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The old house looms in the moonlight, skeletal remains of what it once was. It smells like ash, decay, and Derek. Stiles doesn't care. He’s been chasing leads on the Kanima all night, but nothing fits, nothing makes sense - and he’s sick of being ignored. Sick of Derek treating him like a liability instead of someone who's saved his ass more than once.
So he pushes open the barely-hanging front door and stomps inside.
"Derek!" His voice cuts through the silence, echoing off blackened walls.
Nothing.
“Okay, cool, just ignore me - like always,” he mutters, stalking deeper into the ruins. He finds Derek near the ruined fireplace, shirtless, because of course he is, because werewolves heal fast but apparently not fast enough to have fully shaken off the almost drowning experience from earlier.
Stiles' stomach twists at the memory; the weight of Derek dragging him down, the way Derek’s body had gone slack, how hard he’d fought to keep them both from slipping under…
Derek glares at him. "Go home, Stiles."
"Yeah, no. Not happening." Stiles crosses his arms. "I’m not just gonna sit around while a freakin’ lizard monster goes around killing people. We need to-"
"You don’t need to do anything," Derek snaps, stepping closer. His presence is huge, his voice sharp enough to cut. "This isn’t your fight."
Stiles lets out a sharp, bitter laugh. "Oh, right. Because I’m just the useless human who somehow keeps saving your furry ass. Real convenient when you only care about that when it suits you."
Derek’s eyes flash red. "You don’t know what you’re talking about."
"The hell I don’t!" Stiles explodes. "I kept you from drowning! I pulled you out of that water, and I didn’t even hesitate! You were seconds away from dying, and if it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t even be standing here, yelling at me like a complete asshole!"
Silence. Derek’s jaw is tight, fists clenched at his sides. He looks like he wants to argue, but he can’t, because Stiles is right.
“I didn't ask you to save me.”
Stiles shakes his head, breath coming fast, emotions spiraling too fast to contain. "I saved you, Derek, because-" He stops, swallows hard, but there’s no taking it back. No stopping it now. "Because I’m in love with you, you stupid werewolf!"
The words slam into Derek like a physical force. His eyes widen, his whole body going rigid, like Stiles just hit him with a bolt of lightning.
Stiles is breathing hard, chest rising and falling, face flushed with frustration, adrenaline, and something raw beneath it all.
“What…what am I supposed to do with that?” Stiles asks, referencing his feelings for Derek.
And then Derek snaps.
"Your stupid little teenage crush means absolutely nothing!" he shouts, voice rough, almost breaking. "You’re not in love, Stiles. You’re sixteen years old!"
The words hit like a slap.
Stiles actually flinches, like Derek had reached out and sunk his claws into him instead of just his words. His face goes pale, his breath catches, and for a second - just a second - he looks wrecked.
Then, just as fast, his expression hardens. He shakes his head, lets out a hollow laugh, and takes a step back.
"Wow….that’s….just, wow." His voice is quieter now, but no less sharp. "Thanks, Derek."
Derek’s stomach twists, but he says nothing. Can’t say anything.
Stiles shakes his head again, like he’s disgusted with himself for even coming here, for ever thinking Derek was worth this.
And then he turns and walks out.
The house feels emptier without him.
The door slams shut behind Stiles with a heavy thud, and it’s like the entire house - the world - stops. Derek’s body stays frozen, his breath still caught somewhere between the words he shouldn’t have said and the ones that he couldn’t find. He just stares at the empty space where Stiles had been, his heart pounding in his chest like it’s trying to break free of its cage.
For a long moment, the only sound is the echo of Stiles' voice in his mind, repeating those words: “I’m in love with you.”
Derek stands there, motionless, as if the floor might swallow him whole. His fingers twitch, a futile attempt to reach out, to stop Stiles from leaving. But Stiles is gone. And Derek… Derek doesn’t even know what the hell he just did.
His eyes burn, and for a second, he wants to scream. To rage against the walls of the Hale house. To break something, anything. But he doesn’t. Instead, he sinks to the floor, his back against the remnants of the fireplace, his knees pulled to his chest like some broken version of himself.
His words linger in his mind, biting into him with a cold, venomous truth. Derek had said it like it was nothing. Like Stiles’ feelings meant nothing. But the look on Stiles' face… the hurt… It’s like a punch to the gut that won’t stop, over and over, with every breath Derek takes.
He was scared, terrified that the second he let someone init would break him. But Stiles… Stiles was different. Stiles had been there, always there, even when Derek pushed him away, even when Derek tried to keep him at arm’s length. And now… now he’s gone. The weight of that truth settles over him like a suffocating blanket.
It feels final. And Derek realizes, too late, that this is it. This is the moment where everything changes. Not because of the Kanima. Not because of some supernatural war they’re all caught up in. But because he was too much of a coward to admit that Stiles, this stupid, reckless human who shouldn't even be here, was the one person who could have made him feel whole again.
But instead, Derek had destroyed it. Like he always did. Because it was easier to keep people at a distance. Easier to pretend he didn’t need anyone. Easier to push them away before they could leave him, before they could hurt him the way so many others had.
And now Stiles… Stiles had left.
The house feels too quiet. The kind of quiet that eats away at you when you’re completely alone, when the noise of your own thoughts is all you have left. Derek’s heart aches, physically aches, like it’s cracking down the middle.
He squeezes his eyes shut, but it doesn’t help. The hurt just sharpens, slices through him like a blade. Stiles is gone. He doesn’t know if Stiles will ever come back, or if Derek even deserves it if he does.
His thoughts spiral, and he feels that familiar ache in his chest, the kind he’s been running from his entire life. But this time, it’s different. This time, it’s not just the loss of his family or the pain of being alone. It’s the crushing weight of losing someone he could have loved, could have surrendered himself to.
Stiles had given him everything - his trust, his loyalty, and his heart. And Derek? Derek had turned it all into rubble.
The image of Stiles, face pale and eyes wide with disbelief, hits him again. The way Stiles had looked like he wanted to disappear, like every piece of him had shattered in that instant. And it’s all Derek’s fault.
He can’t breathe. Can’t think.
He stands up, unsteady on his feet, and stumbles toward the door, toward the place where Stiles had walked out. The house feels colder now, colder than it ever has.
Derek throws open the door.
But the world outside is empty, silent, and the only thing he can hear is the pounding of his own heart.
Stiles is gone.
And Derek has no idea how to fix it.
~~~~
Derek stands in the shadows, his back pressed against the cool brick of the house across the street. His eyes track the dim glow from Stiles' bedroom window, the soft light spilling through the curtains, cutting the night into fragments. He’s been standing there for what feels like hours, caught between the urge to just leave, to walk away, to give Stiles the space he clearly needs, and the aching, gnawing need to be closer. To fix what he broke, even though he knows it’s too late.
He listens, tries to breathe past the knot in his throat, and then he hears it: the sound of rustling papers, the click of keys as Stiles likely pours over research about the Kanima. The same frantic, determined energy that Stiles always carries with him. But tonight, there’s something heavier about it. Something too quiet, too still.
Derek’s hands tighten into fists at his sides, the old familiar ache burning in his chest. He watches Stiles move around in his room, and a part of him knows that Stiles is probably trying to make sense of everything…the Kanima, the danger, the people who have hurt him, and Derek’s own words from earlier.
Then, the soft murmur of Stiles’ voice drifts through the window.
“I’ll go to bed soon, Dad,” Stiles says, almost too softly for Derek to catch. His voice is tired, defeated, even.
Derek's heart lurches. He doesn’t know what to do with this feeling, this crushing sense of loss. All he wants to do is walk up there, apologize, make it right, but the distance feels too far. Stiles is beyond his reach, even though Derek knows, deep down, that he’s the one who put that wall between them.
Stiles’ dad moves off into the other room, and Derek hears the soft click of the bedroom door shutting. Then everything falls quiet.
The seconds stretch, unbearable in their silence. Derek can’t make himself move. Can’t make himself leave.
Finally, he hears it - the soft rustle of sheets, followed by a slight exhale of breath. Stiles shifts under the covers, settling in for the night. Derek’s chest tightens, his pulse thundering in his ears as he listens to the quiet, broken sounds of Stiles' quiet sobs. He can’t see him, can’t hold him, but he feels it. The pain. The weight of Stiles’ heart breaking all over again.
And instinct kicks in.
Derek jumps to the second floor and walks up to the window, reaching out. His fingertips brush against the cool glass, but he stops. It’s locked. The window, the one he could normally slip through, is locked tight. And worse, there’s a perimeter of mountain ash surrounding the window from the inside, the telltale shimmer of the protective barrier shimmering in the moonlight.
Stiles had thought of everything. Of course he did.
Derek stands there, his hand hovering over the glass, frustration building like a storm in his chest. He wants, no, needs, to get to Stiles. To do something, anything, to make things right. But the barrier is there for a reason. It’s not just to keep Derek out; it’s to protect Stiles from him. From the mess that Derek’s made of everything.
He doesn’t hear Stiles cry anymore. The sobs have softened, likely drowned out by the weight of exhaustion and everything he’s been carrying. But Derek can still feel the emptiness inside that room, the cold that has settled over everything.
Then, just as Derek is about to turn away, he hears Stiles' voice again, barely a whisper, but it cuts through the night like a knife.
“Just go home, Derek,” Stiles mutters under his breath, his voice raw, quiet. “There’s nothing left to say.”
The words hit Derek like a punch to the gut. It’s the finality of it, the truth in it, that makes everything inside him crumble. Stiles wants him gone. Wants him to leave him alone. And Derek… Derek has no choice but to listen.
He stands there for a long moment, his fingers still resting on the window, his chest heavy, heart aching with the weight of his own failure. His entire body feels like it’s breaking in two. But Stiles doesn’t need him to fix it. Doesn’t need him at all, it seems.
Derek turns slowly, the weight of Stiles' words pulling him deeper into the darkness. He walks away, each step feeling like he’s dragging a part of himself with him, but he can’t go back. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
And all the while, in the distance, he can still hear the quiet sobs of a teenager who had trusted him - and who will never, ever trust him again.
~~~~
The days blur together in a haze of tension and uneasy silence. The Kanima is still out there, wreaking havoc, and they have little to go on. Every conversation about the creature feels like a dead end, like they’re moving in circles with nothing concrete to work with. They can’t afford to waste any time, but the air between Derek and Stiles is thick with unspoken words. The weight of what happened still hangs over them, pressing on Derek’s chest like a heavy stone.
Stiles shows up at the house one evening, just like he always does when they’re hunting for answers. But something’s different now. The easy banter, the jokes that used to come out of Stiles without even thinking; none of that is there.
Stiles walks in, his shoulders tense, his eyes focused on the task at hand. His usual flippant attitude is gone, replaced by something colder, something more… distant. He’s not even looking at Derek, not in the way he used to. There’s no quick comment or sarcastic remark when their eyes meet, no half smile or raised eyebrow.
He just nods at Derek, like this is a business transaction, not the dynamic they once shared. “I found something. Might help with the Kanima,” Stiles says, his voice flat, efficient. It’s too damn professional. Too removed. It feels like an echo of the boy Derek knows, but it’s hollow, like a shell of who he was.
Derek watches him carefully, the gnawing feeling in his gut intensifying. He’s trying to focus on the information, but it’s so hard to hear past the silence that stretches between them. There’s no energy behind Stiles’ words, no warmth. Just facts. Data. Cold, sterile details about the Kanima’s behavior, potential triggers, what they might need to stop it.
And it hurts. It hurts more than Derek wants to admit. Because the absence of Stiles' usual chatter, his enthusiasm, his energy; it makes everything feel off. It’s like Stiles isn’t even here anymore, not really. Like there’s this invisible wall between them that neither of them is willing to break down.
But it’s worse than that. Much worse.
Derek notices it first when he tries to read Stiles, to sense something, anything, that might give him a clue about where they stand. He used to be able to pick up on Stiles’ emotions without even trying: the subtle changes in his scent, the slight shift in his heartbeat when something was bothering him. But now? There’s nothing. No trace of Stiles’ usual barrage of emotions. Not the nervous energy, not the unrestrained warmth he always carried with him. There’s just… nothing.
Derek’s eyes narrow, his senses reaching out, but it’s like he’s hitting a wall. Stiles smells the same - human, of course - but there’s no emotional signature. No chemo signals at all. It’s as if the part of Stiles that Derek could feel, the connection, the unspoken bond they shared, is completely gone.
And that sends a wave of panic through Derek that he tries desperately to push down. He can’t shake the feeling that something’s wrong, that he’s missing something crucial. He tries to focus on the Kanima, on the task at hand, but his mind keeps circling back to Stiles, no longer the laughing, exasperating, vital force in his life, but this distant, professional stranger.
Stiles hands over the information with minimal fanfare, just the facts, just what they need to know. He doesn’t even look at Derek as he does it, his eyes scanning over the printed page instead of meeting Derek’s gaze. And Derek feels that absence so sharply it feels like a physical blow.
When Stiles speaks again, it’s with the same clipped professionalism, as if they’re strangers who don’t know each other at all. “We’ll need to get to the morgue tonight, check for any traces of-”
“Stiles,” Derek interrupts, his voice sharper than he intends. He doesn’t mean to sound so desperate, but it’s been building inside him, the need to break through whatever wall Stiles has put up between them. “What’s going on? This isn’t you. You’ve been like this for days. Why are you acting like I’m just another… colleague to you?”
Stiles freezes, his gaze flicking to Derek for a fraction of a second before it’s quickly masked again. The only sign of the war waging beneath the surface is the slight clenching of his jaw. He looks away, like he’s trying to outrun the words that want to escape.
“Because that’s what I am, right?” Stiles says, his voice quiet but brittle, like glass on the verge of shattering. “Just another person in your life who doesn’t matter. Just someone who doesn’t know how to stay out of your way, who doesn’t know how to stop making things worse.”
It’s the first crack in the armor, but Derek doesn’t know how to fix it. He doesn’t know how to tell him everything he feels without making it worse. So he stands there, paralyzed, as Stiles finishes speaking.
“Forget it, Derek,” Stiles says, his voice breaking slightly before he gathers himself again. “We have work to do. Let’s just focus on the Kanima.”
And Derek can’t handle it anymore. His frustration boils over, and he takes a step forward, wanting to scream, wanting to make Stiles feel something, anything. But then it hits him…he can’t. Stiles is locked behind a wall. The person he thought he could rely on, the person who always had his back, is slipping through his fingers, and Derek has no idea how to stop it.
Stiles doesn’t turn back to him. He just moves toward the door, his back straight, his posture stiff.
“I’ll meet you at the morgue,” he says, cold and professional once more.
And just like that, Derek is left standing in the room, the words he should have said stuck in his throat, the emptiness between them a chasm he doesn’t know how to cross.
He can’t even smell him anymore. Not really. And that’s what terrifies him the most.
~~~~
The scene in the warehouse is chaos, everything buzzing with a raw, frantic energy as people try to piece together the shattering reality. Derek barely processes the commotion as his eyes fixate on the figure in the middle of the room. Stiles.
He can’t breathe.
Stiles is there, his body bruised and battered, his face a testament to everything he’s been through. Blood stains his shirt, his face a mess of swelling, a split lip, and a black eye that looks almost worse in the harsh light of the warehouse. But it’s the blood, the way he’s standing, fierce and defiant despite everything, that makes Derek’s chest tighten painfully. His hands curl into fists at his sides, eyes never leaving the broken boy in the middle of the room.
But Stiles doesn’t even notice him, doesn’t see Derek’s distress as he’s too busy yelling at Scott, his voice high and furious, seething with an anger that Derek has never heard from him before. It’s sharp, cutting through the tension in the air like a blade.
“How fucking dare you do that to him?!” Stiles’ voice cracks with rage, his chest heaving as he stands, bloodied and wild eyed, shaking with emotion. His words are spat like venom, the pure fury in every syllable as he directs it all at Scott. “You took away his choice and autonomy and made him bite Gerard! What the fuck is wrong with you?!”
Stiles’ face contorts with the sheer weight of his anger, his breath ragged and furious, as if he can barely hold it all together. But in that moment, Derek feels like he’s being torn apart watching Stiles, broken, lost in a whirlwind of emotions that Derek can’t help but feel in his own chest. The only thing he can hear is the sound of Stiles' voice, screaming, betraying the hurt and fear that Derek would do anything to take away.
Scott tries to speak, to defend himself, but his voice falters, drowned out by Stiles' rage.
“You don’t get to defend yourself,” Stiles spits, his face twisted in disgust, his voice growing louder and more frantic with each word. “You made him do it. You made him bite Gerard, and now look where we are! Look at him!”
Without a second thought, Stiles steps forward, his fist swinging through the air with all the weight of his fury, and he punches Scott square in the jaw. The force of it knocks Scott back a step, but Stiles doesn’t flinch. He just stands there, chest heaving with each breath, looking at Scott with an expression that says everything Derek’s been too afraid to admit. Stiles doesn’t even care about the consequences right now. He’s past that.
Scott stumbles backward, a hand on his jaw, eyes wide with disbelief as Stiles turns on his heel, walking away from the scene. Derek watches, helpless, every instinct in him screaming to follow, to fix it, to fix Stiles, but the words won’t come.
Stiles doesn’t even glance back at him.
Derek tries to take a step forward, his voice catching in his throat as he calls out to him.
“Stiles…” The word is a breath, barely escaping his lips, desperate, full of everything he doesn’t know how to say. He wants to apologize. He wants to fix everything he’s ruined. But Stiles doesn’t stop, doesn’t give him a second look.
“Just leave me the fuck alone already!” Stiles screams, the rawness in his voice shredding Derek’s heart. His words hit Derek like a slap, each syllable of rejection like a knife. “God, I can’t fucking do this anymore!”
Derek’s stomach drops, every muscle in his body going rigid. He’s not prepared for this. He’s not prepared for the weight of Stiles’ voice, the anger, the hurt.
The room goes still. Derek is frozen in place, a helpless spectator to Stiles’ breakdown. His heart races, the ache in his chest growing with every word, every desperate scream. Stiles is done. Derek’s worst fear is spilling out before him, laid bare in the raw pain and frustration in Stiles’ eyes.
“Stiles, please…” Derek’s voice is barely above a whisper, thick with emotion, but Stiles doesn’t even turn. He doesn’t want to hear it. He’s beyond anything Derek can say now.
With one last angry, pain laced glance over his shoulder, Stiles strides off, leaving Derek standing in the middle of the warehouse, unable to do a single thing to stop him. The silence in the wake of Stiles’ outburst is suffocating, the weight of it pressing down on Derek’s chest like he’s drowning in it.
And as Stiles walks further away, Derek’s heart shatters into a thousand pieces, each one heavier than the last. He can’t fix this. He knows he can’t.
Derek's feet carry him back to the Hale house, the weight of his own guilt growing with every step. His body moves on autopilot, his thoughts consumed by the chaos of the night. His hands are trembling, fists clenched tight at his sides as though he could physically contain the surge of self loathing that threatens to swallow him whole.
The house looms ahead, dark and empty - just like the hollow space in Derek's chest. The burnt remains of his family’s home stare back at him, as if mocking him for his failures. It was never meant to be like this. He’d never intended for it to get this far. But now, standing in the familiar doorway, he knows there’s no escaping the truth.
He can’t stop thinking about Stiles; about the way he looked at him tonight, broken, lost, and betrayed. Derek’s chest tightens as the memory of Stiles' voice lingers in his ears: Just leave me the fuck alone already. The words echo through his mind, over and over, a constant reminder of how he’d destroyed whatever had been left between them.
He’d pushed Stiles away, dismissed him. His own fear had turned him cold. He told himself it was for Stiles' own good; didn't want to drag him into this dangerous, fucked up world of werewolves and everything that came with it. But that was all a lie. Derek knows it. He told Stiles that his feelings didn’t matter, that he was just a kid. He didn't realize what a cold, heartless bastard he sounded like until after the words had left his mouth, until it was too late.
Now, Stiles was gone. Really gone.
Derek stumbles through the familiar hallways, not really seeing anything, as if everything around him has faded into the background. His hands find the edge of the table in the living room, and he grips it hard, his knuckles turning white. His heart pounds in his chest as the realization hits him like a ton of bricks: He’s lost Stiles.
He’s fucked everything up. Again.
It’s all his fault.
The anger he feels isn’t directed at anyone else. There’s no one to blame but himself. Derek can’t stop thinking about how he’d shut down, how he’d been so scared of his own feelings for Stiles, how he pushed him away before Stiles could hurt him first. And now, Stiles isn’t just angry; he’s done. Derek can’t fix it. He can’t undo the hurt he’s caused. No matter how many times he tries to tell himself it’s just a phase, that Stiles is just a kid, he knows the truth. He knows how deep Stiles’ feelings ran. And he knows he destroyed it.
Derek's breathing comes in shallow, desperate gasps. He feels the crushing weight of it all, suffocating him. He can't escape the pain of watching Stiles walk away. He can’t escape how wrong he was. How he was too afraid, too self loathing, to let someone in.
His mind races. It’s all the same, over and over. He’s not good for anyone. He’s never been good for anyone. His entire life has been a series of mistakes; decisions that haunt him. His pack, his family, his failures. He’s destroyed every relationship he's ever had, and now, Stiles was no different.
The words that Stiles had shouted at him echo through his head once more. And Derek knows, deep down, that Stiles was right. He didn’t get to decide how Stiles felt. And yet, in a moment of fear and cowardice, he’d crushed the one thing that could’ve mattered.
He falls to his knees in the middle of the living room, his hands pressing against the floor, like he could somehow ground himself, stop the spinning in his head. But it’s useless. He feels the weight of everything, every misstep, every mistake, crushing him under its sheer force.
Stiles is gone, and it’s all because Derek couldn’t fucking handle it. He couldn’t handle the idea of loving someone, of being loved.
“God, what the hell did I do?” Derek whispers to the empty room, his voice cracking, shaking with a despair he hasn’t felt in a long time. The words feel like they’re suffocating him. The quiet in the house, the silence left behind by Stiles' absence, fills him with a hollowness he knows will never be filled.
He’s lost. And worse, he knows there’s no one to blame but himself. He could’ve stopped it, could’ve fixed it, but instead, he drove Stiles away.
And now, it’s too late.
Derek finally lets himself collapse fully, curling into himself as the pain both physical and emotional, rips through him. The weight of his own guilt presses down, but there’s no escape. Not this time.
~~~~
Derek hasn’t left the house in two weeks. It feels like a fog has descended over him, thick and heavy, suffocating him with every breath. He’s locked himself in the emptiness of the Hale house, not daring to face the outside world. His phone is off, the silence from it deafening. The only thing that fills the space now is the sound of his own mind, replaying every moment he’s fucked up, every time he’s driven someone away.
He’s curled in a tight, fetal position on his bed, the sheets twisted around his body like they’re the only thing that can provide any comfort, even if it’s not enough. His body aches, but it’s a dull, constant kind of pain; one that matches the ache in his chest. His mind feels like it’s been stretched thin, overworked, and exhausted from the guilt that keeps him up at night, the crushing weight of knowing he’s lost Stiles for good. Every passing hour only makes the hurt deeper, the regret sharper.
When he hears the Jeep pull up outside, Derek doesn’t move. He knows it’s Stiles. But the thought of facing him, of having to deal with what he's done, makes him want to curl up even tighter into himself and disappear completely. He knows the sound of the engine, the way it hums in the night air. But he can’t bring himself to move, not now.
The footsteps come next - sharp, quick, like someone with a purpose. They echo across the porch, heavy with anger, but Derek doesn’t even lift his head from the pillow. He’s too exhausted. Too beaten down by everything, by himself. His body is too tired to react to anything.
Then the door slams open, and Derek hears the footsteps inside, growing louder, angrier. The pounding of boots on the hardwood floors shakes the house as Stiles storms through it, unmistakable in his frustration. Derek doesn't even bother to look up. He can feel him coming closer, he can feel the storm of emotion that follows. It’s in the way he walks, the way he breathes. And it’s enough to make Derek’s chest tighten.
But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t even shift under the covers. He’s frozen in place, caught in the mess of his own thoughts, his own guilt.
Then Stiles’ voice breaks through the silence, sharp and accusing. "Derek."
The sound of his name, the way it cuts through the air, makes Derek flinch, but he doesn't respond. He can’t. Not when all he feels is the overwhelming weight of everything he’s lost.
"Derek!" Stiles calls again, louder this time, his voice strained with frustration and hurt. The footsteps stop, and for a second, there’s only silence. Stiles is standing there, watching him, waiting for him to move. Waiting for him to do something.
But Derek can’t. He can’t look him in the eyes. Not like this. Not when he knows what he’s done. The silence stretches between them, suffocating. Stiles knows, and Derek knows, that this is it. This is the moment where everything breaks. This is the moment where the last thread between them snaps.
Stiles doesn’t say anything at first. He just stands there, and Derek can feel the weight of his stare burning into him, like Stiles is trying to figure him out, trying to understand what the hell is going on inside Derek’s head. But there’s nothing inside Derek’s head except guilt and regret, and he’s not sure how to explain that. Not to Stiles. Not to anyone.
Finally, Stiles lets out a sharp breath, his voice quieter now, tinged with an emotion that Derek can’t quite place. "You’re not doing this to me. You’re not doing this to us."
Derek’s heart stutters at the words, but he still doesn’t move. He’s too ashamed, too lost in the mess he’s made of everything.
Stiles is silent for a long time. Derek can hear him pacing, his footsteps agitated, like he’s trying to figure out what to say next. Derek still doesn’t look up.
Then the bed shifts. Derek feels the mattress dip as Stiles sits on the edge, just out of sight. The space between them feels vast, like a chasm neither of them can cross. But even with the distance, Derek can feel the heat of Stiles’ anger, his frustration, and underneath it, something else - something raw and unspoken. The air is thick with everything left unsaid.
"Why are you doing this?" Stiles asks, his voice softer now, almost pleading, like he’s trying to understand Derek’s self inflicted isolation.
Derek doesn’t answer. The words are too heavy. Too full of the truth he doesn’t want to face.
The silence lingers between them like a storm about to break.
And for the first time in two weeks, Derek wonders if there’s a way to fix this.
But instead of saying anything, making things better, Derek keeps his mouth shut.
He doesn’t move, doesn’t react, doesn’t do a damn thing as Stiles sits there, waiting. He knows Stiles is watching him, knows the way the boy’s fingers twitch when he’s impatient, the way his breath hitches just slightly before he’s about to explode. Derek can feel it building, the pressure in the air, thick like the silence that has settled between them.
He should say something. He knows that. He wants to. But the words don’t come. They sit like lead in his throat, suffocating him.
So he stays silent.
And that? That is exactly the wrong thing to do.
“Are you kidding me right now?” Stiles’ voice cracks through the quiet, sharp and furious. The bed shifts as he pushes himself up, his boots slamming against the floor. “You’re just gonna fucking lay there and ignore me? Really? That’s your play? After everything?”
Derek clenches his jaw, forcing himself not to flinch.
Stiles laughs, but it’s a harsh, bitter sound. “Jesus Christ, Derek. You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to sit here and wallow in self pity like you’re the goddamn victim. You made your fucking choices!”
Derek squeezes his eyes shut.
“You pushed me away,” Stiles continues, voice rising, pacing the room now. Derek can hear his heartbeat thundering in his chest, can feel the waves of anger rolling off him in sharp, erratic bursts. “You made it very fucking clear how you felt, remember? That my ‘stupid little teenage crush’ meant nothing? That I wasn’t actually in love with you?”
Derek exhales through his nose, steady, controlled. He deserves this.
“So what the fuck are you doing now, huh?” Stiles demands, voice raw. “Why are you here? Why are you shutting yourself in this house and cutting yourself off from everyone if you were so sure about everything?”
Derek still says nothing.
“Jesus fuck, Derek!” Stiles shouts, and there’s a sharp crash as something, probably one of the broken picture frames already scattered around the house, gets kicked across the floor.
Derek’s fingers twitch.
“I’ve been doing what you apparently wanted,” Stiles snaps. “I’ve been giving you space, I’ve been staying out of your business, I’ve been-” He stops, breath hitching, and Derek knows what’s coming before Stiles even says it. “I’ve been trying to get over you, okay? That’s what you wanted, isn’t it? To push me away? To make sure I moved on?”
Derek’s stomach twists.
“Well, fucking congratulations, Derek!” Stiles throws his hands in the air. “It worked! I don’t talk to you, I don’t bother you, I don’t-” He cuts himself off, voice trembling with fury. “I don’t even feel anything around you anymore. You happy now? You won.”
Derek’s breath stutters.
That’s a lie. He knows it is. Stiles feels things. Stiles always feels things, too much, too intensely, too loudly. But not around Derek, not anymore.
And it’s been killing him.
“You told me I was a kid, Derek,” Stiles says, quieter now, but no less intense. “You told me I didn’t know what I was feeling. That it wasn’t real.” He lets out a shaky breath. “So I’ve been trying really fucking hard to make that true.”
Derek feels his chest tighten.
“So why the fuck are you sitting here, like this?” Stiles demands. “Why the fuck are you acting like you’re the one suffering? Because you made this happen, Derek! You did this!”
Derek swallows thickly.
Stiles breathes heavily, the air between them crackling with all the anger, all the pain, all the hurt.
And then, finally - "Say something."
Derek tries.
He really fucking does.
But his throat locks up, the weight of everything crushing down on him, pressing him into the mattress, trapping the words before they can form.
And after a long, agonizing moment Stiles exhales sharply, a bitter, humorless laugh escaping him.
“Yeah,” he mutters, voice hollow now, all the fire drained from him. “That’s what I thought.”
And then he turns. Walks away.
And Derek breaks.
He doesn’t think.
One second, he’s frozen on the bed, watching Stiles walk away, and the next, he’s moving, lunging forward before he can stop himself. His feet barely touch the ground as he rushes after him, his heart hammering so hard it drowns out everything else.
Stiles makes it to the front door before Derek reaches him, but before he can step outside, Derek grabs him.
His arms wrap around Stiles from behind, an instinctive, desperate move, like his body knows what his mind hasn’t caught up with yet. His hands lock together over Stiles’ chest, pulling him back, holding him, like if he lets go, Stiles will disappear completely.
Stiles stiffens, instantly struggling. “Let go of me, Derek-”
Derek doesn’t.
Stiles tries again, his hands pushing at Derek’s arms, shoving at him, trying to pry himself free. “Derek-”
Derek just holds on tighter.
Because he can’t let go. He won’t.
His breathing is ragged, his chest rising and falling too fast, too uneven, and when he finally buries his face against the back of Stiles’ shoulder, he realizes he’s shaking.
His entire body trembles with the weight of it all, the emotions crashing down on him, the way everything inside him hurts.
He doesn’t make a sound, but his eyes sting, and then before he can stop it, warm tears slip down his face, dampening the fabric of Stiles’ hoodie.
He squeezes his eyes shut.
“I’m sorry.” His voice is barely above a whisper, cracking under the pressure. “I’m sorry I hurt you.”
Stiles stops struggling.
Derek swallows, trying to hold himself together, but his grip on Stiles only tightens. “I’m sorry you’re suffering because of me.” He draws in a shaky breath. “I’m sorry for so many things.”
Stiles stands rigid in his hold, unmoving. Derek doesn’t know if he’s listening. He doesn’t deserve for Stiles to listen.
But still, he clings to him, like an anchor in the storm, like letting go isn’t an option.
And he whispers it again.
“I’m sorry.”
Stiles takes a deep, shuddering breath. Derek feels it beneath his arms, the way Stiles' chest expands against his hold, the way his body tenses just a little more, like he's bracing for impact.
Then, quietly, Stiles asks, "What am I supposed to do with that?"
The words hit like a punch to the gut.
Because Derek remembers.
He remembers Stiles standing in the same burnt out shell of the house he’s in right now, his voice raw and breaking, those same words spilling from his lips before Derek had torn him down, before Derek had dismissed the way he felt like it was nothing.
And it hits just as hard this time.
Derek’s throat tightens. He wants to pull Stiles closer, wants to fix this somehow, but he knows he can’t. He knows this isn’t something that can be undone with an apology.
"I don't know,” he admits, his voice hoarse. “I just… I just want you to know how sorry I am."
Stiles doesn't say anything.
Derek clenches his jaw, forces himself to keep going. "I shouldn't have dismissed you outright. I should have..." He trails off, searching for words, but everything feels tangled, impossible to untangle.
He exhales sharply. "I should have... fuck, I don’t know.” His grip loosens, just slightly, but he doesn’t let go. “I should have done something."
It’s the truth. The raw, aching truth.
Because the moment Stiles had told him he was in love with him, Derek had panicked. He’d lashed out, pushed him away, told himself it was for the best. That he was doing Stiles a favor.
But instead, he’d ruined everything.
And now, standing here with Stiles still locked in his arms, Derek doesn’t know how to fix it.
He doesn’t even know if he can.
Derek barely has time to register the shift before Stiles is turning abruptly in his arms.
His hands fall away, slipping uselessly to his sides as Stiles faces him, standing so close, too close, and yet, it feels like there’s an ocean between them.
Derek drops his gaze immediately. He can’t look at him.
He can’t look into Stiles’ eyes and see all the pain he put there.
"Look at me," Stiles says, voice quiet but firm.
Derek doesn’t.
He stares at the floor, at the space between them, at the dust gathering in the corners of the house that isn’t a home, but he does not look at Stiles.
"Please." Stiles’ voice wavers, and Derek’s hands clench into fists. "I won’t ever bother you again. I’ll never seek you out again if that’s what you want, but please…just look at me."
Something inside Derek breaks.
The thought of never seeing Stiles again is unbearable. It settles like a weight in his chest, crushing and cold, like something vital has been ripped away.
So he looks up.
And it nearly destroys him.
Because Stiles’ eyes are red rimmed and shining, filled with every ounce of hurt and heartbreak Derek has caused. Every rejection, every harsh word, every moment Derek had pushed him away is right there, laid bare in front of him.
Derek almost whimpers.
"God," Stiles whispers, voice wrecked, "I wish I could hate you."
Derek chokes on a breath, and the tears come again, burning hot as they spill down his face.
Because Stiles should hate him.
Derek gave him every reason to.
But he doesn’t. And somehow, that’s worse.
Derek barely has time to process the pain in Stiles’ voice, the weight of everything unsaid pressing between them, before Stiles moves.
It happens so fast that Derek doesn’t see it coming. One second, Stiles is standing there, raw and open, and the next his hands are fisting in Derek’s shirt, yanking him forward.
Lips crash against his.
Derek freezes.
Stiles is kissing him.
It’s desperate, unsteady; nothing soft about it. It’s months and months of tension and anger and longing colliding all at once, spilling over in a way neither of them can control.
Stiles exhales sharply against his mouth, and Derek feels it, every shaky breath, every inch of frustration, every ounce of pain wrapped in the way Stiles kisses him like he’s trying to hurt him.
Maybe he is.
Derek is too stunned to react at first. Too caught up in the heat of it, the shock of it, the way Stiles tastes like something Derek has been starving for without even realizing it.
Then, instinct kicks in.
Derek’s hands find Stiles’ waist, gripping hard enough to bruise, like he’s terrified Stiles will pull away and leave him standing in the wreckage of this moment alone.
But Stiles doesn’t pull away.
He presses in closer, deepening the kiss, fingers curling into Derek’s shirt like he’s trying to anchor himself, like he needs this just as badly.
And Derek…God, Derek lets him.
Stiles doesn’t give Derek a chance to think, doesn’t give him room to breathe, doesn’t let him go.
His hands twist in Derek’s shirt harder, yanking him closer, fingers dragging up to settle against Derek’s jaw, his neck - holding him there, like he’s afraid Derek will disappear if he lets go.
The kiss is rough, messy, fueled by months of anger and heartbreak, and Derek melts into it despite himself. His hands find Stiles’ waist again, gripping hard, grounding himself in the sharp edges of Stiles’ body.
"Why?" Stiles demands between kisses, breath hot against Derek’s lips. "Why did you do that? Why did you say and do things when we’re both miserable because of your choices?"
His mouth moves lower, dragging over Derek’s jaw, down his neck, teeth scraping against sensitive skin.
Derek sucks in a sharp breath, eyes fluttering shut. "Stiles…"
"No." Stiles doesn’t let up, doesn’t stop. "Answer me."
Derek forces himself to swallow down the way his body reacts to Stiles, forces himself to remember that this is exactly why he’d pushed Stiles away in the first place.
"You’re not safe with me," Derek murmurs, voice rough and uneven. "I don’t know how to be with anybody. And you’ll get over me, Stiles. You will."
Stiles snaps.
With a growl of frustration, he shoves Derek backward.
Derek barely registers the movement before his back hits the wall, breath catching as Stiles follows, pressing in close, crowding into his space, pinning him there with nothing but sheer force of will.
"Fuck you," Stiles hisses, eyes blazing. "Fuck you for thinking you get to decide how I feel. Fuck you for pushing me away like I’m some stupid kid who doesn’t know what he wants."
Derek’s lips part, maybe to argue, maybe to tell Stiles he is a stupid kid, that he doesn’t know, that he shouldn’t…but Stiles doesn’t let him.
Instead, he kisses him again.
Harder.
Rougher.
Like he’s trying to burn away every excuse, every wall, every reason Derek has to push him away.
And Derek lets him.
Stiles kisses him like he’s trying to prove a point. Like he’s trying to carve himself into Derek’s bones, leave something behind that Derek can’t ignore, can’t run from.
Derek feels it.
Feels the anger, the heartbreak, the need in every frantic press of lips, every sharp tug at his shirt, every frustrated noise Stiles makes when Derek doesn’t respond fast enough.
But Derek can’t move.
He’s pinned, not by Stiles’ hands, not by the wall at his back, but by the weight of everything he’s done.
By the knowledge that he’s the reason Stiles is hurting.
That he could stop this right now - could push Stiles away, could walk away, could tell him again that this is a mistake, that it doesn’t mean anything, that they’re just caught up in the moment.
Except…It does mean something.
It’s meant everything since the second Stiles threw himself into Derek’s life, refusing to back down no matter how many times Derek told him to.
So when Stiles bites at his bottom lip, Derek reacts.
A low growl rumbles in his chest, his hands snapping up to grab Stiles by the waist again and pull him closer, eliminating what little space is left between them.
Stiles gasps, but doesn’t hesitate, hands sliding up Derek’s chest, fisting in the fabric of his shirt, gripping like he’ll never let go.
"Finally," Stiles mutters against his mouth, like Derek giving in is inevitable, like it was never a matter of if, only when.
Derek clenches his jaw, guilt twisting in his gut, even as he tilts his head and kisses Stiles back.
He shouldn’t.
He knows he shouldn’t.
But Stiles tastes like fire and desperation and home, and Derek is drowning in him, losing himself in the press of warm skin, in the way Stiles drags blunt nails up the back of his neck, sending shivers down his spine.
"You don’t get to shut me out and then pretend this doesn’t exist," Stiles breathes against his lips. "You don’t get to decide that for me."
Derek squeezes his eyes shut. "Stiles-"
"No." Stiles’ fingers dig into Derek’s jaw, forcing him to look at him. "Say it."
Derek swallows hard, heart pounding against his ribs. "Say what?"
"That you feel this too." Stiles’ voice is low, raw. "That you don’t want me to stop."
Derek’s throat tightens.
He can’t say it.
Because once he does, there’s no taking it back.
But when Stiles starts to pull away, when his warmth begins to disappear-
Derek finally fucking breaks.
His hands snap up, cupping Stiles’ face, fingers tangling in his hair as he drags him back in.
"I feel it," Derek murmurs against Stiles’ lips. "I don’t want you to stop."
Stiles makes a sound halfway between a gasp and a sob before crashing back into him, kissing him like this is the answer he’s been waiting for.
The air between them is thick, charged with a tension that’s been building for far too long. Stiles’ hands move with a frantic urgency, tugging at his own clothes, pulling Derek’s shirt up over his head in one fluid motion. The touch is desperate, as if he’s terrified of this moment slipping away, terrified of the reality that still lingers between them.
Derek watches him, breath catching in his throat. Stiles’ eyes are wide, intense, flicking up to meet his with every movement. He doesn’t seem scared, not now. But there’s a rawness in the way he undresses, as if he’s unraveling a part of himself he’s kept hidden for too long.
Stiles pauses, his hands resting on the waistband of Derek’s jeans. He meets Derek’s gaze and for the first time in a long time, there’s a vulnerability there. A hesitation that hadn’t been there before.
"If you want to stop, we can," Stiles says, voice a little rough, a little unsteady. His eyes search Derek’s face, reading him, waiting for a sign. "I’m not going to push you, Derek. I just... I just need to know you’re in this too."
Derek stands frozen, his body aching with need but his mind racing. His chest rises and falls with each breath, but it feels like the world has paused, and the only thing that matters is Stiles standing there, stripped down to nothing but his vulnerability.
Derek wants this.
God, how he wants this.
But a part of him, the part that’s always been too scared, too damaged, too fucked up, wants to pull away. He’s always been good at that, at building walls, at staying safe.
He looks at Stiles, and for a moment, he sees him - the one who’s been there for him, who never once turned his back. He sees the pain in Stiles’ eyes, the way he’s putting himself out there in a way Derek never thought possible.
"I’m in this," Derek finally says, voice low but sure, his hands trembling slightly as he reaches up to touch Stiles’ face. "I’m in this with you, Stiles."
Stiles’ lips quirk, a flash of something softer in his expression, and the weight that had been pressing on Derek’s chest lifts, just a little.
"Good," Stiles whispers. "Because if we’re doing this, I need to know you’re here. I don’t need to be the only one who wants this."
Derek leans forward, kissing Stiles again, slower this time, softer. His hands slide down Stiles’ back, pulling him closer, as if trying to melt into him, trying to erase all the hurt, the doubt, the confusion that’s haunted them both for so long.
There’s no more hesitation now, no more pushing or pulling. There’s just this, just them, standing at the edge of something that’s both terrifying and perfect.
Derek holds Stiles, the warmth of his body pressing against him as the weight of the moment settles between them. His fingers trace the lines of Stiles' jaw, a tender gesture that carries so much more than just a touch. It’s an apology. It’s an acknowledgment of everything that’s led them here. Stiles’ hands slide up Derek’s chest, fingertips brushing over scars Derek would rather forget but that Stiles never seems to mind.
"I don’t just want you," Derek murmurs, voice rough. "I need you."
The words taste like ash on his tongue, heavy with all the things Derek has been too terrified to say before now. He’s always been the one to keep people at arm’s length, the one who’s built walls so high, so thick, that not even a single crack of light could get through.
But Stiles has always been the exception.
And now, admitting this to himself, to Stiles, feels like breaking everything he’s ever known. Because needing someone is dangerous. It means giving up control, it means trusting someone enough to let them in.
It’s terrifying.
But the words are already out, and Derek can’t take them back.
Stiles doesn’t pull away. He doesn’t laugh, doesn’t say anything in return at first. He just stares at Derek for a long moment, his chest rising and falling as he breathes in the words like they’re air, like they’re something he’s been waiting for.
"I love you so fucking much," Stiles finally says, his voice shaking but steady. His eyes hold Derek’s gaze, unflinching. "I love you, Derek."
Derek feels a pang in his chest, something raw and heavy. He wants to say it back. He wants to tell Stiles that he’s loved him for so long, that the pull toward him, the feeling of something real in the bullshit that is their lives, has always been there. But the words are stuck in his throat, trapped by the fear of what it means, by the reality of what saying them would mean.
Stiles doesn’t expect it, doesn’t ask for it. Not yet.
And somehow, that makes it harder.
Instead, Stiles pulls him forward, kissing him with an intensity that makes Derek forget how to breathe. His hands move over Derek’s skin, tugging him closer, like he’s trying to fold Derek into himself, to make sure Derek is here, that he’s not going anywhere.
Without saying another word, they move toward the bedroom, their bodies colliding in a frenzy of hands and mouths, as if they’re both trying to erase the distance between them, trying to fill the empty space they’ve both been living in for too long.
They stumble into the room, clothes discarded in a haphazard mess on the floor throughout the hallway and staircase. Derek feels the bed against the back of his legs before Stiles pushes him down, their lips never parting, their bodies never breaking contact.
It’s not perfect. It’s messy. It’s clumsy and uncoordinated, driven more by urgency than anything else. But it’s real. It’s everything they’ve never said, every moment of tension, every push and pull, every hurt and regret, all coming to a head in the heat of the moment.
They get lost in it and lost in each other.
Derek’s mind is full of Stiles, full of the feeling of Stiles’ hands on his skin, of the way Stiles sighs into his mouth, of the way their bodies move together like they’ve done this a thousand times before, even though they haven’t. There’s a rhythm to it, a pulse that’s only theirs.
Derek’s heart pounds in his chest, but it doesn’t feel like panic anymore. It feels like home.
When they finally come together, breathless and tangled in sheets, neither of them knows how long it lasts. Time blurs, and all that exists is the sensation of being here, of not being alone anymore.
There’s a rawness to it, a vulnerability that both of them are still learning to navigate. But it’s theirs. It’s real, and it’s messy, and it’s fucking beautiful.
Stiles settles beside him afterward, his head resting on Derek’s chest, his breath steady but still a little shaky. Derek’s hand finds Stiles’ hair, fingers gently threading through the soft short strands, like he’s trying to hold on to something he’s afraid will slip away.
Neither of them speaks for a while. There’s no need for words right now.
The room is still, the only sound the soft rhythm of their breathing, the world outside forgotten for a moment. Derek feels like he’s come home in a way he never thought possible, but it’s still fragile; so fragile, and the weight of everything still sits heavily in his chest.
He turns his head slightly, looking down at Stiles’ face, the soft light from the bedside lamp casting shadows across his features. Stiles is still awake, his eyes closed, a contented sigh escaping his lips as he nestles further into Derek’s side.
Derek’s heart twists in his chest as he speaks softly, almost to himself, unsure if Stiles is even listening.
“I might fuck it up, Stiles,” Derek admits, his voice low, rough with the vulnerability he’s still getting used to. “I don’t... I don’t know if I can be what you want, what you need.”
Stiles doesn’t move at first, and for a moment, Derek wonders if he’s said too much. But then Stiles shifts slightly, his head tilting up to look at Derek, eyes warm and steady as he meets his gaze.
“You won’t,” Stiles says simply, his voice surprisingly firm. “I won’t let you.”
Derek opens his mouth to protest, to explain how much he’s damaged, how much he’s hurt people in the past, but Stiles presses a finger to his lips, stopping him.
“I’ve seen you at your worst, Derek. I’ve seen you broken,” Stiles continues, his voice soft but filled with certainty. “And you know what? You’re still here. That’s what matters.” He pauses, letting the words sink in. “And I’m not going anywhere.”
Derek swallows hard, the weight in his chest shifting, something warm and unfamiliar spreading through him at the conviction in Stiles’ voice.
“You’re not going anywhere?” Derek asks, his voice quiet, almost a whisper, like he’s afraid to hope.
Stiles shakes his head, a small, crooked smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Not a chance. You’re stuck with me, Hale.”
Derek chuckles softly, the sound low and hushed, but it’s real, it’s something. He can’t quite believe it yet, but the warmth of Stiles’ words makes him feel a little less like he’s falling.
For a long moment, neither of them says anything. They just lie there together, wrapped in each other’s warmth. Derek finally doesn’t feel like he’s holding something back, like he’s standing on the edge of a cliff.
Stiles, still pressed against Derek’s side, shifts just enough to look up at him, his face serious for a moment, but with a mischievous glint in his eyes.
“Besides,” Stiles adds, “You’re way too hot for me to let go of. I’m not giving that up.”
Derek snorts at the cocky smile on Stiles’ face, the teasing tone in his voice, and he feels hope. Not the kind that’s fragile or fleeting, but the kind that says maybe, this - them - is worth fighting for. Worth holding on to.
“I’m not going anywhere either,” Derek finally says, his voice thick with something real. Something permanent.
And Stiles, always so stubborn and always so sure, just smiles that half-cocked grin that Derek’s learned to love.
“Good,” he says. “Because I wouldn’t let you.”
And with that, they fall into a comfortable silence, the kind that feels like safety, and Derek knows that this, whatever happens next, won’t be perfect. But it’s theirs. And that’s enough for him.