Chapter Text
Stiles was tired. Not the kind of tired that sleep could fix, but the deep, hollow ache of being worn down from the inside out. His head felt heavy all the time now, thoughts looping endlessly in the background: arguments replayed in sharper detail than he wanted, Derek’s voice low and hard edged, his own words sharp enough to cut him on the way out. It wasn’t even the fights themselves that left him raw, it was the silence afterward. The quiet in the loft, stretched too thin, where they circled each other like two men who’d forgotten they were supposed to be on the same side.
Derek seemed to think it meant something, that all this yelling was proof they still cared. He had this way of setting his jaw, of glaring at Stiles like it was better than looking away, like holding on through the fight meant they weren’t giving up. “At least we’re still talking,” Derek had said once, voice hoarse from too much shouting. “At least we’re still here.”
And maybe that made sense in Derek Hale’s broken, burned down logic - that fighting was safer than silence, that anger was better than indifference. But Stiles couldn’t stop hearing it for what it was: the alpha and his emissary screaming at each other in the middle of a pack meeting, voices cutting through the air until the others looked away, shoulders tense, breaths shallow.
Every time it happened, Stiles saw it in their faces. Erica’s eyes darting between them like she couldn’t decide who to back. Isaac stiffening like he was waiting for a blow that was meant for him. Even Lydia, all cool detachment, couldn’t hide the flicker of discomfort at watching two supposed leaders tear strips off each other.
The pack was fracturing. He could feel it, like hairline cracks running through glass, invisible until the whole thing shattered. And Derek didn’t seem to see it. Or maybe he did and just refused to admit it, clinging to this brutal, twisted idea that conflict meant connection.
Stiles didn’t know how much longer he could take it. He didn’t know how Derek could look at the wreckage of their arguments and still think this was worth it, that this was proof of anything but how far they were falling.
Stiles sank deeper into the couch, shoulders slumped, every muscle in his body heavy with a kind of exhaustion that wasn’t just physical. His fingers traced the rim of his mug, lukewarm coffee forgotten, while his mind ran in circles. They had been at it again tonight… voices raised, words sharper than they needed to be, the kind of shouting that left his chest tight and his stomach hollow. And just like every time, he ended up replaying it in slow motion, dissecting every syllable, every pause, every look Derek had shot him across the room.
He rubbed at his eyes, trying to chase away the stinging that had nothing to do with tiredness. God, he didn’t even know why he stayed sometimes. They were tearing each other apart piece by piece, leaving everyone else in the pack holding their breath, pretending not to notice the cracks.
It wasn’t just Derek’s stubbornness that wore him down either. it was the way the alpha could act like everything was fine just because they were still talking. Still fighting. Still arguing. Like those fights were a badge of commitment instead of a warning. Stiles saw the looks on the pack’s faces, the way Boyd and Erica exchanged glances when Derek snapped, the way Isaac flinched even though he tried not to. Every time, it was a reminder that they were unraveling. Slowly. Loudly. And no amount of yelling or pushing or snarling was fixing it.
And Stiles… Stiles was tired of being the one who felt it all. Tired of carrying the weight of every fracture in the pack like some kind of invisible alpha second in command. He had tried. He had tried to talk to Derek, tried to reason, tried to give him a chance to see what was happening outside his own head. But Derek… Derek never saw it. He never admitted it. He only fought. Only raged. Only loved so fiercely that it left everyone, including Stiles, gasping for air.
That was when the thought came. Dangerous, sharp, and unwelcome. The thought of doing what he had sworn he’d never do. The thought of letting Derek off the hook because Derek would never do it himself.
Stiles could fix this. He could save the pack. He could put himself aside.
He could end it.
The words burned on his tongue before they even formed. He imagined the conversation, imagined the look on Derek’s face, imagined the sudden quiet that would follow as the reality of their breakup settled over the loft. He didn’t want to do it, he hated the thought of doing it, but he knew he had to. He had to. Because if he didn’t, if he let Derek keep tearing himself apart while pretending everything was fine, the pack would suffer. And he couldn’t let that happen. Not like this.
Stiles pressed his palms against his eyes, muttering under his breath, a whisper only he could hear: I’m doing this for everyone else. Not for me.
The thought of losing Derek was unbearable. It clawed at his chest in the quietest, most merciless way. But the thought of the pack fracturing under the weight of their fights… that was worse.
So he made up his mind. He would say it. He would end it before the damage went any further.
Before he could find the words, though, the front door slammed open.
Stiles didn’t even hear Derek come in at first. He was curled on the edge of the couch, head in his hands, the weight of every argument, every yelling match, every fractured glance at the pack pressing down on him so hard it felt like he might crack.
Derek was here. And he knew. Knew before he even saw the slumped figure of his emissary, knew before his amber eyes swept the room. The tension in the loft shifted the moment he stepped inside. Derek’s wolf flared, muscles coiled, senses stretched tight. Something was wrong, and Derek could smell it in every heavy, ragged breath Stiles drew.
He crouched by the couch before Stiles even had time to blink. “Stiles,” Derek said, voice low and dangerous and soft all at once. “What’s wrong?”
Stiles lifted his head slowly, eyes rimmed red, shoulders trembling, and whispered, “I… I just… I can’t.” His words cracked under the weight of exhaustion and heartbreak. “I’m so tired, Derek. Why do we… why do we keep doing this?”
Derek’s hand brushed against Stiles’ arm instinctively, slow and grounding, but he didn’t move away when Stiles flinched. He stayed there, anchored, his wolf snarling in the back of his mind, sensing every shred of desperation pouring off him.
“You’re not happy,” Stiles went on, voice raw and hoarse. “And I’m tired of being the reason that you’re not happy. I’m tired of being the reason the pack is falling apart. God… I’m just so tired.”
Every word sliced through the room, cutting deep into Derek’s chest. His wolf was snarling now, a low, protective rumble. Every instinct in him screamed to shield, to fix, to take this pain and bear it himself. He brushed his thumb against Stiles’ cheek, trying to anchor him, trying to calm him down. “Shh… hey, hey, I’m right here,” Derek murmured, but Stiles’ exhaustion, his despair, was almost suffocating.
Stiles opened his mouth again, likely to spill the words he’d been circling for hours, the words that would fracture them forever, when the door slammed open.
A girl, mid teens, stood there, shoulders squared, chin high, eyes blazing like she’d swallowed a storm. “Shut the fuck up right now before you say something you’re going to regret!”
Time froze for a heartbeat. Stiles just stared, blinking. His jaw slack, disbelief mingled with incredulous laughter.
Derek’s body tensed instantly, growl slipping from his throat before he could stop it. The wolf inside him lit like a flare shot into the sky, teeth bared, hackles rising. He took a half step forward, protectively, in front of Stiles.
The girl didn’t flinch. Didn’t even step back. Her gaze locked with his, steady and defiant, and she growled back - not a childish imitation, but sharp, precise, threatening. Her scent hit him in a wave, tangy, familiar, and confusing.
Stiles barked out a laugh he couldn’t control - loud, incredulous, almost hysterical - the sound echoing off the loft walls. “What the hell… who are you?!” he managed between breaths, both terrified and utterly unable to contain the ridiculousness of the moment.
Derek’s eyes didn’t leave her. His growl was low and warning, but there was something else in it now. confusion, disbelief, something wild clawing at the edge of recognition. His wolf snarled, but his mind screamed that he didn’t understand… that he had never smelled anyone like this before, and yet every fiber of him screamed that she belonged.
And Stiles, still laughing, still reeling, still raw with exhaustion, felt something shift, something impossible and terrible and wonderful, in the air between the three of them.
The girl took a step further into the loft, boots scraping softly against the floor, and Derek’s muscles coiled instinctively. He moved in front of Stiles like a shield, wolf flaring, instincts screaming at him that she was a threat. Every nerve in his body was taut, every claw and fang ready.
But the girl just stopped and crossed her arms, tilting her head with a half smirk. “You know,” she said, voice sharp and mocking, “Stiles can take care of himself. So you don’t need to showboat in front of me right now.”
Derek froze. His eyes flared red, full, glowing, predatory. He had never needed to be this clear, this dangerous, this alpha in front of someone. He didn’t know what she was, and every instinct told him to be careful.
The girl didn’t back down. Instead, she leaned forward slightly, and her eyes caught his. Bright, shocking pink. Pink like neon reflected in sunlight, almost unreal in its intensity.
Derek’s breath hitched. He blinked. Once. Twice. No. This wasn’t possible. He had never seen eyes like that before. Not in any human, not in any wolf, not in any supernatural creature he’d ever encountered.
Stiles froze too, mouth half open, heart hammering in a mixture of fear and disbelief. He’d sensed something familiar about her, felt it in the pit of his stomach, but pink eyes? What the hell kind of creature was this girl?
The girl’s smirk widened, small, confident, as if she knew exactly the effect she had. “I’m the first of my kind,” she said, her voice steady, almost casual, but there was steel behind it. No hesitation, no fear. Just certainty.
Derek’s growl rose low and threatening, instinctively protective, but he couldn’t tear his gaze away from those impossible eyes. His wolf snarled, confused and alert, and Stiles’ laughter from before faded into a breathless, nervous silence.
The room felt smaller, charged with something new and unknown. Every hair on Derek’s body bristled. Every thought in Stiles’ head tripped over itself. The three of them - Stiles raw with exhaustion, Derek taut and dangerous, and this girl with pink eyes and confidence that defied every rule they knew - stood frozen in that charged, impossible moment.
And in the silence, one truth thumped in Stiles’ chest: whatever this girl was, she had just changed everything.