Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Melissa had worked in brisk, efficient silence, the living room still smelling faintly of blood and fear from the night before. The sound of fabric tearing—Melissa cutting away a ruined sleeve—made Derek’s jaw tighten.

“Jesus—what is that?” Stiles hissed when antiseptic hit the raw skin at his ribs. “Did you find the world’s sharpest burn in a bottle just for me?”

Melissa didn’t even pause. “It’s called medicine, Stiles. Hold still.”

“Yeah, sure, if I lose a layer of skin in the process…” He trailed off, wincing again.

Derek stayed close enough to touch, one hand planted on the couch frame, the other curling into a fist at his side. His wolf was pacing under his skin, restless with the smell of fresh wounds and Stiles’ uneven breathing. But beneath it was something else—a pulse of realization that had been pounding at him since the second Stiles’ eyes had flickered amber.

The bite had worked.

It hit him in waves, almost dizzying. He’d never needed Stiles to be like him. His family had been a mix of human and wolf—human packmates, human blood—and the bond had been no less real. Of course Derek had thought about what it would be like — Stiles understanding to his core. But he could live without that. He’d only ever wanted Stiles to love him, to stay. But now… now Stiles would know. The instincts, the pull of the moon, the way scent could steady or undo you. He wouldn’t have to explain what it meant to feel your wolf clawing at the surface—Stiles would feel it too.

Melissa tossed the last bloodied gauze into the trash and straightened. “That’s it. He’s cleaned up, but he’s still healing slower like a human right now. Don’t expect him to stand for a while.”

Derek didn’t answer, just bent and slid an arm behind Stiles’ shoulders, another under his knees.

“Hey—” Stiles started, but his voice was already softening, worn thin by exhaustion.

“Just sleep,” Derek said quietly.

He carried him up the stairs, careful not to jostle him, each step deliberate. Stiles’ head rested against his chest, the steady beat of his heart grounding Derek more than he wanted to admit.

In the bedroom, Derek eased him down onto the mattress, tucking the blanket around him. He brushed a damp lock of hair back from Stiles’ forehead, his fingers lingering for a heartbeat too long before he made himself pull away.

He’s like me now, Derek thought, chest tightening. It wasn’t just relief—it was wonder. Stiles would understand him in ways no human ever could. 

As Derek stood in the hallway, he noticed the house was finally quiet.

Derek stepped into the bathroom and shut the door behind him, the sound of the latch clicking far too loud in the stillness. He stripped slowly, each movement deliberate, peeling away layers of clothing stiff with dried blood. They hit the tile with a wet, heavy sound.

John had shoved a towel at him earlier, but it hadn’t done much. The mirror over the sink reflected a version of him he barely recognized—face streaked with rust-red, neck and chest smeared where it had run in rivulets. Most of it wasn’t his.

            Peter’s blood.

It clung to his skin like a brand, dark and dried at the edges, warm only in memory. His stomach twisted, not at the kill—Peter had earned that—but at what had come with it.

Derek met his own gaze in the mirror and, without meaning to, let the wolf bleed through. Blood-red eyes flared back at him, a jolt of recognition hitting so hard it made him grip the counter.

            The Alpha spark.

It was his now. His mother’s once, the quiet strength in her voice when she’d told him he was born to protect. Laura’s after that, carried with her laugh and the steadying weight of her hand on his shoulder. Peter had stolen it, warped it, and now—now it burned in Derek’s own chest.

A gift. A weight.

He didn’t know if he wanted it.

Derek tore his gaze away, stepped into the shower, and twisted the knob until steam curled against the glass. The first rush of water hit hard and hot, carrying streaks of red down the drain. He braced both hands against the wall, letting it beat against the back of his neck, and tried to breathe past the tangle in his chest.

It helped. A little.

The water finally ran clear. Derek shut it off and stood for a moment in the lingering steam, breathing slow, before stepping out. He toweled off quickly, pulling on clean sweats and a T-shirt from the small pile he’d brought in with him.

When he opened the door, the hallway light caught on the rim of a coffee cup. John was sitting on the floor outside, back against the wall, legs stretched out, looking like he’d been there a while.

Derek knew that Melissa and Scott had gone home already. After Melissa had patched Scott where needed, they had their own reckoning—Scott knowing his mom knew, Melissa knowing her son was knee-deep in this world. They had headed home and now Derek and John were alone.

Derek stopped short. “You could’ve just—”

“You needed a minute,” John said, lifting the mug toward him. “Coffee?”

Derek hesitated, taking in the faint circles under John’s eyes, the careful set of his shoulders. “You’re offering me caffeine at—” he glanced toward the dark window “—what, two in the morning?”

“I’m offering conversation because I need to know.” John tipped the mug again. “What’s going to happen to my son now?”

It wasn’t barked or accusing, but it landed heavy.

Derek exhaled, leaned back against the opposite wall, and slid down until he was sitting too. The coffee was warm when John passed it over, and Derek wrapped both hands around the mug without thinking.

“The full moon’s in two days,” Derek said. “He won’t have time to get used to any of this before it hits him. And it’s… a lot. Rage, instincts, the wolf wanting out. If we’re not careful, it'll be bad.”

John nodded slowly, eyes narrowed in thought. “What else? What changes right away?”

“Heightened senses,” Derek said. “Smell, hearing, sight—he’ll pick up on things he never noticed before. It’ll be disorienting at first. He’ll run hot all the time. He might be clumsier for a while until his body catches up to his reflexes.”

John huffed, almost smiling. “Stiles being more clumsy? That’s hard to imagine.”

“He’ll adjust,” Derek said, a corner of his mouth twitching. “And he’ll be stronger. Faster. More resilient. But that also means… when emotions spike, his control will be tested. Anger, fear, even excitement—they’ll hit harder, and if he doesn’t keep a lid on it…”

“He hurts someone,” John finished quietly.

“Or himself.”

They were quiet for a beat. Somewhere downstairs, the old house creaked, settling.

“Will he still be—” John shifted, searching for the words. “My kid? The one who talks too fast, forgets to eat breakfast, can’t sit still?”

“Yes,” Derek said without hesitation. “It doesn’t erase who he is. The wolf doesn’t replace him—it’s just… another part of him now. I’ll make sure he learns how to live with it.”

John studied him for a long moment. “You really mean that.”

“I do.”

For the first time, Derek saw John’s posture ease, just a fraction. He took the empty mug back when Derek handed it over, setting it beside him on the floor.

They talked until the quiet gray light of morning began to seep in through the curtains—about control, the pull of the moon, how to keep Stiles safe without making him feel caged. John asked if there’d be more hunters, if there were rules about territory, if Derek had a plan for what to do when Stiles inevitably tried to test his limits. Derek answered each one patiently, surprising himself with how easy it was to answer.

By the time they both stood, Stiles was still sleeping, breathing slow and even. John’s gaze flicked toward the bedroom door, then back to Derek.

“We’ll handle it,” John said. Then, after a pause: “And, son—” His voice caught for a second before smoothing out. “Thanks.”

*

Derek lingered in the hall, back to the wall, listening.

John’s voice was low, carrying the weight of a night without sleep. “Morning, kid.”

There was a pause, then Stiles’ familiar, scratchy sarcasm. “Define morning.”

Derek smiled.

They went back and forth for a minute, John’s tone softer than Derek was used to hearing, Stiles answering in that quick-fire way that said he was awake but still running on fumes. Derek soaked in every word, letting the rhythm of it settle some of the tension that had been coiled in his chest all night.

Then Stiles’ tone sharpened. “So… Peter?”

John didn’t skip a beat. “He’s dead. Derek killed him.”

The words landed hard in Derek’s gut, even though he’d lived them. He could hear Stiles shift against the bedding.

John went on, “It’s a long story. We can talk about that more later, when you’ve got more energy. The gist is that after Peter bit you, Derek went after him, and Peter didn’t get back up. But you’re safe. That’s what matters.”

Derek pushed off the wall when John came to the door. The sheriff’s eyes met his briefly—some mix of warning and permission—before he stepped out into the hall. “He’s all yours.”

Derek stepped inside. Stiles was propped up a little, pale but very much awake.

“Hey,” Derek said quietly.

“Don’t ‘hey’ me,” Stiles shot back. “I just heard from my dad that while I was unconscious, you decided to go full action hero and take on Peter alone? What the hell, Derek? What happened to being the one with the plan?”

Derek opened his mouth, but nothing useful came out.

“Do you have any idea how bad that could’ve gone?” Stiles pushed, eyes flashing with heat. “You could’ve—”

“Thank God,” Derek cut in, the words slipping out before he could stop them. His voice cracked, raw. “I thought I was gonna lose you.”

Stiles blinked, thrown off by the sudden shift.

“I knew you’d still be you,” Derek went on, the words tight and uneven, “but seeing you… hearing you…” He shook his head, looking away, jaw clenched against the rush in his chest. “I’ve lost too much, Stiles.”

The room was quiet except for their breathing. Then Stiles reached out, hooking a hand around the back of Derek’s neck and pulling him down until Derek’s forehead rested against his shoulder.

“Come here,” Stiles said, softer now.

Derek closed his eyes, carefully crawled onto the bed, and let himself breathe it in—Stiles’ scent, the steady beat of his heart, the reality of him alive and warm and right here. For the first time since the night before, Derek’s wolf truly settled.

They stayed like that for a long moment, the house quiet around them. Then Stiles shifted just enough to speak against his shoulder. “So, I’m a werewolf now.”

Derek pulled back slightly to meet his eyes. “Yeah. I know.”

“You realize the full moon’s in two days, right?”

Derek nodded. “I know that too.”

“That’s soon,” Stiles said, and Derek could hear the thread of unease under the casual tone.

“You won’t be alone,” Derek told him, steady and certain. “Not now. Not ever.”

That got him a faint, crooked smile. But then Stiles’ gaze sharpened, and Derek could see the pivot coming before Stiles even opened his mouth.

“And speaking of things that are soon…” Stiles tilted his head. “You’ve been avoiding the whole ‘birthday-on-Christmas’ thing since you told me about it.”

Derek sighed, leaning back a little. “We’ve had a lot going on.”

“Yeah, well, news flash—December 25th is still happening, whether you want to celebrate it or not.”

Derek looked away, jaw working. “I don’t know if I do.”

“Fine,” Stiles said, easy but deliberate. “You don’t have to decide that right now. But Christmas is still happening, and so is your birthday. And I’m not letting either slide by like they’re nothing.”

“You’re exhausting,” Derek muttered, but there was no real heat behind it.

“I wouldn’t be me if I wasn’t,” Stiles said, smirking.

***

By the time John woke, the house was still and heavy with the kind of quiet that followed a storm. He’d managed a few hours of sleep on the couch, the aches in his back a small price for keeping one ear tuned for trouble. The smell of old coffee hung in the air, and the muted winter light through the blinds told him it was later than he’d expected.

He moved into the kitchen, set the coffee to reheat, and leaned on the counter while the machine hummed. His mind kept circling back to the same two points. One: Stiles was a werewolf. Fangs, glowstick eyes, the whole shebang. And point two: There were still two bodies in the woods, each with a story no one in law enforcement was supposed to know about. 

That was the more concerning thought for now.

Kate Argent, officially “wanted” and “to be taken alive,” now with her throat slit. Peter Hale, mauled to death in a way that would never pass for human hands. John had seen enough in his years to know exactly what those crime scene photos would look like—and exactly how fast the wrong conclusions could spread.

The coffee beeped, and he poured it into his favorite battered mug, letting the heat bleed into his palms. Footsteps in the hall drew his attention, and Derek appeared, hair still damp from a second shower, looking marginally less like hell but no less guarded.

“We’ve got a problem,” John said as Derek stepped into the kitchen.

One raised brow. No surprise—Derek wasn’t the kind of man to expect good news. Ever.

“The bodies,” John clarified, taking a swallow of coffee before continuing. “We can’t just leave them out there.” He set the mug down with a muted clink, watching Derek’s expression stay unreadable. “Kate was wanted back into custody. Now she’s dead with a slashed throat. And Peter—” John paused, holding Derek’s gaze, “—Peter’s dead with very inhuman injuries that led to his death.”

Derek’s jaw tightened, but his eyes didn’t flinch.

“Thank you for that headache,” John added dryly.

That got him a faint, almost sheepish flicker from Derek. “I wasn’t really thinking that far ahead in my defense.”

John rubbed a hand over his face, the scratch of stubble catching on his palm. “Alright. We need a plan. We can’t have the wrong people finding either of them and asking the wrong questions. Which, in this town, is everyone with a badge, except for me.”

Derek leaned a shoulder against the counter, arms crossing in that way John was starting to recognize as his default stance when he didn’t want to give too much away. “You already have something in mind?”

“I’ve got a few ideas,” John admitted. “But they all involve cooperation from people I don’t particularly want to see right now.”

Derek’s eyes narrowed slightly. “The Argents.”

John gave a grim nod. “They’ll want to control the narrative as much as I do. But that doesn’t mean I trust them.”

*

The knock was sharp and deliberate—three even raps that carried the weight of someone who expected to be answered.

Derek’s head came up, muscles going tight. Hunters. He could smell them already.

John shot him a look over his shoulder, the kind that said keep it together, before he moved to the door. Derek stayed where he was, leaning against the kitchen counter, tracking every sound. The hinges creaked, and their scent hit him full force—clean metal, gun oil, faint traces of wolfsbane.

Victoria Argent stepped in first, eyes cold enough to freeze the air between them. Chris followed a step behind, quieter, scanning the space until his gaze landed on Derek and stayed there for a beat too long.

“I assume Stiles is one of you now,” Chris said, voice flat, “otherwise you wouldn’t still be breathing.”

Derek’s jaw flexed, but he didn’t answer.

Footsteps creaked on the stairs. Derek didn’t have to look to know the rhythm—light, uneven, with just enough extra weight on the balls of his feet to be intentionally loud.

Stiles came into view, hair a mess, Derek’s hoodie hanging halfway off one shoulder. His gaze flicked from Chris to Derek, catching the tension in the air. He gave Derek a quick, meaningful look—we’ll talk about that later—He had heard the comment.

“Oh, look,” Stiles said brightly, turning to Chris. “If the trash could take itself out, that’d be great.”

John’s hand went up halfway like he might pinch the bridge of his nose. Chris’ expression didn’t change, but Victoria’s mouth tightened.

“We’re here about the bodies,” Victoria said, cutting past the barb. “You can’t leave them where they are, and you can’t bring them in without attracting attention.”

John closed the door behind them. “We were just discussing that.”

Derek straightened a little, arms crossing. “Talk.”

Victoria’s eyes narrowed slightly at the tone, but she pressed on. “We get rid of the original bodies, but lay a cover story for law enforcement. Kate and Peter’s bodies are claimed under hunter protocol. Cremated, ashes scattered—no evidence left. Then the scene is staged with burned remains from the morgue—unclaimed bodies, one male, one female, already scheduled for cremation. Both deaths are written up as an accident in a cabin fire. We say that Kate was meeting a contact who was trying to get her out of the country. Hunters get their closure with Peter. Cops get their paperwork filed away, no one digs deeper.”

John gave a slow nod. “Cleaner than what I had in mind, but stealing bodies from the morgue? How are you pulling that off?”

Chris finally spoke again, eyes still on Derek. “I think the less details we tell you the better Sheriff, but it means moving soon, before weather or animals scatter what’s left.”

Derek didn’t look away. “Then you should move tonight. I think Kate is your mess and you’re already offering to clean it up.”

A muscle in Chris’ jaw ticked. He held Derek’s gaze a moment longer before giving the faintest nod, clipped and reluctant. “You’re not wrong.”

Victoria’s mouth thinned, her voice cold as steel. “Don’t mistake that for absolution. But yes. Kate should’ve been handled before it came to this.”

She glanced at Chris, then back at Derek, the tension sharp in her eyes. “We’ll move tonight.”

***

The house felt different once the Argents were gone—quieter, but charged, like the air just before a storm.

Stiles paced the living room, head tilting, nostrils flaring like he couldn’t decide what sense to focus on first. Derek leaned against the far wall, watching it all happen behind his eyes.

“I can hear Mrs. Lewis yelling at her husband,” Stiles blurted suddenly. “Through a wall. Two streets over.”

John, from the kitchen, muttered, “You’ll love that during football season.”

“And someone’s making coffee,” Stiles added, sniffing. His brow furrowed. “Hazelnut. Three blocks away…this is insane.”

Derek pushed off the wall and crossed the room, sliding a steadying hand to the back of Stiles’ neck. “Focus on my voice,” he said, tone even. “Filter the rest out. One thing at a time.”

Stiles’ eyes flicked to his, and Derek felt the pull like a taut wire between them.

“That’s… better,” Stiles admitted after a moment, his breathing syncing with Derek’s.

Derek kept his hand there longer than necessary. Possessiveness was already humming under his skin, stronger than it had ever been. His wolf was screaming that Stiles was his.

Derek caught himself shifting slightly, positioning his body between Stiles and the front door without thinking.

John noticed and, of course, didn't let it slide. “You planning to guard him from the mailman too?”

“Maybe,” Derek said, not looking away from Stiles, but the corner of his mouth ticked up.

Stiles grinned, something feral in the curve of it. “Do you smell that too?”

Derek’s brows pulled together. “Smell what?”

“This.” Stiles stepped closer, fingers finding Derek’s wrist and holding there. “The way you… want me.”

The heat between them flared, pulling every shred of Derek’s focus. Stiles’ pulse was quick, matching his own. His cinnamon scent was still there, but it lit up like lightning now—sharp with curiosity, warm with want, threaded with that bright note of new-wolf energy that had Derek’s wolf answering instinctively.

He didn’t move his hand from Stiles’ neck. If anything, his grip tightened slightly, grounding and claiming all at once.

“I thought you’re not supposed to distract me,” Stiles said, voice low, teasing.

“You’re not supposed to be this controlled,” Derek countered.

For a beat, they just stood there, breathing the same air. Derek could feel the subtle shift in Stiles’ stance, the way he leaned in fractionally, drawn in by the same pull Derek was fighting not to give in to completely.

John’s voice cut through from the kitchen doorway. “I’m still here, you know.”

Neither of them moved right away. Derek’s hand finally slid from the back of Stiles’ neck, fingertips trailing deliberately before letting go. “I know,” he said, glancing toward John, “but he’s learning, so fast. And I can’t help what that does to me.”

John retreated toward the kitchen with a mutter about needing more coffee, leaving the room to them.

Stiles didn’t waste the opening. “Okay,” he said, tugging Derek’s arm just enough to pull him back into that bubble of shared space—not that Derek had really moved much. “first question—how far can you actually hear?”

Derek tilted his head. “Farther than you. For now.”

“Not helpful,” Stiles shot back. “Is it, like, miles? State lines? Because right now I can hear the guy three houses down scraping burnt toast into his sink.”

Derek allowed the smallest smile. “Depends on what you’re listening for.”

“Great. And smell—” Stiles’ voice sped up, hands moving while he talked. “Am I going to start recognizing people by deodorant brands? Or the soap they use? Or—holy crap, that’s your heartbeat. I can smell your heartbeat.”

“It’s not your nose,” Derek corrected quietly. “It’s the shift in blood flow, you’re hearing it, and it’s matching up with the scent. But yes.”

“That’s—okay, that’s kind of hot—is it because of me?” Stiles admitted and asked at the same time, eyes narrowing in mock suspicion. “Wait, can you smell mine right now?”

“Yes, always” Derek said again, voice low enough to make the air between them hum.

“Alright, adding ‘heart rate kink’ to the list of things I didn’t know about myself,” Stiles muttered, and Derek’s wolf purred at the claim.

“And vision?” Stiles pressed on. “Do we get, like, night vision? Heat vision? Predator-style laser targeting?”

“Low light, motion tracking, and better detail at a distance,” Derek said. “You’ll see shapes and movement in the dark before you register color. And you’ll notice patterns humans miss.”

“That’s… insane, this is insane,” Stiles breathed. “I was already dangerous with ADHD. Now I’m basically—oh my God, I can hear your pulse change when I get closer.”

Derek didn’t even try to hide the faint smirk. “And I can hear yours.”

For a beat, Stiles just stood there, watching him like he was cataloging every reaction. Then he leaned in a fraction, nose lifting slightly like he was scenting without thinking about it.

“I can smell you,” Stiles said, quieter now. “Like… all the time. And it’s different than before. Stronger. It’s—God, it’s stupid, but it feels like coming home, like it’s mine.”

Something in Derek’s chest tightened. “That’s because it is, it’s because you’re mine too.” The words came out deeper than he meant, weighted with an instinct he wasn’t trying to hide anymore.

Stiles’ pupils blew wide, a heat sparking there that made Derek’s skin prickle. “You’re really leaning into this possessive alpha thing, huh?”

“I can’t help it when it comes to you.”

It wasn’t just attraction anymore. The bond now had teeth—it pulled at Derek in ways he couldn’t have anticipated when Stiles was human. There was no need to translate his instincts into words; Stiles understood them now, the same way Derek understood the electric crackle in Stiles’ scent. It was shared language, unspoken but undeniable. It was theirs.

Derek stepped just close enough to feel the heat radiating off him. He could hear the catch in Stiles’ breath, smell the way his pulse kicked, and it hit him all over again—this wouldn’t have happened if Stiles were still human. Not like this. Not with this depth, this clarity.

“You’re doing that look again,” Stiles said softly, though his voice had lost its edge of teasing.

“What look?” Derek asked, letting his gaze flick briefly to Stiles’ mouth.

“The one that says you’re two seconds from throwing me over your shoulder.”

He wished he had better control, but he didn’t deny it. And Stiles didn’t look like he’d stop him. “That’s because I really want to.”

*

Three sharp knocks on the door.

Derek bit back a growl. Stiles made a noise that was equal parts frustration and disbelief.

John, in the kitchen, called, “That’ll be for you kido.”

Stiles could still feel the echo of Derek’s presence in his space even after he stepped back—that low, thrumming pull that had nothing to do with proximity and everything to do with them. It sat under his skin now, woven into every sense he had, and it made the knock at the door feel like an intrusion.

He shot Derek a glare that was more promise than threat—we’re not done—before yanking the door open.

Scott stood there with a backpack hugged to his chest, looking like he’d sprinted over. “You’re okay,” he breathed, stepping in before Stiles could say anything.

“Yeah, I’m okay,” Stiles said, and the words came out softer than he meant. He meant them for Scott, but his eyes flicked to Derek instinctively, catching the way Derek’s gaze tracked him even from across the room.

Stiles had so many questions for Derek now. Questions he had never even thought to ask. The world felt amplified in every possible way. Colors were brighter, sounds were clearer, and scent? Scent had this new meaning that he felt deep in his chest. Stiles could feel scent, and when he applied that to Derek? It felt like nothing he could describe. Stiles was baffled that Scott had never mentioned how different the world was after the bite.

Scott put his arms around Stiles’ shoulders as he walked inside—just like he had thousands of times over their lives. It was normal…until it wasn’t.

Stiles felt it—something new sliding into place inside him, sharp and undeniable. Scott needed to let go. The invisible line between the two other wolves in the room wasn’t just tension like Stiles had assumed before; it was alive, humming, and Stiles could feel himself standing right on it. Scott was his best friend—would always be—but Derek… Derek was his in a way Scott could never touch.

Stiles felt the need to pull away from Scott. Putting space there, not to make Derek happy, but to make himself more comfortable. 

It wasn’t about loyalty. It was something deeper, primal, that had nothing to do with choice and everything to do with the way Derek’s scent wrapped around him like it belonged there.

Scott froze mid-step as Stiles pulled away, eyes narrowing slightly at Derek, and Stiles felt the ripple of it—a subtle push of presence that his body reacted to without thought. And now that he could feel it, he understood.

“Ohhh,” Stiles said slowly, letting his gaze flick between them. “I get it now.”

Derek gave him an understanding look and the corner of his mouth ticked up ever so slightly.

Scott blinked. “Get what?” Like Scott didn’t fully understand.

“The dominance thing,” Stiles said, gesturing vaguely between them. “That weird, chest-puff, glare-y thing you and Derek do over me? Yeah. I can feel it now. And… wow.”

Scott looked unsettled, but not angry—more like someone who’d just been handed a puzzle they didn’t want to solve. “That’s… really weird.”

“You think it’s weird?” Stiles grinned, feeling the hum of Derek’s focus still locked on him from across the room. “Try being in the middle of it. It’s like a whole other conversation I can’t un-hear now.”

Scott’s gaze flicked to Derek again, searching for something, but Derek didn’t move, didn’t even blink. His red eyes weren’t showing, but Stiles could feel them anyway.

It hit Stiles harder than he wanted to admit—that Scott would always be the guy who had grown up with him, who he had spent nights sneaking out windows and lying to cops with, but Derek was the one who could still the restless buzz in his chest with a single look now. The one who was already under his skin in a way that wasn’t coming out. The one Stiles wanted.

Scott held out the stack of books like they were a shield. “Brought your homework. Thought you’d want to keep up.”

Stiles took them, eyes still locked on Derek. “Thanks. You can go now if you want. I know this is a little weird for you.”

Scott hesitated, shifting the backpack higher on his shoulder. “We don’t have time for how weird I feel. Jackson’s already pushing me. Said if I don’t get him turned, he’s gonna tell people what’s going on, remember? We’ve only got a couple days to figure it out before he does something stupid.”

Derek finally looked up, unimpressed. “And what exactly is he going to say, Scott? That werewolves are real? With what proof? People will think he’s crazy.”

Scott blinked, floored by how little Derek seemed to care. “You don’t get it. He’s serious.”

“I don’t care about Jackson’s tantrums,” Derek said, voice sharp. “Let him run his mouth. Without proof, it’s just noise. Jackson is not my priority right now.” His gaze turned to Stiles.

Stiles shifted, uneasy. He knew Jackson’s threats weren’t nothing. But the logic in Derek’s voice, the certainty in it, made something inside him settle. He leaned into it like it had been waiting all along. “He’s… kinda right, Scott. People aren’t going to believe him without something to show them.”

The look on Scott’s face tightened instantly, hurt flashing sharp in his eyes. “So that’s it? Derek talks, you just side with him now?”

“Whoa, what? No—”

“Yes,” Scott said, cutting him off, voice rising. “That’s exactly what just happened. Less than a day, Stiles. You’ve been like this for less than a day and you’re already—” He stopped, jaw clenching, but the word hung there anyway.

His.

Stiles froze, chest tight. He hadn’t said it out loud, but Scott wasn’t wrong. The need humming in his blood was more than want, more than logic. Stiles loved Derek before the bite, but now? Derek’s presence had settled something bone-deep in him that Scott’s friendship couldn’t ever hope to be.

Scott’s gaze flicked between them—Stiles steady, Derek unreadable but unwavering—and his voice cracked with something that wasn’t just frustration. “I don’t even recognize you right now. You’re different.”

Stiles swallowed hard, trying for even. “Yeah. I am. I didn’t die last night. This is me now.”

The silence stretched. Then Scott shook his head sharply and turned for the door.

The slam echoed through the house, rattling picture frames on the wall.

For a moment, all Stiles could hear was his own heartbeat, fast and uneven. Guilt crawled sharp under his skin. Scott was Scott—he’d always been his best friend, even when they fought—and some part of him wanted to chase after him, smooth it over. But the rest of him—the louder part, the wolf part—was humming in fierce agreement with Derek. The truth of it sat in his chest like gravity.

From the kitchen, John muttered, “That boy’s jealous as hell.”

Stiles startled a little, glancing at him. “I didn’t mean to—”

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” John said firmly, stepping into the room. “Derek’s right. Jackson runs his mouth, nobody believes him. That’s the truth, not just your instincts talking.” His gaze softened. “Don’t beat yourself up for agreeing with him when he’s right.”

Stiles’ shoulders slumped, but the restless buzz under his skin didn’t ease. Not until Derek moved. He crossed the space between them without hurry, his steps quiet, and stopped close enough that his presence pressed warm and steady against the pull inside Stiles’ chest.

The effect was instant. The restless buzz under Stiles’ skin eased, his breath evened, and the weight of the books in his arms no longer felt like it might drag him under. It was grounding. Calming. Like oxygen in starving lungs.

It was peppermint first, sharp and cool, but underneath it curled something darker, warmer—smoke and cedar threaded into something wholly, unmistakably Derek. No cologne, no soap. Just Derek.

And worse—better—it wasn’t one-sided. The scent wrapped around him like it recognized him back, like his own scent was intertwining with Derek’s.

The words tumbled out before Stiles could stop them. “It’s… you. That smell. It’s like—” His voice cracked. “It’s like I can breathe again when you’re here. And I hate how much I need it.”

Derek’s gaze softened in that quiet way he rarely let anyone see. He didn’t ask, didn’t press. He just reached out, took the books away and then folded Stiles into his arms, solid and steady.

The rest of the tension bled out of Stiles all at once. He pressed his face against Derek’s shoulder, breathing in the scent that had already become as essential as air. “I thought I’d go back to school tomorrow,” he admitted, voice muffled. “But if a fight with Scott knocks me sideways like this, how the hell am I supposed to get through a whole day without you right there?”

Derek’s arms tightened fractionally, his chest rumbling low with the wolf’s answer: you don’t have to.

“That’s what anchors are,” Derek said quietly against his hair. “You need me because your wolf doesn’t know how to settle yet. And you’re mine too. I feel it just as much as you do.”

Stiles’ throat went tight, his heart hammering too fast. “So it’s not just me losing it?”

“No,” Derek said, firm but gentle. “It’s us. It’s supposed to be like this. You’re not meant to have it all under control in twelve hours. No one does.”

Stiles clung tighter, the realization hitting like a punch to the chest. “I need this. I need you like—like oxygen. Without it I don’t… I don’t know if I can hold it together. I definitely can’t go back to school.”

Derek’s hand slid up to the back of his neck, grounding, quiet, sure. He didn’t give false promises. He just held on, letting his presence speak for him.

For the first time since Scott walked in, Stiles didn’t feel guilty for choosing this. He felt safe.

John leaned back in his chair, satisfied. “Glad we’re all in agreement about school.”

“I didn’t like it,” Stiles muttered, but even he heard how weak it sounded. Because deep down, he knew he wasn’t ready. And the worst part? The need curling under his skin didn’t feel wrong. It felt inevitable. Perfect.

*

John’s phone went off just after dinner, his voice dropping into that clipped, no-nonsense tone that meant the station needed him.

By the time he’d shrugged into his jacket and grabbed his keys, Stiles already knew it was going to be a late one.

“Don’t burn the place down,” John said as he stepped out.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Stiles called back, listening for the cruiser’s engine turning over in the driveway.

The taillights disappeared down the street, and Stiles barely waited for the sound of the engine to fade.

Derek had just turned the deadbolt when Stiles grabbed a fistful of his shirt and shoved him back against the door, kissing him like the world was ending.

It hit him instantly. The scent. Peppermint, enough to make his head spin, smoke and cedar curling underneath, thick and warm. He’d caught it before in flashes, thought maybe it was cologne, but now—now it roared through him like it belonged under his skin.

It wasn’t just attraction. It was recognition. His whole body hummed with it, instincts sparking bright and relentless.

He pulled back just enough to gasp, “Is this—” His mouth crashed back against Derek’s, greedy. “Is this what it’s always like for you? When we kiss?”

“Yes,” Derek growled, rough and sure, his hands already gripping Stiles’ waist like he was afraid to let go.

Stiles groaned into his mouth, dizzy with it, with him. “You’ve been living with this? This whole time?”

“Yes,” Derek said again, desperate this time, pulling Stiles closer until their chests ground together. “Every time. Drives me insane.”

Stiles whimpered, because it was too much and not enough, because for the first time he could feel it in his bones—the way Derek’s scent spiked, the way his wolf sang in answer. “Good,” he rasped, biting at Derek’s jaw. “Good. You’re mine.”

Derek’s chest rumbled at the word, the sound vibrating through both of them, and it sent a shock of satisfaction tearing through Stiles’ nerves.

He couldn’t stop. Didn’t want to. He bit at Derek’s shoulder, breathed him in, and whispered it again, lower, hungrier. “Mine.”

Derek’s answering growl was wrecked, answering in kind. “Yours.”

They stumbled toward the couch, leaving a mess of clothes behind them. Every time Stiles pressed his mouth to Derek’s skin, Derek’s scent spiked sharper, thicker, and Stiles’ wolf roared in approval. It was like learning a new language he’d somehow always known, like his body had been waiting for this vocabulary.

He shoved Derek down onto the cushions, climbing over him to straddle, kissing him until his lips felt raw. “You smell like—God, you smell like everything I need.”

“You’re gonna kill me,” Derek muttered, voice ragged, though his hands were already dragging Stiles closer.

“You’ve survived this long,” Stiles shot back, biting down at the curve of his throat, marking him with teeth and heat and purpose. “Need you to smell like mine.”

Derek let out a sound that was half-growl, half-moan, and it only spurred Stiles on.

“Mine,” he said against his collarbone.

“Yours,” Derek answered, wrecked.

“Mine,” against his throat.

“Yours,” rougher this time, like it tore itself out of his chest.

Stiles kissed him again, deep enough to leave them both gasping, slick and desperate and dizzy with need.

They were skin to skin now, sweat-slick, heat rolling off them in waves. Derek’s nails raked lightly down his back, grounding and claiming at once.

Stiles’ head spun. The want was staggering—feral, bone-deep, endless. He hadn’t understood before, not really, not until now. And the realization hit like a punch: Derek had been feeling this all along. Every kiss, every brush of contact. This fire. This need.

It made Stiles moan into Derek’s mouth, half-apology, half-promise. “No wonder you look at me like that,” he whispered, kissing him again, harder. “You’ve been burning with this the whole time.”

Derek groaned, dragging him closer, every answer in the press of his mouth, the scrape of his teeth, the shake of his hands.

“Always,” Derek murmured against his lips. “Always you.”

Stiles wasn’t thinking much after that, grinding down once just to feel the jolt of pressure and nearly losing his mind at how good it was.

“Fuck,” Stiles gasped, clinging to Derek’s shoulders, eyes wide and wild. “It’s—God, it’s too much.”

“It’s the wolf,” Derek said, voice ragged, forehead pressed to Stiles’. “You feel it now.”

Stiles moaned into his mouth, half-apology, half-promise. “No wonder you’re always wrecked. No wonder—”

And then, sharp and merciless, the phone rang.

They froze, both breathing hard, still tangled together. The sound sliced through the haze, leaving Stiles dizzy with the sharp ache of frustration.

He groaned, burying his face against Derek’s neck. “I don’t want to answer it.”

Derek’s laugh was breathless, more a growl than anything else. “It’s going to keep ringing.”

“Good,” Stiles muttered, rocking his hips once more, just enough to feel Derek’s answering hitch of breath. “Let it.”

The phone rang again, insistent. Derek dropped his head back against the cushion, eyes closed, chest rising and falling under Stiles’ hands.

“You’re gonna have to answer it,” he said, voice rough, still not letting go.

“Shit,” Stiles whispered, dragging in a shaky breath as he fumbled blindly for where the phone had landed. His pulse was still roaring, his wolf still demanding. “This better be worth it.”

***

Scott paced the narrow aisle of the movie rental place, one hand shoved in his jacket pocket, the other fiddling with his phone.

Jackson had just left, walking like his clothes didn’t fit right, glancing at every shadow like it might lunge for him. Scott hadn’t expected that from Jackson of all people. He was really off. Scott had been halfway to following when the memory of what Jackson had said stopped him cold.

Lydia. Hospital.

The words kept circling in his head. He didn’t have the full story, but he knew enough to be worried.

He thumbed over Stiles’ name in his contacts, hesitating. Things had been tense between them earlier—Stiles siding with Derek, the weird vibe Scott still couldn’t shake. He didn’t even want to call. But this… this felt like something Stiles needed to know.

Two rings. Then—

“What,” Stiles panted into the line.

Scott froze mid-step. That wasn’t casual. That was breathless, winded, like he’d just run a mile.

“You okay?” Scott asked, frowning as he turned down the next aisle.

“Yeah,” Stiles said quickly, but his breath hitched in a way that made Scott’s brow furrow harder.

Scott pulled the phone away from his ear to check the signal. Four bars. Perfect reception. He brought it back up, slower this time. “You sound… uh… like you ran somewhere?”

There was a muffled sound in the background—low, rough. Scott’s brain stalled. That hadn’t sounded like Stiles.

He tried again. “Are you—like, busy? Working out or something?”

Another noise. Definitely a voice. Not Stiles. A voice Scott knew.

Scott’s feet stopped moving entirely. “Wait… is Derek—”

“Define busy,” Stiles cut in, breathless in a way that connected some very obvious dots.

Scott’s brain scrambled, heat crawling up his neck. Oh my god. He’d smelled Derek on Stiles before, yeah. He’d seen how Stiles looked at him. But hearing it—Stiles’ voice wrecked, Derek in the background—that was different. That was undeniable.

And it hit him sideways that Stiles had never once actually talked to him about Derek. Not the way Scott had spilled every secret about Allison, every thought, every kiss, every fight. Scott had made Stiles listen to all of it. But Stiles had kept Derek to himself.

Scott hadn’t even given him the space to talk about it. He hadn’t asked. Hadn’t wanted to. Maybe he hadn’t wanted to believe it was real.

Jealousy burned sharp and ugly in his chest. Not because he wanted Derek — god no — but because it was suddenly, painfully clear that Derek was the one Stiles turned to now. The one Stiles needed. And that used to be him.

Scott clenched his jaw, heart pounding. Stiles had always come to him first. Always. Sneaking out windows, lying to cops, covering each other’s asses — that was them. And now, less than a day after being bitten, Stiles was already different. Already tied to Derek in a way Scott couldn’t touch. 

He knew that they didn’t become a thing over night — it had been months in the making — but right now? In this moment with actually hearing it?

It felt like losing his best friend in real time.

“Oh my god. Okay, no, nope. I don’t wanna know. Ever. Forget I even—” Scott shook his head hard, like he could physically dislodge the thought.

There was another muffled sound on the line—Derek again, annoyed—and Scott’s stomach twisted tighter. It sounded too much like a groan.

He blurted the first thing that came to mind, desperate to shove the image out of his head. “Listen—this isn’t why I called. This is about Jackson.”

That at least got Stiles’ breathing to shift—still uneven, but sharper now, focused.

“Jackson says Lydia’s in the hospital,” Scott rushed on. “Something attacked her on the lacrosse field last night. He had to call an ambulance.”

Silence on the other end, then Stiles’ voice, still panting but edged like a blade. “Say that again.”

“Lydia. Hospital.” Scott dragged a hand down his face. “And the way Jackson said it—it might’ve been Peter. Or at least… he thinks it was Peter. I don’t know, man. But Jackson’s freaked out, and if he’s freaked out, then something’s really wrong.”

Scott stopped pacing, staring blankly at the rows of DVDs. He hadn’t wanted to make this call. Not tonight, not after what he’d just overheard. But whatever was happening, it was bigger than his jealousy, bigger than the fact that he could feel Stiles slipping further away from him with every heartbeat.

*

Stiles was still half-sprawled across Derek’s lap, phone pressed to his ear, trying to keep up with whatever Scott was rambling about. Derek, for his part, had zero interest in making that easy.

He dragged his mouth along the line of Stiles’ throat, slow and deliberate, teeth grazing just enough to make Stiles’ voice catch mid-word. His hands roamed—palm over a hip, thumb brushing skin in a way that made Stiles’ sentences stutter.

“Uh—yeah, Scott, I hear you,” Stiles said, breath hitching. He shot Derek a glare that had no real heat in it. “Stop,” he mouthed.

Derek didn’t stop. He smirked against Stiles’ skin, lips brushing his jaw before dipping lower.

The low buzz of Derek’s own phone on the coffee table cut through the room. He ignored it.

It stopped. Then started again—this time Derek glanced over, and of course the contact read “John”.

Derek sighed and reached for it, still lazily running his other hand up Stiles’ spine. “Yeah?”

“You at the house?” John’s voice came through, tight and businesslike.

“Of course,” Derek said, trying not to think about the fact that he was naked on the couch with John’s son still warm against him.

“Bodies in the woods were found,” John said without preamble. “The plan's moving faster than we thought, but the hunters are already circling. I need you to be ready just in case. This whole thing has me on edge. I’m worried that someone will slip up.”

Derek’s gaze flicked to Stiles—still on the phone with Scott, but now frowning, distracted from whatever Scott was saying. Derek tightened his grip on Stiles’ hip without thinking. “How long till they’re done?”

“Not long. Hours if we’re lucky. Less if someone screws up and they get caught, that’s what has me worried.”

From his end of the couch, Stiles suddenly tensed, voice sharper into his phone. “Wait—Lydia’s in the hospital? Since last night?”

Derek’s head snapped toward him. John must have heard the shift because his tone dropped. “What is it?”

“Another problem,” Derek said. “I’ll fill you in when we know more.”

He hung up, the weight of both conversations pressing down on them now, the heat from before still clinging to the edges but already giving way to something colder, heavier.

“What?” Derek asked, already bracing for it.

Derek shoved his phone onto the table, the edge of John’s voice still echoing in his head. Stiles was hanging up with Scott, brow furrowed, jaw tight.

“Peter attacked Lydia,” Stiles said. “Right before chasing Scott into the woods last night and—well you know the rest of that part. And Jackson…” He hesitated, frowning harder. “Scott says he’s acting weird.”

Derek pulled on his jeans, tossed Stiles his shirt. “Weird how?”

“Didn’t say exactly—just ‘off.’ Like shifty.” Stiles yanked the shirt over his head and looked at Derek with an expression Derek already knew too well: I’m coming with you.

And God, he wanted to say yes. Wanted Stiles beside him, sharp and relentless, reading a situation as fast as Derek could. The pull of the alpha spark only made it worse—every instinct in him wanted his mate close when there was trouble. But the same instincts told him the truth: it was a bad idea.

“No,” Derek said, and he could feel the flicker of resistance from Stiles like heat in the air.

“What? Why not?”

Derek stepped closer, keeping his voice even. “Because I need to find Jackson right now and Jackson’s a jackass, and he knows how to get under your skin. Right now? That’s all it would take to push you over.”

Stiles scoffed, but Derek could already see his wolf bristling at the imagined provocation. “I’m fine.”

“You’re sore still,” Derek said quietly, reaching up to rest his hand against the back of Stiles’ neck. He let his fingers settle there, grounding him. “Still healing. Still figuring out how to keep a lid on everything you’re feeling. You really want to hand Jackson Whittemore a brand-new set of buttons to push?”

The tension in Stiles’ shoulders bled out just a little under Derek’s touch.

“I don’t like it,” Stiles muttered.

“And I hate it,” Derek admitted, thumb brushing lightly over the edge of his hairline. “You think I don’t want you right next to me? I do. But not for this—not yet.”

Stiles’ mouth worked like he was ready to argue again, but the fight softened out of him. Derek felt it happen, that small shift in the air between them.

“It won’t always be like this,” Derek said, gentler still. “You’ll get control, and when you do, I’ll take you with me to deal with him and everything else. But right now? I need to keep you safe.”

For a moment, Stiles just stared at him, chest rising and falling a little faster than it should. Then he exhaled, frustrated but calmer. “Fine. But I’m not saying you’re right.”

Derek allowed the smallest ghost of a smile. “I’ll take it.”

He grabbed his jacket, letting his hand linger one last time at the nape of Stiles’ neck before stepping away. The urge to bring him along still pulled hard, but the knowledge that he’d just soothed Stiles instead of riling him up was enough to keep him moving toward the door.

*

Derek moved through the streets like his body already knew the route. Jackson’s scent wasn’t subtle—sharp aftershave masking something metallic, his own blood woven in like a quiet alarm bell. The alpha spark under Derek’s skin urged him forward, not just to track but to claim, to bring this stray wolf into line.

Part of him kept drifting back to the house, though—to Stiles. The heat of his mouth, the stubborn way he’d glared when Derek told him to stay. His wolf still bristled at leaving him behind, but bringing Stiles to this? Not yet. Not when he could feel the moon humming under their skin like a fuse already lit.

Jackson was only a few blocks ahead. Derek kept his distance, matching pace, watching the way he moved. Confident, but not relaxed. Every so often his eyes flicked to the shadows, a subtle tension rolling through his shoulders.

He’s looking for something, Derek thought. Or making sure it’s not following him.

The blood in his scent wasn’t from an open wound—it was old enough to be tacky now—but there was something else underneath. It wasn’t quite infection, not quite wrong enough to be deadly. Just… off. Sour at the edges.

Derek followed him into a quieter street, feet whispering against the concrete. Jackson didn’t notice until the crowd noise had thinned to nothing and Derek stepped out from the shadows, cutting him off in a narrow alley.

“Jesus—” Jackson’s voice snapped high for a second before he forced it back down, straightening his spine.

Derek closed the distance in two strides. “What happened to you?”

Jackson’s pulse jumped. Derek could hear it, could smell the sharp rush of adrenaline. He could also smell the moment Jackson reined it in, the microsecond shift in posture that said don’t show weakness.

“Peter bit me,” Jackson said, voice hard but a little too quick. “I’m in his pack now. So unless you want trouble—”

“Peter’s dead,” Derek cut in, letting his voice drop lower, colder. He let the alpha spark bleed into his presence, eyes flaring blood-red. “I killed him. Which means you’re in my pack because I’m alpha now.”

Jackson’s lips pulled into a smirk, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m not interested in your little club.”

Lie. Derek didn’t even need a heartbeat check to know it—his scent spiked with something defensive. Wolves didn’t like being cornered, but this wasn’t just defensiveness. This was someone guarding a secret.

Derek tilted his head slightly, closing in another step. “You don’t smell right.”

Jackson’s jaw twitched. “I’m fine.”

No, he wasn’t. The sourness in his scent wasn’t fear or anger—it was layered under everything, clinging like rot. Not enough to weaken him now, but enough to keep Derek’s instincts pricked.

“You’ve got something wrong going on,” Derek said, his voice even, almost conversational. “And when I figure out what it is, you’re going to wish you’d told me now.”

Jackson shifted his weight back, shoulders angling toward the mouth of the alley. “You stay out of my way, I’ll stay out of yours.”

Derek let the silence stretch, holding his gaze until the faintest flicker of unease broke across Jackson’s expression.

“You need help, but fine.” Derek said finally.

Jackson didn’t waste a second—he was gone, fast enough to make it clear he didn’t want Derek anywhere near him.

Derek stayed where he was for a moment, breathing in the cold air, replaying every detail—the sour scent, the too-fast smirk, the blood that wasn’t fresh. It didn’t add up.

And the worst part? The alpha spark in his chest told him he’d have to deal with it sooner than either of them would like.

*

The drive to the station was short, Derek didn’t turn on the radio. The quiet gave him room to replay every second in that alley.

Jackson’s smirk. The hitch in his pulse. That faint, sour note under the blood.

It wasn’t just that Jackson was lying—Derek could live with lies; hell, he expected them. Didn’t care. But this smelled like something deeper. Something eating at the edges. And whatever it was, Jackson wasn’t going to give it up without a fight.

The alpha spark in his chest flared again, restless. The need to know was tangled up with the need to control—if Jackson was compromised, if there was some infection or poison, it was Derek’s responsibility now. His pack, whether Jackson wanted to admit it or not.

He parked across from the station, slipped inside the back, and found John in his office. The older man was still in uniform, sleeves rolled up, scanning a stack of paperwork with the kind of tight focus that meant bad news.

“Jackson Whittemore,” Derek said by way of greeting.

John’s eyes flicked up, brow knitting. “What’s wrong with him now?”

“He was bitten. By Peter. Claims he’s fine, but…” Derek shook his head. “He’s not. I don’t know what it is yet, but something’s off.”

John leaned back, chair creaking. “Off how?”

“Scent,” Derek said. “Blood in it, but not from a fresh wound. Something underneath—wrong. Just… wrong.”

John exhaled slowly. “And I assume this isn’t the kind of wrong you can take to an ER.”

“Is it ever?” Derek asked flatly. “I’ll keep an eye on him.”

“You think he’s dangerous?”

“I think,” Derek said, “that if I don’t figure this out soon, it’s going to become dangerous.”

John studied him for a beat, then nodded once. “Alright. Just… don’t make me file the paperwork if you decide to handle it your way.”

Derek almost smiled, but didn’t. “Noted.”

John sat down, he looked as tired as Derek felt. “You know about Lydia?”

“Yeah Scott called just before you did.”

John nodded at that. But didn’t say anything else.

By the time Derek left the station, the restlessness in his chest had shifted. Jackson could wait—briefly. There was something else pulling him now, stronger, more magnetic. 

*

When he stepped back into the house, the living room was empty. No sound from the kitchen. No Stiles. Derek frowned, scanning instinctively.

The note sat in the middle of the coffee table, placed with deliberate care, just enough to be the first thing he saw.

“Come find me?”

No directions. Just a challenge.

Derek’s pulse kicked immediately, the alpha spark answering before his mind could catch up. Derek gave up on trying to control himself. He didn’t need directions, didn't need a hint. The first inhale was enough — Stiles was everywhere in here, layered over himself, doubling back, marking the room like a deliberate breadcrumb trail. Not accidental. Purposeful.

He was playing.

And God, that did something to Derek.

Heat flashed through his chest, down his arms, his wolf pushing forward in a sharp rush of exhilaration. Stiles wasn’t fighting the instincts. He wasn’t just tolerating them, either. He was embracing them. Inviting Derek to hunt him, to claim him, to do the things Derek had never allowed himself to want out loud.

His jaw tightened, a low sound rumbling in his chest, half laugh, half growl. Stiles had set the game, and Derek was lit up for it — practically foaming at the mouth with how much he wanted to give chase.

The trail was obvious once he tuned into it. A heavier layer through the living room, a pull toward the back door left just slightly ajar, cold air drifting in. Derek pushed it open with a sharp shove, breath fogging as the night air hit him.

Bare footprints dotted the frost-dusted grass, small ridges already glinting silver under moonlight. Stiles’ scent wound with them, curling warm and tempting into the tree line like a ribbon tied just for him.

Derek’s lips tugged in a slow, predatory smile. His teeth ached with the urge to bare, his whole body thrumming with restless hunger. “You’re asking for it,” he muttered, voice low and dark, before stepping off the porch.

The hunt was on.

*

The air bit cold against his bare feet, sharp enough to sting, but his blood was running hot. Every step felt like temptation laid out in plain sight. He’d brushed his fingertips along the banister, leaned into doorframes, skimmed the walls on his way out — leaving Derek breadcrumbs he knew he’d follow.

His heart hammered, not from fear but from certainty. Derek would catch him. That was the point.

He slowed just enough at the tree line, let the boards creak under his weight, left the back door ajar so the cold spilled in. A deliberate trail, a dare.

And then he ran.

*

The trail was obvious, practically glowing. Not sloppy, not an accident — deliberate. Cinnamon layered thick in the air, sharpened with adrenaline, threaded with the faint coppery edge of want. It wrapped around Derek’s senses, pulling him along.

He moved at first in measured strides, savoring the anticipation. Stiles had slowed down for him — not hiding, not fighting. Inviting.

And God, Derek was keyed-up. This was wolf instinct made flesh, the predator’s joy in the hunt. It was primal and intoxicating, a game he’d never dared ask for when Stiles was human, but he had always secretly wanted to do this. And Stiles had given it to him willingly.

He lengthened his stride.

*

The forest floor crunched underfoot, pine needles breaking in quick bursts. He wasn’t quiet — he didn’t want to be. Every step was a broadcast, every scrape of bark under his palm a flare in the dark saying this way, come get me.

He doubled back once, circling a tree, leaving his scent heavy along the bark before cutting sharp to the left. His lungs burned, but it was exhilaration, not exhaustion. Every time he glanced back, he imagined Derek right there, closing in. He didn’t stop to think about why he wanted this, he just did.

When he finally risked a look over his shoulder, Derek was there — eyes locked on him, body coiled and ready. Stiles grinned, wild and breathless, before bolting deeper into the trees.

*

Movement ahead — quick, taunting. Stiles threw a glance over his shoulder, sharp grin flashing, then darted away like he’d just lit the fuse on a firework.

Derek’s body reacted before his mind could. Muscles bunched, then released. He surged forward, eating up the ground in long, fluid strides. His ears tracked every rustle of underbrush, every shift of air. Stiles’ breathing was quick and erratic now, his pulse thundering so loud Derek could feel it like a drumbeat under his skin.

He doubled back — once, twice — trying to throw Derek off, but Derek barely faltered. The trail was too rich, too loud in his senses. The cinnamon heat of him burned in the cold night like a beacon.

The distance closed fast.

*

He vaulted over a fallen log, skidded on the damp earth, caught himself with one hand. His chest heaved, laughter bubbling up even as he ran. Every instinct screamed he’s coming, he’s right behind you, and every nerve thrummed with the thrill of it.

And then — weight.

Derek hit him from the side, a controlled tackle that sent them both tumbling into the frosted grass.

*

He caught him just past the log, momentum driving them down together. He took the brunt of the fall, pinning Stiles beneath him without letting him hit hard. The sound that tore out of Stiles was half-gasp, half-laugh, like he’d just gotten exactly what he wanted.

*

The weight of Derek over him was everything. One knee between his thighs, one hand locking his wrists easily against the ground. He should’ve hated how effortless it was, how completely Derek held him down. But instead his wolf stretched inside him, belly-up, undone by surrender.

Need roared through him, dizzying, electric. Not because he’d lost — but because Derek had claimed.

*

“You laid a trail,” Derek murmured, voice low enough to make it feel private, his breath hot against the shell of Stiles’ ear.

“Maybe,” Stiles breathed, his body twisting just enough to press deliberately against Derek’s thigh. The friction shot sparks through him, sharp and reckless.

Derek’s chest rumbled with a quiet, pleased growl. “You wanted me to hunt you.”

Stiles’ grin was crooked, sharp, eyes wild with the thrill of being caught. “Looks like it worked.”

It had. Too well.

The alpha spark purred in Derek’s chest, satisfied and hungry all at once. His gaze dragged down — flushed skin, pupils blown wide, the erratic rise and fall of Stiles’ chest. His heartbeat pounded like a drum in Derek’s ears, syncing with his own until the rhythm blurred.

Stiles shifted again, wrists straining under Derek’s hold, not to break free but to writhe against him, reckless and inviting. His hips lifted, brushing Derek’s thigh with deliberate friction that made Derek’s restraint snap taut.

“You think you can tease me?” Derek growled, pressing his knee higher between Stiles’ legs, grinding in just enough to drag a strangled gasp from him.

“Not teasing,” Stiles panted, arching up into the pressure. “Asking.”

The honesty in it — raw, desperate — nearly undid him. Derek’s grip tightened on his wrists, pinning him harder into the earth, and he lowered his mouth to Stiles’ throat. His lips dragged over the rapid pulse there, teeth grazing, the edge of a bite hovering just shy of breaking skin.

Stiles went pliant beneath him, breath catching, his wolf thrumming with open, reckless surrender.

Derek groaned, the sound rough and guttural. “Do you even know what you’re inviting?”

“Yeah,” Stiles gasped, tilting his head back to bare his throat further, reckless and sure. “And I want it.”

Derek’s chest rumbled again, but it wasn’t just satisfaction this time. It was too much—want tangled up with awe, with a kind of relief that burned hotter than it should. He dragged his gaze back up to meet Stiles’, held it there even as his fingers fisted in the front of his shirt.

“You don’t know,” Derek said, voice low, rough-edged.

Stiles blinked, pupils wide, grin faltering just enough. “Don’t I?”

Derek swallowed hard. “Stiles, I—I never let myself imagine this. Not really. You, like this. A wolf. My wolf. I told myself it would never happen, that it couldn’t, and I lived with that. And now—” His breath hitched, words pressing out like they’d been caged too long. “Now you move like me, you don’t fight it, you understand. Do you know what that does to me?”

The air felt sharp between them, every sound in the woods drowned out by the hammer of Stiles’ heartbeat.

Derek leaned closer, nose brushing Stiles’ jaw, inhaling like he couldn’t stop. “Your scent—God, Stiles, I could drown in it. Be drunk on it. It’s like my wolf has been starving and you’re the first real thing he’s been allowed to taste. You don’t even realize how far gone I am.”

Stiles’ grin came back then, softer, sharper all at once. “I do, I promise. I can smell it now.”

Derek let out a ragged laugh that caught halfway to a growl. “You drive me insane. You get it. You feel that pull without me having to explain it. You don’t fight it, and that—” His voice cracked, hunger bleeding through restraint. “That’s what's gonna make me lose control.”

Stiles’ breath ghosted hot against his cheek, steady even as his pulse raced. “Then lose it, Derek.”

Derek curled his fingers tighter into the front of Stiles’ shirt, bunching it until the fabric strained, then shoved it up in one smooth motion. The cold air hit first, making the muscles along Stiles’ stomach twitch, followed by Derek’s palm—warm, steady, grounding.

Derek’s control frayed. He dragged his mouth lower, over collarbone, over the frantic rise of Stiles’ chest, tasting salt and heat and want. Stiles writhed beneath him, breathless curses spilling as Derek’s teeth scraped across his skin, each touch deliberate, each graze just shy of devouring.

Every sound Stiles made—soft, unguarded noises that punched straight through Derek’s control—was matched by Derek’s hands mapping him, memorizing the shifts in muscle, the way Stiles arched into every touch.

By the time Derek’s mouth traveled lower, Stiles was already half-undone, hips lifting in restless want.

Derek paused, teeth grazing the edge of his ribs, and let out a sound that was more growl than laugh. “You don’t realize this part yet.” His hand splayed wide over Stiles’ stomach, feeling every twitch under his palm. “You react different now. Sharper. Like your body knows me before your brain catches up.”

Stiles’ breath hitched, head tipping back against the grass, but he didn’t manage words—just a wrecked little whimper.

The noise tore through Derek. His jaw clenched, his wolf snapping at the edges of his control, desperate to chase it, to wring more out of him until Stiles couldn’t breathe without Derek’s touch. He dipped his head, mouth dragging lower, slower, savoring the way Stiles arched for him like instinct.

“You’re mine,” Derek murmured, voice rough enough to scrape. His hand gripped tighter, pinning Stiles down even though he wasn’t fighting. “I’m going to make you fall apart right here in the dirt, where anyone could hear you. Because you’re mine.”

Another whimper broke loose, rawer this time, and Derek’s control slipped further, saliva pooling in his mouth like he was starving for him.

“God, that sound—” Derek bit at the line of his hip, shaking with the effort not to lose himself. “Keep making it. I want every noise you’ve got for me.”

Derek hooked his fingers into the waistband of Stiles’ jeans and tugged them down with an ease that made Stiles’ breath catch. He kept his eyes locked on Stiles’ face as he eased the cotton down just far enough, his voice low and certain when he said, “Mine. I’m going to take you apart until you can’t even say it back.”

Then he bent his head and closed his mouth over him.

The first sound out of Stiles was a raw, startled groan that echoed through the trees. His thighs tensed around Derek’s shoulders, not to push him away but to anchor him there, claws just barely pricking into Derek’s shoulders through the fabric. It was instinct, not thought—wolf claiming wolf.

Derek nearly snapped at the sensation. The alpha spark in his chest flared hot, demanding, and suddenly the need to get Stiles off wasn’t just want—it was a compulsion, something feral that tightened its grip around his ribs.

He worked him slow at first—long, steady pulls of his mouth matched with the press of his tongue in just the right spots—but Stiles’ body reacted sharper than Derek expected, sharper than when he’d been human. His hips rolled up without hesitation, like his wolf had taken over the rhythm, chasing every flicker of Derek’s mouth like prey it couldn’t afford to lose.

Every whimper, every gasp vibrated with something new—wilder, unfiltered—and Derek’s wolf howled for more. The scent of him was overwhelming now, thick and heady in Derek’s lungs, every inhale stoking the burn low in his stomach until his whole body felt like it was strung too tight. He was drooling, literally drooling against Stiles, and he didn’t care.

“God, Stiles,” Derek growled against him, voice wrecked before diving back down, “you’re perfect.”

Stiles’ fingers threaded into his hair, not yanking, just holding on—grounding them both even as his voice broke into curses that didn’t sound fully human anymore. Derek could feel it in every twitch of muscle, every spike in his heartbeat.

Derek tried to keep the pace controlled, but the pull was too much. The need to drive Stiles over the edge, to wring every noise out of him, consumed him. The spark in his chest pulsed with every swallow, demanding he take every drop, prove Stiles was his in every way that mattered.

When Stiles finally broke, it was different than before—louder, harder, his body arching up off the forest floor like his wolf was clawing its way free with the force of it. His voice went raw and wrecked, echoing through the trees as Derek swallowed him down and refused to let go until every tremor eased.

He stayed there for a moment, chest heaving, breathing him in like oxygen, letting the satisfaction hum through him until it almost hurt. Because this wasn’t just sex anymore. This was need, raw and gnawing, the kind that left Derek dizzy with the thought of ever going without it again.

When he finally lifted his head, Stiles was sprawled in the frost-flattened grass, chest rising fast, lips parted like he couldn’t quite catch up to what had just happened. His eyes were still glowing faintly amber, pupils blown wide, wolf close to the surface and utterly unashamed.

Derek leaned over him, bracing a hand beside his head, his mouth wet, his chest still rumbling low with leftover hunger. “Like I said,” he murmured, voice rough and certain, “Mine. Told you so.”

It wasn’t a claim anymore. It was a truth, heavy and undeniable, the kind that had settled into both their bones now that they were the same.

*

He wasn’t sure how long he lay there, eyes closed, heartbeat in his ears, but when he opened them Derek was still hovering over him, one hand planted in the frost-flattened grass, the other resting against Stiles’ ribs like he was keeping him from floating away.

Everything felt… heightened. The cold biting at his bare skin. The weight of Derek’s palm, warm and steady. The faint, wild scent of the woods tangled with Derek’s own that hit him right in the gut.

Stiles swallowed, his voice coming out rougher than he expected. “Is that—” He paused to clear his throat and realized he kept asking the same question, but didn’t care. “Is that always what it’s like for you? When we—?”

Derek’s gaze was unflinching, red still glinting faintly in his eyes. “Yes.”

It wasn’t smug. It wasn’t teasing. It was just… true. Heavy with meaning.

The word hit Stiles harder than the first time he asked. Yes. Every time. Every single time Derek had touched him, kissed him, pulled him close. Derek had been drowning in this same current. Stiles’ head spun with it. No wonder Derek had always looked at him like that, like it was more than Stiles could possibly understand. No wonder he’d been so intense, so careful, so goddamn impossible to read.

Because Derek had been feeling this—this rush, this pull that felt like gravity had shifted to live in someone else’s chest—the whole time. And Stiles, oblivious idiot that he was, had only just gotten here.

“Oh, shit,” Stiles whispered, the words slipping out before he could stop them. His chest ached, not with fear but with a sharp, grounding certainty curling warm under his skin. Mine wasn’t just a thought anymore—it was an instinct, clawing through him, answering Derek’s without hesitation.

Derek shifted, probably to get up, but Stiles caught his wrist and tugged him back down until their foreheads brushed. “Not done,” he murmured. “Not even close.”

Derek’s mouth curved, almost a smile, but there was tension in it—like he was holding himself in check. “You’re gonna kill me,” he said quietly.

“Yeah,” Stiles whispered, dragging his thumb over Derek’s jaw, feeling the rasp of stubble, his chest still tight with the weight of that revelation. “But you’ll die mine.”

Derek huffed out something halfway between a laugh and a growl, and Stiles could feel the vibration of it through their chests.

They stayed like that for a while—pressed close, trading slow kisses that didn’t lead anywhere but still lit him up from the inside. The difference hummed in every touch. Stiles could feel the lingering thrum of Derek’s spark, could sense the way it reached for him, wrapped around him in ways that made him dizzy if he thought about it too hard. And for the first time, he understood—really understood—that Derek had been carrying this bond alone until now.

No wonder he’d held on so tight.

*

They didn’t speak on the walk back to the house, but they didn’t have to. The air between them was full enough—with the scent of each other, with the way their shoulders brushed, with the heat still lingering low in Stiles’ stomach.

By the time they made it back, his skin felt tight from the cold, but he was still warm everywhere Derek had touched him. Which was… a lot of places. Enough that Stiles could still feel the ghost of it, humming through his nerves like a second heartbeat.

Derek closed the back door behind them, and the quiet of the house settled over them like a blanket. No voices, no footsteps from John upstairs, just the low hum of the heater kicking on.

Stiles didn’t even get a chance to think about what came next before Derek’s hand was at the small of his back, guiding him toward the stairs. It wasn’t a push. It was steady, deliberate, like Derek had already decided what Stiles needed and wasn’t going to give him room to argue.

And, okay, fine, he wasn’t going to argue.

The bathroom smelled like shampoo and soap, sharp and familiar. Derek turned on the shower without a word, testing the water with his fingers before stepping back.

“Get in,” he said softly, and it landed more like let me take care of you than an order.

Stiles’ chest went tight at that. He peeled out of his clothes, slower than usual, suddenly aware of how vulnerable it felt to be bare in front of someone for the first time outside of sex. But Derek didn’t look at him like he was on display. He looked at him like he was already his, like this was normal, expected.

The spray hit him in a rush, hot and pounding against chilled skin, making him suck in a breath.

Derek joined him a second later, closing the curtain behind them, and the world seemed to shrink down to steam, heat, and the solid weight of another body moving close.

There wasn’t the usual urgency now. No biting, no frantic hands. Just Derek’s palms smoothing over his shoulders, down his arms, mapping every inch all over again but slower this time. Stiles blinked water out of his eyes, heart thudding too fast—not from arousal, but from something heavier, deeper.

The shampoo came next, Derek working it gently through his hair, fingertips massaging his scalp in a way that made Stiles melt without meaning to. 

He’d never showered with anyone before. Never thought about what it might feel like, how different it would be from sex. This wasn’t about heat. It was about Derek tilting his head forward so he wouldn’t get soap in his eyes, about strong fingers working carefully through tangles, about someone else taking the time to care for him in the smallest, most unglamorous ways.

It shouldn’t have knocked the breath out of him the way it did. But it did.

Stiles leaned back against him without thinking, head tipping into the curve of Derek’s shoulder. He could feel the solid weight of Derek’s chest against his back, the slow, even breaths that matched his own until he wasn’t sure which of them had started the rhythm.

“You’re quiet,” Derek murmured, rinsing the soap out of his hair.

Stiles shrugged, eyes half-closed. “Just… processing. Thinking. My hair is getting longer. Also, your hands are really distracting.”

Derek’s lips ghosted against the side of his head. “Good.”

They worked through the rest of the routine in the same unhurried pace—soap, rinse, hands lingering at his hips longer than they needed to. Every touch felt like it was reinforcing something Stiles didn’t need words for: you’re safe, you’re mine, I’m here. I love you.

And Stiles realized, maybe for the first time, that this was what it would mean for Derek to be alpha. Not just the growling, the orders, the looming presence he had assumed. It was this. Taking care of him in a way that felt like pure love, in a way that said I’ll carry the weight if you can’t. It wasn’t about control. It was about responsibility. About the way Derek’s instincts seemed wired to keep Stiles steady.

By the time they stepped out, the bathroom was thick with steam. Derek wrapped a towel around Stiles before bothering with his own, fingers brushing over his cheek in a way that felt like punctuation.

In bed, tangled up in clean sheets, the heat between them shifted from sharp to steady. Stiles’ wolf—his wolf—settled, the restless hum in his blood quieting until all that was left was Derek’s scent and the weight of his arm draped over Stiles’ waist.

The ground under his feet? It had felt loose and maybe missing. But now — It was there again, solid, warm, and breathing against his back.

Stiles lay still for a long moment, staring at the faint pattern of light bleeding through the curtains, listening to the cadence of Derek’s breaths at his nape. It should have been enough—just being here—but the words itched at him until he turned slowly onto his back, shifting under Derek’s arm so he could look at him.

The freckles were the first thing he noticed. Faint, scattered across the bridge of Derek’s nose and just under his eyes. How had he never seen them before? They stood out now like constellations, impossible to miss.

“You’ve got freckles,” Stiles murmured, almost wonder-struck.

Derek’s brow furrowed slightly, like he was trying to figure out if that was supposed to be an insult. “I’ve always had freckles.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t see them. Not really.” Stiles’ voice was hushed, reverent. “I see them now. Like… everything’s sharper, brighter. It’s like the world went from standard definition to high def overnight. Even the air feels… thicker. I can feel it when it moves.”

Derek stayed quiet, listening, his eyes fixed on Stiles in a way that felt softer than usual.

Stiles let the words keep coming, not fast, not scattered like they usually tumbled out of him. Slower. Careful. “Colors don’t look the same. They hum, almost. I can pick out every shade of green in your eyes. I didn’t even know there were that many. And scents… God, your scent—it’s everywhere, and it doesn’t just smell, it feels. Like it’s wrapping around me.”

Derek’s mouth curved, not the faint twitch Stiles was used to, but a real smile, unguarded in a way Stiles hadn’t seen before.

“You’re smiling,” Stiles whispered, like it was a secret he’d stumbled into.

“Yeah,” Derek said quietly. “It’s interesting. Hearing you describe it. The difference.”

Stiles tilted his head. “You’ve never not seen the world like this, huh?”

Derek shook his head. “Never. It’s always been this way for me.”

Stiles’ chest tightened with something he couldn’t quite name. He reached up, brushed his thumb along the freckles he’d just discovered. “Then you don’t know what it’s like, going from nothing to… all of this. It’s overwhelming. Beautiful. Terrifying. All at once.”

Derek’s eyes softened further, his hand tightening at Stiles’ waist just slightly, grounding him. “Tell me more.”

And so Stiles did. About the way the night outside sounded alive, how he could hear water moving somewhere far off. About how he could smell the faint lemon of his dad’s aftershave clinging to the downstairs hallway, even from up here. About how every time Derek touched him—even just this light pressure of his hand—it lit him up from the inside.

Derek listened to every word, eyes steady, smile still ghosting on his face like it belonged there.

Eventually Stiles’ voice grew slower, softer, his words trailing off as sleep pressed in. Derek smoothed a hand over his ribs, steady as ever, and Stiles’ last thought before sleep took him was that maybe this was what home felt like—not walls, not a roof, but this: the weight of Derek’s arm and the warmth of being seen.

*

Stiles’ breathing evened out slowly, words tapering into the kind of half-formed murmurs that didn’t need answers. His hand stayed curled against Derek’s chest, warm and stubborn even in sleep.

Derek lay still, eyes on the ceiling, letting the silence settle. Not the crushing kind he’d grown used to—the silence that pressed down, heavy with loss—but something softer. Quieter. The kind that came with another heartbeat steady against his.

He wasn’t happy Stiles had been bitten. He never would be. The choice had been ripped from him, the same way so many choices had been ripped from Derek’s own life. And yet… Stiles had survived. He hadn’t broken under it. He’d risen, like the bite had simply uncovered a wolf that had been waiting all along.

And now he understood. The instincts, the pull, the way scent could ground you or undo you—the things Derek had never been able to explain, never been able to share, were etched into Stiles’ bones now. Derek didn’t have to translate it into words anymore. Stiles just knew. That meant the entire world to Derek.

It should have scared him, how much he needed that. Instead, it felt like a gift he hadn’t deserved but had been given anyway. For the first time in too long, he wasn’t the only one carrying the weight of the wolf.

He thought of Laura then—her hand steady on his shoulder, the way she’d told him he’d know what it meant to lead if that time ever came. He thought of his mother, her voice calm and certain when she said an Alpha wasn’t just strength, wasn’t just dominance. An Alpha was who people trusted with their lives. Who made them feel safe.

Peter had twisted that into something ugly. Control. Fear. Blood. For months Derek had believed that the Hale alpha spark would never be what it used to be.

But this—this quiet moment with Stiles warm against him, safe, breathing slow under his arm—this felt closer to what his mother had meant. What Laura had believed in. It hummed steady in his chest, not as a burden but as a purpose.

His gaze dropped to Stiles—hair damp against the pillow, lips parted slightly in sleep, moles still dotting his skin even in the dim light. Derek let his hand drift up, brushing lightly over Stiles’ ribs, not to wake him, just to reassure himself he was still here. Still alive. Still his.

For the first time, Derek let himself believe his mother might be proud of him for this. That Laura might smile and tell him see, you figured it out after all.

He exhaled, slow and careful, and let his eyes close. If the world fell apart tomorrow, he’d face it. Tonight, though—tonight he had this. Stiles warm against him, alive, and his.