Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Stiles Stilinski thought he understood heartbreak.

He thought he'd felt it in the quiet moments —when his mother died, when his father broke under the weight of grief, when his best friend drifted away amd started acting like he was nothing but a familiar stranger .
He thought he was used to it

But nothing—absolutely nothing—could have prepared him for this.

Not for the way his heart caved in on itself.
Not for the way his breath caught like glass in his throat.
Not for the way the world stopped spinning the moment he heard those words spill from the lips of the man he once loved like it was breathing.

"Leave, Stiles."

Two words. So final. So cruel. So painfully empty.

He waited—for someone to speak up.
For Scott to protest. For Lydia to look at him. For anyone to say anything.
But he was met with silence.
A silence louder than any scream.
And in that silence, Stiles realized the truth:

He wasn’t part of the pack.

...And maybe he had never been.

What do you do when the people you bled for turn their backs on you?

When the family you chose and loved more then anything decides that you are just not worth keeping?

You break.

Quietly. Completely.

And then, with no one left to stop you,

You leave.

So he did.

Chapter Text

"Leave, Stiles"

Two words.

Twelve letters, Two syllables, 5 vowels.

It was all it took for Stiles's entire world to shatter.

When did it all go wrong?

Flashback

Stiles didn’t know what hurt more.

Was it the pain Gerard Argent carved into his skin with every precise, calculated cut?
Was it Erica’s screams or Boyd’s cries echoing through the metal walls as that monster tortured them?

Or maybe… maybe it was the fact that he endured all of it—hours of agony, clinging to one desperate hope.
That his best friend would come. That Scott would come.

But he didn’t.

When Gerard realized that no matter how hard he tried, Stiles wouldn’t break—not for him—he smiled. And then he gave the order.
“Leave him to the others. Let them have some fun.”

The look in their eyes.
Those two men, Gerard’s men—the hunger in their dead stares as they trailed their gaze over Stiles’ broken body—he would never forget it.
They dragged him into the woods. Stripped him. Humiliated him.

One leaned down, his breath hot and sour against Stiles’ ear. He licked the side of his face, making Stiles flinch and gag.

“You’ve got a three-minute head start,” the man whispered. “If you make it out of the woods, you can go home. Let the pack see what’s left of you. If you don't, well, we don't have to tell you what's going to happen”

And so, he ran.

God, he ran.

Every nerve in his body screamed. Every step felt like fire ripping through him. But he ran anyway.
He had to. He had to warn them.
But first, he needed clothes.

"There has to be an explanation," he told himself again and again as he treated his own wounds through gritted teeth.
"Scott wouldn’t forget me. He wouldn’t abandon me. He couldn’t."

But the blood.
God, the blood.
It stained his skin, a twisted kind of artwork under the artificial white light of the lacrosse locker room.
He was the canvas. His blood, the paint. And Gerard Argent was the artist.

Bandaged and barely able to walk, he made it to the lacrosse field—
Only to find Lydia cradling a very naked, very traumatized Jackson.

It wasn’t until things everyone calmed down that he realized…
No one had noticed he was gone.

Scott hadn’t noticed. Not even once.

He tried not to feel hurt by it.
Everyone had been busy, with the Kanima thing and everything.

But still…
The fact that Scott—his brother in everything but blood—chose to risk it all for Jackson Whittemore, the same guy who tormented them through most of their lives, instead of him…the person that held him for hours while he cried when his father left
It cut deeper than any knife.

He told himself it didn’t matter.

He had to tell the about Erica and Boyd.

He had to tell Derek.

But he never got the chance.

Beacon Hills couldn’t let them feel peace for more than five minutes.
By the time they reached the alpha loft, they were already informed that Chris Argent had freed Erica and Boyd less than an hour ago.

A piece of news that should’ve been a relief soon turned dark when they learned that Erica and Boyd had been captured again. This time, by something far worse than a delusional old man. No… it was the newly arrived Alpha Pack. A pack, quite literally, formed entirely by alphas.

The revelation set off a collective panic. Immediately, they started to strategize and plan.

Stiles’s wounded state became a mere afterthought. No one said anything. No one asked questions. And Stiles certainly wasn’t about to open his mouth. It wasn’t that important.

He never told them the real reason why he was so involved in the search, the reason he knew so much about Erica and Boyd’s condition before they disappeared.

No one knew he had been there with them, that he had gone through the same.

Same torture, same pain, same monster of a man.

The only difference?
He didn’t have supernatural healing powers.

His wounds—one last cruel gift from Gerard—burned every time he moved. A perfect reminder that he wasn't be allowed to rest until they found them. Not when he had the chance to come back home and they didn't.

Each day passed since the whole kanima fiasco, the silence grew louder.
Stiles could feel himself fading—slipping further into the background of a life he no longer recognized.
Scott had stopped calling. No texts, no voicemails. Just... nothing.
Too wrapped around Allison’s finger, too focused on putting the pieces of his world back together to even glance at the boy who had once been his anchor.

Chris Argent had offered to help with the search. Stiles thought it was because he felt guilty about his father's actions and didn't know what else to do or say.
Sometimes, when he thought no one was watching, Stiles would catch him looking at him with something dangerosuly close to pity. 

But, if he knew what had happened in that basement, if he’d heard his screams echoing off the walls or seen the blood that wouldn’t wash off…
He never said a damn word. And in a strange, twisted way, Stiles was grateful for it.

Peter was...well Peter, Lydia and Jackson have been trapped in their own little world only showing up for the weekly pack meeting regarding Erica and Boyd

Then there was Derek.

Derek.

The ever-strong, ever-imposing Alpha—had become a ghost of the man he used to be. His fists clenched, jaw tight, eyes shadowed by sleepless nights, in the quiet that clung to him like a second skin.

Stiles remembered something Deaton once said to Scott—that the bond between an Alpha and their Betas wasn’t just symbolic, it was visceral. Losing one could tear an Alpha apart. Losing two? It was no wonder Derek looked like he was unraveling.

And it broke Stiles’ heart to watch it happen.

He wasn’t stupid. He knew that somewhere along the way, he’d fallen for the older wolf.

He didn’t know exactly when it started—maybe it was all the times Derek slammed him against the nearest surface just to shut him up, maybe it was every moment they saved each other’s lives in the middle of chaos, maybe it was when he saw him smile for the first time.

Stiles still remembered the moment he realized his feeling for the alpha, he remembers holding Derek in that cold water for hours, refusing to let go, his only thought being: l got you. Please, just hold on a little more.

He remembered looking into those tired eyes and seeing something like trust reflected back at him—and God, didn’t that just twist something deep in his chest?

He didn’t understand why he felt so connected to Derek. But he did. Deeply, fiercely.

Still, he’d never act on it.

Derek barely tolerated him most days—he knew that. Stiles wasn’t about to ruin what little they had over some stupid teenage crush.

Even if, deep down, he knew it was something so much more than that. And it was because of it that he was going to give him his pack back, no matter how much it cost.

By day, he threw himself into the search of the 2 betas that endure literal hell with him.
But by night, when he was alone—cleaning wounds that refused to heal—he let himself cry for the version of him that died in that basement.
The one who still believed Scott would come.
The one who hadn’t yet realized that if Gerard hadn’t let him go…
He would’ve died down there. And no one would’ve noticed.

His poor father…
He didn’t deserve this.
Didn’t deserve the lies every time he asked what was wrong.
Didn’t deserve the growing shadows under Stiles’ eyes or the light that was slowly fading from them.

But Stiles couldn’t tell him.
He couldn’t drag his father into this world, not when he was the only thing he had left.

And if he was being honest with himself…
A part of him didn’t think his dad would believe him anyway.

He had never felt so alone in this life.

I wish you were here, Mom… You’d know what to do," he whispered, looking at the moon.

Chapter Text

Present day

After days and days of sleepless nights, surrounded by nothing but silence and printouts covering every inch of his walls, he had finally made it.

He had something—finally, finally—something to help them find Erica and Boyd.

He couldn’t hold back the excitement as he rushed to the door, grabbed his keys, and ran outside.

He needed to see Derek. Immediately.

When he got there, he parked the Jeep quickly and ran up to the door.

Stiles’s chest burned as he took the stairs two at a time, clutching the worn folder against his side like it held the answer to everything.

Because maybe it did.

Inside were maps, notes, highlighted areas from old hunting routes, even a shaky eyewitness report. A possible lead on where Erica and Boyd were being held. Not just speculation—something solid. Something real. And Derek needed to know now.

He didn’t bother knocking. He burst through the loft door, breathless, the folder still clutched in his hand.

And froze.

Everyone was already there.

Derek. Scott. Lydia. Isaac. Even Jackson.

They were all gathered around the table, some sitting, some standing. Quiet. Focused. Like a unit.

Like a pack.

Without him.

Derek didn’t even look surprised to see him. His voice was flat, sharp-edged.

"We're going over the next possible lead."

Stiles looked around again, heart thudding.

“And no one call me? Why didn’t anyone—?”

“Because you weren’t required,” Derek said curtly.

The words hit harder than they should have. But Stiles shook it off, swallowing down the sting. It didn't matter—they needed to find Erica and Boyd. He held up the folder.

“Look, its good you are going through it right now, I just found something. I think—if you just”

Derek cut him off with a single raised hand.

“I said, you’re not required.”

Stiles stopped cold. “What?”

“You’re human,” Derek said, like it was a curse. “You're weak. You’re just dead weight for the pack.”

“B-But--Lydia is also human—”

“The difference is, she’s useful,” Derek snapped. “We can’t afford to slow down the search every time just to make sure you don’t get yourself killed. You’re done, Stiles. Stop acting like you’re one of us. You’re not pack. You never were.”

The folder in Stiles’s hands trembled as the alpha drove the last nail into the coffin.

“Leave, Stiles. And don’t come back, I don't want you anywhere near me or the pack, Am i clear?”

So this... this is what heartbreak actually feels like.

He looked around the room, waiting—hoping—for someone to say something.

Scott wouldn’t meet his eyes. Isaac looked uncomfortable, jaw tight, gaze heavy with pity.

Lydia kept her eyes on the floor.

And Jackson looked like he couldn’t care less.

No one said a word.

Not a single word.

Something cracked deep in his chest, so quietly it felt like a whisper. Stiles blinked hard against the tears threatening to fall, forced himself to nod even as his vision blurred.

“Okay,” he whispered.

Just that.

He stepped forward, set the folder gently on the table, the edges of the paper slightly crumpled from how tightly he’d been gripping it.

Then he turned around and walked out.

He didn’t look back.

He didn’t want them to see him cry.

It was raining when Stiles walked out of the loft.

Of course it was.

The sky cracked open above him like it could feel everything he was holding back. Heavy drops soaked through his hoodie in seconds, but he didn’t care. He didn’t run. He didn’t even flinch. He just kept walking—numb and hollow—like if he moved fast enough, the ache wouldn’t catch up.

Tears were already falling, hot and silent, blending with the rain on his cheeks. His breathing hitched as he reached the Jeep, hands trembling as he fumbled with the keys. He didn’t want to break, not there—not where they could hear him--. He refused to give them that satisfaction.

The engine roared to life, and he gripped the wheel so tightly his knuckles turned white.

He drove.

Fast.

Focused.

Eyes blurred. Heart racing.

Just get home.

Just make it to your room.

Lock the door.

Not here.

But fate had other plans.

It always does.

Halfway through the drive, just past the edge of the preserve, the Jeep stuttered.

And died.

“No. No, no, no…” Stiles slammed the heel of his hand against the steering wheel, already soaked, already shaking. The wipers kept moving, helplessly sweeping away the storm he couldn’t outrun.

He stepped out into the downpour, sneakers sinking into the muddy roadside, and popped the hood.

Steam. Wires. Nothing he hadn’t dealt with before.

Except this time, nothing worked.

His fingers were slipping, wet and frozen. His breath came faster, harsher.

And then—

He snapped.

With a choked sound somewhere between a sob and a scream, he punched the metal edge of the engine—too hard. Pain bloomed instantly as his knuckles split open, bright red against the cold silver.

He staggered back, gasping at the sting.

That was all it took.

The final thread snapped.

His knees gave out as he collapsed in front of the Jeep, hands curling into the muddy gravel.

The sob hit him before he realized it was coming.

Not loud. Not dramatic.

Just a cracked, broken sound that escaped his throat before he could stop it.

Then another.

And another.

And then he was crying.

Really crying.

He buried his face in his hands and let it break.

Not because the Jeep had failed.

But because everything else had.

He cried for Erica and Boyd—for being too late, for not being strong enough.

He cried for Derek—for loving someone who never saw him as anything more than a waste of time.

He cried for Scott—his brother—for forgetting him, for not choosing him, for not being there when Stiles needed him the most.

He cried for the version of himself who believed that if he just tried hard enough, loved hard enough… maybe he’d belong.

It tore out of him, raw and guttural. The kind of pain that has nowhere else to go. The kind you only feel when you’ve lost everything—and no one even noticed.

He didn’t know how long he stayed like that, kneeling in the rain with blood on his hands and nothing in his chest but grief.

At some point, the cold began to sink in. Deep.

His body shivered violently. The edges of his vision started to fade, the world growing darker, distant, quiet.

Then—impact.

His cheek hit the pavement.

The cold was biting now. His lashes fluttered.

And just before the black swallowed him whole, he heard it.

A voice—low, rough, familiar.

“…Stiles?”

“…Danny?”

That was his last thought before everything went dark.

Chapter Text

Hello, I hope each and every one of you is doing well. First of all, I want to thank you for all the support I’ve received during my time away. You have no idea how deeply moved and grateful I am for you and for this community. I truly hope it continues to grow as this story evolves.

Don’t worry—I won’t be deleting or putting this story on hold. But there are a few things I’d like to clarify and get off my chest.

Before anything else, I want to sincerely apologize for my long absence. I know I promised weekly updates, and although I had mentioned that finals week might keep me away, that one week somehow turned into one of the most brutal months of my life. The academic pressure was overwhelming—so much so that I couldn't focus on anything else.

That explains the first month. The second one, after the semester ended, became one of the hardest months I’ve ever experienced emotionally. What I’m about to share might be too personal, but I need to let it out, and at the same time, I’d really appreciate an objective, external perspective.

This past semester has been one of the worst of my life. As I’ve mentioned before, I’m a medical student—and for the first time ever, I failed an class. This means I’ll have to retake it after summer break, and I won’t be able to move on to the next semester. I’ll fall behind and spend the next term taking only that one class. This news shattered me in so many ways. I had never, not once in my life, failed a class.

I know I’m studying one of the most difficult degrees in the world, and I know failure is not uncommon. But this has been one of the most devastating blows I’ve ever received. I’ve cried like never before, screamed to every god in the universe, and felt a kind of self-loathing that makes it hard to even look at myself in the mirror without disgust. I’ve never hated myself this much.

It might sound dramatic to feel this way over one class, but for me, it means more. It represents lost opportunities—like research work, scholarships, or joining student organizations. What hurts the most is that I gave it everything. I’ve never worked so hard for anything in my life. And I still didn’t make it.

Sometimes I try to be positive and tell myself: "It’s okay, I’m not the only one." There were 1,000 students taking the course, including both first-timers and repeaters, and 800 of us failed. But the truth is, I can’t stop telling myself how stupid I must be for not being among the 200 who passed. I’ve never felt more miserable, more like a failure, or more unintelligent. I used to be a top student all my life—until I got to university.

It’s silly to think that at only 19 years old, one subject could make me feel like the world is crashing down. But I can’t help it. I can’t stop feeling inferior to those who passed in their first try or fighting the urge to quit this career. I keep thinking maybe this is a sign that I’m not cut out for this. That I’m not smart enough. That I’m not good enough. I’m tired of giving everything I have and still failing. I don’t want to keep trying.

I know this is a lot to share with people who don’t even know me, but I can’t afford therapy, so asking strangers on the internet for advice from an anonymous account feels like the next best option.

Now, regarding the story: I won’t delete it or put it on hiatus, but I will be rewriting some parts and changing the dynamics in a few others. The concept and the characters will stay the same. As a small apology gift for my absence, this week there will be not just two new chapters, but also some updated versions of previous chapters, which I’m sure you’ll enjoy even more than the original versions.

Once again, thank you for reading, for your support, and for allowing me to open up to you. I’ll forever be grateful.
Read you later :)
- S

Chapter Text

The first thing Stiles saw when he regained consciousness was a feminine silhouette who seemed to be talking to him. Even though her voice sounded distant, he couldn’t make out a single word she was saying. Suddenly, something wet pressing against his forehead made him blink repeatedly, forcing his vision to focus. In front of him stood an older woman with a kind face and almond-shaped eyes that seemed strangely familiar. When she saw his eyes open, she pulled back the cloth she had been pressing in his face and spoke.

—“We were starting to wonder when you’d wake up,” she said, smiling at him.

—“Who is “we”? Where am I?” Stiles asked hoarsely, his eyes shifting away from the woman just long enough to cautiously scan the room. His gaze moved from the ceiling to the walls, stopping at the posters and photos cluttering the space, slightly ruining the otherwise neat and orderly vibe. The whole place radiated the kind of warmth and comfort only the room of a teenager could.

—“You’re at my house,” said a familiar voice from the doorway, making Stiles pause his inspection to look at who had spoken.

—“Danny?” Stiles said in surprise and confusion, trying to sit up in the bed he was lying in, but his legs trembled. If it hadn’t been for the quick reflexes of the other teen and the unfamiliar woman, he would’ve hit the floor.

—“Whoa, take it easy. Your fever hasn’t gone down yet,” Danny said, holding him by the shoulders and gently guiding him back to the mattress. He sounded genuinely worried—completely different from the laid-back and composed version of Danny Stiles was used to.

The hazel-eyed teen tried to protest, but his complaint didn’t make it past his throat before a violent coughing fit took over. The woman still standing in front of him noticed and quickly reached for the glass of water on the nightstand, helping him drink it. He grimaced as it went down—his throat was raw, and his head throbbed with a sharp, pulsing pain.

—“How did I get here?” he asked while adjusting himself on the soft surface.

—“I found you in Westburgh. You passed out in the rain. You didn’t look ok, so I brought you here. This is my grandmother, Mirna,” he said, nodding toward the woman who had stayed quietly on the sidelines of their conversation. “She’s been keeping an eye on you while I called a tow truck to pick up your Jeep. Don’t worry about the cost—the mechanic owes me a favor.”

—“Nice to meet you, Stiles,” the woman said with a smile Stiles couldn’t help but return.

— “How long was I out?” he asked, trying to process everything Danny was saying.

—“About three hours. It’s 11 p.m.”

—“Shit… my dad. He doesn’t know where I am. He’s gotta be worried sick.”

—“Don’t worry, I’ll take you home. Do you want us to call anyone else? I tried calling Scott, but he sent me straight to voicemail.”

The mention of his ex-best friend made Stiles’s mind spiral back to the events that had led to Danny finding him just a few hours ago. His eyes filled with tears as he remembered everything he had lost in the lapse of a few minutes. Derek’s words echoed painfully in his chest—his blank stare, the way none of the people he once called friends had stood up for him, the crushing realization that he had always been disposable to them, no matter how hard he tried to contribute to the pack, he was just the pathetic human who thought he could hang with the “cool supernatural kids”.

The two of them must have noticed the change in his expression, because both of them stepped closer, and the woman quietly asked:

“Do you want us to call the Alpha Hale? Or any other member of your pack who needs to know?”

That pulled him out of his thoughts immediately, and he whipped his head around so fast it could’ve snapped his neck.

“What? Pack? What are you talking about?” he said nervously laughing.

“Please, Stiles, none of you are as subtle as you think. You’re actually pretty obvious. Most people just choose to ignore how suspicious you look when you talk among yourselves,” Danny said with an almost exasperated look. “You’d think that after all the Peter Hale going rogue stuff and the unsolved murders, you’d have learned to keep a low profile.”

“How do you even know about that? I mean… what are you talking about? Peter Hale? Who’s that? You’ve been watching too much SyFy lately, Danny-boy,” Stilinski replied, laughing nervously.

That earned an exasperated look from both of them.

“Anyway, I’m asking again — do you want me to call your alpha or not? I really don’t want a feral Derek Hale or Scott McCall, for the matter, on my porch when they track your scent all the way here,” the older woman said, reaching for her phone on the nightstand. “Honestly, I’m surprised they haven’t found you yet. New alphas like him usually lose their minds when a pack member goes missing.”

“NO!” he shouted way louder than necessary, panic taking over his voice completely. That must’ve caught their attention, because they both turned at the same time to look at him, surprised. He looked away and swallowed the lump in his throat before speaking again. “Please, don’t…”

The Mahealani exchanged an other a look between themselves, then turned it to him.

“Stiles…” Danny began cautiously. “Are you okay? Why don’t you want us to call him? Would you rather I keep trying Scott?”

The question made the brunette tear up again. My God, it was pathetic—practically an adult, and he couldn’t even answer a simple question without feeling like he’d break down crying.

“They kicked me out,” Stiles said quietly, head down, feeling a tear trickle down the bridge of his nose, tickling the tip. He sobbed before continuing. “They were part of my pack… but I was never really part of theirs,” he finished with a sob, saying those words out loud for the first time.

His confession was met with heavy silence, quickly broken by Danny’s furious voice.

“What?” the boy exclaimed, deadly serious. Stiles still had his head buried in self-loathing when the sound of Danny leaving the room made him jerk his head up. A few seconds later, Danny returned holding his keys and something that looked like a velvet pouch.

“I’m going to kill him.”

“Danny, stop,” Mirna grabbed his arm as he bent over his desk to grab his jacket from the chair.

“No, Grandma!” he said, raising his voice while pulling his arm free from her grip. “They had no right. They can’t just drag a human into this crap and then kick him to the curb whenever it suits them. Do you have any idea what could’ve happened to him out there alone? Knowing what he knows, without a pack to protect him? Like the cuts on his body aren’t proof enough!” He ended his rant practically shouting.

Right… his wounds. Stiles hadn’t stopped to think about them. He shifted a little and realized they didn’t hurt. He quickly lifted his shirt and noticed the bandages had been changed; they looked much better than what he’d managed with his limited mobility. He was about to say something thankful until it hit him: they had seen his wounds. And from what Danny implied, they knew where they came from. Stiles felt his breath catch. Danny and his grandma had seen his wounds… two more people than were supposed to know. And so far, there were only three.

He was doomed. They would tell his father. They couldn’t tell him. His father would be disappointed in him. He’d worry. The moment he found out, he’d drag him to the hospital with Melissa. Weeks of X-rays and lab tests until his dad was sure he was 100% healthy. The tests wouldn’t be covered by his dad’s insurance, so he’d have to pay out of pocket. He could already see a hundred-thousand-dollar debt in his name… all because he wasn’t strong enough to defend himself or smart enough to no get caught.

He only brought trouble into the lives of those he loved. Maybe Derek was right… he was just a burden.

Stiles’ thoughts raced a thousand miles an hour as panic completely took over his body. He felt his breathing speed up, but at the same time, he couldn’t catch his breath. His vision blurred and the voices coming toward him sounded more and more distant.

“Stiles, STILES!” Danny shouted, reaching his side and holding him from behind. His touch made the brunette shudder and his back start to ache from how tense he was. He was completely sinking into the panic attack when, in the middle of his delirium, Mirna’s voice managed to catch his attention.

“Stiles, look at me, LOOK AT ME!” she cupped his face with her hands. “You’re here with us. You’re safe. Nothing bad is going to happen to you, do you hear me? I won’t let anything happen to you, I promise.” She removed her hands from his face and took the teenager’s trembling ones to place them on his shoulders, then placed her own hands on the opposite shoulders. “Now breathe with me. Can you feel my shoulders rise when I breathe?” She got a nod. “I want you to copy me. I want to feel your shoulders rise. You can do it, Stiles, I know you can.”

After several tries, his breathing began to stabilize a little.

“That’s it, Stiles. Very good, I knew you’d make it. Now tell me one thing you can hear, two things you can touch, and three you can see.”

Stiles tried to speak, but the words died trembling in his throat. The hands on his shoulders squeezed, giving him reassurance.

“Come on, Stiles, you can do it.”

“Your voice.”

“Good, one down. Two to go, come on.”

“Your shoulders and… and…” he stammered, “the bed.”

“You can do it. Almost there.”

“Your face, Danny’s hand, and the lamp.”

“Perfect. Now take a deep breath.”

After a few more breaths, he was stable enough.

“They can’t tell him. Please, they can’t tell him.”

“Who are you talking about, Stiles?”

“My dad. Please, you can’t tell him. He’ll blame himself, and he already has enough stress in his life without me making it worse. Please… I can take care of it myself. He doesn’t need to know. You can tell him where you found me, but please don’t mention any of this. He doesn’t deserve it.”

“Stiles…”

“Please, I beg you. Don’t tell him, I promised you I will tell him eventually but please. I’ll do anything you want; Promise me you won’t tell him.

Danny gave him a look full of pity and helplessness, like he was having an internal debate with himself.

“Stiles…”

“PROMISE ME!”

Danny sighed in resignation before answering:

“I promise.”

Stiles was ready to thank him on his knees but before he could do anything, Mirna interrupted the conversation by opening the bedroom door.

“You have had a very long day stiles” she said, looking at both teenagers before turning her gaze solely to her grandson. “Danny, why don’t you get Mr. Stilinski home? He needs to rest, and I’m sure his father is really worried about him. I’ll talk to Tony and make sure they bring his truck straight to his house.”

Danny didn’t object to this statement, and about twenty minutes later, Stiles was already dressed and sitting in the passenger seat of the boy’s Toyota Harris.

So far, the ride had been silent. Silent and uncomfortable. Danny hadn’t glanced at him, not even out of the corner of his eye, since they left his house, and Stiles was beginning to worry that he might be reconsidering the promise he made earlier. He was completely lost in his thoughts, weighing the bleakness of his chances, when a sudden, sharp brake pulled him abruptly from his mind. Looking up, he realized they were in front of his house. He quickly thanked Danny and dashed through the car door, not caring about the other boy staring at him all the way to the front door of the house. His dad must be worried sick about him.

He quickly unlocked the door with his keys and entered the house. His father had to be in his room. He ran up the stairs toward it but stopped when he heard a voice coming from his own room, where he found his father arguing on the phone.

“What do you mean you don’t know where your son is, Melissa?” he said, rubbing his face in exasperation. “My son is nowhere to be found and none of his friends are answering their phones,” he added, desperate. “Never mind, tell him to call me as soon as you find him.”

With that, he hung up the phone and threw it onto the bed, burying his head in his hands.

“Dad?” Stiles said in a small voice, barely audible but full of fear and exhaustion.

The sheriff’s head shot up toward the door, where he saw his son standing in the doorway. Looking smaller than ever

“Stiles!” he ran to him and hugged him tightly before stepping back and grabbing him by the shoulders, scanning his whole body as if looking for visible wounds. “Where have you been? You didn’t come home and didn’t answer your phone. Scott left me voicemail like eight times, and no one knew where you were. Do you have any idea how worried I was—”

Before he could continue, a sob interrupted him. Before he could process what was happening, he had his 17-year-old son in his arms, crying inconsolably, clinging to him just how he used to when he was little and afraid of thunderstorms.

Stiles completely collapsed into his father’s arms, bringing both to their knees as they embrace. All the pain, humiliation, and exhaustion that had been eating him up came rushing back with the force of a thousand hurricanes. Every word of contempt he had ever receive echoed in his mind, each fighting to be la loudest, but not a single one of them being able to top the unemotional voice of that green-eyed alpha who had broken his soul and heart by taking him away from the only support system he’d ever known—the one he naively thought belonged to him.

The sheriff froze for a split second before wrapping his arms tightly around his son, his baby, pressing him to his chest as if that alone could shield him from everything.

“I’m sorry,” was all his son repeated in a voice so tired and broken it shattered the man’s heart into a thousand pieces. His crying expressed the kind of pain he had always tried to protect him from—the kind only a broken person emits, the ones that get etched into your mind forever.

Noah Stilinski didn’t understand what had driven his son to such a state, and in that moment, it didn’t matter. All the anger and desperation he’d felt vanished completely. His boy was there with him. And for now, that… was all that mattered.

The rest of the world could wait.