordeaux. Taller, narrower, made for bigger reds with stronger tannins and less delicacy. Remember, straight sides, wide bowl, narrower at the top. It’s meant to let the wine breathe, but no so much that it gets carried away. You don’t want it to run off and start writing poetry.”

Stiles narrowed his eyes. “You sound like you’re describing a first date.”

Martha smiled. “A good glass of wine is a good first date. You don’t rush it. You don’t smother it. You let it breathe and tell you what it needs.”

“...Okay, now I get why Derek’s into this,” Stiles muttered, mostly to himself.

“Derek?”

“Nobody. An annoying, judgmental, unfairly handsome nobody.”

Martha handed him the Barolo glass with a grin. “Aren’t they all.”

Stiles took it carefully, turning it in his hand.

“This is really nice.”

“Good weight, too,” she nodded. “Not so thin that you’re scared to wash it. That was my problem for years—had glasses so delicate they’d shatter if you looked at them wrong. Gave up, drank Pinot out of a coffee mug for a while. No shame in that either.”

Stiles liked her. A lot.

“I really want to impress someone,” Stiles admitted, which was a nicer way of saying I’m falling apart and trying to fill the void with wine-based knowledge.

“You ever thought about taking a class?”

“A wine class?”

“A sommelier course. They offer them out at Ashridge Hill Vineyard—forty minutes out of town. Beautiful property, little evening course series. You get to drink, learn a few things, flirt with strangers if that’s your thing…”

“That might be my thing,” Stiles said matter-of-factly.

“They’ve got a new session starting Monday,” she said, stepping behind the counter and jotting something down on a branded notepad. “I took it last summer when I thought I’d retire and open a wine bar. Ended up opening a cat café instead. Still, best decision I made. Good wine. Good company. And nothing makes you feel more powerful than dropping terms like ‘tannin structure’ in casual conversation.”

Stiles perked up. “You’ve done it?”

“I have. Twice. Once with my husband, and once without him when he decided wine was ‘too fruity’ for his football palette.”

Stiles grinned. “Sounds like a man of conviction.”

“He’s a man of Busch Light and regret,” she said dryly. “You’d love the class. It's not stuffy, and the instructor’s got this ridiculous voice that makes everything sound like gospel. Plus, there's a cheese plate involved.”

“You had me at cheese plate,” Stiles said, clutching the note like it was a holy relic.

Martha scribbled something on the back of a business card and handed it to him. “Here. Ask for Gregory. Tell him Martha sent you.”

Stiles smiled.

“Are you going to buy the glass?”

“Honestly, Martha” Stiles sighed. “I can’t afford both.”

Martha smiled and waved the glass around haphazardly.

“It’s not coming out of my paycheck, darling”

She started walking away and called over her shoulder, “And don’t let that stiff at the front talk down to you. His wine budget is bigger than his personality, but he’ll pull a quick one on you at lunch.”

Stiles waved and headed for the front door.

His hand was just touching the handle when the familiar voice shot out at him from somewhere on his left.

“Leaving empty handed?”

“Still working retail at 50?” he shot back, pleased when it left the guy speechless. Stiles flipped him off and pushed the door open.

The parking lot was almost full.

Being nervous was an understatement.

Stiles pulled in slowly, parking crooked and not bothering to fix it. He sat in the driver’s seat for a full minute with the engine still running, staring at the building set high on a hill overlooking the property, where the last golden rays of sun were hitting the wide windows just right. At a closer glance Stiles realizes the “bushes” were actually the vineyard he’d seen on the landing page website. The whole place looked like it had been ripped from an HGTV catalog—stucco walls, creeping ivy, warm wooden beams. It was too perfect. It was annoying.

No wonder Derek liked shit like this.

He turned the key and killed the engine.

Exhaled.

Began to fidget.

A man stepped out of a Porche to jog inside of the building. He didn’t even bother to triple lock the car.

He felt out of place already and considered punching the engine to life and peeling out of there before he could make a fool of himself but something said stay.

So he did.

“Okay,” he muttered to himself. “You’re a whole adult. You can drink fancy grape juice, make a few friends, and figure out what the hell to serve Barolo of sight alone. This is fine. Totally fine. You’re fine.”

He stepped out of the Jeep and straightened his button-down. It was a linen blend his dad gifted him that he’d promptly shoved into furthest recesses of his closet. Dad I’m never going to wear that.

Now look at him.

Taking fashion direction from his father of all people.

He’d even swiped a bit of his dad’s cologne at the last second, figuring he should at least smell like someone who knew what he was doing.

Confidence through aroma, or whatever.

The short walk to the front door was oddly intimidating. The gravel crunched under his shoes. The building seemed to grow further and further away the longer he walked. The wind was soft and carried the faintest hint of fermenting grapes and damp soil.

Stiles finally paused at the big wooden double doors, inhaled once, and pushed them open.

The inside was just as picturesque—wide stone floors, high ceilings, and a central room that looked like a chapel of wine.

He stepped up to a small table just past the entryway to be greeted by a middle-aged woman with a smile only money could buy.

“Hey sweetheart! Are you here for the class?”

Stiles nodded.

“Great, well it looks like you’re our last person here, so we’ll go ahead and put you in group B to even the numbers. What’s your name?”

“Stiles”

Her smile wavered for a moment before she looked down wrote Styles.

“Oh, it’S-T-“

“Hm?” she held up the ‘Hello, My Name Is’ tag for him to take.

“…that’s great, thanks” he smiled. “Where do I go?”

Outside, a long row of tables was already filled with people chatting over water cups and welcome cards.

Stiles made a beeline for the end of the nearest table and picked the second-to-last seat, leaving one empty beside him. Safety buffer. Just in case he needed to make a dramatic exit or collapse sideways in existential regret.

Whichever came first.

A soft-spoken instructor with a salt-and-pepper beard and a crisp linen shirt clapped his hands for attention. “Welcome! If you’re here to drink wine and possibly learn something about it, you’re in the right place.”

Polite laughter.

Stiles took a breath and relaxed into his chair, fingers tapping restlessly on his water glass.

The tastings started light. Aromatic whites with citrus notes. A charcuterie board Stiles had to keep himself from doing more than ‘grazing’ with (if they got drunk enough, he planned to wipe the entire thing clean in 30 seconds). The instructor—Gregory, apparently—walked them through a few fun sips and pairings.

“Don’t swallow yet,” he said at one point, and Stiles barely kept a straight face.

By the third glass, the group was buzzing. Even Stiles, who hadn’t had this much human interaction in three weeks, found himself cracking a joke that made two of the women across from him giggle.

That was when Gregory clapped again. “Alright, folks! Let’s partner up to go over glass shapes—find someone you haven’t spoken with yet and once everyone is set, we’ll begin”

Stiles sank down into his seat, hoping that he’d be the odd number out and would be able to get away with not having to pair with some random, stuck up-

“Hi”

Fuck.

Stiles turned halfway and began to speak before he even laid eyes on the source of the voice.

“Hey—”

Stiles stopped short.

A man a few years his senior with sandy brown hair, a quick smile, and an impressively casual outfit had taken the seat beside him.

“Hey,” the guy repeated, holding out a hand. “Adam.”

“Stiles.”

Adam had a big grin and a confident way of swirling his glass like he was in a commercial. “So, what brings you to this class…Styles?”

“Oh, just trying to make myself less of a disaster,” Stiles replied, lifting his glass.

“In wine?”

“In general,”

Adam chuckled. “Respect. I got tired of pretending I knew what tannins were.”

“Right? I thought it was a Star Wars character.”

Adam laughed, eyes crinkling at the corner. He swiped a hand through his hair.

Stiles relaxed a bit more.

“It’s Stiles with an ‘I’, by the way” he said, pointing at his name tag.

“Even better” he smiled.

They didn’t have much in common—Adam was a CrossFit trainer, loved EDM, didn’t like capes on superheroes—but Stiles found his reasoning oddly charming. Every answer Adam gave was confident, relaxed.

As the group portion moved on, they tasted different reds and tried food pairings. Stiles was starting to feel the buzz—not just from the wine, but from the interaction. He was laughing again, listening to the instructor describe mouthfeel like it was a revelation, and for the first time in weeks, he wasn’t thinking about Derek.

“No offense Stiles, but you look a bit…young. Are you 21?”

“That’s what my ID says” Stiles said smiling wide and leaning back in his chair.

“What does your birth certificate say?”

“Why don’t you follow me home and find out”

Adams’ face faltered.

Stiles froze.

He doesn’t know why he said it.

Didn’t know he was even thinking it until it came out.

The wine.

The fucking wine.

He’d never been this bold even with Derek.

His right hand began to pick absently at the arm of his chair while his left hand gripped it like it was the only thing keeping him anchored to this too perfect porch in this too perfect vineyard—

Adam leaned forward with a straight face; eye’s darting down to what Stiles swore was his mouth before whispering:

“Should we go now or wait for this to be over?”

Stiles wasn’t sure which area of his body flushed first—his face or his dick—

Then Gregory clapped again, the signal now recognizable. “Alright, everyone. We’re going to play a little game to get to know each other—and test your palates.”

Groans and chuckles rippled through the room.

“We’re going to mix this group with another group we had running on the other patio. You’ll be blindfolded and paired with another guest. You’ll have three minutes to chat and find things in common. Every time you do—cheers. And take a sip. If you remember to keep your sips small, you’ll remember the rest of the night”

Gregory laughed his way to the table with blindfolds and began to distribute them.

Stiles couldn’t take his eyes off Adam just as much as he couldn’t stand to make eye contact.

Adam stood, setting his glass down on the table and winking at Stiles before he patted him on the shoulder as he moved past him.

His heart was doing laps inside of his ribcage.

A blindfold dropped in front of Stiles.

He smirked and slipped it on, fumbling to tie it in the back.

“Great. Now I get to embarrass myself without eye contact.”

Two hands fixed the cloth for him, tying the knot tight behind his head.

He felt someone tap his shoulder reassuringly.

“I’m three people down, save it for me”

There was a lot of shuffling as people filed in. Stiles assumed in their tipsy stupor they had already taken to their blindfolds before being seated, which caused the room to be filled with the sounds of people falling over one another, giggling, and chairs scraping the floors.

If they weren’t careful, they would have to re-sand the porch.

Stiles hoped they weren’t.

This perfect ass place could use some wear and tear.

“Do me a favor and switch seats” – Gregory.

“Put her across from him, she’s new” – money-smile-Susan.

Stiles didn’t know her real name, but it fit and he liked it.

The shuffling finally died down and a timer beeped which startled a few people including himself.

The first round was with someone who turned out to be a novelist from Boston. They both liked tea, hated musicals, and had tried yoga once and regretted it.

Three sips.

Second round, a woman who owned a cat café in Salem. Stiles adored her instantly. They bonded over their hatred of slow walkers and mutual distrust of raisins in cookies.

Two sips.

Third round, someone tall with a soft laugh. They liked space documentaries and had both cried during E.T.

Two sips.

By round four, Stiles was more than tipsy. He sat grinning beneath the blindfold, swirling the stemware like he was someone important. He was warm, buzzing, loose in his limbs.

He put together after the third person that Adam was moved before the game started. He was slightly disappointed, but the wine kept him from overthinking it. He’d finish this game and find him again while they mingled at the end of class. It kept his mind focused for once—just a few more people.

A few more sips.

“Last round!” Gregory announced.

A chair scraped in front of him.

“Hi,” he said.

Silence. Then a low, noncommittal hum.

Stiles tilted his head. “Okay, mysterious. Let’s see what we’ve got.”

They went through the questions. Favorite season? Stiles said fall. The guy said spring.

Favorite music? Stiles said alt rock. The guy liked classical.

“Wow, we are just failing this spectacularly.”

Another soft yet amused hum. “Seems that way.”

Stiles snorted. “Okay, okay. Um… favorite superhero?”

A pause.

“You go first.”

Stiles grinned. “Batman. Moody. Broody. Doesn’t have powers, just trauma and gadgets. A lot like me”

The timer sounded. Stiles whipped off his blindfold, still laughing—

And froze.

His world tilted on its axis and all of the air flew out of his lungs on a first-class ticket. The sound of the group drowned into muffled nothingness even as they grew louder, and Stiles couldn’t make out one real world. He felt as if he were underwater.

Dark hair. Dark eyes. Kind eyes. Confused eyes.

Derek.

Derek Hale sat across from him.

Stone-faced.

Lips parted, just growing wide like he’d just remembered how to breathe. The same curl to his hair, same wrinkle between his brows, same fucking questioning look he’d throw Stiles’ way just a few short (long) weeks ago.

Everything in Stiles went cold, then hot, then very, very still.

Out of all the places in Beacon Hills this asshole would be, he would be here. As if his knowledge wasn’t already deep enough, as if this class wasn’t already out of his league. As if Stiles wasn’t allowed to have just one thing for himself.

“Oh,” he said, the grin dying on his lips. “oh.”

Derek didn’t say anything.

The laughter and chatter around them blurred from ‘womp-womp’ into static that filled his ears and made it impossible to even hear his own heartbeat.

Because of course.

Of course, Derek would show up now, when Stiles was buzzed and blindfolded and feeling like himself again.

Stiles dropped his blindfold to the table, stumbled to his feet, realizing he still hadn’t taken a breath.

Derek stood too.

He looked…conflicted? Concerned? Stiles wasn’t really sure, Derek hardly showed emotion, so it was always a task figuring out what his faces meant. But he reached towards him with one hand as Stiles fell backwards into the railing, dead-set, decided, and Stiles knew that face.

He must have made just enough noise because a few people around him set their drinks down in a panic to help him balance.

“Sorry” he wheezed, taking in just enough air for another one. “Sorry.”

“Here’s some water”

Adam.

“You okay?”

A hand on his back. His lower back. Stiles glanced at Adam, glanced over at Derek. Derek wasn’t looking at him.

“Yes—I—” Stiles paused. Forced a laugh. “Shit, I got excited and got up too fast”

“Stiles, you alright?” Greogry moved into his field of vision.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m okay” Stiles looks up at him and pats his shoulder. “Serving us 90 proof wine, huh, Greg?”

Gregory laughs and follows up with a witty response Stiles doesn’t really process.

The group thins out as money-smile-Susan hands out raffle tickets for a grand prize he missed the announcement on. Before Stiles knows it it’s just him, Adam, and Derek, who’s looming like a four o’clock shadow that refuses to disappear.

Adam still has a hand on his lower back.

“Stiles do you want to sit?”

“I think I need some air”

“We’re outside.” Derek deadpans sharply.

“Clean air” Stiles says through his teeth.

“I’ll walk you out” Adam offers, glancing at Derek.

Stiles pushes up from his stance against the railing and allows himself to be led through two sets of doors to the opposite patio. This side has a small couch that Stiles plops himself onto, sprawling out on the corner.

He sighs.

Adam takes a seat next to him.

“You good, Stiles?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m good” he says. “Sorry about all of this”

“Don’t worry, I’m feeling a bit more tipsy than I usually allow myself as well, I really think the tastings are spiked”

Stiles chuckles.

Adam has no idea.

They chat for thirty minutes more, in that time, the small space between them grows smaller and smaller until they are hip to hip. Adam brushes his thigh up against Stiles’ and whatever Stiles was blabbing about dies in his throat. You could cut the tension between them with a dull spoon.

Adam leans in, kisses Stiles.

Maybe it’s the wine, maybe it’s the lack of attention, but Stiles kisses back. It’s heated, and wonderful. And Stiles can. And then he can’t.

He pulls back.

Adam watches him for a moment.

“Do you know the guy in there? The one who startled you?”

“…Yes”

“Are you two…”

“No, not really. No.” Stiles looks down at his lap.

Adam creates space between them.

“I’m gonna head back to the other side, do you want to join me or stay here?”

“I think I’ll stay here for a moment”

Adam smiles softly, gets up, and leaves.

Stiles watches him go and realizes, with small horror, that he can see straight to the other side where the small gathering is still partying on. Stiles wonders briefly what happened to the quiz they were supposed to take to make sure they were walking away with some kind of knowledge—instead, his thoughts are derailed entirely because Derek is seated on the other side with the perfect view of Stiles. He watches Adam as he rejoins the party and then his eyes fall back on Stiles.

And Stiles feels sick to his stomach.

Derek finishes his glass and gets up to get more, moving out of view.

Stiles gets to his feet and finds his way back to the other side, taking up a seat on the far end of the patio to watch the remainder of the sunset. Soft music is playing in the background.

Stiles isn’t watching, but Derek finds a group of people and begins chatting. Stiles has never seen him so relaxed and social. He’s telling jokes. He’s listening intently. He’s laughing.

Stiles is watching.

It’s when he leans back in his seat, wine glass haphazardly hanging loose in his hand that Stiles remembers how relaxed he was that night. The night he fell back into the seat cushion of the couch and spread his legs like he was laying claim to his corner.

How laid back he was slurring his words over stemware shapes and how the wine changed depending on the glass or some shit.

Derek was enjoying himself.

And stiles couldn’t take his eyes off of him.

Why was it that this side of Derek was only reserved for people who wouldn’t remember how his face lights up when he smiles, how engaging his conversation was, how his brows crinkled when he laughed.

Stiles set his glass down and just watched. Because if everyone would go home after this to forget this sight, he wanted to be the one person who would remember it.

“Excuse me”

A chair scraped back. Footsteps approached.

“Stiles?”

Adam smiled down.

“I’m heading out now. I wanted to give you my number before I go”

Stiles smiled.

“Of course” he handed over his phone. Adam typed away and returned the device.

“Nice meeting you tonight. If you change your mind, give me a call. Get home safe”

And he was gone.

Stiles sighed and stood up to stretch. The party was still lively, but stiles was exhausted. He barely learned a thing, drank too much, and still had no idea what the hell to serve Barolo in. Forget his chat with Martha, he really couldn’t identify the proper glass if he was being held at gunpoint.

And for that?

He was ready to go home.

He said bye to Gregory and “Susan” who he learned was actually Karen. Susan was better for her so he would stick with that—and headed for the now dark parking lot.

He was just unlocking the door when he heard the crunching of pebbles under heavy steps.

“How much have you had to drink?”

“Go to hell, Derek”

“I’ve been there. Twice. Any other suggestions?”

Stiles turned to face him.

A joke?

Did this fucker just make…a joke?

“Wine really changes you” Stiles said, baffled.

“It’s not the wine” Derek admitted. “If you’ve been here since the start of the session, you’ve had too much to drink to drive safely”

“What do you care? I’m fine, dude” Stiles said, reaching for the door handle and missing twice. He blinked owlishly. What the hell?

“You’re fine?” Derek huffed, crossing his arms. “I’m gonna pull the Camaro around—”

“I can fucking walk”

Stiles brushed past Derek roughly, knocking his shoulder into his as he passed. Derek took the hit.

“It’s the other way”

Stiles backtracked.

“I would have found it eventually.”

Stiles sat in the front passenger seat of the Camaro, legs pushed away from Derek, arms crossed. Derek looked straight ahead.

“If I’m too drunk to drive what does that make you? You had more than me and we all know how that goes—”

The car screeched to a stop. Smoke lifted and the smell of burning rubber filled the car. Derek undid his seatbelt and got out. Stiles thought too late about locking his door—it tore open, exposing him to the darkness.

“Get out”

Stiles got out, heart hammering in his chest.

“What the fuck, dude?” he snapped, stumbling a bit on the loose gravel. “You gonna throw me around now? That what this is?”

Derek stepped back, arms crossed, jaw tense. “No. But I’m not going to sit there and listen to you berate me the entire drive back while I’m doing you a favor”

“A favor?!” Stiles threw his hands into the air. “You think you’re doing me a favor?”

Stiles barked a laugh.

‘Oh my God,” he said. “You’ve got to be kidding me. You made it very clear you wouldn’t have anything to do with me and yet here you are—offering me rides home after stalking me to the one place I thought I could have a bit of fun. What did you think I’d do, take a vow of chastity and cry into my pillow every night?”

Derek didn’t answer but his eyes grew darker – if that was possible.

“Do not get possessive with me now,” Stiles continued, voice rising. “You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to show up at my wine class and then look at me like I’m the one who crossed a line.”

“I didn’t know you would be there—”

“Bullshit! You knew exactly where I was. You always know.”

“I didn’t come there for you Stiles” Derek growled. “I came because I needed something to occupy my mind. And you know what? It worked. For five whole minutes. Then there you were. Laughing. Flirting. Blindfolded and glowing in the damn sunset—“

“Oh, so your big idea was to see me happy for once, since you enjoy keeping that emotion from ever gracing my presence, especially when you’re around, and you thought to barreling through like a bull in a Chinese buffet?!”

Derek crinkled his brows in confusion.

Then his face neutralized.

Then he raised his hand to his mouth to cover a smile.

Stiles bristled.

“That’s fucking funny? That’s funny huh?”

A low laughed broke past Dereks defenses.

Then another.

“Am I a joke to you?” Stiles said but he couldn’t finish his sentence because a laugh was forming on his face as well. He tried his best to suppress it, but he was unraveling at the seams.

“A bull in a Chinese buffet?” Derek asked and then he was bent backwards with laughter.

Stiles busted out laughing, gripping his sides as it became uncontrollable. Soon he doubled over as the laughter incapacitated him and suddenly—He was crying too. Hot, heavy tears fell straight from his eyes to the pavement below. The laughter bubbled and died in his throat and it was quickly replaced by soft reserved hiccups.

“Stiles?”

Derek moved in a set a hand on his back, tried to get him to stand up straight.

Something cracked open in Stiles’ chest—relief or rage, he couldn’t tell.

“You don’t get to do that” he snapped, shouldering Derek off of him. “You don’t get to do that and then do something about it.”

Derek looked…shocked?

He stepped in again, just enough to breach the boundary Stiles had been trying to maintain all night. He grabbed both sides of Stiles face.

“You don’t get to be jealous of something you don’t want, and then not do anything about it, you fucking asshole”

Derek pulled him into a hug, holding the back of his head tight.

For a moment Derek just held him.

Stiles’ vision cleared a bit as the tears slowed down.

“And what if I want to do something about it?” Derek asked, voice low.

Stiles’ breath caught.

“Then you should have said that weeks ago.”

Silence.

They stood there, wine-drunk and vulnerable, headlights casting long shadows around them. Derek’s hand twitched against his back, like he wanted to do something but changed his mind at the last second.

Stiles took a half step back and pushed Derek with his hands at the same time.

“I’m too tired to do this again,” he said, voice trembling. “This is too much…”

Derek’s mouth opened. Then closed.

The moment passed.

“I’ll take you home” he said quietly.

They drove in silence, the buzz wearing off faster than the trees sped past. As they finally pulled up to the Stilinski driveway, Stiles reach into his pocket and came up empty. He tried the other pocket. Nothing.

“No, no, no…” he patted himself down. “Shit.”

“What?”

“My keys” He sighed, “They’re in my Jeep.”

Derek nodded towards the house. “Locked?”

Stiles nodded.

“Even the window—”

“Even the window.”

Derek sighed through his nose, then shifted into gear.

“What are you doing,” Stiles warned

“I’m not sleeping in this car” Derek stated.

“Take me back to my car and then we can both go home”

“The vineyard is an hour away, I’m not doing that” Derek said, allowing the car to roll off the drive into the street.

As the Camaro rolled back through Beacon Hills toward Dereks’ house, Stiles rested his head against the window and closed his eyes.

He didn’t know what was worse—how angry he still was, or how badly he wanted to reach for Derek’s hand anyway.

Derek stepped out of the shower, steam rolling across the tile like smoke billowing out of a chimney.

He sighed.

“This is too much…” He mumbled, echoing Stiles’ earlier words.

He pulled the drawer open to grab a flat comb and detangled his hair, opting to part it in the center which isn’t something he normally does— but he’s allowed his hair to grow out the past few weeks and enjoyed experimenting. He tossed on his clothes, which maybe wasn’t enough clothes, but he usually went to bed in just sweatpants anyway and he wasn’t going to compromise just because Stiles was here.

Clang! Clang! Clink!

Derek stilled.

A glass broke across the apartment.

“What the fuck,” he breathed, yanking open the bathroom door and high-stepping down the hall, bare feet thudding quietly against hardwood.

He rounded the corner into the kitchen and nearly broke his neck on a rogue cork rolling lazily toward the fridge. The scene that greeted him could’ve been a crime scene if not for the fact that the only victim appeared to be his wine glasses—and Stiles’s self-restraint.

Stiles stood in front of the counter, arms braced wide like he was trying to keep the granite from taking off into orbit. His cheeks were flushed. His shirt was wrinkled. His eyes flicked up, wide and owlish.

“Hey,” he said, a little too brightly. “I’m just…sampling.”

Derek’s gaze dropped to the counter.

Three bottles. One open, half empty. One unopened. One decapitated, the cork ripped out like it owed Stiles money. A fourth lay in pieces on the floor near the sink.

“What did you do?” Derek asked, voice dangerously low.

“Okay, first of all,” Stiles held up a hand, swaying slightly, “that glass was suicidal. It jumped. I watched it. I mourned it.”

“Stiles.”

“I was thirsty,” he mumbled, pulling a half-filled glass toward him and lifting it in toast. “For knowledge. And…fermented grapes.”

Derek stepped carefully around the broken glass and reached over to take the glass out of Stiles’s hand. Stiles pulled it back.

“Oh no, no. You don’t get to cut me off. Not after today.”

“You drank half a bottle and started decimating my kitchen.”

“It was one glass!”

“It was a Riedel.”

Stiles blinked. “I don’t know what that means.”

“It was a sixty-dollar bottle.”

Stiles sucked in a breath and muttered, “Yikes.”

Derek stared at him. Shirtless, damp-haired, arms crossed, the muscles in his jaw flexing like he was chewing through drywall.

Stiles leaned forward, like he was about to impart a secret.

“You know what your problem is?” he asked, slurring only slightly. “You act like you’re made of marble. Like you’re all—” he gestured vaguely at Derek’s entire body, “—Michelangelo’s Broody David. But you’re not. You’re just a guy. With really nice bone structure.”

Derek blinked.

Stiles continued anyway.

“And you’ve got this idea that if you don’t say anything, no one will know how you feel, but guess what? You’re loud as hell, Hale. Even when you’re quiet. Especially then.”

Derek didn’t move.

“And I used to think that was because you were strong. Mysterious. Cool or whatever. But now I think it’s because you’re scared. Scared of what happens if you stop pretending you don’t care.”

His voice was quieter now, words hitting softer but sinking deeper.

“You pushed me away like I was the problem. Like I wouldn’t survive knowing how you felt.” He let out a breath that sounded more like a laugh. “Spoiler alert—I didn’t.”

Stiles looked up, glassy-eyed, not even trying to hide the way his chin wobbled.

Derek swallowed hard. His arms, still crossed, dropped slowly to his sides.

“I was trying to keep you safe,” Derek said, voice low.

“No,” Stiles shot back. “You were trying to keep you safe.”

The room stilled.

“I didn’t want to ruin it” Derek said, quieter now. “Us. Whatever this was. I thought if I said it, if I let it out, it’d fall apart.”

“It already fell apart, Derek.”

That hitched something in Derek’s chest.

“I didn’t say it would never happen” he said, like it cost him something to admit it.

Stiles stepped back, putting the wine bottle between them like it could shield him. “You don’t get to say that just because you saw me kiss someone.”

“I didn’t say it because of that,” Derek said quickly, stepping forward. “I said it because it’s true. And I think—” He paused, then took a breath like he was preparing to jump off something. “I think I’ve missed you since the second you left my driveway.”

“Then why are you pushing me away”

“Stiles” Derek breathed, exasperated, but anything else died in his throat.

Stiles’ lip quivered.

Then, he broke the empty bottle on the counter and held it up to his neck.

Derek started forward and Stiles pressed the sharp edges into his neck, hard enough to draw blood.

“What the hell are you doing!”

“Pick it up!” Stiles seethed.

Confused, Derek followed his finger, and his eyes landed upon the open bottle.

“Stiles—”

“I said pick it up!” he shouted, stumbling backwards into the fridge. The bottle cut deeper into his neck and Derek watched with horror as the it bled profusely.

He growled and snatched up the bottle.

“Drink it” Stiles commanded through his teeth, barely audible as he tried his best not to be emotional.

Derek waited a moment and then took a sip.

“All of it.”

Derek growled and brough the bottle back up to his lips, never taking his eyes off Stiles as he chugged it down.

Stiles pointed to the unopened bottle.

“Stiles—”

“All I have to do is flick my wrist, Derek and I swear to god, I’ll do it”

Derek picked up the unopened bottle, broke it open on the countertop and threw it back, caring less about the shards of glass that he was probably swallowing and more about making sure Stiles didn’t do something stupid. Something permanent.

He almost threw up this time, dry heaving for a few moments after he finished the bottle. He stood up straight and the room swayed. He reached out to the counter for stability.

“Why am I doing this—”

“Because” Stiles said, pointing the bottle towards him. “This is the only way I can get you how I want you. The only way I can get you to want me”

His lip quivered.

Derek wavered on his feet.

Stiles took a step forward.

Derek took a step back.

Slowly they walked themselves from the kitchen to the living room, Derek crashing into a few things on the way before he ultimately stumbled backwards over the edge of the carpet and gravity got a hold of his weight.

Derek hit the floor hard, air punched from his lungs, but he didn’t have a second to catch it before Stiles was on him.

Hot hands, uncoordinated, gripping at his chest. Knees planted on either side of his hips. The overhead light buzzed softly, casting both of them in a wash of yellow-gold, and Stiles looked like he was unraveling in real time—chest heaving, eyes glassy, mouth parted like he was still catching up to everything happening inside of him.

His fingers slid into Derek’s hair, pulled, and Derek let him.

They kissed.

Or maybe collided was a better word—sloppy, hard, all teeth and anger and weeks of tension compressed into the span of seconds.

Stiles kissed like he was trying to break something open.

Derek kissed back like he already had.

Neither knew the other.

He sat up with Stiles straddling him, arms locking around his waist, one hand tangled at the nape of his neck, the other sliding beneath the thin cotton of his shirt. His back arched into it, gasping quietly against Derek’s lips. Their chests rubbed together with every breath, every shift of weight, and the heat between them sharpened.

Derek’s hand gripped tight on Stiles’s hip. The other cupped his jaw, then slid back into his hair, anchoring them together. He let his mouth drift—along the corner of Stiles’s jaw, under his ear, down the edge of his throat. Stiles tipped his head back with a broken noise, thighs tightening around Derek’s hips.

The sharp edge of the coffee table dug into Derek’s back when he shifted, the pain grounding him, anchoring him just enough.

He sat back, his entire body felt like it was floating. The wine was settling into his bloodstream quickly and he was having trouble fighting it. He could feel himself losing control of his motor function in waves, and if he didn’t focus hard enough, he drifted.

He parted his lips to tell Stiles this.

Instead, Stiles licked into his mouth again—desperate, unfiltered, lips swollen and wet—and Derek’s hands slowly found their way beneath his shirt again, splaying wide across too-warm skin. He traced the ridges of Stiles’s spine gently. His fingertips dug in, just a little.

Stiles whimpered.

His hips rocked once, unthinking, and Derek groaned against his mouth before he caught them—both of them—with a tight grip to the thighs, holding him still.

He could taste the wine on Stiles’s breath, feel it in the looseness of his limbs, the way his weight slumped against Derek’s chest like surrender.

It wasn’t the first time Derek had imagined this—Stiles in his lap, flushed and needy and grabbing at his shirt like he couldn’t stand the distance between them. But the version in his head didn’t come with the smell of spilled alcohol and broken glass, didn’t carry the sharp press of grief and desperation under every kiss.

Derek twisted, catching Stiles off guard, and managed to maneuver him gently down onto the rug. He followed, hovering above, one knee between Stiles’s legs. Their lips brushed again, softer this time, then deeper. Derek kissed him like he was trying to memorize it—slow, focused, mouth parting only to draw him in again.

Stiles’s hands moved frantically—under Derek’s waistband, up his back, down his sides. They were shaking. Whether from wine or nerves, Derek couldn’t tell.

When Stiles arched up, searching for more friction, Derek pinned his hips gently to the floor.

“No—don’t,” Stiles whispered, voice barely there.

Stiles clawed at his shoulder.

His leg wrapped tighter around Derek’s waist.

They rolled again.

This time, Derek gathered Stiles into his chest, wrapping one strong arm under his back, the other hooking behind his knees, and little by little, stood.

Stiles blinked up at him in shock.

Derek didn’t look down.

He carried him.

Staggering through the apartment, heat pulsing between their chests, breaths loud in the quiet as Derek nudged the bedroom door open with his foot and walked them inside.

He lowered Stiles gently onto the bed.

Stiles reached up for him again, and Derek let himself lean down—let their mouths find each other one more time, slow and heady and too full of feeling.

Then he pulled back.

Stiles exhaled like he’d just been punched.

He slid into the bed beside him, close enough to feel the warmth radiating between them.

Stiles tried to kiss him again.

Derek pulled back.

“Stop” he whispered.

Stiles watched him for a moment and then relaxed on the pillow next to him.

“Derek—”

“Shh” Derek whispered, placing a finger to his lips. “See me in the morning”

“Derek—”

“Please, Stiles.”

Stiles nodded slowly and closed his eyes.

And then he spoke 8 words that shattered Derek:

“I hope you’re here when I wake up.” He whispered.

Derek listened as his breathing eventually evened out before he could find the peace to sleep himself.

Stiles came to with a moan on his lips, eyes shooting wide open.

For a second, he didn’t know where he was. The room was dim, sun filtering through the blinds in thin slices across the bed. The sheets were twisted around his legs. The air smelled like warm cotton, Derek’s shampoo, and—

Oh.

Oh.

His hands fisted in the sheets. His brain tried to catch up to the signals his body was very clearly receiving. There was pressure. There was heat. There was—Stiles gasped, hips twitching.

“Jesus Christ,” he choked, voice rough with sleep and disbelief. “Are you—?”

He looked down. All he could see was the top of Derek’s head. His hair was a mess. A different kind of mess than the one he created last night. He moved like he was focused. Determined. Reverent, like he was catching up for lost time.

Stiles let his head fall back against the pillow with a dramatic groan. “If I’m dreaming god, please don’t wake up until I’m finished, please”

Derek didn’t verbally react, obviously. Just shifted slightly, and Stiles's soul left his body. He made a noise he didn’t even know he was capable of making—a strangled thing between a yelp and a prayer.

One hand shot out blindly and knocked Derek’s phone off the nightstand.

“You should be arrested,” he gasped. “Fuck—you were—is this role play?”

Still no answer. But he felt Derek’s smirk.

Stiles covered his face with both hands. “Okay. Okay, we’re doing this. You’re doing this. This is fine. I’m not panicking. You’re sober. You’re clearly very sober and making very sober decisions and—god, I am not built to emotionally process this.”

He peeked between his fingers and let out a broken noise that might’ve been a laugh, might’ve been a sob.

“Derek Hale,” he wheezed, “you are an absolute menace. You can’t just—surprise—wake me up with your face between my—”

Another shift. Another noise. This time Stiles bit his fist.

He was seconds from transcendence, seconds from seeing the fabric of the universe, and all he could think was this better not be a dream and I need to write Derek a thank-you card. Maybe get a fruit basket.

Probably both.

Derek’s mouth made a sharp Pop! as he pulls off Stiles’ very hard dick.

Stiles watched him as he sat straight up and positioned himself closely behind his hips. He lifted Stiles’ feet and set them both each respective shoulder.

He was smiling.

Stiles shot him a questioning look.

Derek responded by squeezing his thighs and then, he essentially folded him like a lawn chair.

His knees touched his chest so fast Stiles was confused looking at them, unsure of where they’d come from, if they were even his.

But he wouldn’t have too much time to figure that out because Derek quickly put his mouth to work.

Stiles. Saw. Stars.

He swore under his breath as Derek worked him open with the ease of someone who’d done this a million times over. A few minutes later he felt Derek’s tongue get replaced by slick fingers, first one, then two. On the third, Stiles heard Derek’s voice for the first time.

“Fuck” He growled. “You’re so tight.”

Stiles has never heard Derek sound so—raw.

Stiles’ breath dissipated. Evaporated. Teleported. You name it, it was gone.

Derek bit his leg as he continued to work Stiles open and all Stiles could do was take it. He felt like a noodle. A boneless, overcooked piece of pasta.

“Derek” Stiles breathed. “Hhnh, fuck—Derek wait, please, I—I cant—”

He must have sounded more desperate than usual, either that or Derek was too worked up in this position himself because that was all it took for him to lower Stiles to the bed. Stiles couldn’t catch his breath.

Derek leaned over him, eyes glazed, but focused.

On him.

“What—what changed?” Stiles asked him quietly.

“Nothing changed” Derek said. “I…I just wanted to be intentional with you, Stiles.”

“Are you still sorry—”

“I’m not sorry I did it.” Derek said quickly. “I’m just sorry I did it drunk. You…you deserve someone at their fullest, and I wanted to give that to you. Give this, to you, when I was…whole”

Stiles nodded and closed the distance with his lips.

“I’m sorry about last night—” Stiles tried to say through the kiss.

“Shut up, Stiles.”

“Yup.”

When it was over, he lay boneless, blinking up at the ceiling like it had personally betrayed him.

Derek crawled up beside him, resting on his elbow, infuriatingly smug.

“I think I died,” Stiles said hoarsely.

“You didn’t,” Derek said, all gravel and sin.

“Then I want to.”

Derek pressed a kiss to the hinge of his jaw. “Not allowed.”

“I hate you.”

“You don’t.”

Stiles covered his face again. “You could’ve at least warned me.”

Derek leaned in, warm breath against his cheek. “I did.”

“No, you really didn’t.”

“I literally said, wait until the morning, last night”

Stiles groaned into his hands. “Oh my god, shut up. You know what I mean”

He tugged Derek down and buried his face in his shoulder, both of them shaking with laughter.

They stayed like that—entwined, flushed, stupidly happy—for a long while. The only sound in the room was their breathing and the distant hum of the apartment.

Eventually, Stiles sighed. “So, what’s for breakfast?”

Derek arched a brow. “Not satisfied?”

“Physically,” Stiles clarified. “I’m physically starving.”

“I can give you something to eat” Derek said, biting his lip.

“Holy shit, were you always this much of a freak—”

Derek ignored him.

Suddenly the little bit of light streaming through the curtains that had quietly settled upon Stiles’ face cut out.

Stiles blinked.

Dereks hips were almost kissing his cheeks, both knees on either side of his head. He pulled down his sweatpants and pinched Stiles’ cheeks to force his mouth open.

“Open” Derek said, voice low and rough.

Stiles opened immediately. He hadn’t seen Derek the entire time, too caught up in his own feelings and Derek’s beautiful face, having missed a lot of what Derek was doing purely through logistics and like, human anatomy. And Stiles’ lack of flexibility.

Stiles gagged and tried his best to will his eyes not to water. He was expecting a lot, but not this much. Not this heavy, or full. Derek rocked his hips slowly, growls rolling past his lips in the same cadence. Then, he bit off a moan and pulled back suddenly, leaving Stiles choking.

“Delete his number out of your phone” Derek said, looking down at him.

Stiles met Dereks eyes as he towered over him, and he couldn’t help but smile.

“I knew you were the jealous type—”

Dereks’ hand shot down to his throat in a flash of movement. He didn’t squeeze like his being was telling him to, like his instincts craved— till Stiles’ face turned red and he submitted. He applied a bit of pressure and growled threateningly.

“Delete. His. Number”

Stiles didn’t struggle.

“Why?” he challenged.

“Because.” Derek bit out.

“Because what—”

“Because,” Derek growled, tightening his grip. He enjoyed the way Stiles’ eyes opened a little wider. “you’re mine.”

Stiles grew still.

For a tense moment Derek thought maybe he’d taken it too far. He was just releasing the pressure on Stiles’ neck when Stiles placed his hand over Dereks to stop him. Derek looked back down. Stiles was grinning, but his face was full of lust.

“Of course.” He said firmly. He pressed Derek’s hand down on his own throat and then turned his head to the side, exposing his neck. The same side of his neck Derek took the time to lick from collarbone to ear the first time they’d been in his bed. Derek bent down.

Click!

The door shot open.

“Derek, they had that cake at the bakery that you like so I grabbed two on your card! One for me and one for us to split—” Isaac beamed as he pushed the door in, hands full of grocery bags.

The cakes hit the floor.

“Jesus Chr—”

Chapter Text

The loft was dark when they arrived.

Too dark.

The metal door slid open without resistance.

Scott stepped through first, every muscle tense, claws teasing the surface of his skin. The rest of the pack followed in tight formation, their footsteps soft but deliberate on the hardwood floor, eyes adjusting to the gloom, catching on every shadow that could be a threat. Lydia’s hand hovered near her phone; Jackson’s jaw was tight. Erica flexed her fingers like she was waiting to strike.

They came to a silent halt inside the loft.

Derek’s loft.

Isaac’s home.

Is Isaac home?

No sound.

But something felt off.

Wrong.

Scott raised his hand to announce his hesitation.

He scented the air.

The room felt…cold? There was no movement. Just an oppressive stillness hanging heavy in the air, like something had happened and the room hadn’t moved on yet.

It smelled faintly of wine and salt—no, tears—and need.

Something akin to need but deeper, stronger.

Something hungry and intimate. It buzzed in Scott’s chest like static.

He turned slightly to check the others, silently asking if they smelled it too—

A sound!

Barely audible. A shift. A breath. A rustle.

Scott froze.

A clawed hand settled gently on his shoulder. Erica. A wordless confirmation.

They moved as one, synchronized like muscle memory — fanning out, silent, breath tight in their chests.

Jackson and Lydia pressed to the wall for second-wave flank. Just like Derek taught them.

Scott braced himself, crouched low. Inched toward the source.

It wasn’t until they turned the corner and saw the figure huddled near the fridge that anyone exhaled.

“Isaac?” Scott whispered, keeping his voice low.

Isaac looked up slowly. His back was pressed to the cabinet, knees drawn tight to his chest, face pale and gaunt in the low light. His eyes were wide, unfocused.

“I’ve been here for hours,” he said, voice hoarse. “I can’t leave.”

Scott crouched beside him. “What the hell is going on?”

Isaac looked at the others, then back to Scott. His voice trembled. “He’s still here.”

That brought the rest of the pack in fast, surrounding the kitchen.

“Who is?” Jackson asked, slipping closer to the edge of the doorway, keeping a line of sight on the rest of the loft.

“He said he’d break my legs,” Isaac murmured. “I didn’t think he’d do it. But I can’t leave. I heard him moving. I saw the bedroom door open. Something’s been walking around in there.”

Isaac’s voice dropped to a rasp.

“I thought I could wait it out. I thought if I stayed quiet, maybe I could survive. I just… needed you to come.”

Scott’s hand hovered over his shoulder. “Isaac. Who’s here?”

A door creaked open.

Down the hallway.

The shift was instant.

Eyes glowed. Fangs dropped. Claws unsheathed.

Scott lunged first, instinct overriding thought.

The figure was backlit. Barefoot. Moving slow.

Casual.

Confident.

A threat.

Scott slammed them against the wall with enough force to shake the loft.

The towel hit the ground with a soft thump.

“Jesus FUCKING Christ—!” the figure choked, voice sharp with panic. “SCOTT?!”

Scott froze.

The snarl died in his throat.

The pack fell still behind him.

Stiles?

Why would Stiles be here?

Where was the threat?

Stiles tried to shove Scott off with a furious glare. “What the hell is wrong with you?!”

“Stiles?!” Scott’s rough voice struggled to whisper around his dropped canines. “What the fuck are you doing here?! There’s an intruder!”

Stiles looked incredulously at Scott before frustratedly raising his hands as if to say, well?!

Scott turned to Jackson, blinking.

Jackson turned to Isaac.

“Isaac, why didn’t you mention Stiles was also here, in danger, apparently”

Isaac peeked around the corner, face unreadable. “Oh. Good. You’re alive.”

“Why wouldn’t I be—Scott, get off!” Stiles pushed at his chest again, this time, Scott let himself be moved.

“He said there was an intruder in the loft and that we needed to get here, right now” Jackson said.

“You called them?” Stiles barked.

“I thought you were a hostage!”

“In a bath towel?” Erica deadpanned.

“He wasn’t in a bath towel when I called” Isaac stressed, unsupported as his voice rasped out at the end. “Fuck, he wasn’t in a lot of things when I called—"

“What the hell is with all the noise?” a new voice cut through.

They all turned.

Derek.

Derek stood at the end of the hallway, shirtless, hair rumpled, blinking into the dim light like he’d just been woken from a nap he didn’t want to end.

Stiles looked back at Isaac.

Then Scott.

Then Erica.

Then Jackson.

“You have thirty seconds.” Jackson said, grimly.

“Listen,” Isaac said, slowly inching towards the front door. “I had no choice-- he broke my legs twice—”

“I have a few more things I could break to add on to that.” Jackson offered, already stalking.

Isaac backed his way towards the door until he ran right into Lydia, who grabbed his arms and smiled tightly.

“He said if he heard me, he would break them again, I just thought if I got you here, you’d make enough noise that it would cancel out—”

“So, you baited us”

“Yes!” Isaac faltered, “No! N-no, that’s not, haha, guys, this is literally just a big misunderstanding.”

“I’m listening” Jackson said.

“I-I…Stiles and Derek! I-I caught them for real this time! He-he ruined my cake!”

“Caught them how?” Scott asked.

“Isaac.” Stiles warned.

Isaac took a glance at Stiles and then Jackson, weighed his options, and went full send.

He spoke in great, great detail.

Isaac screamed.

Screamed. Like he’d walked in on a live exorcism.

The bags hit the floor. One of the cakes slid unceremoniously under the dresser like it was making a break for it. The other landed upside down with a wet splop that echoed through the room, like even it was offended.

“WHAT THE FUCK,” Isaac shrieked, eyes wide, hand clapped over his face but with just enough of a gap between his fingers to still be looking. “OH MY GOD, I’M BLIND—”

“Jesus—Isaac!” Derek lunged off of Stiles, who was very naked and very upside down and very confused.

“Is this… Is this punishment?!” Isaac wheezed, backing toward the door like he was escaping a war zone. “For that time I put Nair in your shampoo? Because I said I was sorry!”

Derek grabbed the edge of the sheet and flung it over Stiles just as the idiot attempted to sit up and made it worse by knocking the lamp off the nightstand.

“Bro—BRO!” Isaac screamed, ducking. “You were ON HIS FACE! THERE WERE—KNEES—OH GOD—”

“Isaac, get out!” Derek roared, standing naked and terrifying in the middle of the room, the very picture of post-wrath and ruined dignity.

“I CAN’T MOVE,” Isaac yelled, clutching the doorframe. “MY LEGS DON’T WORK. I’M TOO TRAUMATIZED. I’VE BEEN ASSAULTED BY SIGHT.”

“You walked in!” Stiles yelled from under the sheet. “You didn’t knock! You just barged in!”

“YOU LEFT THE DOOR UNLOCKED!”

“YOU LIVE HERE!”

“EXACTLY!!” Isaac sobbed. “I LIVE HERE!! I SLEEP HERE!!”

“Then knock, you degenerate—”

“I NEED BLEACH FOR MY BRAIN!”

“Get out! Before I break your fucking legs--” Derek barked, pointing furiously toward the hallway like Isaac was a demon he was casting out.

“Wait! Wait!” Isaac cried out, legs shaking. “Derek! I can’t move! I really cant move, I’m traumatized! My legs won’t work!”

“You better figure out how to make them work or you’re going to lose them” he growled, pulling one leg of his sweatpants up.

“Derek, please!”

Derek fitted his sweatpants and strode over, clearing the distance between them in three massive steps. He grabbed a hold of Isaacs right leg, and like he was removing the ends of string beans did he snap Isaac’s leg in two.

Flesh and blood splattered to the floor, covering the surface with slickness as Derek reached for his other leg—

“That is not true.” Derek growled.

“You broke my legs!” Isaac whined.

“I did not snap your legs in two! Blood covering the floor?!” Derek breathed. He pushed the door behind him open a bit wider, inviting curious eyes. “Does this look like a blood-soaked floor to you?”

The pack took a few tentative steps towards the door.

Isaac jumped forward.

“Okay! Okay, so I exaggerated a bit” he reasoned. “But the truth is—”

“The truth,” Derek growled. “Is—”

“I NEED BLEACH FOR MY BRAIN!”

“Get out! Before I break your fucking legs--” Derek barked, pointing furiously toward the hallway like Isaac was a demon he was casting out.

“Wait! Wait!” Isaac cried out, legs shaking. “Derek! I can’t move! I really cant move, I’m traumatized! My legs won’t work!”

“You better figure out how to make them work or you’re going to lose them” he growled, pulling one leg through his sweatpants.

“Isaac, for fucks sake, it was just getting good!” Stiles crowed, throwing himself back on the bed. “Don’t you have a bed at Scott’s house?”

“You’re still here huh?” Derek seethed, his sweatpants coming to rest on his hips, he tied the waistband with a flick of his wrist and then he was making his way over to Isaac.

“I swear I will relay this entire scene to pack if you touch me” Isaac threatened, crouching as Derek neared.

“Remember to include this part,” he growled.

“—and then we had some food that I made—”

“…you’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Isaac cried out, looking wildly around the room for support. “We did not kiss and be merry! That’s what he and Stiles did!”

“So, you still broke his leg?” Jackson asked, tilting his head like he was trying to do the math.

“Legs,” Isaac said, flatly.

“Yes,” Derek confirmed, proudly, arms crossing over his chest like he’d been waiting for this moment his whole life. His biceps flexed unnecessarily. “And I’d do it again, won’t I, Isaac?”

“That’s why I had to call you,” Isaac snapped at Scott, jabbing a thumb in Derek’s direction like he was reporting an HR violation.

“As you can see,” Derek said calmly, “he’s standing fine, there’s no blood on my floor, and no threat in my house.” He gestured toward the door without looking. “Now get out.”

“Um, no one is asking the important questions here,” Erica said, finally speaking. “Isaac said Stiles got dicked down in the kinkiest way, and that means a few of you owe me some money, doesn’t it?”

A few scattered curses rang out.

Stiles’ eyes practically bugged out of his head as cash quietly changed hands around him like they were at a blackjack table in Vegas.

He raised both arms in pure disbelief.

A $100 bill literally floated past his face.

“HELLO?!” he shouted.

“You’re fifty bucks short, Jackson” Lydia said casually, without looking up.

“Lydia?!” Stiles squawked in disbelief.

“Babe, I got you” he said, brushing her off.

“Get me now, or I’ll get you.”

Jackson pulled out his phone, the glow illuminating his cheekbones like a scene from a horror movie. Technically, this moment was just that for him.

“You have Venmo, right?”

Lydia sauntered over like she was walking a runway, grabbed his arm, and planted a kiss on his cheek like it was her royal duty.

“I do, baby,” she murmured, rubbing his shoulder. Her eyes didn’t leave the screen.

A ping sounded from her phone.

He smiled, tense and tight.

She checked the notification.

She smiled back—bigger.

Stiles slid further down the wall, head cradled in his hands like he could collapse into the floor and disappear if he believed hard enough.

“You bet on my virginity…” he muttered.

“This is actually the second time,” Isaac said under his breath, almost reflective. Then louder: “WAIT. You needed proof for my bet, but this one is smooth fucking sailing?”

“I don’t make the rules, Isaac,” Erica said sweetly, flipping through her tiny wad of winnings like she was counting cards.

“Guys, that’s not fair. I got my ass kicked for my bet. Erica should have to prove—”

Erica moved before he could finish. She crossed the room with her usual unfazed confidence, grabbed Stiles by the wrist, and yanked him upright with one smooth motion.

“What the hell—”

Without warning, she lifted the hem of his shirt like she was revealing a crime scene.

The room went silent.

A dramatic, scattered cluster of dark hickeys spanned his chest, some feathered along his ribs, others deep and territorial around both nipples.

“Jesus,” someone whispered reverently.

Erica simply pointed back toward Derek without turning around.

Derek hadn’t moved, but now he was openly grinning like a wolf who had just dragged in his favorite chew toy.

He looked... smug. No, pleased.

He looked like he wanted a frame for it.

Stiles made the mistake of meeting his eyes and immediately wanted to peel his own skin off.

“I think I deserve at least $50 for having to see him make some of those,” Isaac said, half-laughing, half-horrified.

“Isaac, I’m tired of hearing your voice. Let’s go outside,” Jackson said suddenly, smiling like a shark.

Isaac blinked. “What? Bro, why do I have to get my ass beat for something they did!”

“I don’t know, Newtons law,” Jackson said simply, already guiding him toward the door.

“That doesn’t make sense—ow! Jesus, at least let me get my keys—”

Jackson stopped and actually gave Isaac a moment to sort through the keys on the table by the door. Isaac meddled through them slowly, buying time, side-eyeing the group as if to ask for help.

“We’ll be right back, leave em”

Jackson gripped the back of his neck instead and pulled him through the open door.

Scott cleared his throat.

“Do we have to leave too?” Scott asked. “It would be a waste of gas, and Stiles’ back could probably use a break.”

He draped an arm across Stiles’ shoulders and squeezed his bicep like they were suddenly in a Hallmark commercial.

Stiles blinked some hair out of his eyes just as Scott leaned in, forehead-to-forehead like he was about to deliver a blessing.

Stiles let out a sharp wheeze and pulled at his face like it was a mask he could remove and escape through.

“No no no no,” he whispered. “This is too much. I have no privacy with you people. This can’t—”

The air shifted.

Where Scott’s arm had been was now a breath of cold air across his skin.

Someone else stood behind him.

They weren’t touching him, but their heat soaked through the space between them, buzzing just above his skin.

A low, familiar rumble rolled through him like thunder underground.

Goosebumps bloomed up both arms.

A deep voice slid over the shell of his ear, slow and sinful.

“Do you want me to make them leave?”

And yep, wow, that's hot.

Lovely.

Because yeah, why not—let’s just layer sexual shame over emotional collapse like it’s a Build-A-Bear.

Everyone in the room was still here. Still watching. 

And then it hit him.

He couldn’t let them leave.

Because if they left, Derek would have full reign. No interruptions. No distractions. Just unholy stamina, terrifying focus, and the hands of a man who held grudges and orgasms the same way: long, unrelenting, and personal.

Sure, the whole jerking-off-to-Derek-to-getting-jerked-off-by-Derek pipeline had been fun, but people had died from too much sex. Documented cases.

He wasn’t about to become the next headline.

“Let’s watch a movie,” he blurted, too loudly, spinning on his heel and stumbling toward the living room like it was a lifeboat.

Snickers echoed behind him, but no one argued.

Eventually, Jackson and Isaac returned. Jackson looked relaxed. Isaac had a single red dot on his collar and the haunted expression of a man who’d seen the sweet release of God, and lost.

They piled into the living room just like old times (read: three-ish chaotic weeks ago).

Stiles picked the movie.

Commentary was ruthless.

Feet ended up on people. Someone brought out popcorn. Erica stole someone’s socks. Derek hovered behind the couch like a watchful gargoyle before finally sitting beside Stiles, thighs pressed tight.

About thirty minutes in, Lydia sighed dramatically and stood up.

She padded toward the kitchen.

“Derek?” she called.

“Hm?” He threw a questioning look over his shoulder.

“Do you have wine?”

Both Stiles and Derek answered at the same time—for wildly different reasons:

“No!”

Lydia tilted her head and raised a brow. “Okay. Then what’s this expensive bottle on top of the fridge?”

Derek emerged slowly from the shadows like he’d been waiting for his entrance cue. “No wine,” he repeated, leaning casually against the doorframe with the kind of posture that implied he could hunker down for an argument that lasted a millennia and still win.

She wasn’t changing his mind.

“You’re soo selfish,” Lydia said, unimpressed. “You have unlimited stores. I know you make wine as a hobby. There are grapes fermenting in real time in that sink.”

“I don’t ferment them in the sink-”

“Is that all it takes?” Isaac asked.

“Why don’t you go taste it and let us know?” Erica said sarcastically.

Scott raised his hand. “Quick question: are we gonna pretend that Derek didn’t just admit to making his own wine like a goth yoga instructor who sells artisanal beef jerky?”

“I’d buy that jerky,” Jackson muttered.

“I’d be that jerky,” Erica smirked.

“Guys, please,” Stiles whimpered, curling in on himself like a dying roach. “My mental state is being held together by, like, three Chick-fil-A sauce packets and a YouTube playlist of calming ocean sounds and you're not making it any better.”

“I thought your last search history was just ‘how to walk normal after vigorous—’” Isaac started, already grinning.

“I WILL MURDER YOU,” Stiles yelled, snatching the nearest throw pillow and hurling it with the power of ten sleepless nights.

“Joke’s on you,” Isaac said, catching it one-handed with an infuriating wink. “I get off on pain and pettiness.”

“Okay,” Lydia announced, clapping once from the kitchen—loud, sharp, like a gunshot. Everyone flinched. “Movie’s paused. New game: Stiles’ Search History Roulette.”

“OKAY,” Stiles barked, springing to his feet like a man cornered by rats. “No more democracy in this pack. We’re a dictatorship now. I’m the dictator. Everyone shut up. Movie. Now.”

Erica raised her hand lazily from where she was sprawled upside down on the loveseat. “Counterproposal: every time someone makes Stiles blush, we take a drink.”

Lydia, without a word, picked up the wine again like she’d been waiting for that excuse.

“You’re gonna need another bottle,” Derek said, smirking from the shadows.

And yep, Stiles was blushing already.

“How will you even know if I’m blushing in the dark?” he asked, genuinely concerned. “I could be overheating from shame, not attraction—there’s nuance!”

“We can smell it,” Erica chimed in, baring her teeth.

Lydia passed around a few plastic cups and cracked the cork on Derek’s bottle like it was a grenade pin. Stiles stared at it like it was a crime in progress.

Wait.

It was.

“Wait—no—that’s one of the expensive ones,” he hissed, grabbing at Derek’s sleeve.

But Derek didn’t seem concerned. If anything, he was smiling—soft, secretive, stupidly hot.

“Don’t worry,” he whispered into Stiles’ ear, lips brushing the skin and setting off an internal system crash. “I keep the best stuff hidden.”

And then—lower, even closer—

“When they leave, I can show you if you want.”

A kiss was pressed to the curve of his earlobe like punctuation.

His entire body flushed red.

The group groaned in unison, several of them shielding their noses like they were in a gas leak.

“Is he blushing?!” Lydia asked in a panic, reaching for the bottle like it was a fire extinguisher.

“He’s doing more than that,” Jackson gagged through a pinched nose. “Fill my cup to the rim!”

“Fill mine too” Derek added, voice low and just a little wrecked.

Stiles smiled without meaning to.

“You know what, fuck the movie,” Jackson stood up abruptly, cup in hand. He threw it back in one clean motion.

“I have literally anything else at my house,” Scott squeaked, hopping up so fast his foot caught on the edge of the rug.

The room was descending into chaos. Lydia was trying to pack an open bottle of wine into a gallon Ziplock while Erica held her bag open, Jackson and Scott argued over who would drive and who would come back for their car. Isaac was picking up the groceries he’d brought in whilst also cleaning Derek out of house and home--

Then:
A sound.

Low.

Deep.

The pack stilled.

Eyes swiveled.

“…Was that Derek?” Erica whispered.

Stiles blinked.

Oh shit.
Derek had laughed.
Derek Hale had laughed.

“You laugh?!” Isaac asked, scandalized like someone had kicked over the moon.

And maybe Stiles should’ve been alarmed, but instead he grinned.

He started laughing too.

Derek had a sense of humor.

A good one.

“I told you to get out,” Derek said smoothly, still smiling.

“Right, cool, that’s all we needed—”
“Stiles, I’ll call you at some point, okay?”
“Let me know how good it is!” Erica chirped.

And just like that, the room emptied. 

The door shut.

Silence fell.

Stiles grinned at Derek.

“You’re something else you know that?” he said, voice a little shaky, a little hoarse.

Derek’s eyes went dark—darker.

He leaned in, smooth as ever, invading all of Stiles’ airspace like it belonged to him.

His eyelashes drooped and Stiles could tell he was no longer holding his gaze. Without breaking eye contact he reached for an abandoned cup and held it to Stiles lips.

He didn’t blink.

Didn’t speak.

Until:

“Drink.”

And Stiles did.

Because of course he fucking did.