Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Stiles received two pieces of news in less than 24 hours of school break. The first was that the night before, a brutal murder had occurred in the town of Beacon Hills: a woman's body had been found in the woods in a deplorable state. On the dining room table were police and medical reports; photos of the crime scene and the victim's car. Everything was scattered across the table, disorganized. Looks like the sheriff was busy this morning, Stiles thought.

He couldn't help but pick up one of the reports.

"White female, blonde, appearing to be 25 years old, 5'4" . Found dead in the woods near Highway 66. Car found 1,000 yards from the body. Body still unidentified."

For Stiles, the data was good. Not enough to pinpoint a suspect, but at least it provided a basis for the investigation. What made him curious was the word "appearing." Before he could question it, he found a photo of the corpse's face. One part showed fear in her light brown eyes, and the other revealed the brutality of a beast. But what animal could have done this to her face? There are no wild animals in the Beacon Hills forest, no bears or wolves.

Stiles didn't let these thoughts occupy him for long. He knew his father would solve the case soon. With a little help from him, of course.

He eventually put the report aside.

The second piece of news was that his best friend, Scott McCall, was leaving him alone for the vacation. What he and his mother, Melissa, were doing in Mexico wasn't a tourist trip or anything like that, and Stiles knew it all too well. His friend's paternal grandmother, whom Stiles had never heard of, had been hospitalized after suffering the first symptoms of a stroke. On the phone, Scott was distraught as he told Stiles about his grandmother's situation. In that moment, it felt like the ground had fallen out from under his feet, leaving only a throbbing ache and the desire to share that sadness with his brother.

Stiles hated the idea of ​​not being able to go with them, of not being there when they both needed him, because when he needed them, they were there for him. It hurt.

He straightened his posture and, determined not to waste time looking at pictures of a dead woman or imagining the pain his friend might suffer over his grandmother's death, walked to the stairs that led to his room.

Since his father was at the police station, Stiles decided to go to Scott's house and have breakfast there. But first, he needed to change, because, well, he was still in his pajamas.

He ran toward the stairs.

"Shit!" he yelled, stubbing his toes on one of the steps. "I need you guys to drive!"

Stiles didn't know why he was so nervous about Scott's trip, he just knew that losing someone important was like losing a piece of himself. The tightness in his chest only grew as his thoughts raced.

It didn't take him long to leave the house and get to his old jeep, patched up with electrical tape. He got in and sped toward Scott's house. He knew Melissa was at the hospital at that hour, since they had agreed that Stiles would take them to the airport right after her last shift that night. She's a warrior, he thought as he maneuvered the vehicle around the corner. She raised Scott practically on her own. She works at the hospital as a nurse and practically lives there. Shifts are not for the weak.

He arrived at Scott's house in the blink of an eye, since they lived in the same neighborhood, only seven blocks apart, to be exact. The weather was cloudy, with thick, frighteningly dark clouds, everything was faded, gray. It didn't even look like it was 10 a.m. Stiles jumped out of the jeep and, without paying much attention to the weather around him or the slippery cobblestones due to a light drizzle that had fallen in the morning, he headed abruptly for the door, gliding as if he were a ballerina about to perform her most beautiful and simple step.

However, she fell.

Still on the ground, trying to lift his sedentary body, Stiles fixed his eyes on the front door of the house, knowing that his fall had made such a funny noise that it was unlikely that no one had heard him. Scott would show up and laugh at his face at any moment. He tried to get up but couldn't. However, he tried again, spread his hands on the slippery cobblestones and flexed his arms and knees to get up, but it was too late: Scott was at the door, with his shoulders slumped and wearing the ragged clothes that every teenager has worn, and, unfortunately, with a very sad expression for someone who saw his friend sprawled on the floor, but very common when receiving sad news.

“What happened?” asked Stiles, agitated, concerned about the expression he saw on Scott's sad face.

Only now was he able to stand up. If there was any pain or injury in his body, he didn't feel it. He didn't want to feel it.

“She suffered a cardiac arrest this morning,” Scott whispered. “She died.” Tears were already visible on his face, running down his cheeks and being wiped away by the boy's trembling hands.

Scott was trying to be strong, trying.

Stiles approached and hugged him tightly, as if asking him to leave some of his grief with him. He felt Scott's hot, tense face settling on his right shoulder, seeking support there, in Stiles.

He didn't know what to say to comfort him, he just tightened his embrace.

“Scott,” Stiles began, “you can cry... I'm here with you, brother. Does your mom know yet?” he asked, pulling him away to look him in the eyes.

“Yes,” Scott replied, not returning his friend's concerned gaze. Strange, but understandable. He doesn't want to share his sadness. “She was the one who told me.” He wiped the tears from his pale face and stepped away, opening the door for them to enter. “Let's go.”

The kitchen was a very pleasant place, with ornamental plant pots scattered around the corners of the room. And above the metal sink were clay and porcelain pots—some with cherry tomatoes and others with small flowers. They served only as simple decorations for a modest place.

“Just woke up?” Scott asked, staring at the other's pants. Or what were supposed to be pants.

Stiles looked down and saw that he was wearing sweatpants. After the fall, the fabric was dirty, sticky, and starting to stink.

“Have you had breakfast yet?”

“Yes, I just woke up,” Stiles replied, staring at his sweatpants in embarrassment. But he realized what the other was trying to do. He raised his head and found dark brown eyes on him and immediately asked, “Do you want to talk about her?”

“No. Not now.”

“Okay, I won't pressure you,” he said sincerely. “And no, I haven't had breakfast. What do we have to eat?” Hearing this, Scott smiled slightly, but for Stiles, that was already something.

“Only you can make me laugh, Stiles,” Scott commented, smiling more broadly. “I made waffles today.”

He approached a counter next to him and picked up a plate with several of them on it. Did he know I was coming? Stiles wondered. I think so.

“Is there coffee?”

“Yes, my mom made some before she went to the hospital.”

“Get it for me, please,” Stiles asked, feminizing his voice.

Laughing, but trying not to show it, Scott went to the coffee maker and brought the coffee pot to Stiles.

“Here you go. It's a little hot...”

“Ouch, it's hot!” Stiles shouted, waving his hands in a strange, awkward way.

Setting the jug down on the kitchen counter, Scott started laughing, which actually made Stiles feel a little better. But damn, that thing was hot!

“I warned you.”

“If it were any hotter, it would have burned my hand!” Stilinski said, exaggerating, even he knew that.

Seeing Scott's face change from a smile to a worried expression, Stiles immediately felt guilty for teasing his friend like that, for playing with his feelings.

“I'm sorry, I didn't mean to...”

“Relax, it's over now,” Stiles lied, still waving his hands, and the other believed him.

“Changing the subject. Did you hear about the dead body they found in the woods?”

“Where did you hear that?” Stiles replied, making a suspicious face, teasing his friend.

“Stiles, it's on TV. And did you forget that my mom works at the hospital?”

“Oh, right...”

He agreed, and Scott pushed him lightly, just amusing himself with Stiles' “suspicion.” He leaned against the greenish marble table, placing his hands on it, and continued:

“She told me she helped the experts identify the body and determine the time of death, and they already know her name.”

He paused, just to pique Stiles' curiosity. Duché.

“Spit it out!” he said, frowning.

“Her name is, I mean, was Cameron Roberts. No relatives in town. No fixed address. She shared an apartment with a friend, and...”

“Did she have a boyfriend or was she seeing someone here in town?” Stiles interrupted, curious.

“I don't know, Stiles,” Scott said, almost irritated, his jaw tightening, making his slightly crooked chin stand out on his face.

“Calm down!” Stiles said, laughing shamelessly.

Scott was annoyed, but he didn't take it personally. This conversation was meant to distract him, not to argue.

“What do you think happened?” Scott asked, showing interest in what his friend thought about the case, and turned to grab two mugs for coffee, his shoulders no longer slumped.

“There are several possible alternatives, such as a crime of passion, or a robbery that ended in murder, or perhaps a wild animal...”

Scott interrupted him with laughter, turning toward him.

“An animal? Are you crazy?! What do you think did that? A deer, maybe?” suggested Scott, and suddenly they started laughing loudly.

Stiles was breathless from laughing so hard, while Scott ended up putting his mugs aside to cover up the nervous laughter that wanted to escape, pretending he was dying of laughter.

Right after the laughing session, they started drinking their coffee, really. They talked briefly about the body and Stiles' assumptions.

He made the boy with the crooked chin laugh again.

They quickly arrived at the airport in the center of the county, the only one in the vicinity of the city. Stiles parked the jeep near the entrance gate of the building, with a certain feeling of abandonment in mind and, above all, sadness for the grief his friend would go through.

During the long drive to the airport, they didn't talk much. Neither Stiles nor Melissa were in the mood for small talk, especially Scott, who spent the entire trip whimpering in the back seat behind the driver. A few times, Stiles glanced over to see if he was okay, if he needed some words of comfort, but really, what could he do to help? Grief was something he knew well, and this, by the way, was an unfortunate knowledge. However, things related to love were... too complicated and unfinished for Stiles to understand.

(What happened at the coffee shop shook him even more. Melissa tried to comfort her son, but her attempt was in vain. Scott spent the entire trip listening to sad songs on his headphones, while gazing at the forest through the foggy glass of the vehicle).

They jumped out of the jeep. Stiles went to the trunk of the vehicle and opened it, taking out the luggage that was inside and placing it on the ground. He noticed that Scott was watching his mother as she picked up some bags, and he clearly wanted to help her with them. Seeing his hesitation, Melissa quickly handed him his backpack and then gave him one of the bags, the largest one. He pulled a lever that released a metal handle and stood next to his mother, waiting for her to finish removing the luggage from the car—there wasn't much, but Stiles was still surprised by the amount. Melissa copied her son's movements and pulled the handle on a suitcase she was holding, and with all the luggage removed, Stiles closed the trunk.

“Thank you so much,” Melissa said, reaching out her right hand to shake his. “These are the house keys,” she said, handing him the bunch of keys; they sparkled and gleamed silver between his fingers. And, of course, he offered to take care of the McCall house. “If it weren't for your help, we would have missed our flight.” Thanks for the ride, Stiles," she thanked him again, only this time, hugging him.

“You're welcome, Melissa,” Stiles replied, smiling.

Scott looked back at Stiles over his mother's shoulder, and involuntarily, he retracted his slightly crooked chin.

“Stiles, are you really going to cover my shifts at the clinic?” Scott asked, interrupting the hug.

Stiles had promised to do the work Scott did at the veterinary clinic, and he was definitely going to do it, at least that was his plan.

“Don't worry. I will.”

“Bro, thank you so much,” Scott said, calling him by the name they used between themselves; they considered each other brothers. He put one hand in his left pocket, looking for something inside. “This is the key to the clinic,” he said, showing it to Stiles. Unlike the rest of the keys, this one shone in a rusty golden hue, almost bronze. And, after making sure Stiles had seen it, Scott handed it over and his friend took it. “Don't lose that key! Otherwise I'll have to pay for it, bro! My salary is already small...”

“I WON'T LOSE IT!” said Stiles, emphasizing each word. “Look, I'm already putting it in my pocket.” After putting it away, he offered his friend a hug, and Scott accepted the gesture without hesitation.

Watching that familiar and touching moment, Melissa dropped the suitcase she was holding and joined their embrace, warming them with her love, participating in that sad farewell, that anguished and suffocating goodbye that hung over them.

“Take care,” Scott asked, squeezing him a little tighter.

And with the same intensity, Stiles returned the hug.

“You too, brother.” His face was warm on the other's shoulder. At that moment, Stiles swallowed his tears.

The three broke their embrace, almost forced to do so, and Melissa and Scott stepped away and picked up their bags. Soon they were walking away from Stiles. Suddenly, Melissa turned back and advised:

“Stiles, be careful on Route 66. Drive with your high beams on.” It's already 11:30 p.m.,“ she said, looking at her wristwatch. ”And most importantly, don't get involved in your father's work. Whatever did that to that woman is still out there, on the loose. Are you listening to me, Stiles?"

“Do you think I'm deaf?” Stiles asked, sarcasm dripping from his lips. “Yes, I heard you, and yes, I'll do everything you said. Bye!” he added, waving his hands. “I mean, hasta luego! You'll miss your flight if you stay here, so hurry up.”

It's not arrogance, Stiles thought, it's just a more useful way to say goodbye to them, that's all.

“We love you too, Stiles,” Melissa said, walking toward the airport entrance gate alongside Scott.

Scott looked back, and for a brief moment, Stiles thought he would say something, or say goodbye, or run over to give him one last hug, but he didn't say or do anything Stilinski expected—not at that moment, not at that time.

“Take care,” Scott repeated, his voice slightly choked up. “Bye, Stiles.”

“Bye, come back soon, you hear me?”

If they heard him, they didn't bother to respond. The automatic door closed behind them, preventing Stiles from being sure of their decision not to answer him, and he waited a little while, and then a little longer, until they disappeared from view. Finally, he concluded that they hadn't heard him.

“Yes, we'll be back as soon as possible, Stiles,” he said to himself, to the emptiness that appeared when he was not answered.

He looked around at the people walking on the sidewalks and entering the airport, and then at the sweatshirt he was still wearing—the fabric highlighted his body, especially his back.

And Stiles kind of liked seeing that.

There was fog on Route 66, and it prevented Stiles from seeing the road clearly, but that didn't bother him. He even liked that scene, being alone on a deserted road and driving only with the jeep's headlights. He was ecstatic imagining himself in a horror movie—one of his favorite film genres.

Suddenly, his cell phone rang in his sweatshirt pocket, with a shrill noise that made his heart race. He took the cell phone out of his pocket, with one hand still on the steering wheel, and, out of sheer habit when he saw who was calling, rolled his eyes and snorted: Theo Raeken, his ex-boyfriend, was bothering him once again.

The only feelings Stiles experienced in that relationship were pain, anguish, pressure, and trying to accept who Theo was now, everything he meant before that sordid afternoon when he took advantage of the circumstances, and what he meant after that. And to top it all off, in that relationship, he was being dominated by someone who said he loved him, he was.

For Stiles, Theo was the last person in the world he wanted to hear from at that moment, since a lot of shit had happened that day—and it wasn't stopping—and Stiles just wanted to get home and sleep, that's all, and he also wanted very, very much to forget who Theo Raeken was as quickly as possible. But for that to happen, it would take time, and that wasn't something Stiles knew how to handle well, not at all. He hung up the phone.

Suddenly, without Stiles being able to see or swerve, the jeep ended up crashing into someone who was in the middle of the road; the figure slammed their body against the front bumper and fell, rolling onto the asphalt of Route 66. The sound of the fall was horrible. And for a few seconds, Stiles could see a little of the face of the person he had run over, almost at a glance: a man. That was the only certainty he had at that moment, and the other was that he had possibly killed him.

He slammed on the brakes and skidded a few meters, and with that, the stench of burnt rubber rose, and Stiles inhaled it. He was in shock at what had happened, and as he gasped for air, Stiles looked in the rearview mirror, trying to find the man he had hit, whom he might have killed. But to his despair, the man was no longer there, no longer, and there wasn't even a body lying on the road. Without even allowing himself to calm down, and still gasping for breath, Stiles felt a presence approaching him. He turned his face to his right and found blood dripping down the jeep's window; the blood mixed with the night dew and the surrounding humidity and the fog that perpetuated that place.

Almost without thinking, and with a very quick movement, Stiles opened the door for the man, and he backed away, and for a second, Stiles thought he would refuse help, but then the man staggered into the car.

“My God! I'm so sorry! Oh, my God!” Stiles said quickly, feeling like a bundle of nerves as he watched the dark red blood seep through the stranger's dark T-shirt. The night just got better, he thought.

“Let's go! Let's go...” the man muttered, clutching his stomach, and felt pain in doing so. Stiles thought he was trying to staunch a wound or something. The stranger looked tired, as if he had been running for hours, fleeing from someone. But even with his face ravaged by exhaustion and a wound in his abdomen, he was handsome, very handsome, in fact. Stiles realized he was staring at him. And he accelerated the vehicle.

“The hospital is far away,” warned Stiles, stepping on the gas pedal, fleeing from something he had no idea what it was, and, agitated, he looked at the man next to him. “It will be impossible to get there.” The man was resting in the armchair, pressing on the wound, Stiles thought, so that the blood would stop flowing.

The man finally turned his tired face toward the boy. With his gaze, he seemed to thank Stiles for running him over, and that made the boy shrink into his seat and, at the same time, it bewildered him; only in that fleeting moment had the boy noticed the color of his eyes and how beautiful they were: light blue, so beautiful that they sparkled. A blue so light that Stiles, with his limited knowledge of colors, had no idea that such a color existed.

“What happened to you? Was it a car accident?”

“Drop me off at the veterinary clinic,” said the blue-eyed man. “It's near the entrance to the city,” he added and paused so he could lean forward. “Don't worry about me. I think I'll survive.” And the man smiled wearily.

Stiles didn't know why, but he felt seduced by that gesture.

“All right, I'll take you there. And... By the way, what's your name?” he asked. Stiles couldn't sleep without knowing the name of that handsome man. And he smiled. Only I would ask something like that at a time like this.

“Derek,” he replied, and paused. “Derek Hale.”

The name came out in a whisper from Derek's mouth, but Stiles heard it clearly.

“Nice to meet you, Derek Hale. My name is Stiles Stilinski,” he said, almost amused, offering his hand to greet him, and Derek took it with some force, pressure, and, upon touching it, Stiles could feel that it was cold to the touch.

They exchanged glances.

“I have sheets in the back seat,” Stiles offered kindly. “Can you reach them?”

“I think so,” Derek replied, stretching between the seats. His body was large and muscular.

For a moment, Stiles took his eyes off the road to admire him, his tense muscles and arched back. And then he put it back in the right place.

“Thanks,” Derek said kindly. “Why do you have these clothes here?” he asked, returning to his seat and covering his body with a thick gray fabric he had chosen.

“I was going to take all this to the laundry,” Stiles replied sincerely, and Derek, on the other hand, just stared at him. The boy thought he was going to curse at him. “But I forgot that it's closed today. Don't worry. There's nothing strange about the one you picked up...”

“Oh, yes...” Derek stammered, flashing a beautiful white smile. His face returned to normal, and his simple eyes seemed to shine brighter. Stiles wouldn't deny it, Derek was beautiful.

“I think I've heard your last name somewhere before,” Stiles began, making conversation and looking at the road, trying to stay focused. “Have you lived here before?”

“Yes. When I was younger, I lived here with my family,” Derek replied, and Stiles remembered the old mansion in the middle of the forest with “Hale Family” written on the sign at the entrance to the property. “And I ended up moving after the fire that destroyed my house,” he added, darkness showing in his blue eyes. “I've heard your name too. Are you related to Sheriff Stilinski?”

“Yes, I'm his son,” replied Stiles, proud to be recognized by his father's surname. “How do you know him?”

“Long story,” said the man, keeping his eyes open and focused on the road. “But I didn't do anything wrong. Don't worry.”

“All right, then...” Stiles stammered, rephrasing his next question. “What happened to you in the woods?” he asked, staring at the road and Derek. Derek leaned back, resting against the seat. It was clear to Stiles that he didn't want to answer the question.

“Why are you asking that?” Derek retorted, questioning him back.

Stiles soon realized that they were already entering the city. He continued on to Dealton's veterinary clinic, which was nearby.

“It's not polite to answer a question with another question,” Stiles explained, correcting him. “And besides, we're making a trade.”

Derek frowned when he heard him, seemingly not understanding his point.

“Trade of what?” he asked, and for a few seconds, Stiles thought about the double meaning of the phrase.

Is he gay? Stiles thought.

And Derek laughed.

“Y-you're hurt,” stammered Stiles. “I helped you, and in return I just want to know what happened to you in the woods,” he said, or rather, yelled. Stiles didn't want to believe he had thought nonsense, because if he did, um, that would be nice to think about at night, in his room, alone.

And then Derek flashed a stupidly white smile.

“You ran me over, and I'm the one who owes you favors? You're an idiot!” Derek retorted, and Stiles looked at him, surprised by the statement.

“You choose to go to the vet, and in the end, I'm the beast? You're very clever!” Stiles retorted ironically, and only then did he realize that Derek now looked much better; he wasn't as pale as before. “Are you feeling better?”

Derek rolled his eyes at the question.

“Do you always ask so many questions?” Derek asked, his gaze cloudy and lost, looking as if he were about to faint. “We're here.”

“Wait a minute! Derek!” Stiles shouted as Derek jumped out of the jeep, leaving behind only the gray sheet that covered his body. And then he fell violently to the ground.

Stiles slammed on the brakes, jumped out of the vehicle, and ran over to Derek.

“Hold on to me, Derek!” Stiles shouted, lifting him off the gravel that paved the place, grabbing him by the waist, and putting his right arm over his shoulder. He dragged him to the clinic door. “Are you crazy?!” he said through clenched teeth.

They reached the back door. Derek moved, separating his body from Stiles', and leaned against the wall next to the building's door, trying to rest there, and then Derek closed his eyes, making Stiles worry. He's going to pass out, Stiles thought, I can feel it.

“Dealton! Dealton!” Stiles yelled as he banged on the door, making a shrill noise with each knock, but no one should have been there anymore, not even the owner of that place.

Puffing like a steam engine and clearly tired, Derek said:

“There's no way he's not there!”

“Idiot!” said Stiles, and he ended up getting a dirty look from Derek, almost deadly, he would say. “I'm the idiot!” He remembered the key Scott had given him and took it out of his pants pocket. “Here it is!”

He put it in the keyhole, turned it, and quickly opened the door. Derek threw himself forward, almost falling. But Stiles held him firmly before he hit the ground and made him lean on his body.

To the right, inside the clinic, were the animals in their cages. Stiles heard them react, getting agitated at their presence there. And the two of them, leaning on each other, turned left—Stiles realized that Derek knew this place, and so he surely knew Dealton too.

There was a silver table in the center of the room, and seeing it there, Derek jumped up and reached for it.

“What do I do, Derek?” Stiles asked, lost, not knowing what to do in that situation.

The man turned toward him and pointed to a shelf.

“There. Grab that blowtorch...” Derek instructed, and Stiles nodded, doing as he was asked. “Hand it to me and get out of here...” he muttered, almost growling. Whatever he was going to do, he would pass out before even turning on the tool, but even with that in mind, Stiles hurried and reached for the blowtorch.

“You're going to pass out!” he said the obvious, and Derek, shaking his head, seemed to disagree with the words. “You're not well! What can I do for you?”

Derek tried to resist, but even he knew he couldn't save himself on his own.

“Remove the bullet and use the blowtorch on the wound...” he gestured, and this time he passed out.

Shot, Stiles thought, what do you mean?

He fell and hit his head hard on the ground, reverberating a solid sound, like a bag of rocks hitting the ground. On impulse, Stiles threw himself on top of him and delivered a series of light slaps to his face, even giving him a few harder ones, but none of them woke him up.

Curious, Stiles lifted his blood-soaked T-shirt and saw the wound in its entirety. He didn't think to call anyone, didn't even flinch at the size of the wound, just grabbed something that looked like tweezers, which was near the silver table on top of a counter, took a deep breath, and thought: I've seen people do this. Piece of cake. On Grey's Anatomy it looks easy. He stared at the opening in the abdomen, focused, and then, with a concentration and coldness that impressed him, Stiles finally removed the bullet.

His body reacted, moving, spasming, and even moaning, and suddenly his consciousness returned.

“The blowtorch... Stiles...” Derek gestured, coming to his senses, but then he fainted again.

Stiles held the blowtorch, squeezing it between his fingers, fearing the action it would have on the skin of a stranger—fearing to hurt him even more—and finally turned it on and applied it to the puncture, covering the entire wound with an orange-red flame.

Suddenly, something made him fall backward.

The veins were swelling as if they were literally going to burst out of his skin. The color was very strange, and the nerves seemed to writhe beneath all that dark pigmentation, and the hue covering his skin was a dark purple that made Stiles feel nauseous just looking at it. After seeing that whole “situation” unfold, something even stranger happened; the wound healed in seconds, and the man who had been unconscious came to with a deafening howl.

His blue eyes revealed one of his mysteries. Fury. Stiles crawled across the floor when he saw Derek transform in front of him, turning into something he still didn't know; his nails turned into claws and now his teeth into scary fangs. Derek, aware of what was happening there, ended up turning to the side, and Stiles took advantage of that opportunity.

He ran desperately away from there. His shoes slipped on the slippery floor, but he didn't fall, he couldn't fall, not now. He ran through the door in seconds and quickly reached his jeep, opened the door, started the vehicle, and sped out of the clinic toward his home.

The streets were deserted, with no cars or pedestrians on the roads, as it was almost midnight. Stiles took advantage of this and accelerated even more. Before he knew it, he was home. He pulled the key out of the ignition, slammed the jeep door shut, and ran to his house. Out of fear and instinct, Stiles looked back and, as if he had been shot, he remembered what he had seen at the clinic, and chills ran through his body.

He took the house keys out of his pocket and quickly opened the door, wanting to get inside as fast as possible. He rushed in and locked the door, desperate. He ran frantically up the stairs, terrified by what he had seen.

What did he really see?

Stiles reached his room and locked the door behind him. He took a few small steps back, moving away from it, afraid even inside his own house. Then, literally out of nowhere, an icy breeze invaded the room: the window was open. Stiles jumped to it and locked it, closing the curtains immediately. On the verge of going into shock, he brought his hands to his head, scratching it, shaking it.

He tried to understand what he had seen, but nothing made sense.

Involuntarily, he put one hand in his right pocket and felt that something was missing: Scott's key was no longer there. And then he remembered where he had left it. It was at the clinic.

“I'm stupid!”

As Stiles was about to collapse to the floor, he heard the doorbell ring. It wasn't his father, and he knew that because Noah had the house keys. Stiles woke up from that horrible trance. He approached his bedroom door, unlocked it, and opened it. He stood at the top of the stairs. Someone rang the doorbell again. Then, trembling, he went downstairs. A chill ran down his spine when he heard a voice that was now familiar to him, filling him with fear and nervousness.

“Stiles,” Derek said. Stiles was already standing in front of the door, frozen. “I know you're confused. I won't hurt you. I can explain.” “As if there's a logical explanation for what I saw,” Stiles thought. “At the very least, I can try.”

Silence fell.

“I brought something for you. You forgot this at the clinic.” The small bronze key appeared under the door, pushed underneath it. The good news was that Scott wasn't going to kill him.

Stiles moved closer, still silent, but his fear seemed to diminish as Derek spoke.

“Open the door,” Derek asked, “Stiles, please.” He leaned forward, and with one hand, Stiles picked up the small bronze key from the floor and, with his other free hand, unlocked the door. Courage, Stiles thought, I need it to finish what I'm about to do.

Stiles opened the door and took a deep breath, and as a result, he saw Derek far ahead, away from the door, and even with his back to Stiles, he was intimidating. The man ended up turning toward him, staring at him with his blue eyes, and Stilinski felt the weight of his gaze on him, but he was not afraid of it. He approached Derek with short but determined steps.

His blue eyes were beautiful. Honestly, the most beautiful Stiles had ever seen. He ran his eyes over his body, certain that they were also deadly. He felt unable to move, his feet no longer obeying him. He was staring at Stiles, seeming to wonder why he was still there, standing, admiring him. As much as Stiles wanted to, he would never run away from him. He wanted answers to his questions, and he felt he could get them right then and there.

Running away might be impossible. Screaming might bring him a quicker death. Staying, perhaps, for the slightest chance, an attempt to understand who Derek Hale was.

Perhaps.

Derek approached with small, careful steps. It was as if he wanted Stiles not to fear him. What did he intend to do? The boy still didn't know.

“I'll explain everything you want,” Derek said bluntly, but it was clear he didn't want to. “I won't hurt you. I just ask that you listen to me, or if you want, I can leave,” he added, moving away from Stiles.

Before he turned completely away, Stiles leaned forward and grabbed his right forearm; the skin was warm and soft. Derek looked at him over his shoulder, and for a second he seemed perplexed; his eyes, now dark, revealed that no one had ever stopped him from leaving before. He straightened up, and Stiles took his hand off his forearm.

“I want you to stay,” Stiles said sincerely. Derek ended up giving the boy a pure look. “And explain exactly what I saw. Let's talk inside the house. I'm sure I'll need to sit down to hear everything.”

Derek chuckled softly at the double meaning, Stiles didn't even move his lips.

“I think you will.”

“Will I really?” Stiles replied seriously. He looked at him, embarrassed, showing himself defeated. Stiles made his way past him, and he followed. “Come in.”

“Excuse me,” Derek said, using his kindness as he passed through the doorway.

He stood by the stairs, waiting for Stiles to close the door. He closed it and locked it, feeling the cold of the doorknob pierce his skin. His heart raced. Stiles was expecting an animalistic attack, and fortunately, Derek did not attack him. Tired of the weight on his shoulders, Stiles leaned his head against the door and sighed, expelling nervousness from his lungs. The day had not been easy, and now it seemed far from over.

He turned, looking at the man behind him. He could feel his own blood running through his veins, like energy from a bare wire. Derek seemed to know what Stiles was going through. How?

With nothing to say, Stiles, who by now was feeling hungry, just looked at Derek and scratched his scalp.

“Let's go to the kitchen.” He took his hand off his head. “I'm not going to listen to what you have to say on an empty stomach.”

They walked to the kitchen, Derek right behind him.

“What do you have to eat here?”

“I think there's roast chicken in the fridge, do you want some?” Stiles asked, looking in his direction.

“Yes, I do.”

“All right, I'll check.” Stiles walked across the kitchen. He reached the fridge, and there was a note stuck to the metal door. It was from his father, he was sure. He would recognize his father's terrible handwriting anywhere. He read it quietly to himself:

“Son, I'm out of town. We already have a suspect for the crime that took place in the forest. I'll be back tomorrow. I left some money in case you want to eat pizza or go to the coffee shop tomorrow. Take care, Stiles.”

He finished reading it and opened the refrigerator door, cold, chilling air running down his skin. There was no chicken, let alone a roast. There was nothing ready there: Noah, Stiles' father and sheriff of Beacon Hills, should have eaten the chicken that was there. Not supposedly, but for sure.

“What am I going to eat?” The words came out almost as a whisper from Stiles' mouth as he stared at the entire refrigerator. Nothing prepared, everything to cook.

“Is there a problem?” Derek asked politely.

“There's no ready-made food here,” Stiles replied, his tone somewhere between sadness and excitement. He knew he would have to use the money for pizza, and that's what excited him. “Now I'll have to buy a pizza.”

“What's in the fridge to cook?” Derek asked, coming toward Stiles.

“Vegetables, legumes... There's even meat in there!” Stiles pointed to a red and white striped container, picking it up, which contained raw meat in pieces. Suddenly, he felt Derek behind him, his warmth covering his back like a warm blanket on a bitter winter day. “What can you make with that?”

“Maybe soup,” Derek suggested. “You don't cook, do you?” He said with the tip of his lower lip raised, sounding mocking in his tone of voice.

Stiles turned his torso, snorting, with the bowl in his hands.

“Isn't it obvious?!” He shook the container from side to side. “No, I don't cook. Why, do you know how to cook?”

“Yes, I do,” Derek replied, amused. His lips formed a sideways smile. He quickly took the striped bowl from the boy's hands and placed it on the counter. Then, from inside the refrigerator, he took out what he needed to make the soup. “Give me a pot, please.”

Stiles nodded, going to the old kitchen cabinet.

“Just a moment.”

“A small one, please,” added Derek.

“Okay, I'll see if I can find one.”

In a fleeting moment, he remembered that the small pots were at the top of the cupboard, next to the china. He opened the second wooden door and looked for a pot that would suit Derek. He stood on tiptoe for a few seconds. Finally, after rummaging through the cupboard, Stiles found the perfect pot.

“Will this pot work?” Stiles asked, turning to him.

The moment Stiles turned to the man behind him, he caught Derek looking at his butt—the sweatshirt made it more visible and prominent.

“Y-yes,” Derek stammered, looking away from Stiles' curvy butt to the boy's eyes. “That one's great...” Stiles didn't do it on purpose, but apparently it worked for Derek. I think one of my questions just got answered.

Stiles approached him, embarrassed. However, he liked feeling desired by another man. It had been a long time since something like that had happened to him.

“Here you go!” Stiles said, throwing the pan through the air toward him. “Catch!” Before it hit the ground, Derek grabbed it. It was as if he had all the time in the world to catch it.

With the pan in his hands, he stared at Stiles, the space between his eyebrows furrowed. Either he was annoyed that he had caught the pot like a puppy, or he was having a mental struggle, Stiles thought.

“Thanks,” Derek said bluntly. “What's your first question?”

Stiles was ready to ask.

“Who are you really?” he asked, calm and attentive. Derek didn't seem bothered by the question and continued to stir the soup, filling the pot with water.

“I'm a werewolf,” Derek said, direct and sincere. He looked at Stiles, at his reaction, which, upon hearing the answer, was stunned. He didn't think he would be so direct, sincere, honest.

Stiles moved his mouth, trying to gesture something, to say something, but nothing came to mind, and for some time, nothing would. Werewolves? That basically answered everything about who he was. Suddenly, something intrigued him.

“What exactly happened to you on Route 66?” Stiles asked, intrigued. “I know you were being chased by someone or something. I want to know what...”

“I take back what I said,” Derek interrupted him, fixing his light blue eyes on Stiles's. “You're not a beast. You're smart and brave. Stupid, but brave.”

The fake smile Derek offered him did not fool him.

“Derek, answer me,” Stiles said, interrupting his Greek theater.

There was silence, and they exchanged glances.

“Just a minute,” Derek said, breaking the silence that lingered there. He turned off the tap that was filling the pot, turned on one of the burners on the stove, and put it on the fire. “Shall we sit down?”

“Yes, let's,” Stiles agreed, and they walked into the room next to the kitchen. They passed through it, arriving in the dining room. Nothing fancy, just cozy and comfortable. The police reports were still there on the table. Derek sat at the far end of it, ignoring them. Strange. Stiles noticed the man's disinterest and focused on it. He sat down in the chair to Derek's right, the one closest to the living room door, and, preventing his face from expressing anything other than anxiety, he found himself wondering if Derek had killed someone, or if he had killed the young woman found in the woods that morning. Or if...

“Yes, I was running away.” Finally! “Today there was a line to see who would rip my head off. From hunters to an Alpha, they were all chasing me. If it weren't for you, I'd be dead.”

“Alpha? Hunters? Explain further, please,” said Stiles. His brain was in a knot.

Derek exhaled and looked him in the eyes, which now seemed more blue-green than light blue. Stiles almost didn't notice it.

“Alphas are those,” said Derek, “who with one bite turn a human being into a werewolf.” Beta. Stiles raised his eyebrows involuntarily. “Betas are those who bond with a pack, thus following their Alpha. And then there are the Omegas who...”

“When does this end?” Stiles asked impatiently, interrupting him.

“Hey, I'm just explaining what you asked,” Derek said, and Stiles fell silent. “Omegas are the last ones. They have no bonds with Alphas, much less participate in any pack,” he concluded. “Does that make sense to you now?”

“It's starting to,” said Stiles. “Why would this Alpha try to kill you?”

Derek didn't seem to like the question. What could be the reason?

“I hid a Beta from him. He had just been transformed,” Derek gestured, taking his eyes off Stiles. “So, about the hunters...”

“Who is this Beta?” Stiles interrupted, distressed. His voice came out heavy and muffled, like a shot at point-blank range. Seeing that Derek was trying to avoid the subject, seeming to be in an internal conflict of thoughts, Stiles continued firmly: “Answer me, Derek, please!”

Derek fixed his gaze on the reports, stretched out his left arm until he pulled a photo from the bottom of the papers, bringing it closer to him. Stiles couldn't see it. He stared at it for a few long seconds—was the internal conflict still going on? After a while, he passed the photo to Stiles. At first, the boy was afraid to look at it, fearing that there might be a more gruesome image of the corpse. But in the end, curiosity won out. He turned it over and saw a tree that was near the body of the dead woman found in the forest. On it was an S carved into the tree. Claw marks were embedded in the wood.

Stiles put his hands on his head, beginning to understand the situation.

“That S is for...” he gestured, trying to continue, but couldn't finish the sentence.

“S for Scott,” Derek finished, leaving him speechless. And finally, he added the obvious, almost whispering, “Scott is a werewolf.”

Stiles' mind spun, giant loops through all the memories of that day. He felt stunned, as if he had just been punched in the stomach. However, deep down in his consciousness, he knew that all of this was true, that Derek made sense in every word. Scott had never mentioned a paternal grandmother; he had been acting strangely these past few days and had even broken up with Allison Argent (which was important to him). Why had he hidden this from Stiles? Out of fear? To protect him? Nothing justified his cowardly act of abandoning him in Beacon Hills, nothing.

Stiles hated lies, and Scott knew it.

Until a few minutes ago, Derek was a stranger. Now, he was the only one he told the truth to. Even so, a question insisted on coming out of his mouth. Stiles didn't stop it.

“Did he ask you to keep an eye on me?” Stiles asked, getting excited, feeling an absurdly new hatred flow through his heart.

Derek, who seemed to be feeling for Stiles, appeared calm and serious, but his fingers told a different story. He drummed them constantly: his index finger and thumb, necessarily. An attempt to calm himself, perhaps.

For Stiles, it didn't work.

Stiles didn't let his tears fall, wiping them away before they could roll down his cheeks, which were already flushed with anger, showing a soft, almost imperceptible shade of red. However, Derek noticed this and other things.

“So I don't investigate the case? Or did he tell you to protect me from the Alpha? Since he's anywhere but here!” Stiles raged, his nerves on edge, but with every word he said, his tone wavered more and more. And so did the strength he was using to keep from crying.

Derek watched him, silent and mysterious, his arms crossed over his bulging chest. Even with his serious and closed expression, he wanted to know why Stiles was more upset about Scott's lie than about discovering the existence of werewolves. This really intrigued Hale, even too much for himself.

“Derek, explain to me why that idiot didn't tell me anything! He trusted you, a complete stranger, but he didn't trust me, the guy who grew up with him! That jerk's best friend!” Stiles vented, his amber eyes still teary. Derek wasn't shaken by anything the boy said, not even “a complete stranger.” After all, that's what he was, a stranger.

Without thinking straight, and without even knowing what he was doing, Derek reached out with his right hand and put it on Stiles' shoulder, patting him, comforting him in his own way. His lips pulled into an attempt at a smile.

“Please, let's go to the kitchen, where we can continue talking about this, Stiles,” Derek said, slightly hoarse, using a politeness and kindness that were almost strange to him these days. “Then you can have a glass of water and calm down, and I'll finish making the soup.” The water should be boiling by now. Come on," Derek repeated, peaceful and sweet, getting up. Surprising Stiles, and his visceral, self-destructive anxiety. He thought it was a nice gesture, as it wasn't the personality he expected from a werewolf.

He got up, swallowed his tears, and tried to compose himself as he followed Derek to the kitchen. Before they got there, Stiles stared at the man, his gaze shifting from sad to mischievous: his short, silky black hair, even shinier under the light coming from the kitchen; and his incredibly broad and muscular back, highlighted a little more by the dark clothes he wore; and, above all, his big butt. And so, one could say that Derek had a great athletic build. Was it a standard of heteronormativity? Yes, the boy knew that fact. But, unfortunately, he was handsome — and he had a beautiful butt, Stiles couldn't forget that, ever.

Oh, and a beautiful smile too.

Whatever the reason Derek was still there with Stiles, he was doing it willingly, of his own accord. To Stilinski, he didn't seem manipulative or petty, but still, he had a very deep look for someone who might have experienced something good in life.

Derek quickly made his way to the stove, turning off the heat that had brought the water in the pot to a boil. Meanwhile, Stiles approached and rested his elbows on the kitchen counter, watching Derek use a knife that had been next to the sink, on a cutting board, to cut the piece of meat and then the vegetables he could cook. He put everything in a larger pot, which was already being heated and previously greased with olive oil.

“Do you have pasta?” he asked suddenly, turning toward Stiles on the other side of the counter.

The younger man answered him, a little startled, but he did.

“It's down here, in a drawer, I think.” He pointed, approached the inside of the island, and removed the pasta package from behind a large glass jar. He handed it to the man warmly.

“Thanks,” Derek said, his light green eyes meeting Stiles's (which had a bluish tint to them) and his face close to his. His beard, his lips so close to the boy's...

“You're welcome,” Derek said, his expression frowning, retreating to where he was.

Already standing in front of the stove, still frowning, Derek put the pasta in the pot with the rest of the ingredients he was cooking. Stiles, who was extremely embarrassed by his sudden approach, flew to the refrigerator and grabbed a light green bottle of water. And in a clean glass that was on the sink, he drank the cold liquid, leaning against the counter next to him, encouraging himself again.

“I'm done preparing it. Now we just have to wait for it to cook,” Derek explained, pausing and moving slightly closer to Stiles. The boy felt a chill in his stomach with Derek's body a little closer to his. "It's been three days since Scott was bitten. That night, Stiles, do you remember when they arranged to meet in the forest park to drink, and you didn't go?

“Yes, of course I remember,” whispered Stiles, surprised and a little rude in his tone. “Was that the night he was bitten by the Alpha who attacked you?” he asked, and Derek nodded in affirmation. “I could have helped him... Scott...”

“Your help wouldn't have changed anything. In fact, you would have only helped the Alpha who attacked him, and then he would have had two, not just one Beta in the pack. So don't take the blame that isn't yours, because you, Stiles, are not to blame for him being attacked.”

“I don't blame myself,” he said quickly, lying to himself. “And where do you come into the story, Mr. Derek Hale?”

“I didn't lie to you. I arrived in Beacon Hills today. And the one who called me here was Dealton, the veterinarian. He told me on the phone that...”

Stiles's jaw dropped. He was surprised. Very surprised.

“Dealton is a werewolf?” Stiles interrupted Derek, the werewolf, abruptly.

“No, he's not. Can I continue?” Derek fired back, through clenched teeth.

“Yes, you can,” Stiles said, with obvious and hurtful sarcasm in his voice.

"Dealton met my family well before the fire, and knowing that, like them, I am also a werewolf, he called me to help Scott, a newly transformed, inexperienced Beta. I went to them in the morning and met your friend there at the clinic, who was already waiting for me. I asked about the Alpha, but the only thing he told me was that it happened very quickly and that he was huge and hairy. And then I offered Scott two options: stay in this town or flee to a safe place. He, who was clearly confused, couldn't answer for himself, so he called his mother and she didn't think twice, they decided to flee. And during that phone conversation, she told him that they had found an “S” carved into the tree at the crime scene, where the body was found in the forest. The ‘S’ that is in that photo on the table. You already know the end of the story, they fled tonight and..."

“What?” Stiles asked Derek, who seemed embarrassed about something.

“It's nothing,” he replied, focused.

“Derek, right now, you're the only one I can trust. Please don't let me down,” Stiles pleaded, looking deep into Derek's beautiful eyes, who returned Stilinski's pleading gaze.

“The ‘S’ could mean something, a clue about who the Alpha is. But what symbolism would it have?”

“I don't know,” Stiles said, exasperated.

“It's rhetorical.”

“Um, okay,” Stiles said, embarrassed, but still attentive. “Derek, where are they? Did Scott and Melissa really travel to Mexico?”

The worry and anger passed. The boy's heart felt lighter, less anxious and stressed. It was good to know they were safe and away from the mess, but one way or another, Scott would pay for not telling Stiles anything.

“Yes. I offered them a loft I have in Mexico City. They're fine, Stiles. Don't worry.”

“So the corpse is just a warning?” Stiles asked him, the answer obvious.

“Yes. She was killed randomly, for sure,” Derek confessed quietly, approaching the boy. Stiles could feel his large, warm body getting closer and closer, more attractive and opposite to his own. “You're smarter than I expected, Stiles Stilinski.”

“The soup is spilling!” he warned him suddenly, and with a start, Derek moved away (somewhat disgusted and surprised, Stiles noticed) and turned off the heat.

He thought, and was almost certain, that Derek Hale was going to kiss him, in fact, steal a kiss. But Stiles, who wasn't that kind of person, who didn't give himself to the first person who came along, didn't do it. Whether he wanted to or not, Stilinski was still hurt by what Theo Raeken had done to him. He wouldn't open his heart to someone else so soon. Whoever it was.

“It's ready,” Derek confirmed, his voice slightly excited.

“Great! I'm starving!” Approaching the pot, Stiles smelled how good it smelled; the soup looked delicious. Derek was great in the kitchen, unlike Stiles, who was terrible, and he couldn't deny that.

The werewolf quickly stepped away and grabbed two soup bowls that were near the sink. He served him a generous portion of soup and then himself.

“Thanks, man, but you didn't have to.”

“Yes, I did. Besides, I'm more agile than you. You know that, right?” Derek said, amused, but Stiles didn't take it as a double entendre. Not entirely.

I know what he means, that he's deadly when he wants to be, in every single sense of the word.

“Let's go to the table,” Stiles said, because he didn't know if Derek was threatening him or gently flirting with him. And in either case, neither was welcome to the young man.

They went back to the other room and had dinner, the silence almost constant. The beef soup was wonderful, hot and tasty, to Stiles's awful taste for canned food. Almost the entire time he was tasting each ingredient in the soup, the vegetables and the meat, Derek didn't take his light green eyes off him, seeming to want to hear a nice compliment from the boy.

“The soup is great! Now you can take your eyes off me!” he said, half stressed, half shy.

“I'm not staring at you to see if my soup is good, Stiles,” Derek replied, staring at him, his velvety voice and charming manner completing the picture. “I'm staring at your lips, because their red color simply attracts me, making me want to kiss you even more.”

Choked up, that's how Stiles felt after hearing that, a small, hot piece of meat going down his throat. For him, at that moment, there was no reasonable reaction or words to say. He gestured with his mouth, trying to say something; he mumbled something, but only managed to finish his soup and jump up, shaking the table.

He looked stunned at Derek, who seemed to regret having complimented him, and said, or rather, tried to say:

"It's-it's... Thank you... The soup is hot, very hot... I'm going to the kitchen, I'll be right back!

I'm blushing! For sure!

He dashed into the next room, blushing and feeling increasingly embarrassed. No one had ever said anything like that to him before. Never!

“He's driving me crazy!” Stiles whispered softly to himself as he thought of a way to make Derek disappear, since he couldn't imagine talking to someone who had just said, “The color of your mouth attracts me.”

Stiles returned to the table, with Derek still sitting upright next to it and playing with his empty plate, and a foolproof plan came to Stiles' wicked mind.

“D-Derek, I'm going to bed... Tomorrow we'll continue our conversation, okay?” he said, yawning loudly, theatrically, and exaggeratedly.

And then Derek smiled at Stiles, and his smile was white enough to make the boy feel ashamed that he had teeth too.

“All right, Stiles, tomorrow we'll continue this conversation,” Derek repeated, his blessed smile growing. Had he heard the boy through the walls? “Hey, Stiles, do you know of any hotels around here where I can sleep tonight?” As you know, I just got here today and I don't have anywhere to sleep." He was appealing to blatant, almost sadistic sentimentality, since Stiles knew he didn't have a place to spend the night because it had been reduced to ashes, so...

“You can stay in the guest room, it's downstairs, mine is upstairs. Your room is this way...”

“If the Alpha knows Scott's name, then tell me: what are the chances he knows you too?” he argued smugly, and worst of all, for Stiles, Derek was right.

“All right, supernatural babysitter, you sleep in my room!” Stiles finally agreed, and Derek laughed, satisfied. “And no funny business, you hear me?!”

Derek, the werewolf, after laughing and saying “OK” to Stiles, quickly cleaned up the kitchen, washing the utensils he had used, and in a few moments, he quickly returned to the table and the two went upstairs together. Stiles went ahead of him — hoping Derek wasn't looking at him like a pervert — leading him to the room they would share.

They entered the room and Derek closed the door behind him.

“Is that the bathroom?” the man asked, restrained, walking through the room.

“Yes. Are you going to take a shower?” Stiles replied with a question, and got his answer with a gesture. So he went to his closet and, opening it, took out a clean towel for Derek to dry himself, handing it to him.

“Thanks for everything, Stiles.”

“I'm the one who should be thanking you. You've been sincere from the moment we met to the conversation we just had,” Stiles said sincerely. Derek smiled beautifully and then headed to the bathroom.

He took off his shoes at the door, leaving them next to it. He just leaned against it as he entered the shower. What did he mean by that?

Soon after, Stiles pulled out and made the bed that was built into the wall under his own. How many times had he done the same thing for that jerk Scott? He thought it best to push the thought aside and left it made for Derek. Five minutes passed, and then suddenly the door opened. Derek, his body wet and muscular, was wearing only his black pants. The wound that Stiles had been worried about taking care of was no longer there. In short, he was shamelessly showing off his almost naked body to Stiles. Outrageous.

“I'm done,” he said, drying his black hair. His face couldn't have been more smug.

“Your bed is ready.” Stiles almost stuttered again as he looked at him shirtless, the man's defined body giving him goosebumps. “I'm going to take a shower too. I need that towel... It's the only clean one.”

Derek, walking lightly around the room, approached and handed the towel to Stiles.

“Thanks, do you have a T-shirt I can borrow?”

“Yes, I do. You can look in the wardrobe, it's a bit messy, but I think you'll find something to put on...” Stiles confirmed, stammering, passing by him, and then a familiar scent came to mind... He's wearing my perfume. Why did he put it on? Is it a werewolf thing?

On the other hand, Derek moved toward the already open wardrobe, looking for a T-shirt to wear.

“I need a shower,” Stiles said nervously, closing the door behind him, but surprisingly, he didn't lock it, and he couldn't say why he hadn't.

He took off all his clothes: the old jacket and worn sweatpants; and the underwear he was wearing as well. And so, he took his routine shower. He's wearing my cologne. He finished his shower quickly, in a few minutes, a little curious, but not enough to ask why he had put on his cologne. He could have done it accidentally, occasionally.

He remembered, just then, that he had forgotten to bring some clothes to wear in the bathroom. Derek made him nervous, and that was Stiles' proof. He left the bathroom in a towel, embarrassed by his unathletic, non-muscular, and somewhat skinny body. The man who worried him so much was dressed in a shirt that the boy wore to sleep, sitting in Stiles' armchair, which faced the window of his room. He watched the forest through it, silent as the night.

“What is it, Derek?” Stiles asked, curious.

He turned, interested like a dog, looking at his entire body. He was really interested.

“Nothing that caught my attention,” Derek said, as if he had said something indirectly to the boy. “Stiles, you have a good view of the forest,” he shared thoughtfully, and turned back to look at it.

In one leap, Stiles reached his wardrobe. He put on underwear under the towel. He removed the towel. He looked back, but he wasn't looking. Good for him, Stiles thought. He respects my private moment. I like that attitude. He put on a T-shirt and sweatpants. He dried his hair and then dropped the towel on the wardrobe door. Already lying on his bed, Stiles covered himself and snuggled comfortably into it. He's not going to bed anytime soon. What is he thinking?

“Derek, aren't you coming?”

“I'll go to bed later,” he replied suddenly, and paused briefly. “Stiles?”

“Hi.”

“Thank you for saving my life,” Derek said sincerely, looking at him. “If you hadn't been there, I'd be dead now. Thank you very much, and I'm sorry for scaring you, I didn't mean to do that.”

“You're welcome. The only thing I want right now is for you to come lie down. I know you haven't stopped today. You may be a werewolf, but that bullet almost killed you. I saw it. I was there. Come on,” Stiles insisted, persistent, and the wolf was slightly surprised by the words. He hadn't expected them, much less from the human.

“Who looks like a supernatural babysitter now?” he added, getting up from the armchair and approaching the bed.

He gave him an affectionate look before lying down on the bed.

“Good night, Stiles,” he said softly, seeming to be closer to the boy.

“Good night, Derek.” And everything fell silent, the room in comfortable darkness.

The moonlight invaded them, filling them, letting them watch it. Stiles didn't regret opening that door.

A smile escaped his lips.

Scott had just arrived home from the veterinary clinic. Once inside, he threw his bike on the floor, stressed out by what he had heard from a stranger at work. Derek, the guy he had just met, said it would be better for him to end his relationship with Allison Argent, because her whole family were werewolf hunters and it would only be a matter of time before they found out who he really was. A werewolf. A Beta.

He opened, closed, and locked the door behind him as he entered his house, taking his cell phone out of his pocket. I can break up with her by text, he thought, but that thought didn't torture him much; as his wallpaper, there was a photo of the two of them kissing in a photo booth, a special and unforgettable day for both of them. He gave up, he couldn't hurt her like that, he couldn't even bring himself to open the app to send such a message. They had a history, a relationship that had lasted for months, and ending it all in such a mediocre way was not an option and never would be again.

Melissa and Scott decided to tell everyone that they were going to Scott's grandmother's funeral, his father's mother, hiding the truth from each of their friends and acquaintances. Scott was a werewolf now, and that had to be kept a secret. When he told his mother what he was, she was frightened and let ignorance take over for a while, but that didn't last long. She knew that no reason was good enough to stop loving him, human or not.

Scott was climbing the stairs when he heard a car pull up in front of his house. He recognized the sound of the radiator immediately. It was Stiles, his friend, his brother. He turned back toward the door, listening to basically everything coming from outside the house. Suddenly, he heard a slippery noise and Stiles fell. With quick steps, Scott reached the door, unlocked it, and opened it, coming face to face with his friend lying on the cobblestone path of the house. Stiles was sprawled on the wet floor, trying to get up, knowing that his friend would tease him for falling. He was surprised, since Scott wasn't laughing.

Stiles raised his head and saw his friend looking sad and gloomy.

“What's wrong, Scott?” Stiles asked, concerned and sincere, his voice betraying his mortifying pain.

“She had a heart attack this morning.” He, the wolf, looked up and, thinking about how his friend would feel about her passing, blurted out, “Stiles, my grandmother died!”

He felt terrible lying to Stiles, but in his mind, Scott was protecting his friend, his brother in this new and terrifying world he had begun to know.

He didn't want to tell Stiles the truth. Not now.

Scott and Stiles went to Java Hones, an eccentric and cozy coffee shop, very popular with most BHHS students. Scott promised himself that this outing would be to say goodbye to his friend and girlfriend, who, unsurprisingly, invited Lydia Martin, his best friend. As much as he was capable of dying of sadness over the end of the relationship, Scott knew he had to end it, say “I don't want this anymore” and go to Mexico as soon as possible. After all, he thought that if he did that, he would save the lives of everyone he loved. It was noble, in a way.

“What kind of coffee do you want?” Stiles asked his friend, waking him from his trance. The look of curiosity was obvious.

“Black, please,” Scott replied, absorbed in thought.

“OK, then choose a table so we can sit down,” Stiles said, looking a little dirty and wet, scanning the empty tables.

“Go ahead and order the coffees! I'll choose!” Scott grumbled, annoyed with life. He immediately thought of apologizing for being so forceful, but Stiles was already on his way to the baristas, his back to him. 

Scott quickly chose a table near the large entrance window of Java Hones, which had its logo outside the window in lime green and faded yellow. That way, when Allison arrived, he would be ready and wouldn't be caught off guard by her arrival. He feared that moment more and more. But it was necessary; ending it was what had to be done.

He was sitting in a chair that overlooked the street. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his friend return with a black mug and a large, disposable cup made without the use of plastic.

Stiles approached with a frown.

“Today is not my day! I already burned my hand at your house, and now I burned it again, only this time in a real coffee shop! This day is not going well...” Stiles said, grateful that the last sentence did not come out with the wrong effect. He added, “Get your coffee already!”

“Thanks, Stiles,” McCall took the mug from his hands, smiling, “for burning your hand, not your mouth.”

Stiles laughed at the teasing.

“You're welcome,” he replied sarcastically.

He settled into the black cushioned chair opposite Scott. He blew on and sipped the cappuccino he had bought; Scott did the same. He, Stiles, thought carefully about what he was going to ask and, shyly, even though he felt bad about the question, he asked:

“What was your grandmother's name, Scott?” McCall swallowed hard and Stilinski continued, treading carefully. “I get the impression you haven't said anything about her.” I'm sorry if I'm bugging you about this, and I don't like to see you like this..."

“Stiles, I've known you forever. I know who you are. You don't have to apologize for that.” Stiles smiled when he heard Scott's statement, and Scott smiled back. "My grandmother's name, I really don't know, man. I only saw my father's mother once... I don't remember her name.

Stiles was suspicious of what his friend had told him, but decided not to question him or continue pestering him. He knew Scott very well and knew that he had always been sensitive to certain subjects (and the credit for that went to his soft heart) — at least, that's what the human thought.

As time passed, they talked, laughed, and even fought stupidly. But nothing too serious. Things that brothers did.

Scott, between conversations, noticed when a black car parked in front of the coffee shop. He didn't have to look long to know who was inside the car: Derek. He watched the two talking. Scott agreed to travel to Mexico on one condition: Derek would take care of Stiles while he was out of town. Derek, the Omega wolf, didn't accept the condition right away, but Dealton, who Scott knew was a veterinarian, quickly changed his mind when he told him who Stiles' father was. He knew he had to offer something in return to that family, even if anonymously. The past refreshed his memory.

Derek remained in the car, just watching them. He paid attention to the crowd of people on the street, looking for someone. Scott turned his attention back to his friend before Stiles noticed who he was staring at.

“My dad treats me the same way. Whether I'm gay or not.” He loves me in his own rough way," Stiles shared, the corner of his mouth pulled into a smile.

“I told you he wouldn't do anything against you, Stiles.” Scott, as the close friend he was, spoke without fear, taking another sip of black coffee, trying to forget about Derek across the street. “He loves you anyway, man.”

“Not anyway. He said I should be more gay.” Scott laughed and Stiles added. “Because my clothes don't show who I am, that no guy will be interested in me if I keep dressing like this. He even said they show that I'm actually a clumsy kid, can you believe it?”

Stiles laughed at his own statement.

Before Scott could answer, he heard two familiar voices approaching the cafeteria. He concluded that they belonged to Allison and Lydia.

“The girls are here!” Scott exclaimed, unable to contain himself.

“How do you know?” Stiles asked curiously, looking back. “I don't see them here...”

“Trust me, they're here,” Scott said, certain of what he was saying.

“Okay, Psychic,” Stiles said, not caring.

Scott sat up straighter in his chair, smoothed his dark brown hair back, and quickly checked his breath.

“Yuck, Scott, that's disgusting!”

“Sorry.”

The girls entered the cafeteria chatting. The first to enter was Lydia, her flaming red hair flowing freely, followed by Allison, beautiful as a flower, lovely as an angel.

“What a cute place you chose...” Lydia said, seemingly not appreciating the atmosphere, grimacing. She looked from one side of the café to the other, somewhat hesitant to sit down at the table, but she ended up sitting next to Stiles, who greeted her with a kiss on the cheek.

"I like this place, guys. It's cozy and simple. I already plan to come here more often," Allison confided, dazzling, looking around the café with a smile on her face.

She sat down next to Scott, leaving an unexpected peck on his mouth. He smiled at her happily and, for a moment, forgot what he had come to the café to do.

"I like this place because of the prices. They're what keep me coming back," said Stiles, making everyone at the table laugh.

Scott didn't laugh for long; he knew what he had to do, what he should have done already. Derek was watching him. He was like a warning on a sign: If I'm here, who's to say the Alpha is too? Maybe he wants to kill your girlfriend just as a reminder of who you are? That thought lingered in Scott's mind.

Stiles, even without a word, understood what Scott wanted. Space. And that was clear.

“Lydia, let's go to the bar. I'll buy you whatever you want to drink.”

“Yes, let's go...” Lydia quickly understood what Stiles was up to; he wanted to give the two lovebirds some space, Lydia thought as she got up.

They left the table and went to the bar. Lydia, bold and clever, pinched Stiles' arm and immediately asked:

“What's going on over there?”

“Ouch! I don't know!” Stiles scolded her in an irritated tone, approaching the bar with a curious Lydia at his side.

At the table, Scott was breathing heavily, panting. Allison noticed her boyfriend's strange behavior and felt compelled to ask:

“I heard what happened to your grandmother... Scott, I'm here. You can trust me...”

“I want to break up!” Scott blurted out, interrupting her. She was perplexed, not knowing what to say, her eyes glazed over. “I'm traveling today and I don't know when I'll be back, and I don't want you to go through this drama with me, Allison. I'm sorry, but this has to end! Your father doesn't like me and I feel like an intruder every time I go to your house...”

“Scott, I know he's difficult.” She smiled at him, sweet and kind as always, and placed her hand on her beloved's face to caress him. “But you're just grieving and...”

“Didn't you hear me? I want to end this! Your father doesn't want me around you! He offered me money to leave you, Allison...” Scott regretted saying that as soon as he saw the discontent in Argent's brown eyes. At the second dinner he was invited to, Allison's father offered him money, and, obviously, he refused. He never returned to that house after that episode. “I don't want to... Not anymore...” Scott stammered, in tears.

“Don't you dare cry!” Allison said decisively, getting up from the chair next to Scott and walking away. “You're playing with our relationship!” Her voice faltered, tears ready to roll down her immaculate face, but she came back, stronger than ever. “Are you sure you want this, Scott?”

He looked up, tormented, and blurted out:

“Yes.”

“Then so be it!” Allison said, stressed, and soon after, she ran out of the establishment, leaving him behind with Scott in it.

“Allison!” Lydia shouted, running toward her friend. She stopped at the door, enraged, and addressed Scott. “Thanks, McCall!” She glared at him and then left as well, going in search of her friend.

Lydia went after her friend. Allison was leaning against her car door, crying bitterly. She didn't understand what had happened. She was distressed. And she, the Argent, didn't see when Lydia arrived and hugged her.

“W-what... Lydia!” Allison stammered, turning and hugging her friend, squeezing her in her arms, sobbing.

She knew she could trust Lydia, she always had.

“Let's go,” Lydia said, opening the car door for her. She let Allison get in and then went to the passenger door, also getting into the vehicle.

Allison accelerated, driving away from that place, which was now a memory that would torment her. They turned the corner, leaving Scott's field of vision and hearing.

“What was that?!” asked Stiles, breaking his friend's concentration.

“Stiles, I don't want to talk about it,” said Scott, taking the exact amount for the bill and tip out of his pocket and handing it to the waitress, who was watching him from afar. “Let's go home,” he finished with difficulty, his eyes watering and his voice hoarse.

“Let's go.”

They were already outside Java Hones, near the jeep, when Stiles decided to speak up:

“I don't know what the hell that was, but the only thing I want to know is, are you sure about the decisions you've made now?”

Scott raised his head and looked at his friend, answering him:

“Yes, Stiles, I'm sure,” Scott lied, once again. He knew that if he slipped up, he would completely fall apart, telling his friend everything. Everything. The easiest and least painful option was to lie. “Please drop me off at home. I still need to pack my bags.”

“I'll drop you off there.” Stiles wasn't convinced; he knew there was something bigger that Scott wasn't telling him. However, he wouldn't upset his friend just because he was suspicious.

The two got into the jeep. Scott saw Derek's car just ahead; he was leaving, satisfied with what the boy had just done. Scott knew that this moment would come sooner or later, so he didn't blame Derek at all. All of this was done for the greater good. There were people Scott put first, and one of them was right beside him.

The ride was silent and very long. Neither of them offered to talk. They quickly arrived at the house. Stiles parked in front of it, still silent, and Scott looked at him, holding back from telling the truth.

“Thanks for the ride, Stiles.” He was lying to his longtime friend, his brother. Lying hurt. “Pick me up at 10 p.m., okay?”

“All right,” Stiles replied curtly. Scott was opening the door of the jeep when Stilinski stopped him, grabbing his arm. “You're not going to talk, are you?” he asked, with a clear tone of concern.

“I have nothing to say, Stiles. Now, excuse me, I have to pack my bags,” said Scott, slowly pulling away from Stiles' hands. “Have a good day.”

He jumped out of the jeep, sneaking around it, and headed for the house.

“You're a terrible liar, Scott McCall! I hope you know that!”

Scott smiled, walking across the porch, trying to stay strong, for himself and for his family.

Nothing stopped them from traveling. Scott was feeling heavy, sad, and desolate after everything he had said to Allison, but he didn't regret anything he had done. There were many people who trusted him directly and indirectly, and ignoring them was not part of the plan.

When would he and his mother return? They didn't know how to answer that question, but the only thing he knew was that he would come back strong. That way, he could protect the ones he loved himself.

Dawn was breaking in Stiles' room. A whispering silence, an icy breeze, and thin, light air dominated the place. Shadows were present throughout the room. To those who saw them, they looked like demons. Monstrosities that interrupted sleep, taking empty souls with them.

The shadows in this case were only lurking, waiting for the right moment to attack. One of them had a name: Alpha. He kept his distance from the house so as not to be discovered, but he was there, joining the darkness. He who held the power of life and death in his hands. However, today he would not kill anyone.

He just watched them, keeping an eye on them.

The air kept Derek awake. There was something about it that stunned him. It was anger. He could feel it under his skin, as if it were tearing it apart. He knew this destructive and visceral feeling well. He got up quickly, abandoning these thoughts on the pillow, jumped out of bed where he was lying, and, alert, reached the open window of the room. He stuck his head through it, putting his torso outside, thus expanding his view of the forest. Derek, ignoring the swaying of the trees and the overwhelming silence of the forest, looked up at a large, misshapen shape, and at that moment, he realized that it was not a shadow or a bush, for he could clearly see red eyes leaping out of the forest, eyes that now stared at him, furious.

Derek did not look away—he did not fear it—he continued to stare at it, showing himself to be as strong and powerful as the Alpha himself. He knew that what stood before him was the Great Wolf, the Alpha, the one who had turned Scott into a werewolf and threatened the peace of Beacon Hills, but Derek had advantages, and he knew it; Derek had hidden his Beta, perhaps removing the first from his pack, leaving him alone and weak, and the Alpha couldn't attack him in a place like that, because it would reveal his location to the hunters who were still looking for him.

Derek had prevented him from forming a pack, and the feeling of knowing that and having all that power in his hands was incredible.

“Come and get me.” As he smiled, he whispered the challenge to the beast.

The Alpha heard those words. The Great Wolf stopped and backed away from the house, his animal form not preventing him from thinking clearly. He knew it was risky to be there, but he was there anyway. And, like smoke, he disappeared from Derek's field of vision. The air suddenly felt light, calm as it should be. That being had flooded Stiles' room with rage, visceral hatred, but Derek, still somewhat reluctantly, knew that the anger was not focused on him or Stiles. Who was it focused on, then? he thought. He didn't dwell on his thoughts for long, he was determined to investigate this whole story thoroughly and, in the end, find out who the Alpha was.

He locked the window and went back to the bed, sat on it and began to watch Stiles. Concern overwhelmed him at the thought that the Alpha could have killed Stiles on Highway 66. He didn't know why, but even though he didn't want to, he cared about Stiles. Very cautiously, Derek caressed the boy's face, running his hand from his cheek to his brown hair, feeling the cold emanating from the other's pale skin. Using gentle movements, he pulled the sheet that was warming him and covered his protégé's body. He finished his care by tucking him in better under the covers and ended up watching him for hours, asking himself questions such as: “How could he trust me knowing that I'm a werewolf?”, “He wasn't afraid to confront me to get answers. Why?”, "Why am I so fascinated by him? He saved my life on the road and at the clinic, welcomed me into his home. I have reason to be surprised, but I think it's not just that, there's something more,“ ”He cares about me and seems to look after me. Few people have ever cared for me the way he does. Why does he treat me this way? Does he enjoy my company? Do I enjoy his company?"

His thoughts were interrupted by the radiant morning light. The sunrise flooded the room, filling it with the warmth and energy of a new dawn. Derek was surprised by how many hours he had spent watching Stiles sleep, smiling happily as he watched him snore. Rarely had he felt such genuine joy as when he looked at the young man snoring beside him.

He got out of bed and quickly made it, putting his leather jacket over the T-shirt he had borrowed from Stiles. He left the room without making a sound, not even a creak as he walked out the door. He didn't want to wake him up so early—would he even wake up at this hour?

He quickly descended the stairs and headed for the kitchen.

“I'll make breakfast before he wakes up,” Derek muttered to himself as he figured out where the groceries were kept in Stilinski's house.

In a few minutes, breakfast was ready: pancakes, coffee, milk, toast, cookies, bread, and juice. He made everything he thought Stiles would like to eat, and that, if he ever could, he would eat with him.

He set the breakfast on the dining room table and quickly returned to the kitchen, eating some bread and drinking a cup of coffee, and soon after, he left the house, going out the back door, heading toward the forest where the Alpha had been watching them during the night.

He disappeared into the woods, the morning dew still falling.

“Hmm,” Stiles yawned, rubbing his eyes. He removed his hand from them and realized he was alone in the room. “Where's Derek?” That was his first thought of the day. He sat up in bed with difficulty, his whole body aching from yesterday's exploits.

After all, he was only human.

“Derek, are you in the bathroom?” the boy asked, but got no answer.

He noticed that the bed where Derek had slept was now under his own, and he also noticed that the window was now closed for a reason he did not yet know. He walked to the door and, in a flash, Stiles felt his arms ache from “carrying” Derek to the clinic last night, and then made his way down the stairs. He descended them, smelling a pleasant aroma coming from the kitchen, and in an instant, he heard some noises coming from it.

“Derek, I can't believe you made breakfast for me! My dad could be here any minute!” he exclaimed, descending the last few steps he could.

“So that's the name of the boy you brought here yesterday?” asked Stiles' father, Noah, his deep voice startling his son.

“D-Dad... Good morning! How did the investigation go?” Stiles interjected, already approaching and hugging his father, wearing a completely cynical expression.

“Stiles, don't even think about lying. He left you this unnamed note on the table.” Stiles was speechless. He didn't know Derek was a man of notes, let alone one who made breakfast for someone. “I won't deny it, I wanted to know the name of the boy my son is seeing, so I opened the note and read it...” Noah smiled awkwardly, embarrassed for having opened his son's note.

“I don't believe it... Give it to me,” Stiles said through clenched teeth, putting on a serious face and taking the note from his father's hand.

It read as follows:

“Good morning, Stiles. After you eat the breakfast I made for you, meet me at home. We need to talk. See you later!”

 The boy didn't understand why Derek had sent the note, but he was sure that Derek had something really serious to discuss with him. But what could it be?

“Sorry for opening it, it was just on the table and...”

“Relax, Dad. I'm just surprised because I didn't expect this from Derek.” He doesn't seem like the kind of guy who leaves messages the next day or makes breakfast. You know what I mean?

“Oh, so you guys...”

“No! No, no. We don't... No!” Stiles, who suddenly became nervous, laughed at his answer to his father, and Noah joined him in tense laughter.

He didn't need to explain himself, as they both understood each other easily without words.

Noah and Stiles were at the table. The boy was still surprised by what Derek had done for him. He thought it might be a way of thanking him for what he had done last night or a kind of “affection” from the blue-eyed wolf.

“These pancakes are delicious!” Where did he learn to make them so good?" asked Noah, choking with his mouth full of pancakes.

“I don't know, Dad, but when I find him, that's the first thing I'm going to ask him,” replied Stiles, sarcastically, and Noah immediately frowned, disapproving of his son's harsh behavior.

“Just ask him,” he replied seriously, swallowing the pancakes in his mouth, and Stiles felt embarrassed.

“Sorry, Dad,” Stiles softened, raising one hand and reaching for the juice jug in front of him on the table.

Noah helped him get it.

“Son, you're nervous, I know. You know you can talk to me, right?” Noah knew that Stiles was acting a little strange, even absorbed, but he still didn't know the reason for his behavior.

“Dad, I know. And I'm ashamed of this situation, of a guy you don't even know sleeping here without your consent. That's all.”

“You don't have to be ashamed of anything, Stiles. If he treated you well and took care of you, that's something I admire in him. You're my son and I want the best for you, especially if your boyfriend can cook, then that's even better!” Noah smiled at his son, who returned the smile with an even bigger, but uncomfortable one.

Stiles was so happy to hear that he didn't even bother to tell his father that Derek was just a stranger, let alone that the “stranger” was a damn werewolf.

“Son, you're going to ask him how he made those pancakes, right?”

“Yes, Dad, I will,” Stiles replied, grabbing some toast from the basket on the table.

“So... How long have you known this guy?” Noah asked him, setting down the coffee cup he was holding.

“I've known him for a while. I don't know how long, but rest assured that I know him well,” Stiles shared nervously, picking up a glass of juice and taking a sip, the taste going unnoticed by him.

He tried to convince himself that he wasn't hiding anything, since he was only concealing the unbelievable truth. Even though he was omitting it, Stiles literally “knew him well,” and, moreover, he knew he couldn't be completely honest with his father about Derek. And for a moment, he understood what Scott had done for him.

“What's his last name? Maybe I know him.”

Stiles quickly became interested in the question.

“Hale. Derek Hale.” Noah was surprised, and Stiles immediately noticed this reaction. “He told me he knows you, Dad. How did you meet?”

“If it's from the fire that happened at the Hale house, yes, I know him.” But Stiles, isn't he too old to date you? Noah dodged the conversation, changing the subject, but his son wouldn't let him get away with it.

“Dad, don't try to change the subject. How did you meet?”

“You're not going to give up until you know, are you?”

“Of course not!” Stiles said with a smile that stretched from ear to ear.

"A long time ago, before I became sheriff, I responded to a call about a fire on the Hale property. When I got there, I saw a little girl kneeling on the ground, holding a small bouquet of flowers while crying as she watched the house where she lived burn down in front of her. That girl was the youngest of the family: Cora Hale. She was in front of the house, near the stairs, crying for the loss of her family. The firefighters soon arrived and put out the flames, but it was too late. Almost all of the Hales died in that fire.

“What do you mean ‘almost’?”

“May I continue?”

“Yes, please continue.”

"Only three people survived the fire: Cora, your boyfriend Derek, and the family's uncle, Peter. Their uncle is still catatonic in the city hospital, but it was a miracle that he survived all that, the flames and the smoke.

“You still haven't told me how you met Derek,” Stiles interrupted, resting his elbows on the table and putting his hands on his face. That way, he looked like a child waiting to hear the “happy ending” of a story—morbid, I know. However, in this case, it was anything but happy.

“Oh, right,” Noah remembered, frowning. “I met him right after they put out the flames, when he came to get his sister with me. I questioned him right away, and he told me he was at his mother's cabin with his girlfriend. Wait a minute. Is he gay or what?”

“What kind of question is that, Dad?!”

“I'm sorry, son. The world is so different now that I don't understand anything anymore.”

“So... That's it? That's how you met?” Stiles asked incredulously. He thought Derek had done something against the law, or something like that, not that he had been just a victim, much less that his alibi had been a “girlfriend.”

“Yes. Why? What did you expect?”

“No, nothing much.” I just asked.

"OK. NOW YOU'RE GOING TO EXPLAIN TO ME WHY YOU'RE WITH SOMEONE OLDER THAN YOU, STILES!

"He's not that old, Dad! He's only eight years older than me, and besides, I'll be eighteen soon. I don't see any problem with that!

“Stiles, I only want two things from him: the pancake recipe and for him to come here, and, of course, for me to be here to meet him. That's all.”

“All right, I'll bring him here.”

Unintentionally, between one thought and another, Stiles smiled broadly as he imagined his father meeting Derek.

“He's good for you.” Stiles stared at his father. “I can see it in your eyes, unlike Theo, who was only bad for you, son.”

Father and son finished breakfast together. They talked about the suspect Noah was pursuing, and Stiles talked a little more about his “boyfriend.” They quickly finished their breakfast and washed the used dishes and cutlery.

As Stiles was on his way to his room, he heard his name being called at the door. He recognized the owner of the voice right away: Theo. He couldn't just ignore him, he knew that, it would be childish and the Raeken might not leave anytime soon, even with the sheriff at home. He went down the few stairs he had climbed and headed for the door.

Theo rang the bell again.

“Damn it, I'm coming!” Stiles cursed and headed for the front door, annoyed at having to put up with Theo once again.

Stilinski opened the door and found Theo looking dejected after hearing Stiles swear, but Raeken knew, the moment he decided to show up at his door, that Stiles would treat him this way. He wore a white jacket with pockets on the sides, his hands tucked into them. He stared at the floor, unable to even look at Stiles.

“What do you want?” Stiles said dryly, hatred pouring from his eyes.

Theo had broken his heart when he cheated on him at a party Danny was throwing for the start of vacation, among other things that had only added up to that mortifying moment. At the time, Stiles was fighting with him, but he ended up showing up and finding Theo making out with a girl. Seeing that scene, he simply left the place, holding back tears in front of all those people.

“Please, let's talk,” Theo asked, his voice hoarse, finally looking at Stiles. His eyes were shining with tears, but the boy was not moved, knowing that Theo had perfected the art of crying. This time, Stiles wasn't going to fall for it.

“You think you're the one to show up at my door and ask to ‘talk’ after everything you've done? You're so cynical it makes me sick, you bastard!”

Those words apparently hurt Theo. He knew that, that night, he had hurt Stiles more than he ever had before.

“I just want to apologize. Just listen to me...”

“I don't want to hear anything from you! Get out of my house and don't you dare show up here again! I don't want you anymore. Do you understand, or do you want me to spell it out for you?” he exclaimed, stressed, and Theo's affection quickly changed from water to wine.

“You don't want me, but you're already after others, aren't you? Or do you think I don't know that you brought a guy here to your house yesterday?”

“How do you know that? Were you watching me?” Stiles interjected, cleverly, and Theo once again lowered his head, looking at the floor. “I think you've forgotten who my father is.” Let me refresh your memory: my father is the sheriff of this town. If he finds out about this, you're totally screwed.

“I just wanted to see you, but you were...”

Stiles didn't let him finish. He slammed the door in his face and walked up the stairs.

“Was that Theo?” Noah asked his son, his tone almost stern.

“Yes, it was him, Dad, but don't worry, he won't be here anytime soon.”

And with that, Stiles went upstairs, leaving a curious and questioning father on the floor below, while he thought only of the meeting he would soon have with Derek and the important matter they would discuss.

He smiled, without knowing why.

“When is he going to show up here? This is the only house he knows I have.” Derek, waiting for Stiles on the porch of his family's house in the middle of the forest where the fire had occurred, talked to himself about the boy's delay. “He's smart, he'll be here soon.”

He, the wolf, heard footsteps coming from the forest, heading toward the house, and soon he was sure that it wasn't Stiles, far from it. Even from a distance, he could smell the people who were getting closer and closer to where he was, to the house. He identified one of them: Kate Argent. They were already in his field of vision, armed and dangerous, but he didn't fear them. He knew he had done nothing wrong to any of them or any other human. He recognized another of the hunters, Kate's brother, Christopher Argent. And they were accompanied by two other men armed to the teeth.

Only a few meters separated them now, any false move could be fatal.

“What are you doing here?” Derek asked, his face grim and his teeth clenched.

“Can't I visit you anymore, Derek?” Kate, wild and looking slightly lethal, was the first to speak, provoking him, of course.

Derek stared at her with visceral hatred in his eyes.

“The last time you ‘visited,’ my house burned down with my entire family inside. Or did you forget that detail?”

“We just came to talk,” Christopher interjected, mildly. “I didn't come here to listen to you make claims without any proof. I already told you that neither I nor my men did this to your house.” He pointed at it with a wave of his hand. “Much less to your family, Derek.”

Kate smiled sidelong at Derek.

“Chris, do you ask or do I ask? Because I don't feel like listening to the ladies catch up.” Her brother interrupted, staring at her, disapproving of her attitude. "Well, I guess it's up to me. A woman was found dead in the woods with claw marks all over her body and all that brutality that only you werewolves do. So tell us: do you know who did it? We know it wasn't you, that it was an Alpha who did that to the corpse, because you weren't in town at the time of the crime. Otherwise, we wouldn't be here talking, if you know what I mean.

Derek couldn't take his eyes off the woman's face. He was shaking with rage.

“Kate, stop.” Chris interjected loudly, and his sister was stunned.

“No need to freak out, I'm just talking to him, little brother,” said Kate, looking at Chris with disgust in her voice.

“Do you know anything that could help us find him, the Alpha?” asked Chris, ignoring his sister's insolence. His expression was compassionate.

“I don't know anything that can help you,” Derek replied through clenched teeth.

“So... What do you know?” Chris asked him again.

“As much as you do,” the wolf replied, and Chris, to Kate's and Derek's surprise, seemed satisfied with the answer.

“Let's go,” announced the hunter, nodding to Derek, who stood firm as if to say, “Thanks for your patience.”

Kate, her expression filled with anger, followed him into the woods, accompanied by her brother and the other two hunters.

After a while, the four disappeared into the forest, and only then did Derek release his anger.

“Bastards!” he reverberated, punching the wall of the house, which shook as it took the blow. He was possessed by hatred and bitterness, but he was not wrong to feel such emotions.

“Careful, it might collapse!” warned Stiles, coming out from behind a tree where he had been hiding.

Derek immediately recognized the voice and turned quickly to see him. Stiles was wearing a blue cotton jacket, black jeans, and faded beige shoes. His hair was messy, but Derek liked the way Stiles seemed to dress.

“My house has been through worse, Stiles. It can take a punch.” Derek laughed at what Stiles had said and realized that his anger was fading.

Stiles calmed him down.

Derek jumped off the porch and approached the boy walking toward him. Stiles took the note he had left at Derek's house out of his pocket and began to read it vehemently:

“Good morning, Stiles. After you eat the breakfast I made for you, meet me at my house. We need to talk. See you later!”

Derek smiled as he listened to Stiles' funny reading. Without paying attention, they were already standing in front of each other.

“Unfortunately, I wasn't the first to read your note, but I liked it.”

“Who read it before you?” Derek asked, confused and interested.

“My dad,” he replied. “Now he wants to meet my boyfriend and find out where he learned to make pancakes as good as those.”

Derek smiled slightly, surprised by the word boyfriend.

“Did you tell him we're dating?” Derek asked, a mischievous smile on his lips, his eyes on Stiles.

“How else was I going to explain all that breakfast to him?! And I didn't tell him, he figured it out,” he replied, somewhat nervous, not quite sure what to say. Derek's light eyes made him feel uneasy.

“I understand perfectly,” Derek said ironically. “So... Did you enjoy breakfast?”

“I enjoyed it very much, it was really good.” Stiles thanked him, seeing the irony in the wolf's words, and bluntly asked, “What is it you want to talk to me about?”

Derek was completely mesmerized by Stiles' red lips, and made no effort to hide it.

“It's not a subject,” Derek was suddenly nervous, electric, but sure of what he wanted to do. “It's an attitude.”

Before Stiles could ask what it was, Derek grabbed him by the waist, pulling him closer to his body and pressing his lips against Stiles' in a hot, deep kiss. Stiles threw his body back, but didn't deny Derek's kiss. Instead, he returned it, throwing himself forward and grabbing the wolf by the back of his neck. Derek pulled him closer, placing his hands in the middle of the boy's back. The kiss was constant and aggressive and hot, and it made Derek lift him up, pressing him against a tree and then kissing him again. Stiles bit Hale's lower lip, and that prompted him to press him against the damp tree, putting his big, quick hands on his buttocks.

Stiles was out of breath, barely able to breathe because of the fierce kisses that consumed him so much. He pulled away a little and ordered:

“Take off your shirt.”

With Stiles still in his arms, Derek did as he was told and removed his shirt. Stiles slipped out of the strong arms that held him and climbed down, kissing his neck, biting his nipples, scratching his back, leaving a trail of kisses across Derek's muscular abdomen.

He reached Derek's belt, and his face was gently caressed by the wolf's large, warm hands. And he, Hale, looked at him and asked:

“Are you sure you want this?”

"You sure you want to do this?" Derek asked, wondering if this was really what Stiles wanted.

The young man knelt on the ground, frozen. He seemed unable to move at all. Derek could hear his heart pounding. He’s really nervous. He didn’t want this right now, Derek thought. That thought made him even more worried. I rushed things. I shouldn’t have kissed him so soon.

He ended up answering his own question:

"It’s too soon for you, isn’t it?" he asked, already knowing the answer.

"Yes," Stiles admitted, pulling his hands from Derek’s waistband and placing them in his lap, "but don’t think I don’t want to. It’s just that… I don’t…" he stammered, meeting Derek’s eyes. "I’m not in the right head‑space to do this now," he confessed, heart racing.

Derek’s instincts were razor‑sharp, ears tuned to every thump of the boy’s heartbeat.

"We’re attracted to each other," Stiles said, rising to his feet, "that’s obvious. But I don’t want just sex—not now. Do you understand, Derek?"

"I do," Derek answered, though one question kept nagging him. "Is it because you barely know me, or because I’m a werewolf and you’re afraid I’ll hurt you? Because if it’s that, know that I’d never hurt you… not without your permission."

"I‑it’s not that," Stiles stuttered, stepping back because Derek was almost on top of him. "I just got out of an abusive relationship and I’m not ready to be with anyone yet," he explained, leaning against a tree.

Still, Stiles couldn’t stop looking at Derek’s smooth, defined abs so close to him, breathing ragged, knees weak.

"Y‑your shirt. Aren’t you going to put it on? It’s cold out here. You could catch a cold or something." A wide grin curved Derek’s lips—still red, warm, and tingling from Stiles’s insatiable kisses.

Derek, wearing one of the most charming smiles Stiles had ever seen, turned, walking to retrieve the black T‑shirt he’d flung aside in the heat of the moment. With his bare back exposed, Stiles noticed a tattoo in the center of Derek’s spine: three curled circles, each linked to the next. What symbol is that?

"Werewolves don’t get colds, Stiles," Derek said, pulling on the shirt and facing him again. "But thanks for the 'tip'." Handsome and sarcastic—Stiles’s dream combination.

"You’re welcome, Mr. Never‑Gets‑a‑Cold!" Stiles shot back, and Derek offered a small smile at the nickname. "What’s that tattoo on your back?"

"Another round of questions?" he countered, closing the distance.

"No. Just a simple one, Derek." Stiles stood his ground and stared back.

"It’s a triskelion." Stiles pushed off the tree—an unfamiliar word always piqued his curiosity. Derek stopped. "It can mean past, present, and future; body, mind, and spirit; wisdom, love, and peace. But to me it means Alpha, Beta, and Omega."

"Why is that meaning for you?" Stiles pressed, making Derek huff impatiently.

"Because it represents a cycle of change," Derek replied. Stiles relaxed, as if that made more sense—though he still wasn’t sure. "An Alpha can become a Beta, a Beta can become an Alpha, and even an Omega can become a Beta—or maybe an Alpha. Get it?"

"I think so."

"Now my turn," Derek said, eyes darkening. "Why was your last relationship abusive?" Stiles looked down at once. He was ashamed—besides being cheated on by some spoiled, selfish rich kid, he couldn’t tell the whole truth. Yet honesty was all he could give Derek just then.

"I was cheated on. The guy cheated on me with a girl," Stiles said, lifting his gaze to Derek’s. His sincerity touched Derek in an oddly comforting way. "It happened just before summer break. He invited me to a party; I said no. Then I changed my mind and went. I found him making out with a girl. When he saw me, the jerk followed me outside, spewing nonsense. I jumped into my Jeep and sped off, nearly running him over."

"How many people have you run over, Stiles?" Derek asked dryly, remembering how they met.

"Just you. Yours was an accident; his would’ve been on purpose," Stiles said, half‑laughing, making Derek chuckle. Stiles set his hands on his hips, gathering himself. "Today the jerk showed up at my place 'wanting to talk.'" He made air quotes. "I slammed the door in his face. And he said he saw you at my house last night, asking who—"

"What?" Derek interrupted. "What’s his name?"

"Why do you care?"

"What’s his name?" Derek insisted.

"Theo Raeken. Now tell me why the interrogation!"

"Just wanted to know," Derek replied with a shrug and an air of indifference.

Stiles pulled a funny face—eyes narrowed, lips pouting—losing the maturity Derek thought he had.

"He’s not a werewolf, is he?" Stiles asked.

"Not that I’m aware of," Derek said, shrugging again.

"Then there’s only one explanation," Stiles announced, wearing a look Derek suspected meant he enjoyed keeping him guessing.

"And what’s that, Stiles?" Derek asked, voice flat.

"You’re jealous," Stiles blurted. Derek grimaced. Stiles tried again: "Must be a werewolf thing—wolves are territorial, right? So you’re territorial too."

Derek stepped closer, wetting his lips. "Then tell me—how would I mark my territory on you?"

Stiles opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He was embarrassed; it was rare for him to trip over his own words.

"I don’t know!" he exclaimed, making Derek laugh. "You tell me!"

"Why me?" Derek laughed.

"Because last night, in my bathroom, I know you used my cologne after your shower." Derek frowned at the flimsy reasoning. "What, to learn my scent or something?" Stiles knew it sounded ridiculous—and Derek clearly wasn’t buying it.

"Seriously, Stiles? That’s your best theory?" Derek asked, finding it kind of cute—up to a point. "I used it because it smelled nice. That’s it, cheapskate."

Stiles flashed a sideways smile, almost apologetic, and Derek watched, as if he’d never seen such a genuine grin.

Derek had never felt anything like being near someone who blushed, fidgeted, and struggled for words around him—and who could calm him so easily. He was tall, muscular, striking; people stared wherever he went—and he knew it. But few treated him the way Stiles did, and that enchanted him. Even knowing who Derek Hale really was, Stiles treated him like an ordinary guy, a friend.

"Fine! You win!" Stiles burst out, exhaling. "I’m nervous," he admitted, making Derek step closer.

"Why?" Derek asked, stopping a meter away.

"I like the way you treat me, your honesty, and I know you spent the whole night watching the house—watching me… And your breakfast was amazing. That’s why I’m nervous. I don’t know how to show what I feel for you. I’m still getting over my ex and all the crap he put me through," Stiles said earnestly. "Sorry… Too much?"

"No, not too much," Derek said, taking another step and clasping one of Stiles’s anxious hands. "I’m feeling things for you I’ve never felt before. They’re new to me too…" He smiled—Stiles silenced him with a sudden kiss, leaving him dazed. Derek hadn’t expected it and murmured, "So let’s take it slow…" Both laughed at the line.

They knew honesty would be the foundation of whatever was starting between them.

Not even twenty‑four hours had passed since their "meeting," but they both knew it hadn’t taken a whole day to feel this pull—overwhelming, yet safe.

They walked out of the forest. Stiles’s whole body ached from the night with Derek and from how forcefully Derek had lifted him against a tree, surprising him with a kiss.

A kiss Stiles knew he’d never forget.

Derek walked beside Stilinski. Even now he was amazed by how Stiles had responded to his kiss—the eager hands on his back, pulling him closer; the tongue filling his mouth, stealing his breath. He remembered Stiles’s tongue tracing circles over his nipples, driving him wild. Those breathless kisses—what kisses! He recalled Stiles’s mouth trailing down, nipping at his abs on the way to his belt. Unconsciously, Derek bit his lip at the memory.

Then he realized he was hard. He thanked heaven when he spotted Stiles’s Jeep nearby—and that Stiles hadn’t yet noticed the bulge in his jeans. Stiles strode to the driver’s door, climbed in, and opened the passenger side so Derek could get in. Derek slipped inside, trying to hide the bulge, but it was no use—Stiles had seen it.

"Should I ask?" Stiles laughed, pointedly not looking at Derek’s jeans.

"Better not, smart‑ass."

And, without really intending to, Derek blushed.

The drive to the precinct was incredibly quick; Noah was anxious to review the footage that supposedly showed Peter Hale as a suspect in the crime.

He pulled the police car up near the entrance of the station, maneuvered it, and parked close to a light‑blue scooter parked there. He got out and locked the vehicle. He glanced at the sky, almost out of routine, and noticed the weather hadn’t changed since yesterday morning: gray clouds covered all of Beacon Hills’s blue sky.

It was typical for this time of the year—cloudy skies and low temperatures for the residents of the Beacon City.

The precinct was as monotonous as ever. Only a few officers were in the building, busy with their own investigations. Only those handling reports or public complaints remained inside. As Noah entered the room, he met the eager look Parrish always wore when wanting to prove his usefulness. With a simple gesture from Noah, Parrish left his small desk, grabbed folders and reports, and dashed off to the Sheriff’s Office.

Sheriff Noah entered his office and went to his desk, where there were already investigation reports on Cameron Roberts’s murder. As he walked toward his chair, he was interrupted by Jordan Parrish—smiling wider than ever.

“Good morning, sir,” Parrish exclaimed. “Here are the forensics team’s reports.” He handed over the folders and added proudly, “And here”—he reached into his uniform shirt pocket—“is the flash drive with the hospital footage.” He handed it to Noah.

Noah wasn’t surprised by Parrish’s initiative, knowing how capable he was.

“Good morning, Parrish. Excellent work—thank you so much!” Noah replied, shaking his hand in gratitude.

Parrish nodded, satisfied, exited the office, and quietly closed the door behind him to leave Noah to review the materials.

Noah walked to his chair with the flash drive in hand, sat down, and got comfortable.

He inserted the flash drive into the computer and opened a folder titled HOSPITAL CAMERAS. He didn’t question the naming, too busy to care, and opened an archive containing two videos. The first showed the hospital parking lot near Beacon’s forest. As Noah watched, he noticed a man appear in the upper corner of the footage—literally crawling on the ground. It was 3:18 AM, and lighting was poor, making the figure hard to identify. How could the technician possibly label him as Peter Hale? he thought.

Intentionally, Noah opened the second video. It showed a secluded door at the back of the hospital. In seconds, a man—apparently Peter Hale—floated from the ground up to the second floor. Noah couldn’t see his face clearly—his eyes glowed unnaturally.

Noah was stunned as the video ended. He couldn’t believe what he’d seen—it was impossible. In one swift movement, he grabbed the investigation reports. He found a dark-beige folder labeled with the hospital’s name, opened it, and read aloud to himself:

“‘The patient, Peter Hale, is in a vegetative state. He lacks motor and/or psychic capability. His recovery and rehabilitation are monitored by qualified staff. He even has private nursing care. Therefore, he is never left alone. Sincerely, the administration.’”

Noah was confounded—none of that connected Peter with suspicion. “What the hell is this? How do the investigators consider Peter a suspect?” he murmured.

He grabbed the investigators’ report. Then he read:

“‘On the night of the incident, a nurse, Sara Colfer, reported checking on Mr. Hale—but he was not in his bed. When asked where he might have been, she noted he was likely with his private nurse at the time, as she liked to take him for walks in his wheelchair down the hospital corridors. When questioned about the nurse’s whereabouts later, the nurse said her shift had ended. Thus, she was no longer at the hospital. We also attempted to contact Mr. Hale directly, but hospital administration did not authorize it without a warrant…’”

Noah was bewildered. Only one thought raced through his mind: “Parrish!” he shouted, straining his throat.

Then softer: “Please come here!” His voice hurt—he swallowed dryly, the pain lessening slightly.

Parrish startled and nearly jumped from his chair, caught by surprise. He hurried into the Sheriff’s office. Meanwhile, another person entered the precinct—Theo.

Parrish burst into the office like a bolt and left the door ajar.

“Yes, Sheriff?” Parrish said, stunned. “What can I do for you, sir?”

Noah rose swiftly and approached him.

“You’re coming with me to the hospital. We will settle this matter today!” he announced, though his expression was more anxious than determined—Parrish noticed.

“Are you worried there’ll be more murders?” Parrish asked, serious yet calm.

Noah stopped before him and said, “Yes, I am. But what concerns me most is the possibility that my son is dating the nephew of a criminal.”

Parrish frowned in confusion. “Sir, I thought Peter Hale had no relatives in town. How suddenly does his nephew appear here in Beacon Hills?” The doubt showed clearly on his face—Noah noticed and reluctantly agreed.

“That’s what we’re going to find out, Parrish,” Noah whispered, deeply troubled.

Parrish stepped closer and asked, “What’s the nephew’s name, sir?”

Noah placed a hand on his forehead, trying to recall the name Stiles had mentioned earlier coming down the stairs.

“Derek,” he remembered and gestured. “His name is Derek Hale.” He withdrew his hand and saw Parrish nod in a daze—like a bobble-head he’d seen in a toy store.

As they talked, someone was listening—Theo. He heard enough to learn the name of his new rival: Derek. Envisioning Stiles in another man’s arms, Theo suddenly punched a metal rail beside him. The blow was so precise and silent it made no noise.

Theo rose from the bench with furious frustration on his face—and tears streaming from his blue eyes like blood from his clenched fists. He turned away, feeling broken inside.

Despite the gray clouds covering the city and the dull, faded sky, Stiles and Derek stopped at Java Hones café. The weather was perfect for a hot drink like coffee. Stiles suggested the café—and Derek volunteered to pay. Grumpy at first, he was quickly convinced when Stiles used those beautiful light-brown eyes and a sweet “please” with a pout. It melted Derek’s pretend stone heart, eliciting a quick “Yes, let’s go!” He found the move clever—and adorable.

Stiles frowned at the strange pattern in his cappuccino. “Is that an elephant or a tree?” he thought.

“So… why do the werewolf hunters hunt you guys again?” he asked, shaking off his daydream.

Derek put down his black coffee cup, leaned forward—his belly almost touching the round table, and whispered low: “Keep your voice down, Stiles!” His face was now closer to Stiles’s. Or talk too loud and I’ll shut you up with a kiss!, Derek’s thought ran.

Stiles stiffened as he felt Derek so near. He studied Derek’s face: the recently trimmed beard giving him rough charm, the thick eyebrows framing his unique features, and the square jaw lined and rigid—highlighting his handsome face. Only now did Stiles realize Derek’s eyes were green, not blue. How had he missed that?

“Are those contacts or what?” Stiles asked, more nervous than curious about those beautiful eyes. He leaned closer, feeling Derek’s warm, calm breath against him.

Derek returned the gaze—but his focus was on Stiles’s lips, which Stiles repeatedly bit.

“No, they’re not,” Derek answered, then stepped back without taking his eyes off Stiles’s lips. He desperately wanted another kiss but knew he needed patience. “Which question should I answer first?” he asked in a whisper, looking deeply into Stiles’s eyes.

The corner of Stiles’s mouth curved into a shy smile—seated under dim café light. There was only one lamp attached to the rustic wall providing illumination.

Derek braced for the worst as Stiles spoke: “Your eyes. Why do they change color?”

That question diverted Derek’s gaze. He saw no alternative answer.

“My blue eyes are part of my wolf transformation,” he lied. It hurt him to see the trust on Stiles’s face—it felt like a slap. But he stayed serious: “My green eyes are my human color when I’m not transformed.”

He leaned back in the armchair—his back cracking in stiff pops—hating the lie, especially to Stiles.

“Amazing!” Stiles exclaimed. “And the hunters—why do they hunt you werewolves?”

Derek adjusted himself: “They follow a sort of Code of Honor.”

“Code of Honor?!” Stiles asked incredulously. “What kind of code do these crazy hunters have to hunt people?”

Stiles lifted his cup for another sip. Derek watched him drink the cappuccino quickly—glad to hear the indignation in his tone from someone who had only just discovered this world.

“They hunt those who hunt us,” Derek explained. “It’s their code—they say it to remind themselves why they hunt us.”

A question bubbled inside Stiles—he feared to ask it, but needed to: “But, do you hunt them? Do you kill them? Because those hunters certainly didn’t look happy to see you in town…”

“We werewolves are predators,” Derek said, feeling the hypocrisy of his words, “not killers.”

His past still haunted him—Paige, memory after memory haunting his decisions. This lie to Stiles was consistent with the fight-or-flight instinct.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean—” Stiles began.

“No problem,” Derek interrupted. “You understand more than many humans I’ve known.” He drank his black coffee.

Stiles smiled modestly. He seized a moment with the calmer Derek and asked: “That woman with Allison’s father—was she your girlfriend?”

Stiles hoped he didn’t sound jealous. Derek’s wide-eyed expression over the JAVA HONES, COFFEE mug implied he’d sounded like an enraged ex. “Just… I couldn’t hear much from where I was hiding behind the tree, you know…”

Derek placed the mug back on the table and absentmindedly traced its rim with his finger, resisting laughter—though Stiles knew Derek had an ex, and it wasn’t exactly amusing.

“How did you know I dated that hunter?” he asked, gentle but firm. Stiles’s face flushed in embarrassment, avoiding Derek’s gaze.

“My dad said,” Stiles replied, looking around. Then their eyes met—Derek was attentive. “He said that the night of the fire—during the Hale house incident—you were questioned, and Kate Argent was your alibi, because you were with her in a cabin… dating. I think…”

“Dating?” Derek chuckled softly and covered his smile with one hand. Damn, I wanted to see!, Stiles thought.

Derk’s face turned serious as memories flooded him.

“Yes, we did date. But all you need to know about that family is that they destroyed mine… that’s it.” Tears shimmered in Derek’s eyes.

“I only say crap, don’t I?” Stiles murmured.

Derek was about to refute when his phone buzzed. He retrieved it and saw the sender: Scott.

“Scott sent a message,” Derek said, reading aloud: “‘Do you know where Stiles is? He’s not answering my calls. Does he know something?’ — And it’s about you.”

“About me?” Stiles asked.

“Yes. He called you, but you didn’t answer. So he asked if I knew where you were.”

His voice was calm and tender, though turmoil roiled beneath.

So soft that it soothed Stiles—calming rage and sadness in his chest.

“I… left my phone at home,” Stiles admitted, stunned by the gentle voice he just heard. “Can I see?” he asked and Derek nodded.

Derek handed Stiles his phone—but Stiles hesitated as Derek’s warm hand gently remained over his: “And no, you’re not talking crap, Stiles,” Derek said softly, stroking Stiles’s hand. “I’ll leave you for a moment—I’ll use the restroom.” He withdrew his hand and left Stiles alone at the table with the open conversation on the phone.

Stiles read Scott’s message—then reread it—then wrote back.

When Derek returned, Stiles was gone. Only the empty cup and coffee mug remained. Derek searched the café, then relieved, saw Stiles at the register paying. The waitress silently nodded.

Relief washed over him.

I’m not just protecting him—I’m caring for him. But why?

He hurried to the register and stood behind Stiles.

“You said I’d pay the bill!” Derek barked. Stiles pretended not to notice.

Stiles turned, counting change from the cashier and stored it away. He arched an eyebrow: “Next time, you pay!” With a shake of his head, he walked toward the exit. “You said I’d pay!”

Derek followed, keeping a deadpan glare but secretly eyeing the freckles on Stiles’s neck. They crossed the street and reached the Jeep. Stiles got in first, then Derek. Stiles arranged himself behind the wheel and looked over at him.

“Well… that didn’t work,” Stiles said, starting the car.

Derek furrowed his brow. “What didn’t work?”

“You!” Stiles replied. Derek’s confusion grew. “I thought if I walked in first, you’d get… you know…” he pointed at Derek’s pants—now Derek understood.

He sank into the passenger seat, mortified. He hated this outcome—knowing Stiles wouldn’t forget.

“Let’s go, you pervert! I still gotta pick up my car from the shop!”

Stiles laughed loudly.

“Me, a pervert? You’re the one climbing into other people’s cars with a hard-on?” he retorted sarcastically. Derek leaned in, raised both eyebrows in surprise, and sat back again. “That’s what I meant!” Stiles laughed again and drove away.

A simple, genuine smile lit up Stiles’s face—and Derek loved seeing it.

God, what a beautiful smile!

The stop at the workshop took literally five hours. The car was riddled with bullet holes after the confrontation with hunters the previous night! They left at 6:20 PM—Stiles noted the time on a clock on the wall.

They were heading back to Stiles’s home, each in their own vehicle. When they arrived, Noah’s car was already in the garage. With the garage open, Stiles quickly parked his car as well. Derek stepped out of his black Camaro and walked toward Stiles. From a window, someone appeared.

“Stiles—is that your father?” Derek asked, scanning the garage.

“Yes, that’s him. Why?”

Derek shrugged “never mind” and watched Stiles walk toward the front door.

Noah opened the door abruptly and nodded robotically to both Stiles and the man with him.

“Hello. Pleasure to meet you—Sheriff Noah Stilinski.” Noah extended his right hand. Derek shook it firmly.

“Pleasure—Derek Hale.” They lingered in the greeting for a brief moment.

Noah turned to his son. “Where were you, son?” he asked, concerned.

“At the café. Then I drove him to the shop.” Stiles explained. “Why do you ask, Dad?”

“No reason, son,” Noah replied with a strained smile.

Stiles sensed something was off and figured it best to say goodbye to Derek.

“Dad,” Stiles started, “I’m heading inside—just a minute, okay?”

“Sure,” Noah said, walking toward the kitchen. “Stiles!” he called again.

“What is it, Dad?” Stiles sighed.

“Invite your boyfriend for dinner here tomorrow night!” Noah glanced at Derek. “Will you come, Derek?”

“Yes, sir,” Derek answered. Noah walked into the kitchen briskly—Derek noted the speed.

Stiles and Derek walked toward Derek’s car. Derek leaned on the car door, arms crossed.

“You’re really coming tomorrow?” Stiles asked, watching the pose Derek struck—model-esque.

“Yes, I am,” Derek said. He uncrossed his arms and stood before Stiles. “Or is that something you don’t want?”

“Of course I want you to come! You’re my bodyguard!” Stiles joked. Derek laughed quietly. “Where will you stay tonight?” Stiles asked, concerned. “Just so I know where my security guard will sleep…”

“I have somewhere to stay, Stiles,” Derek replied, ending Stiles’s laughter with sincere words.

Hopes of him staying another night vanished.

Stiles approached Derek and hugged him. Derek reciprocated, surprised but deeply touched. They felt each other’s warmth enveloping the moment.

“Good night, Stiles,” Derek said softly, stepping back and heading to his car.

He watched Stiles enter the house and disappear. Before starting his car, he checked his phone to read what Stiles sent to Scott—it was for Scott, but spoke to him too: a lie revealed.

“You said you wouldn’t lie to me. Yet you did.”

Stiles was standing in front of the closed door to the room. He stared at the floor, frozen. He imagined what could have happened if he had asked Derek to stay, not caring what he would say to his dad, because he just wanted to have him close, or even to go with him anywhere.

He wished he had told him that it didn’t matter what kind of relationship he had had with Theo or what worries they were both going through. He simply wanted to spend more time with the man who had stirred something deep inside him in less than twenty-four hours.

In that case, they wouldn't be talking about cruel hunters or about how their lives were haunted by lies. Stiles already had full certainty that Kate Argent – the bitch – had destroyed Derek’s life and family.

In his heart, there lived only the longing to know him better. To know what lies beyond the werewolf, the human being, the real Derek; the one who smiled at his stupid, sarcastic jokes; the one who stared at his suggestive butt while he reached for a pot to make soup; the one who, when stopped from leaving the night they met, gave him a tender, genuine, pure look... Stiles remembered that bittersweet night very well.

"Stiles!" Noah called out from the kitchen. "What are you doing, son?" he asked, breaking the boy’s daydreaming.

Stiles lifted his head and turned his body, with a sharp twist of his back and waist, cracking his spine in the process.

"N-nothing..." he stammered. "Nothing," he said, walking toward the kitchen. His back was aching, but a quick stretch helped relieve it.

He realized that his father wasn’t watching him, since he wasn’t within his line of sight; Stiles could only see the old china cabinet that had belonged to his mother, leaning against the wall to his left, and the window above the empty sink, showing the surrounding forest clearly.

He reached the kitchen and soon saw his father crouched in front of the stove, taking something out of the oven. The smell was far too delicious to be healthy, Stiles thought.

He approached him and warned:

"Dad, you know you can’t eat greasy meat! It’s for your health!"

Noah stood up with a small red baking dish in his hands, looked at his son, and replied:

"Stiles, I appreciate the concern, but I didn’t roast this meat for me. I made it for you, son." He informed him and placed the red dish on the stove. "I found beef soup in the fridge. I checked if it was still good, and then I put it in a bowl in the microwave." He explained while watching Stiles practically devour the roast with his eyes. "It was your boyfriend who made the soup, wasn’t it?"

Noah tried to hint at how awful his son was in the kitchen, but the jab had no effect. Stiles didn’t even notice the word "boyfriend."

"Yeah, it was him," Stiles answered, nearly drooling. "So... the roast is for me?"

Noah frowned and quickly warned him:

"Yes! But don’t even think about eating all of it today! Or do you want to spend the whole night in the bathroom?"

Stiles instinctively scrunched his face in disgust at what he had just heard from his dad.

"Ugh! Gross, Dad!" he protested, making his father let out a few chuckles. "I’ll only take enough to eat. Nothing more!" Stiles stated. He grabbed some silverware and a white porcelain plate from the kitchen island. He quickly reached the stove and served himself.

With a few steps to the right, Noah got to the microwave and soon took out a bowl of the beef soup. He had spent the whole afternoon wondering whether Stiles knew anything that could help with the investigation, or why Derek Hale had arrived in town so suddenly. He knew he would have to be smart with his questions, because Stiles wouldn’t let anything slide.

It’s just a simple conversation about his boyfriend, Noah thought, nothing more.

"Son, how long have you two been dating? I mean, you and Derek." Noah asked in a tone that was too harsh for someone who supposedly just wanted to know "how long his son had been dating."

Stiles briefly stopped chewing the piece of roast in his mouth. He swallowed it dryly so he could focus on his dad.

"We’re not dating. Not exactly." He rephrased and grabbed a glass of juice from the island, sipping the yellow content inside. "But, as for how long... it’s been a few days..." It hadn’t even been a full day since they met. Still, he knew Derek well... But not like Kate knows him, Stiles thought.

At the word "a few days," Noah raised his eyebrows so high that his wrinkles were fully exposed.

"A few days?" Noah asked, incredulous. "So you brought a practically total stranger to sleep with..."

"Dad," he cut him off. "I trust him," Stiles said firmly.

He moved away from the island and walked down the hallway. Soon, he stopped, turned back, and looked at his father with a small smile on his lips.

"One day you’ll trust him too," Stiles said, marching down the hallway toward his bedroom. Noah watched him disappear from the kitchen.

There was no doubt that Stiles trusted Derek. But that wasn’t enough for Noah to trust him too.

"Will I really come to trust him, son?”

Ten minutes were enough for Stiles to finish eating the roast and the juice he had stolen from his father; he showered and then brushed his teeth, thus taking care of his oral hygiene.

Stiles’ phone was untouched, resting on his old nightstand right beside the headboard of his bed — there were dozens of messages from Scott, and he was well aware of them, but he didn’t bother to read them, not today. He didn’t dare pick it up, as his massive and untouchable pride wouldn’t allow it. He decided not to think about that now. He wouldn’t start his own investigation with anger, but rather, with research.

He was already sitting in front of his computer. He had accessed Google and was already typing into the search bar the phrase: "FIRE IN THE HALE FAMILY HOUSE." He knew it was a sensitive topic for Derek, so he preferred to search for it himself, since he didn’t remember the incident very well; back then, Stiles was only 11 years old.

Using the mouse, he clicked on the small magnifying glass in the browser, which led him to several news websites and blogs. He opened the first one. In the headline, it read: "THE TRAGEDY THAT SHOCKED BEACON HILLS: FIRE DESTROYS AN ENTIRE FAMILY." He read that with sorrow, knowing what Derek had gone through — the fire had happened the same year his own mother, Claudia, died — and what he was still going through, given that Kate Argent, the murderer of his family, was still at large.

He spent a few minutes there; he read and reread the article, the comments, other headlines, and a few related news reports. However, there wasn’t much variation in the information, as all of it pointed to the same conclusion: the fire that, besides destroying the property, had consumed the entire Hale family. Mother, father, grandparents, uncles, nieces, and nephews all tragically died in the fire. "How could that bastard kill children?!" Stiles thought.

He read intensely an article focused on the survivors of the tragedy. In it, it stated: "Cora Hale, daughter of one of the victims, suffered no burns, as at the time of the incident, the girl was in the woods picking roses for her mother, Talia Hale; the eldest son, Derek Hale, was not home during the incident. He had spent the entire afternoon with his girlfriend. He survived, thus being able to take care of his younger sister at just 18 years old. And their uncle, Peter Hale, was saved after the flames were brought under control. However, the man suffered burns all over his body, rendering him unrecognizable." Stiles felt a deep anguish as he absorbed all that sad and heavy information.

He couldn’t take it anymore. He closed the search tab and returned to the homepage. He buried his face in his hands, exhausted, thinking about what he could research to try to forget the atrocities he had just read. Then, a brilliant idea hit him: werewolves!

He searched and was immediately bombarded with horrific images of wolf-men showing their threatening faces, massive fangs, and bulging red eyes. It startled him.

Instantly, Stiles remembered how he had met the real Derek. But he knew none of those images resembled what he had seen that night — claws instead of nails, sharp canines instead of teeth… To Stiles, Derek was very different from what was on his screen. "He’s way more handsome than those mangy dogs," he thought.

He devoured all those websites in minutes. He could barely keep reading, as his eyelids insisted on closing. So, before shutting off the computer, he printed every image and article he could find from the websites, not even bothering to count how many pages he had printed. The sound of the printer, to Stiles’ ears, was oddly soothing and relaxing.

He simply stood up from the chair and walked over to his bed, letting his exhausted body fall onto it while he listened to the machine continue spitting out the horrible images he had printed. He glanced at his phone on the nightstand, but in the end, ignored it. He adjusted his tired body, curled up into a comfortable position, and soon after, fell asleep.

The ground was damp, as if it had just rained. Upon touching it, Stiles felt his cold hands claw into a clay-like, chilly soil. For a moment, he feared opening his eyes, but not knowing where he was would be a true torment. Slowly, he opened them, bracing himself not to see anything he didn’t want to. As he did, he could barely see what was in front of him, for there was a large white beam of light that insisted on blinding his sight.

Little by little, his vision began to take shape, and he could be certain that the light came from the moon; it was closer to the treetops, closer to him. It looked larger in the night sky, seemingly filling it gently. And more radiant and immeasurable than ever; its brightness was so strong that it revealed to Stiles where he had just woken up: from what he could see, he was in the Beacon Hills forest — at the very least, in its darkest part.

With the moonlight’s help, he noticed the immense trees around him, which appeared completely dead and dry. And the shadows danced, as if they were in some sort of ritual or sacrifice. He grew frightened by those figures and, stealthily, ended up running into the woods.

As he ran, he dodged trees that seemed to want to tear him apart with their gigantic, slender branches, but none caught him, as he avoided every single one. He plunged deeper into the forest without even looking back.

The forest was darker and quieter than usual.

Suddenly, slicing through all the silence, he heard a terrifying sound echo through the forest: a howl. He was completely covered in goosebumps upon hearing such a frightening noise. And instinctively, now far from the macabre trees, he hid behind a small, dry, lifeless tree. He pressed his body against it, afraid of being found by whoever that howl belonged to, and stayed there, relying solely on his hearing for protection.

The cold emanating from the forest pierced the pale skin of the young man. Beads of sweat were sliding down his skin, and upon feeling them, he lifted one hand to his forehead to wipe them away. He noticed he couldn’t see his hand clearly; his vision was completely blurry, fogged.

He breathed heavily, even sobbing from the cold. His exhale formed vaporous clouds — almost breezes. The young man was chattering his teeth from how cold he was, now realizing that he was barely clothed: only wearing an old pair of black boxers he always wore to sleep.

Suddenly, he heard someone approaching the place he had hidden, crushing leaves and twigs beneath their steps. He could feel that presence dominating the entire area. Alarmed, he bent his knees, ready to flee from there, since the person was getting closer and closer to the tree where he was hiding.

All of a sudden, the footsteps stopped. Stiles noticed he wasn’t breathing anymore — he didn’t dare breathe. His muscles were completely petrified, frozen. He could feel his heart trying to jump out of his chest. He swallowed hard.

"Stiles, it’s me." Derek’s firm and gentle voice broke the terrifying silence of the forest. "You don’t need to hide from me."

Stiles slowly stepped out from his hiding place and tried to look for him with his still-blurry vision, but what he managed to see, despite his poor eyesight, was only a tree that seemed entangled with two others, a bit distant from him.

Suddenly, what he thought was a tree ran at high speed in his direction. He couldn’t make out what it was — he only characterized it as something large and broad — but at the same time, he knew it wasn’t Derek.

He tried to run, but was unfortunately stopped right away. The creature reached him and threw him to the ground. The demonic being climbed on top of him and drove its claws into the young man’s pale skin — Stiles was horrified because he couldn’t feel the pain of the claws piercing him. To his dismay, he could now clearly see the beast: its body was entirely covered in black fur, and its face was the very embodiment of hatred and vengeance.

Pointed fangs, bloodshot eyes, and a breath that reeked of death hovered over the boy. The creature kept growling at him. Stiles shut his eyes — he couldn’t bear to look at such monstrosity.

"Open your eyes, Stiles!" the creature commanded between growls. It drew closer and bellowed, "Look at what you did to me!"

Stiles opened them again and could only notice the color of the creature’s eyes: grayish green. The only person Stiles knew with eyes that color was Theo.

It can’t be him, Stiles thought. He couldn’t hold back the scream that had been stuck in his throat:

"Get out of my head!"

He struggled against himself and ended up waking up, startled by what he had dreamed. He sat up in bed, still stunned, and felt the warmth of the sun on his completely sweaty skin. His shirt clung to his back from the sweat he had apparently shed all night long. He was still confused by what he had dreamed — it had been a whirlwind of information and emotion.

However, one sentence insisted on haunting him.

"Look at what you did to me." What does that mean?

He panted, barely able to breathe. That nightmare wouldn’t leave his mind anytime soon.

"Allison, you're coming with me, yes!" announced Lydia, as she ran her fingers through her long red hair.

She was lying on her Queen bed, as she liked to call it, staring intently at the golden chandelier fixed in the center of the ceiling, part of the room’s decor.

"Lydia, you're not going to convince me. Besides, I’m not in the mood to go, and my dad didn’t let me go out tonight," Allison lied from the other end of the line. Little did she know that Lydia had learned to tell when she was lying—even through a simple phone call.

"Allison, who are you trying to fool?" asked Lydia, rhetorically. "How many times have you snuck out of your house? Plenty of times!" she said, nearly biting her tongue. "And more than that, did you forget that I’ve seen you jump from your bedroom window balcony? Because I haven’t!" Lydia declared fervently. "If you want to go out, you go out!"

"Sorry, but I don’t want to..."

"Look," she interrupted, "I know you’re not handling the breakup very well, and that it’s still too soon to go out. But Allison, you need to pick yourself up and come to the party with me!" Lydia gestured, trying a new approach. "Please, my weird cousin Erica is going, and I’m going to need your help..."

"Lydia, enough!" Allison cut in. "I don’t want to talk about this anymore. But about your cousin," she added in a softer tone, "this is a great opportunity to get to know her better. Erica is a really nice girl..."

"I don’t care about Erica, I care about you!" Lydia exclaimed, clearly concerned. She knew her friend wasn’t okay, but also realized that forcing her to go out against her will wasn’t the best idea. "You know what, Allison? Bye!"

She abruptly ended the call and dropped the phone onto her chest. She sighed, annoyed at her friend’s lack of initiative. But she didn’t blame her, because Lydia knew all too well what it felt like to be left suddenly by a guy—unfortunately, Jackson had the most handsome face at BHHS, but he also had the vilest, most rotten heart in the whole school.

The only thing Lydia wanted, at that moment, was a contract signed by Erica Reyes—her cousin, daughter of her mother’s sister. And in it, there had to be a clause stating that Erica was not allowed to tell anyone that they were cousins.

However, even Lydia herself knew that wasn’t going to happen, because she didn’t have the patience to wait around with her cousin for such a contract.

No one deserves to see that poorly conditioned hair walking around! No one!

Dinner was already served on the table and, by the smell of it, it was really good. Stiles had spent the entire late afternoon cooking and looking for new recipes to try. He was surprised by what he’d made, because nothing smelled awful, raw, or even completely bland.

He had cooked especially for his guest, but of course, he couldn’t forget his father, so he made his favorite dish: mashed potatoes, his mother’s recipe. In addition to that, he also cooked risotto, mac and cheese, green salad, and for the main course, a large piece of roasted meat — Stiles had a hunch that, since Derek was a werewolf, he’d love seeing his favorite prey on the table: the meat was venison.

Right after he had that suffocating nightmare — which he remembered all too well — Stiles went shopping for dinner and then headed to the veterinary clinic looking for Deaton, to check the shifts he would be covering for Scott. Because no matter how hurt he was by Scott’s lies and omissions, what mattered to him was the promise he had made — and Stiles had never broken a promise.

However, he didn’t go to the clinic just to check his schedule. He visited Deaton to find out more about Scott and to learn more about Derek. But all his questions were immediately shut down by Deaton’s intimidating and simplistic demeanor. He didn’t answer a single one of them — he only warned him, saying, "Stay out of this, Stiles." Then he stepped into his office, ignoring the boy. Stiles knew this new world he had just uncovered was dangerous, but he was committed to learning more and more about it.

He sat at the table, completely exhausted; his day had been chaotic and nauseating. But ending it with an amazing dinner, together with his dad and his "boyfriend", would be a great way to close it — especially since he hadn’t seen Derek since the night before.

Suddenly, he heard the living room door open effortlessly, and Stiles, anxious, leaned sideways to see who had just arrived — he nearly fell off his chair but managed to hold onto the table, making the glasses and silverware rattle.

"Whoa!" said Noah, stepping into the modest dining room. "Son?"

"It’s me, Dad," Stiles replied, composing himself.

"Did you make all this?" Noah asked as he approached the table, admiring it with a sparkle in his eyes.

"Yeah, I cooked everything," Stiles answered with a small smile, happy with his father’s reaction.

"Have you checked?" Noah asked, making Stiles' smile fade. "I mean, have you tasted it?"

Stiles made his best offended face and snapped, "Of course, Dad. It’s all edible!"

Noah didn’t even notice the face his son made. Stiles realized his father’s eyes were fixed on something else — something full of potatoes.

"You made mashed potatoes!" Noah exclaimed, delighted. "Pass me a spoon."

"Hey!" said Stiles, getting his father’s attention. "You’re taking a shower before you eat!" he ordered and saw his father scowl. "Dad, you just got home from the station!" he argued. "Go take a shower!"

Noah stepped away from the table — and the mashed potatoes — and removed his sheriff’s utility belt, which held his gun and a kind of walkie-talkie. He placed the belt on the cabinet next to the dining table, turned to Stiles, and said:

"Alright. You’re right."

After saying that, Noah headed up the stairs toward his room, and Stiles could hear him grumbling:

"Cooks once in his life and already thinks he’s the boss! Unbelievable!"

"You can complain all you want!" said Stiles, laughing. "Just go take that shower!"

He teased, but his father didn’t reply — at least not loud enough for him to hear.

He laughed for a few moments, but his laughter quickly ceased when he heard the distinct notification tone of his phone; it was Scott, and he knew it because Stiles himself had set that sound for his friend’s messages. He had every opportunity to respond, but just like the night before and early that morning, he wouldn’t reply — he hadn’t even opened the previous messages.

A large beam of white light came in through the window from outside the house, filling the room. It made Stiles forget his bitter thoughts and rush eagerly toward the living room door.

Oh my God! He’s here! Derek’s here!

He quickly reached the door and yanked it open. He could swear his face stiffened when he saw the person standing in front of his house: Theo Raeken.

Stiles didn’t even give him time to get out of the car; he stormed toward the vehicle, resisting the urge to kick it, and waited for Theo to roll down the driver’s window. Slowly, the glass lowered, revealing the angelic face of the driver. Stiles no longer saw him that way.

"What are you doing here?" Stiles asked, fuming. Theo gave him the calmest look he could muster, though he looked worn out and sad. Their eyes met — and Stiles’ were anything but forgiving.

"I just want to apologize to you. Stiles, nothing that happened at that party meant anything to me. Nothing!" Theo confessed, crying and leaning forward to see him better. Stiles felt a sharp pain in his chest — whether he liked it or not, Theo still affected him. "I was a jerk, I know," he admitted. "But don’t let our relationship end because of my stupidity..."

Stiles backed away from the car because he knew he’d either cry out of rage or punch the guy in the face — and he also knew Theo would probably let him, without hesitation. But he decided it was better to ignore him and go back inside.

Theo quickly got out of his car and ran after Stiles. He reached him, grabbed the burgundy-red shirt he was wearing — Stiles shot him a furious glare — and, crying, Theo said:

"You changed me! You made me a better person..." Theo confessed. "I’ll do anything! Anything, for you to forgive me! Stiles, I love you!"

The last sentence pierced his heart like a knife.

Before Stiles could think of what insult to hurl, a — or rather, the — black Camaro parked right behind Theo’s car. Upon seeing the vehicle and its driver, Theo’s expression turned stone-cold. Stiles immediately recognized that side of Theo — the jealous, dark side.

Derek jumped out of the car and stormed toward Stiles, as if he were about to literally rip Theo’s slender hand from his arm. The boy didn’t show fear or hesitation, he just gripped Stiles’ arm tighter.

"Let go of me!" Stiles shouted, staring at him. While keeping his eyes on Theo’s pale face — which ignored him completely — Derek stepped up beside them, fury in his eyes. Theo didn’t seem afraid, but Stiles could feel his hand trembling on his shirt.

"Are you deaf?" Derek asked, almost growling. Theo gripped the boy’s arm even tighter upon hearing his voice. "He told you to let go of his arm," Derek said, in a voice far too calm for someone who looked ready to kill. "Let him go. Now."

Finally, he let go of Stiles’ arm. The boy immediately rubbed it — it hurt badly where Theo had squeezed.

"Who do you think you are?" Theo snapped, stepping up to Derek and squaring off with him. The boy’s once-angelic face twisted into something malicious and cruel. "Relax," he chuckled mockingly, "I know who you are. You’re the vermin that didn’t die in the fire, right?" Stiles couldn’t believe what he was hearing — and apparently, neither could Derek. They exchanged stunned, wide-eyed looks, but the moment didn’t last long. Derek wanted nothing more than to smash Theo’s arrogant face. "You’re Derek Hale, aren’t you?"

He provoked him, but before they could start fighting, the house door burst open. Noah appeared, wrapped in a white bathrobe, his short hair still wet.

He walked over to the boys, fixing his eyes on Stiles, and asked:

"Did Theo hurt you, son?" Stiles nodded, and Noah quickly turned to Theo and commanded:

"Get off my property. Now!"

Theo stood frozen.

"NOW!" Noah bellowed. Stiles jumped, startled, and instinctively looked at Derek. The man didn’t even blink — he was destroying Theo with his gaze.

Before leaving, Theo looked Stiles in the eyes and said:

"I wasn’t joking, Stiles. I love you."

Noah stepped in front of him, blocking the boy’s view, stared at Theo, and repeated:

"Get lost, kid."

Quickly, Theo got into his car, started it, and disappeared around the corner.

Derek, Stiles, and Noah entered the house in silence. Noah closed the door behind him and walked toward the stairs, climbed a few steps, and announced:

"I'm going to finish my shower and then I'll come down so we can have dinner."

Stiles nodded and watched his father ascend the stairs. Once he was sure his father was out of sight, he reached up and touched Derek's tense face—he was wearing a dark blue long-sleeved shirt and black jeans; Stiles liked seeing him in something that wasn’t entirely black—and gently stroked his tan skin.

"You're not a worm," Stiles said firmly as he caressed his beautiful face. Derek blushed at the warmth of his touch against his skin. "That jerk only said that to get to you... and to me."

"Y-you..." Derek stammered, trying to hide the flush on his cheeks. But it was no use—Stiles was already smiling brightly at him.

"Why would he try to get to you?" Derek asked, his emerald green eyes fixed on him. It was as if he already knew what Stiles was getting at.

Thank God, Stiles thought.

He stepped closer, gently stroked Derek's face again, and with a swift motion, reached for the back of his tense neck and scratched it lightly.

"Because," Stiles whispered, "I like you, Mr. Hale." He saw Derek’s eyes light up in a burst of joy. Stiles bit his red lips as he felt Derek move closer.

He wasn’t expecting anything in return—he just wanted to have him there, close.

"He's not," Derek said, "the man for you, Mr. Stilinski." He leaned in and kissed him softly. Their kisses were sweet, tender, crisp, warm, and gentle.

Derek didn’t need to say "I like you too," because that kiss said it all.

He could hardly believe Stiles had kissed him, that he had made the first move. They forgot everything else—because what mattered, in that moment, was enjoying it together.

"Lydia, how much longer until we get there?" Erica asked gently, her eyes fixed on the pitch-black road ahead on Route 66; the headlights barely lit the way.

"Maybe... half an hour," Lydia replied, and then sighed, visibly bored.

Allison hadn’t come with her, and to keep her cousin company, Erica had invited Isaac and Boyd. Boyd had managed to join the lacrosse team before the break, and with him, Lydia knew she wouldn’t be embarrassed. But Isaac was a different story—awkward, poor, and with hardly any friends. Boyd was pretty much the only one. She knew he’d be out of place at the seniors' party.

"Will there be a lot of people at this party?" Isaac asked, leaning forward toward the driver’s seat, where Lydia was sitting.

"Of course there will," Lydia snapped. "It’s the first party of summer break," she added, tossing her red hair to the side. The motion made Isaac retreat to his seat in silence.

"Oh..." Isaac muttered, slumping into the passenger seat.

Boyd noticed his friend shrinking down as if he wanted to disappear into the cushion. He had invited Isaac to the party to help him bond with the guys from the team—maybe even get him on the roster halfway through the season.

"The lacrosse team will be there," Boyd said. "They’ll treat you well. Don’t worry, Isaac." He gave him a comforting pat on the shoulder, which Isaac returned with a relieved smile.

In the front passenger seat, ahead of Boyd, Erica smiled softly at the way he encouraged his friend. She had invited him as a friend, but her true intention was to confess her feelings—or kiss him by surprise.

It didn’t really matter how she’d do it; she just wanted Boyd to know that what she felt wasn’t just friendship anymore. It had become something much more special.

Her smile grew wider, revealing her perfectly white teeth. Lydia caught the expression on her cousin’s face. She had noticed for some time how Erica acted around Boyd. She even supported the two of them. They make a beautiful couple, Lydia thought.

Suddenly, Lydia’s car rattled ominously. A horrid screech came from beneath the hood, and the car jolted before everything went still. They coasted to a stop near a sign that read “ROUTE 66.”

Lydia sat frozen in her seat, unable to believe what had just happened. Erica’s blond hair had fallen forward, covering her stunned face. Isaac and Boyd clutched the doors and seats tightly, both visibly shaken.

"Is everyone okay?" Boyd asked, removing the seatbelt from across his chest. "No one got hurt?" He looked over at Isaac, who nodded a silent "I’m fine."

"Yeah, we’re fine," Erica responded, brushing her hair from her face. She unbuckled her seatbelt and opened the car door, stepping outside. She noticed Lydia was still motionless in the driver’s seat. "Lydia, we need to check what happened. You need to get out of the car," Erica said gently.

Lydia turned her scared eyes toward her and slowly unbuckled, exiting the vehicle.

"Shouldn’t we call a tow truck?" Lydia asked, to no one in particular. She stood with her arms crossed beside her car, in the middle of the gloomy Route 66.

She noticed Erica and the boys looking under the hood, trying to figure out why the car had died so suddenly.

"It’s Saturday," Isaac said, poking around inside the engine with Boyd. He didn’t even glance at her. "No tow trucks are running around town, Lydia."

She responded with a frustrated huff.

"I’m calling anyway," Lydia announced. "Someone will answer."

She spun on her heel, pulled out her phone, and took a few steps to the center of the road, standing on the yellow markings. She searched for the contact "MOM" and called her.

"Come on, pick up," Lydia said. "Please. Pick up, Mom." As she waited for her mother to answer, she noticed, a few meters away, a strange creature on all fours—tall and apparently covered in fur.

Lydia froze at the sight but managed to take a few steps back toward the car. She removed the phone from her ear and accidentally dropped it to the ground.

"What was that noise, Lydia?" Erica asked, stepping out from behind the raised hood. "What’s wr—" She saw the creature too. "What the hell is that?" she murmured, grabbing her cousin’s arm. Lydia didn’t even blink.

Boyd was the first to step out from behind the car, and Isaac followed right after.

"What is that?" Isaac asked. Boyd looked at him and just shook his head.

"Lydia, come here!" Boyd called, exchanging worried glances with Erica.

Lydia, seeing the creature rise up, pulled her cousin backward.

"Run!" she yelled, dragging Erica toward the forest.

Boyd and Isaac quickly sprinted after them, disappearing into the woods along Route 66.

The creature’s footsteps sounded like the thunderous gallop of ten horses. It followed them, dashing into the forest just off the roadside.

"Lydia? Honey, are you there? Lydia, answer me!" Natalie pleaded from the other end of the line. But to her horror, there was no reply.

"Do you drink, Derek?" Noah asked, while picking up one of the alcoholic beverages on the table.

"Only socially, sir," Derek replied politely.

"Smart, but that's not what I meant," Noah said. He could see a smile growing on his son's face. "Would you like one?"

Derek looked at Stiles's smile and quickly answered:

"No, thank you, sir."

Noah nodded and took a sip of his drink.

"So, back to the subject..." Noah said, placing the bottle on the table.

"Seriously, Dad?!" Stiles said, sounding indignant.

"What?" Noah asked, not caring at all. "Your boyfriend should know you've dated a girl. What was her name again?" He furrowed his brow, trying to remember. "... Lyvia. Something like that, right?"

"Her name is Lydia, Dad."

Derek turned to the boy, completely confused.

"You..."

"I dated... her," Stiles stammered. Derek discreetly widened his eyes, making Stiles laugh. "Thanks to her, I realized" — he turned his gaze to his father — "women aren't really my thing."

Noah couldn't hold back his laughter.

"So, she was the first person you dated?" Derek asked. But what he really wanted to know was if she had been the first person Stiles had sex with.

Stiles understood the disguised question.

"Yes, she was."

Derek still had his eyes slightly widened.

"So, right after that, you dated Theo? Is that it?"

The boy held back his laughter with all his might — Derek's expression was just too good.

"Yes, chronologically," Stiles replied, and right after that, his father burst out laughing, and he joined in.

"I was just as confused as you are, Derek," Noah said, between laughs.

Derek took a spoonful of risotto to his mouth and started chewing. He had thought Stiles was naive when it came to sex, especially because the boy hadn’t seemed very comfortable back in the forest, at his place. But he liked learning more about him — about his good and not-so-good experiences.

Suddenly, a sound invaded the dining room; it came from the sheriff’s walkie-talkie. Everyone became alert. Noah stood up, no trace of laughter left on his face, and walked to the shelf, picking up the device. He left the room and answered the call.

"Can you hear it?" Stiles asked, and Derek nodded.

"… animal attack on Route 66. Four young people found seriously injured. All units needed at the scene, copy? Four seriously injured, copy?"

"Copy, base," Noah replied.

Stiles was staring intently at Derek, waiting for an answer.

"What happened, Derek? What did you hear?"

Before he could respond, Noah returned to the room and quickly grabbed his police belt.

"We’re going to have to finish this dinner another day," Noah stated as he headed for the living room door.

"What happened?" Stiles asked, worried about his father’s behavior.

Noah just kept walking and, at the door, replied:

"Nothing."

The boy heard the door shut and, shortly after, saw his father heading to the garage. He got into the car, started it, and quickly drove off.

"What happened?" Stiles asked again. "Please don’t tell me it was nothing!"

"There was an animal attack on" — Derek replied — "Route 66, and four young people were seriously injured..." A thoughtful and worried look took over his face. "I need to go there."

He stood up quickly and rushed to the door. Stiles also got up immediately and followed him. Derek opened the living room door and went straight to his car. Stiles only had time to shut the door behind him and run after him. He walked to the passenger side and said:

"Where on Route 66 are we going?"

Derek looked at him over the top of the car, opening the driver's side door.

"Right now, there’s no ‘we,’" Derek stated. "Stiles, you're staying here. If the Alpha is out there, it'll be too dangerous for you."

Stiles gave him a compassionate look, but declared:

"Either you take me, or I’ll go in my Jeep. Your choice."

The man was in too much of a hurry to start arguing with him, so he nodded.

"Get in, now!"

They sped off toward Route 66. However, neither of them had noticed the car parked at the corner of Stiles’s house; Theo was there, watching every movement in the house — from the sheriff’s departure to Stiles’s argument.

He drove his car up to the property and soon got out of the vehicle. Unfortunately, the front door was left slightly ajar, making it easy for him to enter.

He headed toward the stairs and saw the feast prepared for Derek, covering the entire table. It saddened him. Stiles never did this for me, Theo thought.

He didn’t waste much of his precious time there and quickly walked up to Stiles’s room. Once inside, he scanned the entire room within seconds; everything was very neat and airy, he noticed. But then, he saw something different on Stiles’s small desk: copies of photos of the Hale House; news articles; horrific images of werewolves; research on lycanthropy and a vast amount of content discussing curses.

He grabbed all the copies, walked over to Stiles’s bed, sat down on it, and reviewed all the information carefully.

Accidentally, he stained one of the copies with his blood and, carelessly, wiped his hand on the bed's blanket — he hadn’t even noticed the injury from earlier at the station until that moment.

He got up from the bed, spread the copies across it, and took pictures with his phone of all the research Stiles had compiled.

"What are you hiding from me, Stiles?" he whispered to himself.

"Stay inside," Derek said. "The car. Did you hear me?" he asked, deeply worried.

Stiles looked at him with disdain and replied,
"Yeah, I heard you."

Derek stepped closer to him, sensing his anxiety, and repeated,
"Don't get out of the car, Stiles."

Derek's voice sounded genuinely concerned. Stiles understood him—reluctantly, but he did.

"I’m not getting out of the car. Got it," Stiles muttered to himself.

"You better not get out," Derek said, moving in and planting a quick, surprising kiss on Stiles’s lips. "Don’t leave, okay?"

Stiles simply nodded, robotically, bobbing his head.
More of that, please! I’m definitely staying put.

Derek quickly left the car and ran toward the forest.

He had chosen to park the vehicle at a strategic point between the forest and the town, making it easier to begin his search as an Alpha.

It had been three minutes, Stiles noted, since Derek had left. He couldn’t see a thing in the forest, and the dirt road wasn’t helping either.

Then suddenly, Stiles saw someone dragging themselves along the dirt road a little ahead of the car. He hesitated to leave the vehicle, but since the headlights didn’t reach the person and Derek hadn’t come back yet, he ended up opening the door and stepping out toward them.

His steps were cautious—he still hadn’t identified who it was. But then he saw the figure rise to their feet. From the silhouette, Stiles could tell it was a short, thin man. He stopped walking and called out:

"Do you need help?"

As the man moved closer, stepping into the glow of the headlights, Stiles could see that he was completely naked. The man was short, thin, with dark hair and pale skin. But one detail caught Stiles’s attention—the strange feeling that he knew this man from somewhere pounded in his head.

The man seemed to inhale all the air from the forest around them—Stiles instinctively stepped back upon seeing it—and then his eyes glowed a fierce, blood-red.

"You know my nephew," the man stated.

Stiles's entire body froze. Only then, with that statement, did he remember the man's name.

"Peter Hale," Stiles blurted. If it hadn't been such a tense moment, he would have been proud he hadn't stuttered.

"Yes, that's my name, kid," he scoffed. "And yes, I need your help. Call my nephew," he said, his blood-red eyes glowing even brighter, "please."

"Derek, help!!"

The desperate scream was immediately picked up by Derek's ears.

He couldn't even register how fast he'd run from the small cliff in Beacon Hills to where he'd parked the car. All he knew was that he'd gotten there in less than a minute, and his heart was pounding wildly inside his chest.

When he arrived, Derek saw Stiles crawling on the ground—and someone he already knew was there, calmly waiting. 

He couldn't believe what he was seeing. It couldn't be.

He emerged from the forest, claws and fangs bared, ready to face the man who had once been his uncle. The man who had become a ruthless killer. The man who had tried to take Stiles's life.

Peter's mischievous, unnervingly white smile stretched across his pale, flawless face. Derek had hated that smile since he was a child.

"Hello, nephew."

Chapter Text

"If I cry in front of you, believe me, I've reached my limit."

– Demi Lovato

"To love is to destroy, and to be loved is to be destroyed."

– Cassandra Clare, City of Bones

"I can say, with complete sincerity, that it was never my intention to be bad."

– Kerry Reichs, Leaving Unknown

F I R S T P A R T
W i n n e r

On the first day of winter, during a quiet and monotonous morning, I had woken Tara up very early. The night before, we had agreed to go together to the stream near our house to see whether it had frozen or not. She got up quickly from bed and, still drowsy, followed me as we left the house.

I noticed, as we entered the forest, that the nervousness I had felt about sneaking out had already passed. We were far from home by then. For a moment, it struck me as odd that no one had noticed we were gone. Not even her absence had been felt.

When we arrived at the stream, she darted toward the bridge and left me behind, but I quickly ran after her and caught up with her a little ahead. Tara was excited to check it, because a week before winter started, we made a bet: if the stream wasn’t frozen, I would do all her schoolwork for the entire year. But if it was frozen, she’d be the one doing all my assignments.

Tara threw herself onto the bridge's railing and, with a quick move, climbed two of the four planks meant to “protect” anyone observing the stream below. She was small for a twelve-year-old girl. But that wasn’t a bad thing—it made her do exactly what I wanted.

Before she could say what I already knew—after all, it never snowed in Beacon Hills and it was unlikely the stream had frozen—I heard her laugh dryly, thinking she had won our bet. Stupid girl. She had no idea what was coming.

“Little brother,” Tara sang, “you lost!” Before she could climb down, I ran toward her and shoved her with all the strength my small arms could muster, pushing her violently toward the stream.

I heard a horrible cracking sound before she even hit the water. I stepped closer and saw that she may have broken a bone, because the log used as a kind of foundation for the bridge floor was partially exposed—at the very least, one part of it clearly visible. I was lucky that day.

She was fully submerged, inhaling water through her airways with every passing second. Yet even underwater, her dark hair shone and blended with the calm current of the stream, showing me just how graceful that moment truly was.

For a few moments, I watched as she struggled, trying to reach the bank. She groaned in pain—likely from a broken leg. She clawed at mud, grabbed onto roots, dragged herself. But she couldn’t pull herself up.

Tired of trying, Tara held onto a large, thick root and just stared at me. She moved her lips, saying something I couldn’t hear—I concluded she was either naively asking why I did it, or worse, begging for help.

I was sure my sister was pleading for her life.

We spent a few minutes just looking at each other. I wondered what she could be thinking in that moment—personally, I was thinking about how long Mr. Raeken, our father, would blame me for her death.

Even as she grew closer to death from hypothermia, she didn’t stop staring at me with those dark eyes, with that serious, fixed look. But in her eyes, I saw something else: disappointment. That look didn’t hurt me—at least, not that day.

Her skin had turned as white as untouched paper, pure white. Her lips had turned a disturbingly dark purple from the cold. I noticed her entire body was twitching, and I could see she was trembling. Her pupils were fully dilated, giving her a completely vacant expression—one of the many symptoms of hypothermia.

At that moment, I already knew she could die from cardiac arrest at any time. And one way or another, I had won the bet.

I didn’t even notice when the family staff found us—I was leaning over the stream bank, trying to pull her frozen body from the water. As I saw them approach, I began to wail and cry out to the heavens, begging for my sister to come back, claiming I loved her too much for her to be taken from me and from our family so soon.

And when they pulled her body from the stream, I threw myself over her frigid corpse and began to cry like I had never cried before—it was the right thing to do in a situation like that; a situation I had created and would now see through alone.

One of the staff, my family’s butler, Elijah Anders, pulled me away from my sister’s body while the gardener—whose first name I didn’t even know—checked if she was truly dead. Anders, a tall, elderly British man with shifting blue eyes, lifted my face and, with sorrow, asked:

“Are you alright, Theo? What happened to Tara?”

Before I could respond, his eyes drifted toward the gardener, who silently gave him a simple, gentle no. I didn’t need to see the gesture—just by Anders’s astonished expression, I already knew the answer: thankfully, I had succeeded in killing her.

I was only ten years old when I killed her. I knew it wasn’t normal—but I had always wanted what was best for her. And, most of all, for me.

May God have her.

S E C O N D P A R T
T h o u s a n d L a y e r s

Exhausted. The trip had been longer and more tiring than I expected. That damned plane—which, by the way, was far from the best first class I’d ever flown—had layovers in New York and Las Vegas. Never in my life had it been so difficult to travel from London to Beacon Hills!

My parents had arrived in town before me. In less than five hours, they were already landing in the county. They landed faster than I did because they used the family’s private jet—one of the two we owned.

I had deliberately missed the flight and, as a consequence, missed the ride. The delay was, quite literally, unnecessary. I remembered the reason for my lateness and tried to suppress a laugh, but I couldn’t help it.

How could he have been so foolish to think I would disobey my parents to stay with him in London? I would never do that. I stifled the laugh.

Thomas was a stupid, narcissistic boy with absolutely no depth. But he knew how to keep me interested in our “relationship.” And besides, his body was just so... attractive. He certainly knew I wouldn’t miss him—because I never did—so he begged me to stay. Foolish boy.

But, as Mr. Raeken always said: “Always stay in touch with your suppliers.”

Suddenly, I heard footsteps approaching the door, and soon after, an elegant knock echoed through it. A distinct British accent followed. Anders was at the bedroom door.

“Dinner is served, Theo,” said Anders. His voice was rougher than I remembered. “Will you be joining Mr. and Mrs. Raeken?”

“Yes, I’ll be right down,” I said, lifting my body from where it was sprawled on the bed. “Just a moment.” I placed my feet on the floor and walked to the door.

When I opened it, I found Anders standing upright, arms behind his back. I almost laughed at the sight.

“I want to speak with you.”

“Yes?” Anders said, examining my semi-naked body. I was wearing nothing but a white Calvin Klein brief. The audacity in his reproachful gaze was an affront to me.

I crossed my arms, tensed my whole body, and stared him down, asserting myself.

“Before I got here, I ordered that a bookshelf be placed in my room. Do you see a bookshelf?” I didn’t bother moving to let him look inside. He knew what I was talking about, and that was enough. “Because I don’t.”

He raised his eyebrows and widened his eyes. He opened and closed his mouth, looked at me, and quickly averted his gaze. We both knew he wouldn’t argue—and he certainly wouldn’t do anything about my behavior. Foolish old man.

“No, I don’t see one,” he said, practically spitting the words. “My apologies for the lack of commitment from some of the staff,” he added. His wrinkled face no longer expressed reproach, but regret. “It won’t happen again.”

“Make sure it doesn’t.” The voice I projected came out just as expected: commanding, merciless, and dominant.

I noticed he stepped back slightly. Was Anders afraid? I didn’t know. But it was brief—he quickly planted himself where he was, brought his hands forward, intertwining his fingers, and seemed to search for something to say—I noticed his nervousness, after all, I had taken some “psychology” lessons while in London.

“But… is the room to your liking?” he finally asked.

His voice was noticeably rougher.

The room, as he asked, was quite different: the walls, once painted sky blue, were now completely white; the wooden flooring was polished and glossy; and the balcony—I glanced around the space—was spectacular. The white floral curtains danced gracefully by the balcony entrance, showcasing the best of that little town: its incredible moonlight.

The room was comfortable, but still didn’t compare to my old one.

I turned my gaze back to him. The old man’s luck was that I didn’t have the time (or authority) to fire him. I nodded slowly with a “yes,” staring at him intently.

He was uncomfortable—I could feel it. It seemed like he didn’t want to be alone with me.

“Excuse me,” said Anders, turning toward the staircase.

He took a few steps, but before he could reach them, I interrupted him:

“One more thing, Anders,” I snapped. He turned back toward me, hesitating slightly.

“Yes, sir?”

“When you speak to me, call me Mr. Raeken. The only people allowed to call me Theo are my parents and my friends. And I’m certain you are neither.”

I hoped he would assert himself or demand respect, but that’s not what I got.

“Yes… Mr. Raeken,” Anders mumbled, humiliated.

I had no time for that scene. I walked into the room and abruptly slammed the door behind me. The sound didn’t startle me, but I think it did frighten the old man’s heart, which seemed on the verge of bursting with rage.

While I enjoyed the French-style dessert—mille-feuille, one of my favorite French pastries—I stared at the glass walls that stretched from floor to ceiling in the dining room. At the top, they arched sharply, allowing a beautiful, clear view of the entire estate.

Every room in the house was painted white, and the dining room was no exception—the tone was very bright, in fact.

The size and decoration of the space were perfectly sober and harmonious. My mother had always been a great architect—no denying that. But something was wrong, and I could feel it.

What unsettled me was the lack of glamour in the details. From what I’d seen, there were no expensive paintings hung throughout the house, nor the large golden chandeliers I was so used to in our former home. And I won’t even mention the lack of staff—so far, I had only seen Anders, the butler, two maids, and a gardener when I arrived (I think I’ve seen him somewhere before). No one else. No more, no less. Just that.

Something was off.

My mother, Marie, was talking with Mr. Raeken about my enrollment at school. According to what she had told me, it would begin tomorrow.

“I spoke with Mr. Bostwick, and he said Theo will start tomorrow,” she announced, picking up a white napkin to wipe away the remnants of dessert before gracefully laying it across her lap.

My mother was a lady: gentle and delicate. Unlike Mr. Raeken, who was cold and bitter. How she had fallen in love with him, I didn’t know. But at that moment, the only thing I knew was that he was staring at me. I don’t think he even blinked.

“Excellent,” he said, curtly. “Aren’t you going to thank her?”

She gave me a beautiful smile, trying to counter her husband’s rudeness.

“Thank you very much, Mother,” I said genuinely. “Without you, I would be nothing.” I won’t deny it—I said it to provoke him. Yet, as always, he didn’t take it personally.

He knew how important she was to me, and that nothing would break our bond. Nothing.

“Father”—saying that word was like swallowing poison—“why did we come back to Beacon Hills?” I finally asked, clearing my throat and swallowing the bitterness.

He glanced down at his dessert and, incredibly, seemed to think about what he was going to say. Something was definitely wrong. He looked back at me and gave me his driest stare.

“You want the truth?” I nodded without hesitation. “We’re on the verge of bankruptcy.”

“No, we are not, Charles,” Marie interrupted. I saw her gently place her hands on the table.

I was completely disoriented but didn’t hold back.

“What happened for us to be like this?” I shot back.

On Mr. Raeken’s face, an overwhelming sadness and worry took over. A deep wrinkle formed between his brows.

“I lost my position as the majority shareholder in the bank, and foolishly tried to sell my shares on the stock exchange”—from where I sat, I could swear he was tearing up—“but they lost value, and I lost the capital. When I realized it, there was almost nothing left. That’s the truth.”

My mother leaned forward, took his hand, and looking deeply into his eyes, said:

“Charles, together we’ll overcome this obstacle. Together, we’ll rebuild double what we had. Together, as a family.”

Those words turned my stomach.

T H I R D P A R T
A c c e p t i n g

The school hallways were completely empty, but my mind certainly wasn’t. What my mother had told me echoed in my head, even before I stepped inside the school walls: “Be yourself. Don’t be afraid of who you are. I love you, he loves you.”

I knew she was wrong to say he loves you, because he never loved me. But the other part... he idolized her. Marie was mistaken when she said “you shouldn’t be afraid to be who you are.” This is who I am, Mom.

I fought my daydreams fiercely. At eighteen, I wouldn’t start another crisis of “who am I?” Not now, not ever.

I made my way to the secretary’s office. There, the principal Bostwick immediately recognized me by my last name. We spoke briefly before he prepared my schedule himself. Once completed, he escorted me to the advanced chemistry class—and within seconds, I was introduced to the entire group.

In no time I had scanned the whole room. I noticed everyone’s reactions when they heard my surname: Raeken. Studying with me was obviously a privilege. Being my friend was a blessing—I could lose everything, but never my name and status.

A deformed chin with a sincere little smile directed at me caught my attention. The smile widened when he noticed me. Was that Scott?

“Welcome. I’m Harry, your new chemistry teacher,” the teacher introduced himself. I responded with a gesture:

“Pleasure to meet you. I’m Theo Raeken, your new student.”

Just behind me, I heard Mr. Bostwick ask me to take a seat. I nodded and walked toward the boy who had been smiling. He looked astonished.

“Hey, Theo!” he said, raising his hand in an informal greeting. Before responding, I reached out and shook his hand warmly.

It was a truly genuine joy, because the memories of my happy childhood in Beacon Hills were tied to him and Stiles—my “old best friends.”

“Of course I remember you! How are you...?”

“Silence, boys.” The chemistry teacher interrupted. His glasses made his face look more serious, unfriendly. My principal had just left the classroom.

Out of respect, I finished the greeting and took an empty seat right behind the guy who had been sleeping on his desk. The awkward way he lay sprawled made me laugh. His arms over his head looked extremely uncomfortable—at least I thought so.

I placed my backpack on the empty desk and sat down, hearing the boy in front of me snore. I smiled when the sound grew louder. The whole class laughed. I laughed even harder.

“Could someone please wake him up?!” the teacher barked, drawing a butane molecule on the board. Everyone fell silent, intimidated.

I poked the guy, but he didn’t move. So I adopted a more functional approach.

“Wake up!” I said, giving him a gentle nudge.

He jolted, sat up, and finally woke, adjusting himself into a more comfortable position. As he stretched, I caught a glimpse of the muscles in his back tense visibly. His grey T‑shirt made everything stand out.

I realized I was watching him like a predator sizing up his prey.

“If you fall asleep again in class, I swear I’ll make you spend the entire term in detention. Understand, Stilinski?”

Stilinski... Fuck, couldn’t be Stiles! Or… maybe it was him? If it was, I’d congratulate him—when I first met him, he had seemed a wild ferret. But in that moment he looked more like a future keepsake than a possible pet.

You’ve piqued my interest, Stiles.

“Okay. Okay”—Stiles yawned, stretching—“well... I’m sleepy.”

Harry ignored it and resumed writing.

Unexpectedly, the boy turned around, looking like he might confront me for waking him. He shot me a suspicious glance I recognized instantly. Discreetly, his jaw dropped when he recognized who I was.

He also seemed astonished by the coincidence.

“Theo,” he mumbled. “Is that really you?” He still remembered my name—that was interesting.

I leaned back in my chair and stared at him with my grey-green eyes. He looked at me as if he couldn’t believe I was there with them—with him.

“Yes, it’s me, Stiles,” I teased. The smile he gave me was so beautiful I could dream of that image. “I missed you.”

Stiles immediately furrowed his brow in response to my words, making a funny—yet cute—face.

“I missed you too, rich boy,” he teased back sarcastically. I laughed, remembering how he used to compare my old house to some character's.

From that moment, I knew one thing: his mind still hovered over double meanings and sarcasm. It wasn’t bad; I just needed time to reacclimate to his personality. And I had plenty of time.

Five weeks later, life in Beacon Hills had settled into a routine. Religiously, after school, Scott, Stiles, and I went to Java Hones, a café that aspired to be Monmouth—an excellent London café I used to frequent. There, at Java Hones, we chatted about teenage nonsense over coffee.

Until one day, the nonsense shifted.

On that occasion, the conversation wasn’t random—it was intimate. They already saw me as a friend, someone they trusted, someone who was there through thick and thin.

Not perfectly, but the sentiment was powerful.

“I tried, but I couldn’t sleep with her,” Stiles confessed. He was talking about the near‑intimacy with Lydia. I listened silently. “She was amazing about asking if I was okay, if I needed time. But I knew I didn’t need time. What I really needed was to accept myself. Accept who I am...” Scott placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder, gentle enough to show he was there. They looked like two brothers supporting one another. “I’m gay.”

I wasn’t surprised—apparently, nor was Scott. Immediately he stood and offered Stiles a hug, which Stiles returned, emotional.

What those two had went far beyond simple friendship. It was the true meaning of brotherhood.

“I’m so happy you accepted yourself,” Scott said, hugging him tightly. “I love you just the way you are, brother.”

Stiles pulled away abruptly from his friend, who was visibly teary, and warned him:

“Don’t cry! I’m happy, and I want you guys to be happy for me too.” His voice sounded free, joyful. Accepting oneself was, in a sense, empowering. “Right, guys?!”

“Right”—Scott and I said in unison, then we laughed at our accomplishment.

They both sat back in their seats; Scott dabbed tears from his eyes. Stiles stared at his cappuccino mug with a unique, perfect, happy smile. Yet something in his brown eyes said otherwise—he was anxious for my support and empathy.

Within a few weeks I had learned to understand him without a word spoken.

“We are with you. I’m with you. Whatever you need, just call me or Scott. If anything happens—anything—call us.” Scott nodded quietly.

“What do you mean by ‘anything’?” asked Stiles, seeming displeased by my final words.

His questioning nature sometimes annoyed me.

“For example, if someone tries to hurt you, call us. Or even if your dad kicks you out of the house...”

“Don’t believe you said that, Theo!” exclaimed Stiles. Before I could explain why I said it, he punched me—a blow I wouldn’t soon forget. “My dad would never do that.”

I swallowed hard, unsure of what to say. Remaining silent was the only plausible option, since he was completely right about his father. Unfortunately, about mine too.

Later, when I was already back home, my spirit burned with protest at what I had said to Stiles earlier. I wanted to send a sincere apology, but I didn’t know how to apologize for envying his courage and determination.

A feeling I had never known before was growing in my chest, weaving itself deeply: guilt. I was disoriented, dizzy.

With my phone in hand, I couldn’t hold back and wrote him:

“I'm sorry. I truly feel bad if I hurt you. That was never my intention. I reacted that way because…” —at that moment, a tear slid down my cheek, followed by many others—“…I’m gay too. My father would never accept me the way yours does. Never. So I projected that fear onto you. Please forgive me.”

I didn’t hesitate and sent it.

Part of the pain I was carrying simply disappeared. The tears came in a torrent, flooding me with an incredible sense of relief and comfort. It felt like I had been chained to an anchor my whole life—and upon discovering I could break it, I broke it to find peace and happiness.

I had only sent one message, and I felt freer than I ever had. How could he affect me like this? Was I in love with him? Or was I just in love with the person he made me be? I couldn’t answer those questions alone. And I knew to find the answers, I needed him—for me.

F O U R T H P A R T
S u n

The next day, before the first period started, we agreed to meet behind the lacrosse field bleachers to talk. No one would interrupt our conversation, since the spot we chose was only surrounded by the poorly kept lacrosse field and the partially rusted bleachers standing as silent observers.

My body was leaning against one of the iron supports of the metal structure, beneath the bleachers. The sunlight that slipped through the cracks in the rusted seats painted my entire face white, filling me with a comforting warmth.

I was already there when I saw him arrive. Stiles walked toward me with a bright smile on his lips and his adorably clumsy walk.

“Hey! Good morning!” he greeted cheerfully. Was he feeling the same cozy warmth from the sun?

He walked up to me and stopped in front of me, still smiling.

“I’m sorry,” I started. “I didn’t mean to say that to you. I shouldn’t have brought up…”

“Theo,” he interrupted me. “It’s okay.” He softened his tone as he gave me the pleasure of feeling his skin on mine; his warm hand rested on the bare part of my arm. “I’m the one who should apologize. I shouldn’t have implied that to you—it was wrong. And I definitely shouldn’t have let you leave without saying sorry.”

I wasn’t expecting any of that. Not a single bit. He maintained physical and eye contact, apologized unnecessarily, and most of all, he looked genuinely happy to be here with me. He definitely didn’t come just to talk.

“So, you already knew about me?” I finally asked.

His expression shifted from happy boy to mischievous villain in a fraction of a second.

“Yes,” he said, ending the physical contact. “When we’re together, you spend THE WHOLE TIME—” he emphasized, “staring at me,” Stiles fired. I laughed to hide the immense embarrassment I was feeling. “It’s hard not to notice.”

His game was clear to me, so why not play it too?

Before my courage faded, I grabbed his arm and pulled him by the waist, bringing him closer to me. He didn’t hesitate. It was clear that what we felt was mutual. Stiles, being a few centimeters taller than me, placed his arms around my shoulders and brought his face closer to mine.

His tempting lips were so close to mine, the desire to kiss him was overwhelming, and my breathing grew heavy as I leaned in. What had he done to me? I had never felt this way about anyone. Absolutely no one.

Just to tease me, he turned his face away at the last second, dodging my kiss on purpose, only fueling my desire even more. I couldn’t take it and pulled him closer, pressing our bodies together. My heart was pounding in my chest.

I trapped him in a tight embrace, wrapping my arms around his back, making sure he couldn’t slip away from me again. Then I planted a fervent kiss on his mouth that he melted into as he returned it. I played while kissing him, letting my tongue find his, teasing him. Holding him tightly, pressing him against me. Fully dominating him.

Stiles was under my control.

When the kiss ended, he was breathless. We both were—gasping, dazed, senseless.

“Good morning,” I joked, still holding him in my arms, feeling his heavy breathing in sync with mine.

He smiled widely, and then, we went back to kissing again.

F I F T H  P A R T

No Teeth

Stiles and I spent three very intense weeks. We saw each other every day at school, we went to the movies together to watch horror films—his favorites—but I almost never finished watching a movie, since his mouth was far more interesting than anything else. Sometimes we went to Java House without Scott, because, besides him being busy trying to get the attention of a certain Allison, I still hadn't come out as gay, not to him or anyone else.

Stiles knew how difficult it was for me to accept myself and, most importantly, he didn't judge the "time," as he once put it, that I needed to do so. He had come out to Mr. Stilinski three days ago, and, as expected, nothing in their relationship changed. Nothing.

He was very lucky to have a father like that. Speaking of him, he must have been the one ringing the doorbell, since, for the first time, we'd arranged to meet here at home, specifically in my room.

Before going down to answer it, I took a look at what I was wearing: a salmon-pink t-shirt with the sleeves rolled up to my forearms, highlighting my biceps and abs; light blue jeans that were tight on my thighs, but I still looked quite attractive. White shoes and my beautiful hairstyle completed the outfit. And the perfume I'd worn, which gave a sweet, soothing taste to my skin.

I quickened my pace when I saw Anders at the door talking to Stiles; He admired the grandeur of the living room door, which reached from the white marble floor to the ceiling (everything my mother did was grandiose). Before he could even notice me, Anders was more cunning and announced:

"Mr. Raeken, there's a visitor waiting for you. Mr. Stilinski, isn't it?" Stiles nodded, an uncomfortable smile forming on his face.

I saw what Anders's mummy was trying to do. But it wouldn't work, because besides being a great liar, I was also his boss. The battle was already won.

I descended the last few steps and approached the door.

"Mr. Anders, I already told you that you can just call me Theo." The expression on his face when he heard me was priceless. "Or don't you remember?"

He froze when I got closer, revealing his fear of me. How I loved seeing that.

"Come on in, Stiles." I asked, and he quickly entered the house. We walked to the stairs, and before we climbed them, I turned to Anders and "asked":

"Please close the door for me."

His blue eyes were fixed on the floor, he looked completely stunned. But then he closed it, as ordered.

"Mieczylaw Stilinski, I had to say my name three times for him to remember me," he said, staring around my room, "and the time I used to go to your old house. Then he remembered me playing with Tara..."

I froze. I held my breath. Images of a frigid corpse filled my thoughts, my memory. It had been eight years since anyone had said her name in my presence. But it was obvious Anders would remember her—he loved her too.

"Oh..." I stammered, exhaling. "Okay."

"I'm sorry if I reminded you of her..." Stiles murmured. The pity in his eyes made me sick. I'd always repulsed those looks.

Pity was the epitome of human weakness.

"Hey. Don't apologize," I said, walking slowly toward him. "But now let's talk about you!"

Stiles frowned, his forehead creased.

"Talk about me?"

"Yes," I confirmed. He took a few steps forward, moving closer to me. "You come to my house," I whispered hoarsely, "and you don't even say hello." He stopped in front of me, stifling a laugh. "What kind of dating is this?!" I scoffed.

Stiles loved hearing my husky voice. I could tell every time I whispered in his ear, because his entire body shivered.

I would use all my charm, and my body, to get him in my bed tonight.

I followed his hands with my gaze; they slid down to my hips and rested on the belt of my pants. I turned my gaze to him and, noticing the nervousness in his eyes, planted a kiss on his lips.

Hot. Intense. Deep. Dominant.

The next thing I knew, we were already on the bed, removing our clothes and exchanging impatient kisses. Heat. He was on top of me, in my lap, removing my shirt from my body, undressing me. He came back to me and brought my lips to his in an intense kiss.

When the kiss ended, I ripped off the white shirt he was wearing and could clearly see his perfect body. His paleness was an invitation to spanks, scratches, bites, kisses... I wanted so badly to use him.

I grabbed his face with both hands and kissed him, biting fiercely on his lower lip. He moaned loudly, but I didn't care. I knew he was enjoying it. Dominant. I stopped kissing him and started nibbling my way to his ear, and whispering, I asked:

"Do a blowjob for me?" I slowly bit his earlobe. He arched his back at the bite.

"I don't know," he snapped. I looked back at Stiles and noticed he was nervous.

I put on the sweetest face in the world and asked something even sweeter:

"Don't you know how to do it, or don't you want to do it?" He narrowed his eyes and gracefully rested his forehead against mine.

"I don't know if I want to do it," he replied. I held back, with all my might, the urge to huff in anger.

He wouldn't ruin our moment! Our first time should go as I planned, as I wanted.

"Do it, you'll like it," I encouraged, slowly pushing my forehead against his, making him shift on my lap. I was eager to feel his mouth... on me.

"But I..."

"Please, Stiles," I said with a pout, trying, even childishly, to convince him to do what I wanted.

He would do what I asked him to do, or else..."

"Okay, I'll do it." I smiled broadly when I heard him agree. I grabbed him by the neck and quickly planted a peck on his lips. I leaned back and lay down on my bed. His hands found the belt of his pants and then removed it. I saw them tremble nervously. Apparently, he was just worried about whether or not he would satisfy me. Understandable.

I lifted my waist so he could remove my pants (why didn't he just unbutton them?), and then I could feel his touch, now cold, on my skin, calmly lowering my underwear.

I felt him approach my cock and carefully take it into his mouth. I moaned softly, because his mouth felt velvety, driving me to complete delirium, to madness.

Unfortunately, my pleasure didn't last long.

"No teeth, please."

SIXTH PART

Internal Torture

"She hasn't spoken to you in two days?" Trixie asked, brushing a strand of brown hair from her face.

"Yes, she has." Stiles hadn't even spoken to me in two days. In the school hallways, he avoided me. He didn't reply to my texts, didn't answer my calls, and much less looked me in the eye. And the worst part was, I didn't know why.

"Sorry to say," she began, but I barely understood her, as the music from the party, which was taking place at Danny's house, was driving me to the brink of deafness, "but what a stupid girl! You just wanted to please her"—she rolled her eyes unconsciously—"and in the end, she doesn't like the surprise. That's stupid."

I drank the rest of the vodka in my glass. It went down bitterly. I grimaced, and Trixie—I think that was her name—laughed, showing her incredible white teeth. Her Hawaiian features were unique and wild.

I could date her and forget about this whole coming out thing. Oops! I was already really drunk. Really drunk!

"If you say so..." I gestured, taking a step forward and then another back. My head was spinning, spinning, spinning...

I just wanted somewhere to sit and rest. Would she go upstairs to a room with me? Of course she would!

"You need a real woman," she said, and for a moment, I thought she meant it literally, "not some freshman girl."

"Where would this 'real woman' be?" I guessed, a mischievous smile on my face.

"Maybe in front of you?" she said. Whatever her name was, she had a lot of sass, and that, among many other things, Stiles lacked.

Trixie stared at me as she took a sip of her drink. She didn't grimace as she downed it. Weird girl.

"Come here," I ordered, "and show me this real woman." She did as she was told with a smile on her face, dropping her drink on the shelf next to us. Trixie walked over to me, biting her lip mischievously.

Not a minute had passed since she'd first come to me, and I already felt completely nauseous. The kiss wasn't funny at all, and yet, it seemed like she was loving it, as she wouldn't let go of my neck.

No heat. No intensity. No depth. No dominance.

Suddenly, I heard Jackson, who was playing ping-pong with his friends in the living room where we were, yell like a dog:

"STILES! DON'T CALL YOUR FATHER!" Hearing him say that name, my whole body froze. However, unconsciously, my vision sought him out, and I didn't have to look that far to find him, because he was a sofa away.

Seeing him standing there was as if a cancerous disease had infected my entire body, making it impossible for me to live. It was internal torture. How would I explain that this girl was absolutely nothing to me?

Seeing his beautiful brown eyes water was another nightmare I'd take to my grave.

"S-Stiles," I stammered, pushing the girl away from me. "I can explain."

Before I could get closer, he slipped through the partygoers and headed for the door. I didn't even think twice, didn't even think about Trixie, just followed him.

I darted out of the house and ran after him. The girls chatting on the porch were startled when they heard the sound I made when I stepped on a recently broken step. It hasn't been like this when I arrived.

I wasted time looking back and ended up losing sight of Stiles. I ran to the middle of the street and saw him opening the door to his Jeep. I walked quickly until I reached the vehicle. I jumped at the sound the car door made as it slammed shut, forcing my hands and body to stop Stiles from driving away. I almost climbed onto the hood.

"You got my message, didn't you?"

I saw him shaking his head from side to side, huffing and puffing like a car radiator.

"Yes," he replied. "NOW, GET OFF THE HOOD OF MY FUCKING CAR!"

I shook my head, just like him. I looked like a spoiled child being punished, but then again, I was never a child.

His face stiffened completely.

"I'm going to start the car and run over you if you stay there," he announced, emphasizing each word.

"You don't have the guts," I blurted out, pausing, "baby."

"You don't know me!" As he finished, he revved the ignition and started the car, nearly running me over with it. I got up slowly from the ground, having thrown myself at him in shock. I wiped my hands on my jeans—even more dizzy—and turned my gaze back to the street, watching him drive away without even hearing me apologize.

I wiped away the steamy tears that insisted on dissipating from my eyes.

"Why do I care so much about what he thinks?"

A shrill voice jolted me out of my trance: Trixie.

"What happened, Theo?" she asked angrily. If I knew her better, I'd say she was furious.

"Nothing, Trixie," I replied, completely uninterested in her.

"My name isn't Trixie. It's Tracy." I looked at her and laughed, shrugging, not caring about her. I turned my attention to what really mattered: Stiles. "Asshole!"

At that moment, I made a plan for myself: I would get back with Stiles, no matter what. Nothing and no one would stop me from having him again.

All my plans have worked so far, haven't they?

Chapter Text

Stiles froze, petrified, upon hearing Peter say that. He already knew the man in front of him was Derek's uncle, and that he, too, had Hale blood running through his veins. However, when Peter spoke, Stiles sensed a certain harshness in his tone. If he knew him better, he would have thought Peter was trying to instigate his own nephew. Stiles didn't know why, but to him, that's what it looked like.

Tight arms and biceps, slightly erect trapezius and spine, and, no less important, claws that looked like razor-sharp blades, ready to kill. The light from the car's headlights highlighted Derek's taut muscles; his white t-shirt clearly showed them, making Stiles's eyes lock. Not exactly because of the muscles, although he did have a thing for muscular men. Meanwhile, Stiles watched the way Derek stood in front of him, protecting him, shielding him from the danger that was staring them in the face with a wicked smile.

Unexpectedly, Derek, with an extremely deep and powerful voice, looked over his shoulder, focusing on Stiles, and between growls, barked,

"Stiles, get in the car." His eyes, previously light green, took on their true color: a sparkling blue. Stiles stared at him in amazement, still lying on the ground. "NOW!" Derek roared, making Stiles jump to his feet, kicking up dust from the dirt road with his movement.

Stiles didn't waste time. He stealthily ran to the passenger door, his heart pounding, tripping over himself, nearly falling back to the ground. Although he managed to reach the door without tripping or accidentally falling to the ground, he said,

"Fucking door," Stiles muttered. "Open it already…"

He managed to open it. He flung it open, stepped inside, and then slammed the door shut. In his peripheral vision, Stiles thought he saw Derek's ears perk up as he slammed the door. Was he startled?! , Stiles thought. Was his hearing focused on me? Why? He didn't dwell on these thoughts for long, as a peculiar idea flashed through his mind as he stared at the key in the ignition. I can start the car and run over Peter. I can do it. I've done it before. But Stiles knew right away that if he ran over Peter, he'd have to run over Derek too, again, only this time on purpose. Better not, really not.

Derek growled like a beast, waiting for the right moment to strike. He didn't know how Peter had come out of his vegetative state, since during Derek's last visit to his uncle, right after seeing Scott break up with Argent, he hadn't seen any improvement in the man's situation. And he hadn't even understood how Peter had become Alpha. This doesn't make sense. He was always a Beta in our old pack. My mother was his Alpha... What did he do to become an Alpha? What did he do to turn into that monster? Derek thought. It doesn't matter now. I won't let him hurt anyone else. He tried to hurt him, he tried to hurt Stiles... Peter, you bastard!

Derek growled ferociously, baring his sharp canine fangs at Peter, threatening him, preparing to attack.

With a completely impassive expression, Peter asked,

"Aren't you going to say good night to me, nephew?" He gave a crooked smile, dismissive of Derek. "Your parents taught you to greet your elders, have you forgotten that?" His smile widened. "Or have you forgotten about them both?"

That was the last straw. Derek lunged forward, running toward him, bringing his arms back, stretching his claws to give him more speed and power. He was ready to disembowel him—ready to kill him. Before Derek felt his claws pierce Peter's bare skin, he was immediately stopped with a movement so quick he didn't even see it being gestured; Peter, who hadn't even moved, wrapped his right hand around his nephew's neck, lifting him off the ground, lifting him like a rag doll. Predictable .

Derek couldn't help but look at him in surprise when he was caught. Evidently, Peter was stronger than him now.

Meanwhile, inside the car, Stiles was agitated, nervous, unsure of what to do, unsure of how to save Derek. As scared as he was, and as dizzy as he was starting to feel, he would never stop helping him, never. But when he finally decided to get out of the car, he froze in terror. Peter, anticipating his move, tightened his grip on Derek's throat, making him grunt in pain. Using his free hand, he slowly signed "No." He smirked when he saw the boy flinch.

Stiles could do nothing but watch.

"D-don't touch him..." Derek signed, his voice broken, barely audible. He already regretted it before he even spoke. "... Please."

Although Peter enjoyed hearing his nephew's plea, he wanted just one more thing.

"I'll only hurt you if you don't behave," Peter warned, a hint of pleasure in his tone. His air of superiority irritated Derek. "Do you understand?"

Derek nodded, and without warning, Peter released him, letting him fall to the ground. He stood up slowly, taking a deep breath, bringing back the air he'd lost in those moments. Derek stood up, stiffened, and, still with his hand on his aching neck, stammered, "How is it possible—"

"I'll explain," Peter interrupted, "everything later, in our old house. At least, what's left of it." And before he could speak, Peter warned him: "The Argents will be here soon, Derek, and I don't want to commit a massacre on such a beautiful night as this." He looked up and, after a few seconds, turned to his nephew. "Did you notice the crescent moon today? It's so beautiful, isn't it?"

Derek was as perplexed as he was astonished by what his uncle was telling him. In fact, noticing the incredulous and terrified expression on his face, Peter quickly announced:

"Well, I'll meet you there, Derek. If you want, take your protégé. It's Stiles, isn't it?" Peter asked, turning his back and walking toward the woods. "Maybe he wants to be part of my new pack, right?"

And as if he hadn't threatened Stiles's life, or even his own nephew's, Peter entered the woods, disappearing into them.

Becoming one with them, and with their shadows.

Derek was bewildered. His entire body trembled and spasmed involuntarily, and his mind was completely lost in a wave of sadness, memories, and anger. The only memory of his family he once had, the last memory of his mother still alive, and the hope of one day being able to make her proud, were now intertwined with a vicious killer who sought only power and revenge. Even Derek had forgotten about that.

A cold sweat ran down his temples, sliding over his freshly trimmed beard to his trembling neck, and he collapsed there. Derek couldn't even remember how he'd gotten back to the car. He was nervous.

Worry prevented him from following Peter. Following him would be a waste of time, because like it or not, he was absolutely right, and Derek knew it. The hunters could already be lurking on the outskirts of the forest. Feeling vulnerable wasn't one of Derek's favorite emotions, but when it came to anger...

"Are you okay?" Stiles asked after a moment, turning toward him.

He was close enough that Derek could feel the heat under the boy's skin. He wondered if Stiles hated everything that had happened, or if it was simply another feeling...

"Yes," Derek replied, almost whispering. He looked up and fixed his gaze on Stiles. "Did he hurt you?"

Even though Derek couldn't smell blood, and hadn't seen any injuries on the boy, he felt compelled to ask, since what mattered to him was Stiles' safety.

"No," Stiles replied, "but I'm kind of scared."

"Why?"

"I just saw your uncle almost kill you, and we just found out who the Alpha is!" Stiles said frantically. "That's why I'm kind of scared! No, I'm completely scared!"

"I shouldn't have brought you here," Derek said, turning on the car's ignition.

Suddenly, showing the opposite of what he said he felt, Stiles announced,

"There was no point, I was going to come anyway."

"He could have attacked you!" Derek exclaimed, without thinking twice, showing the concern that had washed over him when he saw Stiles lying on the ground, his heart racing and fearing for his life.

The boy's recklessness clearly angered him. Derek didn't hide his anger, so, as usual, he made his thoughts clear: his face was furrowed. A sign of stress and anger that Stiles was beginning to recognize. But he didn't care, not at that moment.

"No, he wasn't going to attack me," Stiles blurted. "He only did that so I'd lure you here. I think he knew I knew you just by smelling me, and somehow, he smelled yours too," he added. "That's weird and cool at the same time." Stiles paused and looked forward, out the windshield. "So... he ended up taking advantage of the situation."

Derek was impressed by the boy's intelligence and cunning, but nothing would change his mind about what could have happened.

"I asked you not to get out of the car, and you did," Derek said, steering the vehicle to the left, planning to get out of there as soon as possible. "He could have killed you."

Silence fell on them like rain dousing a fire, preventing it from spreading, extinguishing it. In this case, Stiles was as warm and alive as fire, and Derek was as cold and fleeting as rain. However, neither of them knew it yet.

Derek was listening to Stiles's heartbeat when he broke the silence, saying,

"I'm not afraid of dying."

That's the first lie you've ever told me, Stiles. We're all afraid of dying.

It had been a few minutes since they left the forest. The crescent moon punctuated the black sky, and Route 66 seemed endless, dark, ominous. And the silence persisted throughout the drive to town. This connection made the tense atmosphere linger between them.

Derek didn't even look at Stiles during that time. He was still angry about what the other had done. For him, it was reckless and immature to get out of the car and risk his life to a killer (however, he still didn't know why Stiles got out of the vehicle, and it didn't even cross his mind). He was worried about what Peter had said about "taking his protégé" and, inevitably, unsure about the boy's safety.

I have to protect him, that's the deal I made with Scott. Derek tried to convince himself that he was only protecting him, not falling in love with Stiles, and that the worry in his chest was merely momentary. In his mind, he was there only to protect him and nothing more. But it seems it's not just that; there's something more, something that makes me not want to abandon him. He looks so much like her...

Suddenly, a message tone rang throughout the car, breaking the silence that had formed between them and bringing Derek out of his thoughts. It was Stiles's phone. Clumsily, he pulled it out of his left pocket, and as he read the message, his heart suddenly raced. It was a shock to him.

Clearly hearing Stiles's rapid heartbeat, Derek asked worriedly,

"What happened?" His voice was hoarse and muffled. And for a moment, he tore his gaze away from the track, focusing solely on Stiles. The boy's expression made his heart pound with pain, throbbing fiercely, distributing not only blood but also a whirlwind of emotions both familiar and unfamiliar.

He had only felt this once before.

"Lydia... She was one of the people Peter attacked," Stiles replied, his voice husky. "I need to see if she's okay. I-I..."

"I get it," Derek said softly, returning his gaze to the track. "Let's go to the hospital," he warned. He quickly shifted the car into gear and sped off, heading toward the hospital.

I have to tell him. Otherwise, he might kick that little shit's ass. Not that he doesn't deserve it, but I better warn him, Stiles thought.

"Theo warned me," Stiles said, letting out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. He looked at Derek and added, "And he's at the hospital right now."

Derek raised his eyebrows and swallowed hard.

"Thanks for warning me, Stiles," he huffed, and for a split second, he closed his eyes, then opened them.

Seeing this reaction, Stiles called out to him:

"Hey, Derek." The man glanced between the road and the boy. "If he says anything stupid to you, I'll punch him in the face myself, okay?"

Derek's grumpy expression disappearing, he gave a bright smile and said,

"Okay."

They ran into the hospital lobby and headed for the elevator. Stiles was clearly terrified by the whole situation, but to avoid a panic attack, he held on to the words Derek had said on the ride to the hospital, as if they were a mantra he had to memorize at all costs.

She will survive.

She will survive.

She will survive.

She will survive.

Repeating that actually calmed him. His breathing had become steady again, and he no longer felt like vomiting. It might have seemed silly to repeat that phrase, but in truth, those words prevented him from having a panic attack. Pressing the number three button on the hospital floor panel, Derek made the elevator doors open, and they stepped inside. They then closed again, blocking the view of the nurses who were moving up and down the hallway, looking for new patients to see. Even with all this going on, Melissa came to Stiles' mind, and for a moment, he wondered if she was understanding everything as naturally as he was. In conclusion, he didn't think so.

"Do you really think she'll survive?" Stiles asked involuntarily, shaking off his reverie. He stared at his distorted reflection reflected in the elevator's mirrored metal door.

"I don't know, Stiles," Derek replied, sincerity in his voice. "It's not common for someone to be hospitalized right after being bitten."

Stiles wasn't a boy to stay quiet, but at that moment, he simply lowered his head and remained silent. Derek immediately regretted saying that. Whatever reason Stiles was worried about Lydia, Hale was just as worried, because for Derek, seeing him like that was suffocating and distressing. It was something that hurt. He wasn't so bothered by the fact that Stiles and Lydia had already hooked up. After all, they're just friends now, aren't they?

"I don't know what happened in the woods," Derek began, turning to Stiles, "but I'm sure he didn't attack her to kill her. Peter wants to form a pack, and Lydia, being a teenager, has a good chance of surviving and becoming a werewolf."

His face paler and sadder than usual, Stiles lifted his brown eyes and followed them to Derek.

"I know, you explained it to me in the car, but what if she..."

"Don't think about it," Derek scolded, his voice firm and powerful. "Let's focus on her recovery. That's all that matters right now."

Before either of them could say anything, the doors opened and they were led out of the elevator. Stiles quickly marched forward, heading to a room on his right. But inside, there was only an elderly man lying on a bed and his wife, Stiles thought, who was tenderly stroking his hand. They weren't who Stiles was looking for.

"Sorry. Wrong room."

Hurriedly, Stiles continued down the hallway, Derek following suit.

In seconds, the wolf was able to identify the scent of each person on that floor, including Theo's nauseating scent; he wore a rather cloying perfume, so sweet it made Derek want to sneeze. The chemical reactions Derek felt emanating from the other, now unlike their last encounter, invaded his brain and spread throughout his nervous system. That agitation within him made words spring to mind: anxiety, nervousness, and distrust. "This was a warning to him." And to top it all off, he caught sight of something with a metallic, intoxicating scent, and apparently in a state of healing. This quickly made Derek memorize that distinctive bloody odor.

Rotten blood, Derek thought.

Further ahead, as they turned left into the aisle, they came across Theo sitting in a row with five others. He quickly noticed them approaching, and immediately stood up in astonishment, running one hand through his dark blond hair while the other rested flat on his waist.

"You're finally here," Theo snapped. And in a split second, he stared at the boys' dirt-stained clothes, and (with all the arrogance imaginable) asked, "Where have you been all this time?"

His authoritative tone didn't go unnoticed, but Stiles didn't even bother to respond, as Natalie, a tall, thin woman with coppery red hair, appeared in the room where Lydia was undoubtedly being treated.

"Mrs. Martin?" Stiles asked in a choked voice, approaching the bedroom door.

The woman was standing beside the bed where her daughter lay unconscious.

"Stiles?" she asked in a muffled voice, bringing her eyes to meet his. "Come in."

"Excuse me." He entered the room and shoved his hands into his jeans pockets, as he did in every situation that made him anxious.

He looked at Lydia and saw a pale, lifeless face, with small bandages covering the wounds inflicted by an animal. "To Stiles, Peter was worse than that; he was a monster." Her red hair was draped over her shoulders, and the medical equipment kept going "Beep. Beep. Beep." slowly.

Seeing her like that reminded him of his mother, and yes, it still hurt not to have her there.

"Is she going to be okay?" Stiles asked. His voice was more shaky than he'd thought.

Natalie smiled sadly at him, but the peace she felt was clear in her relieved expression.

"Yes, she just needs to rest a little." Lovingly, Natalie squeezed her daughter's right hand and looked back at him. "Stiles, can you do me a favor?"

"Yes, I will. But what's the favor?"

"Go home, sleep, take a shower... You literally need one right now." She gave a small smile, and Stiles shoved his hands deeper into his pockets.

He didn't take her words as arrogance, because he knew he really needed a shower, but he wanted to help Lydia, no matter what.

"But what if..."

"You agreed before you asked," Natalie pointed out.

"Okay," he snorted. "Hey, Natalie." She raised her left eyebrow when she heard him call her by her first name. "I mean... Mrs. Martin. Do you know who she was with when she was attacked?"

Asking her that might have seemed rude, but Stiles couldn't imagine asking Theo the same question. He'd know the answer easily, and that was what irritated him about him. Theo always figured things out.

Contrary to what Stiles expected, Natalie simply replied:

"She was with Erica, her cousin, I think you know her. And two other boys, you must know them from school, because I don't remember any of them."

Stiles's eyes widened, frowning.

"What happened, Stiles?"

Derek's uncle is the Alpha, and he keeps turning people into werewolves! Oh, and of course, werewolves exist! Scott and Melissa are in Mexico, miles away from me, and I haven't even been to their house to water the damn plants yet! A woman was murdered, and I still don't understand why. Oh, and then there's Theo, who keeps looking for me like a stray puppy. Actually, he's crazy... or deaf, I don't know.

There's still Derek... MY GOD, THERE'S STILL DEREK! What's really going on between him and me? What does he want from me? Wait a minute, I know what he wants from me... But is that all it is? Just a hookup, nothing more? Is he affectionate in bed? Or is he wild? Jesus, why am I even thinking about this?! I think he's wild because he's a werewolf... Calm down, I haven't even known him for 48 hours!

"Stiles," Natalie asked, "are you okay?"

Coming back to the real world, and shaking his head in denial, Stiles gestured:

"Yes, yes, I'm fine."

No, no, I'm not fine.

Before Derek could turn the corner and find the room where Erica, Boyd, and Isaac were—yes, he'd heard the conversation between Stiles and Natalie, and he could even clearly hear the boy's rapid heartbeat—he was immediately stopped by Theo, who aggressively grabbed his shoulder, forcing Derek to look at him. With his mask on, the Raeken approached him, asking,

"Where have you two been?" The younger man's voice gave Derek a reckless urge to punch him in the face, and he almost did.

After looking at his own shoulder and concentrating on not punching the other in the face, Derek fixed his gaze on Theo and growled softly, only for himself to hear. To the man's surprise, the boy exuded anger, envy, and fear—oddly enough—but he didn't express any of these emotions. And for Derek, someone who could hide his feelings so well, he was capable of anything.

He is dangerous.

"I'm not afraid of you," Theo said, taking a few steps forward, separating them only inches.

Even though he knew it was a lie, Derek asserted himself, stiffening his body, straightening his posture and shoulders. However, Theo didn't seem to want to back down. This is a challenge for him, Derek thought.

"But you should be afraid of me," the man warned in a firm, powerful voice.

Theo cleared his throat and retreated, taking a few steps back. From what Derek could hear, the boy's heart was racing, but he wasn't moving. Only his light blue eyes were moving frantically, revealing he felt threatened.

Derek stopped staring at him and turned right down the hallway where they were, walking toward the end of it, where the new Betas of Peter's Pack were.

He didn't care what had happened between him and Theo.

After all, why fear him if he was just human?

"Who are you?" Boyd asked as the bedroom door closed behind Derek. Erica and Isaac followed the vision to the man who had just entered the room.

"I can help you," Derek replied firmly and directly, his voice conveying confidence. But his conscience told him that helping Peter wasn't the right thing to do. In the end, he ignored her.

"Are you a police officer?" Boyd asked. "Because if you are, you'll be wasting your time. Others have been here before you."

Derek watched him move a hand to his right shoulder, which was bandaged under his shirt.

"I know what happened to you in the woods, and I can help," Derek said, looking between Boyd, who was standing, and the other two, who were sitting on the bed.

"No, you don't know," Erica said, struggling to get up. Isaac quickly offered her help, and they both stood.

"Yes, I know," Derek replied. "You weren't attacked by a bear, or a cougar, or whatever they told you. That thing you saw isn't just any animal..."

"He really knows!" Isaac exclaimed, agitated.

"Were you attacked too?" Erica asked frantically, brushing away a strand of hair that had fallen over her face.

"What was that thing that attacked us?" Boyd finally asked. He was the only one who remained calm, but even though he exuded fear, his only escape was to silently grind his jaws. (Only Derek could hear that agonizing noise.)

"A werewolf," Derek snapped. He stiffened his shoulders and crossed his arms over his chest, glancing at the shocked faces before him.

Breaking the momentary silence, Boyd was once again the first to speak, and the others simply watched him ask, eager for the answer.

"A werewolf? And how do you want us to believe..."

The true color of Derek's eyes was revealed, and consequently, in fear, the younger ones moved away from him, retreating to the opposite wall of the room where they were. The fear and the sound of their hearts pounding were disconcerting to Derek, but he maintained his straight posture and a straight face, and soon brought his eyes back to their green color.

"He came here to kill us!" Isaac said, glancing between Erica and Boyd.

"No, he came here to finish what he started!" Boyd insinuated, preparing to advance on Derek. "Isn't that right?!"

"Oh my God!" Erica cried, her voice a little choked.

"ENOUGH!" Derek snapped, uncrossing his arms. "You're right to be afraid of me, and I understand, but I didn't come here to kill anyone, and I wasn't the one who attacked you. I just came here to help."

Actually, I want you to help me have the family, the Pack, that I once had. To be more honest, I want you to be part of my new family. I want you to be my family.

Taking a few steps forward, Derek cleared his throat, raised his head, and said confidently,

"I want to, and I will help you. But I have to know if you want to be helped. So, what's the answer?"

The three of them looked at each other, confused, and nodded. The answer was all too obvious. And, in disharmonious unison, they replied,

"Yes."

Before Derek could open the stairwell door, Stiles immediately ran to catch up. He caught up, exhausted from having run 40 feet. If he hadn't been so preoccupied with breathing, he would have been embarrassed for appearing to be a sedentary person. Bending over and placing his hands on his knees, Stiles asked,

"You... were... going to... leave... me... here?" He gasped for breath, his voice cracking.

"Yes," Derek said.

Stiles lifted his head and followed his gaze to the man in front of him. Stiles saw a serious expression on Derek's face. He thought it was the stress of the night that seemed to never end.

"Why?" Stiles asked, standing up, now recovered and breathing heavily, and leaning his right hand against the wall.

"Stiles, are you a werewolf too?" He jumped when he heard the voice interrupt them. But it wasn't an unfamiliar voice, it was a familiar one. He recognized it immediately; it was Isaac's voice.

Stiles craned forward to see the stairs, and there he saw Isaac near the door, and a few steps below, apparently waiting for Derek, were Boyd and Erica.

"No, I'm not..." Stiles replied, confused, not understanding what was happening.

Trying to avoid Stiles's impending questions, Derek replied bluntly,

"I'm meeting Peter, and I don't want you to go. That's my reason."

Stiles's jaw dropped when Derek said such things.

"And why are they going with you?" Stiles asked, his expression changing. "You forgot they were attacked..."

"Stop asking questions for a second!" Derek snapped, looking him in the eye. "I'll be with them, and I won't let Peter hurt them," he added. Derek cleared his throat and softly continued, "And you, Stiles, go home and stay there."

Derek broke eye contact and took a few steps to walk through the door, but he was quickly stopped, as Stiles grabbed his right forearm and pulled him back into the hallway.

"I'm not going home! I'm going with you!" Stiles exclaimed. Saying a little more than he intended, he added, "I want to know who my brother is now, and I want to know more about you werewolves, and you're not going to stop me! I want to…"

Suddenly, Derek grabbed his arm, pulling him with him to the stairs, closing the door behind them. Stiles didn't understand what was happening there, he only felt a warm, uncomfortable pressure on his skin; Derek's hand was as large and heavy as a wolf's. Stiles flinched at the fervor of his touch.

Pulling his arm toward him, Stiles repelled, suddenly angry:

"What the hell was that!?"

Derek huffed wildly and stared up and down the staircase, listening for anyone approaching. This, somehow, made Stiles nervous, alert, and scared.

What's going on? Stiles thought.

"The Argents are here," Derek blurted, answering the unspoken question. His hot breath sent a shiver down Stiles's spine, and only then did he realize they were close enough to kiss.

Slowly, Stiles let a sigh escape his lips.

“Looks like you’re coming with us,” Isaac said, looking at them with a shy smile on his face.

"Run!" Derek snapped, glancing at Isaac, who was closest to him, and then at the other two in front of him, who stared at him, motionless. "I said, run!"

Erica and Boyd began descending the stairs quickly, hand in hand, and as soon as he saw them disappear between flights, Isaac followed at the same pace.

Over his shoulder, Derek focused on Stiles, still angry at the boy's stubbornness and persistence in wanting to follow them to the forest, or in a clearer sense, to Peter. But all that anger faded when his eyes met his, and with it, his shoulders sagged too. The brown hue of the irises was surprisingly beautiful, flawless. Derek considered Stiles's slightly tangled dark brown hair a trademark, as did his thick, asymmetrical eyebrows. His pale skin was highlighted by a scattering of moles, some of which were scattered across his white, flawless, youthful face—Derek wished he could count them all one day. And then there were his lips, naturally red and suggestive, and when they were noticed, Stiles immediately wet them, thinking they were dry, but they weren't. They were simply too attractive not to be admired. Stiles didn't know how beautiful he was.

"Let's go," Derek said finally, taking a deep breath. "We need to get out of here now," he added. He held his breath and, in that instant, knew the sexual tension was mutual between them; Stiles exuded a latent desire, a magnetic force that drew themselves. That scent intoxicated the werewolf for a moment, and Derek imagined himself with him, holding him in his arms, kissing him and taking him hard, fucking him until his body tired and exhausted above his, filling him...

Passing Derek, and without looking at him, Stiles walked toward the stairs and said,

"Yeah, let's go." He descended the stairs nimbly, not looking directly at them. He reached the next flight of stairs, looked up at Derek, and asked, "Are you going to stand there and stare at me or are you going to come down?"

Derek blinked.

And Stiles grinned mischievously.

Instinctively, the werewolf shifted his gaze to the stairwell door, as if it had just become an imminent threat. His heart raced as he realized what was about to happen. Hunters were fanning out across the hospital looking for him—in fact, they were looking for all of them. And in that second that felt like an eternity, one of them was walking down the hallway, searching for them from door to door. The adrenaline in his brain only increased when Derek caught a scent he knew and feared too much to ignore: wolfsbane.

Derek Hale, the werewolf, didn't think twice and fled with Stiles Stilinski, the human. Both of them running side by side from the hunters. Both of them descending the flights of stairs to escape immediately. Both of them worried for each other's lives.

I've never been the kind of guy to back down from a fight, Derek thought. But there's a lot at stake now. Stiles's life is on the line, and I'm not going to lose it.

The hospital parking lot was connected to two public roads, one in front and one behind the building, which facilitated the arrival and departure of ambulances and, now more than ever, the dazed escape of Derek and the others.

They ran for a few meters in search of the getaway car, but Derek, as expected, soon saw his vehicle stand out from the others around him; the teal-black bodywork was clearly reflected in the light from a nearby streetlight. And, above all, the delicate glow of the moon above him gave an angelic touch to this inopportune moment.

To the wolf's eyes, the Camaro seemed to say, "Watch out, let's go!"—even he wanted to get out unharmed this time.

"This way," Derek said and ran nimbly toward the car, soon followed by the others. He approached it and, pressing the automatic key in one hand, opened all four doors of the Camaro and waved for everyone to get in.

Stunned, Erica, Boyd, and Isaac backed away a bit, since, let's face it, Derek was just a complete stranger to them. But, seeing their hesitation in getting into the car, Stiles couldn't help himself and said, before Derek could even say anything:

"Guys, come on, get in the car. Let's get out of here," he added.

The three of them looked at each other, searching for an answer, a course of action, that would get them out of the maddening situation they'd found themselves in. Stiles and Derek were having a very turbulent and intense night to deal with—Theo's appearance and insult at Stiles's house; the dinner that didn't even work out; Peter's attack and, of course, Peter himself; and, finally, Lydia's hospitalization.

However, what was happening to them didn't come close to what those three had gone through that night.

Their exhausted faces spoke volumes.

Breaking the moment of silence like a glass, Erica spoke, her tangled blond curls bouncing over her shoulders:

"I don't think we should go. No matter who's looking for us, we haven't done anything wrong to anyone and we're just victims of an… animal," she added. As the memories of that devastating night flooded back into her eyes, she began to bow her head, fearful and terrified of what she'd seen back in the woods. "And it's because of that monster that my cousin is now hospitalized! Tell me," Erica began, turning her most frank gaze to Derek, "how can you expect us to trust you with our lives?"

The chemical reactions between her and the other two boys were all too evident: pain, dread, fear, distrust… All too familiar to Derek.

"I understand your pain, Erica," Derek said sincerely, returning her gaze. "I really do. But unlike me, who came to your room offering help, they would have arrived with guns pointed at each of your heads." His tone didn't waver, remaining serious and calm, and he remained standing next to the car door, right where the driver's seat was. However, in his peripheral vision, he caught Stiles watching him with a certain pity, sadness, in his eyes. Derek wasn't upset by this, and he also couldn't explain why he hadn't. Did Stiles understand him? "But since you don't want to trust what I say, then stay here and wait for them."

Derek stopped looking at them and opened the driver's door with a furtive movement, clearly unaware of the decision they would make next. For him, reverse psychology always worked with desolate teenagers, especially newly turned ones, who would never refuse help from someone who said they could—and he truly wanted it. That was how he remembered the young men who were turned and welcomed into his old Pack. His mother was a kind and fair Alpha, and above all, respected by her own.

Apparently not understanding Derek's pretensions—which would doubtfully work—and hearing the negative murmurs growing among the others, Stiles walked ahead of them and involuntarily shoved his hands into his jeans pockets and bit his lower lip.

"Hey, Boyd," Stiles called, and the boy turned his attention to him. "I'm the guy who rode the school bus with you. Remember that one time I paid you $40 to cheat on a chemistry test? And for the record, that was unprofessional."

Boyd gave a white smile at the complaint, and with it, he relaxed his shoulders, letting them slump.

"And Isaac," Stiles intoned in a funny tone of voice, and, bordering on calm, the blond paid attention to what he was saying, "how many times have we argued about which's better, DC or Marvel? And, of course, it's DC." Isaac raised his eyebrows and shook his head. "Dude, they have Batman!"

Then, changing his tone to a more serious one and removing his hands from his pockets, he addressed Erica, the only woman of the trio and the shortest among them.

"Erica, do you remember that one time I helped you when you were having a seizure on the gymnasium?" Stiles asked, disconcerted by the question. Erica flinched at her, but even with the unpleasant memory in mind, she nodded, not because she was embarrassed, but because he had actually saved her. "Because I remember."

She pushed the memory aside and gave Stiles a small but genuinely beautiful smile. And without beating around the bush, she grabbed Boyd's hand, who flinched at her touch. They made, to Stiles, a very cute couple.

"My point in telling you this is that I know you, and you know me," Stiles continued determinedly, focusing on each of the haggard, gray faces near him. "We went to the same school, ate in the same cafeteria." We even have the same boring chemistry classes.

His tone and expression were amused, even comical, but Stiles wasn't enjoying it at all, not at all. In fact, he seemed to be wondering why he was taking them to Peter, the man who had attacked those three for a sordid and unknown purpose, and who had almost killed them.

He wouldn't understand, Derek thought. Humans don't understand the bond of a Pack.

"Anyway," Stiles continued, "trust me when I tell you to trust him. Because I do. And you should too."

Derek felt suddenly happy upon hearing such a statement, and even happier when he learned it was true; the chemical reaction permeating Stiles and everyone around him was, simply, trust. And the faint hint of his woodsy scent gave him the sensation of a spring forest around him, in the middle of a Californian winter. He exhaled that pleasant, cozy air from his lungs, and suddenly, without any pretense, he blamed himself. I lied about the color of my eyes, Derek thought. I lied about why I'm in Beacon Hills, and I left out a lot of other things I don't want to remember. I don't deserve his trust. To be honest, I don't deserve anything from him.

Erica, Boyd, and Isaac looked at each other, and Stiles felt apprehensive about the delay, uneasy, actually. But this time, they nodded and approached the vehicle.

Erica was the first to get into the car, eagerly followed by Boyd, opening the Camaro's door a little wider to see what was inside. But there was nothing special, just the luxury and comfort a car like that could offer. Inside, the car was upholstered in Italian-made synthetic leather, all finished in India black. Boyd, who couldn't hide his disbelief at getting into such a car, sat in the backseat next to Erica and approached her shyly. For a moment, their arms touched and they stared at each other—and he blushed.

Following the other two with hurried steps, Isaac went to the car, then stopped at the door and looked at Stiles, who met his sky-blue eyes—he'd always thought they were beautiful; Isaac was a handsome guy.

"Marvel is better than DC," Isaac retorted, and, getting into the car, he added, "They have Captain America."

With everyone already inside the car—each wearing their respective seatbelts and seated in their respective seats—Derek maneuvered the vehicle to quickly exit, directing it toward the street in front of the hospital. He passed to the left, where curtains were slipping between an open window on the building's second floor, clashing against each other, creating a strange, deliberate noise. Even with the car windows closed, Derek couldn't help but notice the sound they were making, but he couldn't smell whoever was there, watching them.

He slammed his foot on the accelerator, fleeing from whoever was on that ledge, and stormed onto the avenue closest to where they were, with lights and headlight beams from the cars passing by obstructing his wolf-like vision. But he quickly recovered and steered the vehicle to the right, as, for a moment, he had to zigzag between cars. And in the midst of this fleeting chaos, Derek grabbed Stiles's hand, which he squeezed, matching the wolf's reflex, returning warmth and pulse at the touch.

However, they let go.

"Are they following us in the car?" Erica asked, clinging to the car door while Isaac was being squeezed by Boyd's athletic body.

Derek focused his gaze on the busy highway and, inadvertently, glanced at Stiles, who was also trying to focus on something else—he was as surprised and stunned as the wolf.

"No... I just decided to speed up a little," Derek replied, lying, panting and maneuvering the car.

"A little?" Boyd repeated, sounding incredulous, and huddled in his spot in the backseat, between Erica and Isaac, who was still pressed against the door. "This is a little bit too much, don't you think?"

Suddenly, before Derek could even answer, Stiles's phone rang in his jeans pocket—only this time it wasn't a text, but a call. He pulled it out and stared at the screen, shocked.

"Theo," Stiles spat, looking at Derek. "He's calling me!"

You want me to ask why, is that it? Derek thought, ignoring the sudden anger at hearing that name, and the trace of jealousy that, of course, showed on his face.

After a moment of silence, and a forced cough from Stiles to hide a laugh (which Derek didn't understand the reason for), Isaac finally asked, already settling back in his seat:

"What about him? Is Theo a werewolf?"

"No, he's not a werewolf," Stiles replied, his words tumbling, and he glanced at the blond behind him, then at Boyd and Erica. The three of them seemed to be doing better, Stiles thought, in their current condition. And he was doing better too, and he intended to stay that way until the end of the night, if possible.

Isaac shook his head from side to side, in a brief moment of reflection, and nodded, pretending to understand why Theo was calling Stiles.

"It's just that I told him to wait for me in the hospital lobby," Stiles continued, returning to his comfortable leather seat. He glanced at his phone screen again, then turned his gaze back to Derek, his eyes glowing a light brown, almost amber, and, without any difficulty, turned off the phone. "And it seems he's still waiting there for me."

Derek understood the reason for Stiles's suppressed laughter and, wanting to mockingly laugh at Theo but unable to do so for wolfish reasons—namely, he didn't want to appear extroverted or even playful—he simply managed a small smile, which didn't convince Stiles.

"Oh," Isaac said, leaning forward, close to Stiles's ear, and followed with a whispered question close enough to be heard: "Are you two dating? Like, like Bella and Jacob?"

Derek, who had been listening to absolutely everything, raised his eyebrows and pressed his lips together, trying not to laugh at that, to him, meaningless reference—really?

Stiles, who seemed to be studying Isaac's question, frowned, crossed his arms, and thought a little more. After a few moments, he concluded:

"No." Stiles tilted his head back, looking at Isaac. "She had to choose between Edward, the guy who sparkles like a Winx, and Jacob, the weirdo who turned hot, and so far I haven't met a vampire, much less one who sparkles. So"—he looked at Derek, who seemed to know what he was going to say next—"I only have the hot, scowling wolf."

Finally, Derek laughed. And this time, he couldn't hold back; his white teeth reflected the lights coming from outside the car, like pearls of a rare, priceless white, and his canines jutted out slightly, revealing Derek's true nature—he was like this when he was relaxed and unconcerned, when he wasn't worried about showing he was happy. His smile, to Stiles, was beautiful, and he certainly wanted to see him smile more often.

Isaac sat back in his seat, confused, wondering if that was sarcasm or simply Stiles's pointless joke. Meanwhile, beside him, Boyd and Erica were laughing at the question he'd asked, out of place and time.

Pleased with his feat of making Derek laugh, Stiles snuggled into the seat, stretching his head and legs. On his lap, he lightly squeezed his phone between his fingers and stared out the window, staring at something that wasn't there, something miles away from him, in another country.

Scott and Melissa, part of his family.

"I only have the wolf," he whispered, to no one in particular. "And no one else."

In the forest, the bright lights of the city didn't penetrate the curtain of trees and darkness that lingered there, perpetuating the night. Only the silvery moonlight illuminated the shadowy forest and guided them through the slender trees of that inhospitable place. The crescent moon above them, seemingly watching them majestically, served as a reminder of its next lunar phase: full moon, the most powerful and mystical of moons. Its power, even far from its peak, could already be felt by the werewolves.

It was like a calm tide that increased in volume as the hours passed until it became a current too difficult to control.

Difficult, but not impossible.

The drive to the Hale homestead was eerily silent. Erica, Boyd, and Isaac were still anxious about finding the man, the animal that had brutally attacked them just hours earlier. Stiles, who also couldn't move in his seat out of nervousness, was almost as upset as they were. But he wasn't just anxious, he was angry too. After all, for him, Peter had cursed Scott with lycanthropy, destroying his life with it, taking away the happiness he could have had with Allison and the future he would have had as a normal person.

He had changed everything in Scott's life, and, at the same time, in Stiles's life as well.

In his mind, everything that happened in Scott's life would always be Peter's fault, from a teenage breakup to something worse, something that sooner or later any werewolf would do in their life: kill.

Only once in the 48 hours he'd been with Derek had he wondered if the wolf had ever killed anyone in his life, whether it was out of self-defense, anger, or simply the urge to kill. Even if he had already committed such an atrocity, Stiles didn't care much; in fact, he just didn't want to think about it right now.

In any case, his brother wouldn't be the same anymore, and Stiles was fully aware of that.

Derek parked the car near the clearing near his old house, just a few feet away. He turned off the Camaro, removed the key from the ignition, looked at Stiles, and held his green eyes. After a moment that felt like an eternity, he said,

"We have to go." Derek broke eye contact with Stiles and turned to the passengers in the backseat. "Come on," he said, then sighed. "He's probably waiting for us."

They were frightened by the statement and even shrank back into their seats, as if that act would protect them from what was to come, from the terrifying union that had been sealed with an Alpha's bite. After all, they were just scared children.

However, seeing the frustration and fear in their eyes, Stiles didn't shut up and blurted out:

"Guys, he's just a mangy wolf! And I'm sure you've already been vaccinated. So, at least you won't get rabies."

Agitated, he opened the door next to him, got out of the car, and closed it, not even waiting for a response to the stupid joke he'd made. Suddenly, as he drew in the humid air of that part of the forest, he wondered if werewolves got rabies like dogs and wolves. And he saved that question for another time, in the box of stupid questions to ask Derek Hale.

The others got out of the car and closed the doors soon after. They seemed less fearful and brighter than before, and that made Stiles enjoy being a bit of a fool sometimes and cheering people up with it. Even Derek seemed less glum; his muscular shoulders were slumped and he no longer had the furrowed brow that Stiles had become so accustomed to in so few hours. That sullen face, for Stiles, was Derek's charm, along with his strong arms, his well-trimmed beard, his slightly elevated chest, his beautiful smile and, last but not least, the large bulge he had between his legs. And yes, every now and then Stiles thought about that bulge, with a certain shyness and a little excitement, by the way.

The wolf, who always seemed to know when Stiles was thinking sexual thoughts about him (this would be a great question for Stilinski's question box), approached him with slow strides and a slightly arched eyebrow. He seemed to smell something emanating from Stiles, and Derek had repeatedly noticed this act being performed by Derek that night. The boy was fully aware that he might be emanating some kind of pheromone capable of making Derek even more attracted to him and that it served as a trigger for Hale's wildest, most primal, and animalistic side, which was even closer to him, physically and mentally, with his large, intimidating body ever closer to his.

On a random Animal Planet show, when there was nothing else on cable to watch, Stiles remembered seeing how an alpha male wolf in heat could spend days caring for and protecting his alpha female, and while doing so, procreating as much as possible.

Stiles thought of the double meaning and chuckled softly, watching green eyes like the rising aurora borealis form before him.

He hadn't even noticed he couldn't stop staring at Derek, who was practically right next to him. The human froze when he felt the pleasant warmth of the man's body warming him, breaking thin branches with his determined steps. The heat was pleasant and intense, but Stiles didn't let it get to him, not at all.

"This way," the werewolf said, shoulder to shoulder with Stiles, looking behind him at the teenagers near the Camaro. "It's rude to stare." "Stiles," Derek whispered slowly, his breath cool and warm against his skin, and the hairs on the back of his neck suddenly stood on end at the burning sensation.

He looked at the brown-eyed boy, smiled victoriously, and continued on, leading them to his old house.

Not knowing what to say, Stiles simply huffed, exhaling anxiety and lust into the air. And then he missed the wolf's warmth, the feeling of that vibrant, welcoming feeling, and in that moment, he regretted not having let it take him away.

The old house was in a deplorable state. Some of the windows were missing their panes, and two of them, the ones on the porch, revealed a ghostly hollowness coming from within that gray, dreary place. Shattered glass lay on the floor near one of the ground-floor windows, forming a carpet of glass that glinted in the fearful, imposing moonlight above. The wood that had once been Derek's home was now, in the eyes of all five present, rotting and being devoured by termites from that time of year. If they looked closely, they could still see the ashes of the wood burned by fire, hatred, and the pure, malevolent desire to kill. They didn't even move; they were ramified in that house, in the painful history that covered the crime that had once been committed there by people who had never done harm to anyone.

A crime committed against people's lives and, above all, destroyed an entire family.

That place could be described in many different ways and forms, but only one word could characterize such a building with all its meaning: decay. Imagining all that land in the summer, surrounded by large, majestic trees and slender flowers in the corners of the house, with the high temperatures that made the children play in the yard and, when the heat overtook them, beg for ice-cold lemonade and a quick shower. Imagining all that, seeing those images jump before his eyes and reflect on the current state of that house, made Stiles certain that Derek was a wonderful and good person. Because, if he were in his place, suffering all the pain and anger that Derek suffered, he would have already killed Kate Argent with his own hands, going against everything he believed to be right and just, dignified and incorruptible, ignoring everything his parents taught him…everything his mother taught him.

That bitch, Stiles thought, will burn in hell one day!

Suddenly, from inside the house, a male figure emerged from the absolute darkness. Stiles and the other three around him were startled by the sight of such an unexpected appearance. But Derek, in front of him—who Stiles was certain had already sensed Peter's presence—didn't react at all, simply stepping forward and moving away from them.

Even with Derek blocking Stiles's view, the boy could see that the man who emerged from the shadows was dressed in clean, new clothes, his hair slightly damp, looking as if he'd just gotten out of the shower. Now, to Stiles, he looked frighteningly handsome, but not enough to make him forget what Peter had done. Lydia was in the hospital; Scott had been turned into a werewolf by him and, afraid of the being that had transformed him, ended up running away with his mother, Melissa. Boyd, Erica, Isaac—the three of them had also been turned into werewolves, into beasts… and the list seemed to go on and on.

"Look who's here," Peter greeted, crossing the old porch of the house. "My favorite nephew." He descended the five steps, looked toward the boys behind Derek, and smiled venomously. "And he even brought me presents."

Derek ignored what Peter had just said, controlling his breathing and tensing his back muscles, and continued, saying loud and clear:

"How did you become an Alpha?"

Stiles thought it was stupid to ask this now, idiotic, really. From where he stood, Derek couldn't see Derek's face, since he was right in front of him, but he really wanted to see it, just so Derek could see him roll his eyes. In the end, he rolled them anyway.

"Wow, what a mood!" Peter rebuffed, approaching with measured steps, staring at everyone there, including Stiles. He seemed to enjoy watching him hide the eyes he'd just rolled, but Stiles didn't like this. "I don't even deserve a 'good night,'" he turned a cynical gaze to Derek. "Nephew?"

Derek took a few steps forward, seemingly disapproving of this approach. Still waiting for the answer to his question, he stopped and crossed his arms over his chest, which was covered by a nice dark blue T-shirt that, when clean, Stiles had enjoyed seeing him wear, but now, at this point in the night, it was too dirty to wear, so it was sensible to take it off...

Feeling he owed his nephew an answer, Peter answered, looking him in the eye, with three meters separating them:

"I didn't become an Alpha, nephew. I received what I was destined to have, long before our old pack, long before my birth. The power that belongs to me now, its strength and everything the Moon provides, is not mine alone. But it belongs to my family, to the pack I'm raising, and to its future generations. Derek, my power will one day be yours."

Nonsense. Stiles thought it was complete nonsense and a waste of time to deliver that monologue. For a moment like that (human or not), it wasn't normal to talk so much nonsense like that, was it? Was he doing it just to avoid the question? If so, why?

With such thoughts in mind, Stiles began to get irritated.

"It's funny you should talk about 'next generations' when you already threatened Scott's life!" he retorted, walking toward Derek, away from the others. They seemed petrified, barely moving their eyes. He took a few steps forward and stopped almost next to Derek. Derek snorted in disapproval, and Stiles mentally told him to fuck off. "I thought werewolves didn't attack their own."

(There was a photo Stiles remembered seeing at home, of a crime scene in the Beacon Hills woods a few days ago. It had an "S" carved into a tree. An "S" for Scott, Stiles had thought when he'd met Derek. And where they'd found that symbol, they'd also found a corpse with half its face brutally torn off by an animal. In this case, the animal was Peter. Because of this silent threat, Scott and Melissa had fled to Mexico, fearing for their lives.)

"Are you talking about my little note?" Peter asked, amused. "Tell me, because I'm a werewolf, not a telepath."

"Yes, it's about it," Stiles replied mischievously. "The one you carved into a tree," he added, feeling the sarcasm creep into his last words, "next to that woman you killed. Remember?"

Peter's eyebrows rose in surprise. Surprisingly, for the human, the werewolf didn't get angry; he even seemed to like it.

"First of all," Peter began, "I like your sarcastic way of talking." He rolled his sharp blue eyes at Derek and said, "Isn't he cute?" The wolf beside Stiles said nothing, just narrowed his green eyes. Peter, in turn, turned his attention to Stiles. "Secondly, yes, I remember her..." He paused and, when he finished, chuckled to himself, "from the tree. And thirdly, Derek, didn't you tell him what that symbol means?"

Derek didn't answer, remaining silent. A spike of anger rose in Stiles's nostrils at the knowledge that Derek had omitted something from him. But he knew this was neither the time nor the place to argue like a couple—a couple who weren't a couple yet.

"Well," Peter said, holding his left wrist with his right hand, "it means change." In Celtic lycanthropic culture, the "S" symbolizes the changes, bends, and declines of a river, what it carries or doesn't carry, and this applies to what's happening now. He inhaled the air around him, just like Derek did, and added, "I'm changing things, you know?"

Stiles twisted his head to the side, disgusted by every word Peter said. With a glimpse of his peripheral vision, he could see Boyd and Erica holding hands, attentive and concerned, but above all, supporting each other, trusting each other. (Why didn't Derek trust him enough?). He couldn't see Isaac; he was further to the right of the couple, behind Stiles.

"Yes," Stiles said, nodding, his eyes already on Peter, "killing people and turning others into werewolves is indeed a change." "Sarcasm is a gift," he would say in another situation. "I just don't know if they asked for it."

Peter took a few steps, but soon stopped when Derek growled at him. It was a warning, loud and imposing, demarcating and real. Territorial respect was the only thing they agreed on—this place, however run-down, was their home, and disrespecting it wasn't something they would do—and even Stiles could see that in the way Derek was standing: at the head of them, the whole group, showing strength and demanding respect; nothing less would be accepted by him.

Peter closed his eyes, exhaled, and after a second, opened them, slowly looking at everyone there. He seemed to care little about his new Betas, and that worried Stiles, because, good heavens, he had cursed them and seemed indifferent to what they were going through at that moment. Taking a deep breath, he continued:

"As for who I bless, that's not something I'm going to discuss with you. Oh, and if you're interested, I can bless you with the Bite." Stiles could already feel his ears burning, his fingers itching, and his throat starting to hurt. He wanted to punch that man in the sneering face, beat the crap out of him; Peter was irritating him, and he knew it. "Of course, if you want. But when it comes to the woman I killed, I can't talk about her without a friend…" He craned his neck, looking past Derek, Stiles, and the others there with them. He focused on the dark forest surrounding the property. Peter called out a name: "Vivian, when are you coming out from behind that tree? You don't need to hide from me or mine."

Derek was alarmed, turning sharply toward where Peter was looking, and Stiles did the same. The three teenagers right behind them also became alert and backed away from the woods, retreating toward the two boys next to them. This was the first movement they'd made since arriving there.

A middle-aged white woman, barely five feet seven inches tall, dressed in nurse's attire and a gray overcoat to keep her warm from the cold, stepped out from behind a large tree near the way they had come, along the small path to the house. Her dyed red hair was loose, and as she approached the group watching her warily, it was gently stirred by the forest breeze; it seemed to be on fire. Her makeup was basic and simple, without much detail, unlike the bold red lipstick she'd apparently just applied. Smiling, she walked through the group of young people and stopped next to Peter, discreetly kissing him. Stiles felt disgusted by the scene.

"Yes, I followed you," Vivian said. Strangely, she seemed to be addressing Derek. Stiles looked at him suspiciously; the man was as lost as Stiles. Contrary to her feminine appearance, her voice sounded scratchy, as if she'd spent many nights smoking cheap cigarettes. "I saw those kids arguing in the hospital parking lot, and among them, I saw this handsome guy, your nephew, Peter." Stiles felt jealous of what she said, not wanting to admit it, but he felt it. "Good night, Derek."

With the look on his face, he stayed. Stiles couldn't stop wondering if Derek knew what was happening at that moment, if he'd lied or hidden something from him. It seemed not, because he completely ignored her.

"So," Peter said, "tell them about the corpse." He smiled dismissively at the dead woman. "That one."

Vivian, who felt comfortable with her right arm entwined with Peter's, began, smiling:

"Her name was Cameron Roberts. She was a friend of mine; we shared the same apartment on Connelly Street... Until a few days ago. One night when I was on shift at the hospital, she appeared out of nowhere and ended up walking into the room where I was working and caught me on top of him, if you know what I mean." Great, Stiles imagined it in HD. "At the time, she freaked out, because, like everyone else in this boring town, she also knew his burned face, which was missing at that moment," she observed, her smile fading. She looked at Peter and caressed his face lightly. "And you already know the end of that story, don't you?"

Stiles couldn't take it anymore and exploded:

"You let him kill her!" He intervened, his voice breaking. "He's a monster, you idiot!"

"Shut up, you little faggot!" Vivian said, growing a little agitated. Then, calmer, she continued, "He's not a monster, he's a werewolf."

Peter looked her deep in the eyes, and she returned it affectionately. Stiles didn't see that same affection in him, saw nothing but an impassive mask. If there was anything sentimental, it was fake.

"Yes, I am." His voice was calm and measured. He gently pulled the arm that was intertwined with hers and, with his right, he raised his fist to her face, caressing it with his index finger.

Stiles blinked, and within seconds, when he opened his eyes again, that fist he'd seen being raised to caress her face was buried deep in her abdomen, piercing through her work uniform and overcoat, blood seeping through the deep opening. Derek grabbed the boy's forearm and backed away, taking hurried steps backward as Peter sank his fist into her body—she was already beginning to agonize—between her major organs and into something firmer, something made of calcium: he broke her spine.

Before she died, she placed her hands on her killer's arm, on the unexpected attack she had received from her lover, trying to push him away, in a last attempt to free herself. She couldn't break free, she tried, but she couldn't. Blood fell in abundance onto the ground covered in dead leaves; he painted them crimson red.

"Why…?" she asked, confused, on the verge of death, face to face with itself.

Peter, in turn, responded acidly:

"I don't want fake people in my Pack." He withdrew his fist in one go, violently, his eyebrows arched. "Much less homophobic ones."

Afterward, in shock, the younger ones went to Derek's Camaro to get away from the scene that wouldn't leave their minds anytime soon. Isaac, who was paler than usual, ended up vomiting in a bush, and Boyd, the oldest and tallest of them, was left wanting more. Stiles and Erica were inside the car, literally motionless, not even speaking. Meanwhile, Derek was with Peter, helping him bury Vivian's body at the back of the lot, very close to a row of slender black trees.

With a little pressure, Peter finally answered his nephew's question.

And, ecstatic, Derek said,

"I didn't know that was possible."

His woody scent, worn from the sweat and agitation of their turbulent night, was already etched in Derek's olfactory memory, the werewolf; he could find it anywhere with just that bittersweet memory of Stiles.

"Do you think they'll be okay?" Stiles asked, talking about Erica, Boyd, and Isaac, who had just been dropped off at their respective homes.

Stiles climbed the last two steps of his house's staircase, which led practically to his bedroom door, while Derek followed close behind, keeping a distance between them. A distance Stiles wanted to close.

"Yes," he replied. "They seem strong. What happened…" he rephrased and continued in a slightly hoarse voice. "What Peter did won't shake those kids so easily."

The younger man entered his room, turned on the light, and, already a little away from Derek, turned back and saw the wolf enter immediately after, with a certain curiosity and respect in his posture. He seemed to be entering foreign territory, but to Stiles, he also seemed unwilling to leave any time soon.

"You talk like you know them," he said curiously. "As if you know how they feel about what's happening in our lives right now," Stiles hypothesized, eager for the answer. "Like, if they're okay or not."

Calmly, Derek breathed in and out, and with a frown—Stiles didn't know why it was like that—he crossed his arms over his chest and looked at Stiles, absorbed, focusing on something that made his eyes wander from the hardwood floor of the room to the boy's rumpled bed. The wolf pressed his lips together.

Seeing this, Stiles grew more intrigued. Could Derek be sensing something in his room? And if so, what was it?

"So, do you feel anything?" Stiles found himself asking, his voice muffled.

Derek turned his gaze to Stiles. From the attentive expression on his face, Derek knew the question held a hidden, obscure meaning. However, the man simply replied,

"Yes."

Nervous, Stiles widened his eyes and gestured with his hands.

"And what is that?"

Derek snorted and blinked.

"What I sense are chemicals. Reactions my senses pick up in an environment, and especially in people. I can identify anger, fear, anxiety, worry, and other feelings they experience," he explained, like a college chemistry professor. "Unlike a human being, I can enhance all my senses and make them work together simultaneously." Stiles frowned, not understanding. "To put it more simply, I can feel, hear, see, and identify everything around me."

With his jaw dropped, forming an oval "O" with his lips, Stiles gestured,

"Okay... Thanks for responding."

Thinking about what he meant by "other feelings" sent a shock through Stiles, freezing him, reminding him of everything he'd felt around Derek, everything. In truth, it was just embarrassment at the lewd things he'd imagined around him—Derek wasn't the only one thinking about that.

Silence fell. Even Derek looked uncomfortable in the situation.

"Stiles?"

The boy closed his mouth and then opened it, arching his back, and then it creaked with the movement. His body was crying out for a hot bath and a good night's sleep. After all, what a turbulent day he'd had!

"Um... What's up?"

Derek seemed to want to recoil from the question, not ask it. But—to everyone's delight—this time, he didn't.

"I have a cabin outside of town; it's nice and cozy and quite big. It even has a fireplace. If you want to unwind, de-stress, we can go there anytime. I think you'll like it; it's near a lake."

Stiles nearly choked on his own saliva. The mention of the fireplace made him imagine the two of them alone in front of it, which reminded him of a gay erotica book he'd read that included one, which made him think of the wild sex of a wolf in heat and that he'd have to bring triple-duration condoms with him. Okay, that invitation was much better than spending his vacation holed up in his room. But there were a few small problems...

"I'm covering Scott's shifts at Dealton's clinic this week. And I still have to check on Melissa's house, make sure no one broke in." Stiles gave a nervous laugh and, uneasily, ran a hand through his dark hair. "But yeah, I like the idea, really cool, let's go. I like water, I mean, swimming."

He'd said all this without thinking; the shifts wouldn't be easy, and Dealton would demand a lot of effort from him; Melissa had plants that might already be dead after 48 hours without water, and when she arrived, if she arrived, he'd be the next one to die. However, he'd find a way to go to the cabin, to "de-stress" while he was alone with Derek.

In turn, the werewolf smirked and walked away, his back to Stiles.

"Okay then," Derek said, his voice light, almost amused. He walked to the bedroom door and paused before crossing the passage. "Are you okay?" he asked, glancing at Stiles over his shoulder. That question held much greater importance, and they both knew it.

The boy nodded, affirming that he was fine.

And, apparently satisfied, Derek walked back out of the room.

"Hey, Derek," he called, taking two steps forward, already missing the wolf, his warmth, and his care. Derek turned to Stiles, blushing shyly. "Thank you for everything you did today. Thank you so much."

Involuntarily, once again lost in lustful thoughts, Stiles wet his lips with his tongue, silently begging for a hot, overwhelming kiss, soft and intense, that would transport him to another dimension, where he would taste just a little of what a night with Derek would have. Goosebumps rose up from his arms to the back of his neck. Derek stared at him, encouraging him to kiss him, biting his lips, his body pulsing with lust, screaming for a kiss. Just one kiss was enough at that moment. He just wanted to taste himself again. He almost growled as he felt Stiles's sexual pheromones tingling against his skin. He could get aroused just by that, just by looking at him, just by wanting him.

By the time they realized it, they were kissing passionately.

By the time they realized it, they were giving in to that incessant desire.

By the time they realized it, their bodies were throbbing together, in harmony.

By the time they realized it, their hands were already searching for a place to grope, to touch, to caress.

By the time Stiles realized it, Derek had broken the kiss with a peck, apologized for being impatient with him, and had already left the room, leaving the boy with a slightly swollen mouth and a growing erection.

By the time Derek realized it, he was already outside Stilinski's house, walking to his car, angry, not at Stiles, but at Theo for ruining his moment with the boy.

The smell of his rotten blood infected the entire room around him, and Derek was absolutely certain it was coming from the bed sheets—the liquid smelled like death. He knew that when he'd slept with Stiles, the night they'd met, there hadn't been that smell there—dirty socks, used wipes, wet towels, yes, maybe, but not that rot. For werewolves, especially for someone like Derek, homes were unbreakable territories that should never be invaded, much less violated. And, with the certainty that such an act had been committed at the Stilinskis' house, his anger only grew.

He got into his car, slammed the door shut beside him, turned the key in the ignition, started the car, and stepped on the accelerator. Derek just wanted to forget that awful olfactory memory that had mingled with such a good… and warm… and sweet… memory. In truth, he also wanted five minutes alone with Theo to show that psychotic son of a bitch—he'd called him that—that it wasn't cool to play Sherlock Holmes in other people's houses, especially in the house of an ex-boyfriend. And those minutes would end with Theo being rushed to the emergency room, with multiple injuries all over his body.

(Playing the "alpha male" wasn't one of Derek's personal traits, and to add to that, he hated people who let themselves be carried away by jealousy and especially obsession. However, fully aware that Stiles was being stalked by Theo, he only hoped it wouldn't happen again; otherwise, Raeken would bitterly regret having met him.)

He turned the first corner near Stiles's house, trying to control the rage pounding in his chest, his breath coming in short gasps, his mind churning with frightening possibilities of what Theo could do or had already done to Stiles and everything else. But guess who was there, lurking, watching to see what time Derek would leave that house? Yes, that someone was Theo.

And yes, Derek felt lucky in that moment.

Theo slammed his car door and walked toward Derek, who was already waiting for him on the sidewalk, his arms crossed over his chest and his jaw clenched, trying not to punch him right there on the street.

The smell of freshly burned metal, congealed blood, and anger hung in the air; after this conversation, Theo, besides going to a hospital, would have to stop by the nearest repair shop. His car wasn't working.

"Are you crazy!? Look what you did to my car, you idiot!" Theo yelled, pointing at the damage, complaining about the massive dent Derek had deliberately made in the car; the crash had even damaged the license plate.

Face to face with Theo, with only a few feet separating them, Derek no longer remembered the invitation he'd made to Stiles or the nervousness he'd felt doing it. All he forced himself to remember was that he couldn't hurt Theo, at least not seriously.

"Shut up, you bastard." His voice came out firm and powerful, almost a roar.

Theo backed away, stopping in his direction, but soon moved closer again, mistakenly standing a meter away from Derek.

"What did you just call me…"

It took just a few stealthy steps and his superhuman skill to strike Theo and knock him to the ground—the punch to his left eye prevented him from dodging Derek's quick hands on his shoulders, but finally, with their help, he pushed him forward and landed a sharp left knee to his stomach, knocking the wind out of him.

Derek's inner wolf wanted more (it wanted to eliminate a future problem), but controlling himself as always, Derek stopped right there.

"You're going to stay away from Stiles," the werewolf announced, "you're going to stop chasing him like a madman. You're going to forget you two ever dated. Or else…"

Coughing and getting up from the ground, Theo interrupted him. And what had seemed like a ragged cough turned into a wheezing, mocking, and hatefully teasing laugh.

"Or else, what? You're going to hit me again?" "You're not," Theo retorted, laughing. "Or are you going to become a private security guard who'll keep me from getting close to him? Oh, or rather, are you going to kill me so we can't get back together?" he deduced, standing up and looking him in the eyes, disgust in every word. "Who do you think I am, vermin?!"

Derek breathed in and out, thought about what he would do next, and quickly replied:

"None of those, and I don't care who you think you are." He really wanted to kick that kid's ass, but for his own good, he didn't. "And to get you out of his life, I just need to show the sheriff the video the computer in his son's room recorded, showing you breaking into and messing with Stiles's things. After that, I'm sure he'll do everything he can to put you behind bars, you son of a bitch!"

There was no footage, nothing to prove Theo had broken into the house, only the blood on the bedsheet and Derek's heightened sense of smell. But, fortunately, the bluff seemed to work.

"I didn't break into his room," Theo countered, exuding nervousness and irritation. "You're bluffing!"

Derek, who had already won that argument simply by smelling the stench of defeat emanating from the other, smiled and finished by saying,

"Am I?"

Theo clenched his fists and clenched his jaw, glaring at him with hatred in his blue eyes.

"You damned worm!" Theo cursed, spitting the words out, screaming them like a madman. "One day you'll pay dearly for this!"

And after threatening him, Theo left, knowing that Derek would protect Stiles and keep him away, shielding him from his obsession with the boy—and, of course, knowing the beating he'd get if he ever got near that house or Stiles again.

Derek waited for him to disappear into the streets before finally getting into his car. He closed the door and rested his head against the seatback, exhaling wearily, and as he relaxed back into the seat, he remembered something he'd overlooked and perhaps wouldn't have had the same effect on Theo: the images Stiles had printed out, which were on the table where his computer sat. They contained extensive information about lycanthropy, and Derek had noticed them briefly but decided not to say anything. He was too busy doing other things...

He just wished Theo hadn't seen that, otherwise he would have become suspicious and possibly, in the end, discovered the existence of werewolves, and that wasn't good, not good at all.

“Oh my fucking God,” Derek said, opening his eyes, “when will I be able to sleep in peace?”

Chapter Text

THE CABIN

PART ONE

D E R E K  H A L E

The town is already behind us. Highway 66 is the only route that connects Beacon Hills and Corona simultaneously, cutting them in half, connecting them to their massive state parks and the counties in each in a long drive. But we won't go that far. If we were to go to Corona, it would take about two hours from Beacon Hills. But the cabin is only a 50-minute drive, and we've already driven 30 of them so far. We're close.

Right now, it's less than three miles to a secondary road that will take us to the cabin. Huge pine trees line both shoulders of the road, casting their shadows alongside it. Dusk is beginning to appear in the west, its hues of orange-red and cobalt blue standing out sharply on the opposite side. The east, unlike the beautiful sunset I'm seeing, brings dense, stormy gray clouds. Maybe there'll be a storm later.

Stiles also notices the unexpected change in the weather. He looks out the passenger window at the black sky approaching us, the corners of his mouth lifting in a slight smile. I think he likes the rain, the feeling it brings of cleansing and connection with nature—that's primal in us, human or not. Or maybe he's just thinking about other things.

The anxiety I felt before picking him up is thankfully gone.

I even cracked all my knuckles in a sequence that only stopped when I stopped my car in front of his house—I was very nervous before getting there, more so than usual. I saw him walk awkwardly toward me with two backpacks and a pillow in his hands, with that smile that makes me lose my footing. On those soft, sweet lips that keep me awake at night, that tease me, that make me want him completely and desire him with me, in my arms , with our bodies pressed together. Pleasure, passion, and lust would be warming the sheets beneath us, spreading warmth through what would already be warm. But I know I have to control myself, and I will. I won't let these desires and feelings interfere with our friendship , and I intend to ignore any emotion that might ruin his moment in the cabin. Any.

I will only do what he wants me to do, how and when.

The memory of him on his knees in front of me, in the ruins of my old home, seems like something that happened long ago, but not long enough for me to forget. His hands trembled as he fumbled with his belt, clearly terrified by the situation that was unfolding there. And then, seeing that he was hesitant, I decided to stop right there, offering him the power of choice, and he did.

His decision made me feel ashamed of myself for wanting his mouth on me so much. I felt selfish for inviting him to meet me in the middle of the woods, early in the morning, just to have sex and satisfy the sexual attraction that had bonded us. I deeply regret that. I shouldn't have let my feelings dictate my actions.

But there was something behind Stiles's hesitation. I could feel it. Was it nervousness he was feeling? Apprehension? Or fear? At the time, I couldn't figure out or even ask why. I only know that after that day, some boundaries were created for me. Whether he imposed them or not, I continue to respect them all, and most of all, he himself .

I think something happened to him. Something dark and sad too much to share. A shiver runs down my spine.

"Derek, you were the one who broke Theo's face, weren't you?" He asks suddenly, curious, his full attention focused on me. His youthful, electric voice pulls me from my thoughts, and I end up sinking into it. I lean back against the driver's seat while my right hand extends out, gripping the steering wheel. I still don't look at him, but I feel the weight of his gaze on me.

I snort slowly, coming out of the trance of his voice and the scent of his skin.

"Where did you get that from?" I retort, my eyebrows arching, and finally, almost without meaning to, I meet his brown eyes with mine, curious and hyperactive as always. Beautiful as always. I stifle a smile.

He laughs at my expression, and it's as natural as the air we breathe.

"So you mean it was you, huh?" Stiles says. "Actually, I don't even care if you broke his face; he deserved it."

A sudden rage makes me grip the steering wheel tightly, my knuckles turning white. Only now does it sink in that Theo had the nerve to upset him once again. And if he tried something against Stiles, I'm going to make sure it's the last. That motherfucker!

Stiles keeps looking at me, trying to find what's behind the scowl I insist on keeping around him. But it doesn't work. It seems he has the ability to see right through it. The lies, the omissions, the secrets, everything. But that's all in my head, along with my regrets and my unjust conscience. I snort again.

"Have you two seen each other?" I ask, showing forced disinterest. "I mean, you and Theo?"

Stiles stops looking at me like that, taking his attention away from me. Thank God. He looks at the sunset before us, his eyes squinting against the orange reflection hitting his pale face. The moles on his neck are more visible now.

"No," he answers, loud and clear. Theo didn't break the agreement. Good for his skin. "Erica was the one who told me his face was broken." He answers the question I wanted to ask before I even asked it. "She told me she saw him at the hospital on Tuesday, coming out of Lydia's room. They talked a little about her condition, and then he left."

Theo isn't going to meet Stiles; he's circling his friends, maybe looking for more information about the 'animal attack.'

I had a feeling he'd do something like that. I'm trying not to think about it now.

Stiles shrinks into the passenger seat, shadows lingering in his amber gaze.

"This week has been pretty tiring for me. Yesterday, after doing my work at the vet clinic, I took the rest of the afternoon to visit Lydia to see if she was getting better. And I don't know if you know"—his tone suddenly brightens—"but she's already much better. She's even conscious! And if I'm not mistaken, she'll be discharged next Monday."

"Yes, I already knew that," I say, not looking at him, focusing on the road ahead, trying to ignore Theo's agitation these days. "Erica tells me all about Lydia's recovery. But it's great to know she's making progress. Now all that's left is to find out if she's…"

"A werewolf?"

"Yes, that's right."

His heart races against his chest, beating steadily beneath his thin white shirt and black-and-red striped T-shirt. This is one of the harsh truths he faces day after day, and I know it. At first, I doubted she'd survive, but now, with her discharge scheduled for next Monday, all I can think about is what she'll become in two days.

Stiles stretches his legs and exhales, snapping his fingers nervously and carelessly. He might dislocate a finger if he keeps this up. The scent of him now… He's nervous. Why?

"How's the Pack doing?" he asks hesitantly. "Are they adjusting well?"

"Yes, they are, as far as possible," I reply, staring at the track and at him. I step on the accelerator. "Our only concern is the full moon they'll face in 48 hours. The first one after the transformation is always the hardest. But, to tell you the truth, I'm not that worried."

Stiles leans forward, the seatbelt squeezing his lean chest. He pierces me with his light brown eyes.

"How can you not be worried?" His voice reverberates inside the car. "Maybe Peter will do something to them!"

I stare back at him, with the hardest expression I've learned to wear over the years. My irises dilate as our eyes meet once more. His gaze conveys anger, concern, while mine conveys firmness and strength. He doesn't know what it means to be part of a wolf pack, to share an unbreakable bond that not even Death itself can destroy. I cut our exchange of glances. My attention is on the track now. I frown.

"Like what? Make sure they don't kill anyone during the moon's peak? Or protect them from each other, from themselves?" My voice is heavy and serious. And I know he doesn't like my tone, so I tone down my anger a little. "Like it or not, Stiles, I know Peter will do what's necessary to keep them safe. And don't worry, he knows he was drawing too much attention to himself. He won't kill anyone else ."

Stiles returns to his position in the car seat, stretched awkwardly across it, resting his head against the back of the seat, his fingers drumming on the door handle. The Camaro's leather is comfortable enough for him to relax his tense muscles. But he doesn't relax; his face says so.

I hate feeling bad for something I know is true. Peter won't hurt any of his Betas; they're like sons to an Alpha, and I also believe he won't kill any more strangers. I believe that. I'm glad I never got to see the damage he did to her . I didn't even see the crime scene photos. And I didn't even know the unfortunate girl whose soul he took. But, looking at it from this perspective, I understand Stiles' suspicions and why he's so eager to know everything about us werewolves. And I don't blame him for it, and I never will.

I slowly bow my head, regretting the words I spoke to him. I've been doing this gesture since I was a child, when my mother, my Alpha, would scold me for a prank I pulled on my sisters or when I just wanted to get her attention. I still miss her. I can imagine her scolding me for being arrogant with Stiles, her voice soft and kind. I think if she were alive, she'd want to meet him, to know who this boy is who moves me so much.

I puff out my chest, my green eyes cutting through the sunset before us. I look at him.

"I'm sorry I was arrogant. I didn't mean to say those things to you, Stiles," I say, direct and sincere. His eyes meet mine as I look into them. "I know everything that's happening has been really stressing you out, and here I am, ruining my plan to unwind at the cabin." I turn my gaze back to the road we're taking, covered in the Camaro's refined metal, protected by it. I hear the air dissipate around us. I ease the sole of my shoe that was buried in the accelerator and lean back, nervous that I hadn't realized how fast we were going. The moon is already showing its power over me. "We're not even there yet and we're already arguing."

"Derek, we're just stressed," he says, nonchalantly, focused on the vast road ahead. From his tone, it seems he shares my concerns, and I think he does. "Nothing the peace and quiet of the forest can't change. Trust me, we'll be fine."

There's no way to avoid or pretend I don't hear his heartbeat in harmony, calm and steady, echoing through my ears with the promise of a normal, human life. A life I want him to have, even if it's beyond my reach. And I truly hope that one day we can be okay, together or not. Part of me wants to forget, to bury this absurd possibility, while another part desires it more than air itself.

"Thinking about what you said," Stiles says, "when haven't we argued?"

I pull onto the side road with a genuine smile on my face, and Stiles continues to look at me in that way that disconcerts me. I frown when I realize what I'm doing.

I turn off the ignition, the car and cabin keys jingling between my fingers, and Stiles doesn't even wait for the engine to cool before jumping out. Amazed, he closes the door and walks to the cabin, gazing open-mouthed at the beautiful roses filling the flowerbeds near the living room windows. Roses I trim and water myself. The pine trees of varying sizes that form a semicircle around the cabin, casting their impetuous shadows now, at the end of sunset, also catch his eye. I think he's even more surprised by it, by the cabin itself. The wooden structure is varnished throughout, as is the entire cabin, from the well-kept wooden floor to the heavily reinforced walls—here, on occasion, wolves have had to be trapped on a full moon. Seeing how he looks at it, at such a simple and modest place, makes my heart warm in my chest. The corners of my mouth lift, and once again, I smile involuntarily.

I stop grinning like an idiot. He's just in awe of this place, that's all. I may have spent all morning pruning the roses, cleaning the cabin, and getting it ready for his arrival, but that doesn't mean I want to hear a thank you from him, much less do I want him to know I did all this for him. I've had enough of me, my thoughts, my omissions, and my lies confusing and dizzying me like a dog afraid of fireworks at the end of the year. Enough is enough . I lean to the side, my seatbelt tightening around my torso, and close the door Stiles left slightly ajar. I return to my seat and, without meaning to, my eyes meet in the car's rearview mirror. My beard has grown in, longer than when I arrived here, in Beacon Hills. But I prefer it this way, highlighting my already exposed cheekbones and giving me a more serious, strong figure, exactly like myself. I also notice that my dark circles have returned, deep and slightly gray as always. The strange thing is that they highlight my eyes, making them look noticeably greener and more beautiful in low light. Who said staying up all night isn't good for your appearance?

I unbuckle my seatbelt, car keys in hand, and get out of the vehicle, my back creaking after so long in the same position. I walk to the trunk, my lungs expanding to take in the clean, characteristic forest air. We're far from any place that might affect the environment around us, and I feel it in the air I inhale. Miles away from state parks and our own city. I hope he doesn't think it's strange that we're in the middle of nowhere.

The trunk opens with a click I press on the button below its handle. I grab the two backpacks Stiles brought with him as I hear him approach, his feet crunching pebbles, the scents of the forest mingling with his woodsy perfume. I hold my breath, keeping a bit of him inside me, in my lungs, memorizing his scent just one more time. Cheap lavender soap, shaving cream, and roll-on deodorant coat his pale skin, their distinct scents filling my breath. Very natural, very raw. I exhale with difficulty, as if it pains me to do so, and slowly relax my body and mind. I'm home after all, and thankfully, I'm with him.

"This cabin is amazing! It has two floors!" Stiles says frantically, as if he's never seen a place like this before, and I really don't think he has. As much as I try not to imagine a reason for his surprise, a voice whispers in my mind. He hardly leaves his house, and he only decided to spend these days here because of you. Because he likes and trusts you. Are you sure you deserve his trust? I ignore that voice when Stiles abruptly closes the space between us, extending his hand to mine, just inches apart. His body heat gently brushes the exposed skin of my arm. I freeze when he meets my eyes. "Let me help you."

He refers to the backpacks, and taking a little longer than I should, I hand them to him. His gaze slides over me, over the faded black cotton T-shirt I'm wearing, the dark jeans that accentuate my full thighs, and the impetuous posture I insist on maintaining around him. I close the trunk.

I blink and lick my lips.

"You just haven't seen inside yet." The hoarseness in my voice comes out rough and thick, surprising us both. Stiles knows I'm nervous about letting him see a piece of my past here in this cabin, a part of me, but I don't want him to think about it too much. It's not worth knowing all the things I've been through. He smiles, and I swallow, stunned. "Let's go."

We walk along the small path lined with white stones that leads to the cabin's porch. The sky continues to darken, night is coming with a storm looming over us. A cold breeze meets our bodies, and I see Stiles shiver as he feels it on his skin. We're side by side, me taller than him. I watch two small spots on his face stand out as we approach the light coming from my house, his face whitening, his eyes darker. Suddenly, he turns toward me, a question stuck in his throat, and we find ourselves staring at each other once more, but this time I don't look away, I hold his gaze.

Stiles's eyebrows arch slightly, his heart pounding in his chest.

"Did you build it, the cabin? Or did you buy it like this?" he asks politely, restrainedly, but I hear hesitation in his words. I break our gaze, directing my gaze to my feet treading on the limestone and gravel that surround the cabin, their sound echoing through my head, along with his erratic heartbeat. "I started interrogating you again, didn't I? Sorry, you don't have to answer."

We climb the three steps that separate the damp ground from the varnished wooden porch, the boards barely creaking under our weight, the pine trees around us swaying with the lightness of the wind. I haven't looked at Stiles yet, knowing his gaze will force the truth out of me if I lie. But this time, I choose not to lie—or to hide it.

"And you don't need to apologize, Stiles," I begin seriously, determined to tell him. My past takes shape in my eyes. "My father built it, soon after he married my mother, Talia. Around that time, she got pregnant and gave birth to my older sister, Laura."

I look at him and can almost see the gears in his brain grinding, his restless eyes sorting through the new information about me. Derek had a father and mother, and even an older sister, and they were ripped from him by cruel killers, the Argents. And now I'm here, in a place that seems sacred to him . I can feel it all emanating from you, Stiles. Clear as crystal water, pure as the sleep of an innocent. And, strangely, I'm not bothered by your empathy.

"He built the cabin from scratch?" He nervously asks what he already knows, staring at the cabin and me. Stiles is feeling uncomfortable, his scent tells me so. I turn my gaze to him and nod, and, shaking my head, he replies, "Impressive."

The other words come without thinking, in a whirlwind of feelings and sweet memories. The truths want to emerge .

"Yes. He owned a lumberyard and also knew carpentry," I say, remembering the smell of my parents, the family who loved me, the happiness we had together, the love I no longer have. My voice falters and my eyes begin to sting, but I don't give in to my emotions, controlling them as I always have and continue to do. He looks at me, and I continue firmly: "And as one of the wedding gifts, he decided to build this cabin for my mother."

He keeps his brown eyes on me, seeing through the frown I try so hard to maintain, the pain and my dark past, which I almost give up on when he strokes his hand on my shoulder. It's our first touch since I came to him this morning, his hand warm against my stiff skin. I don't know why, but I can tell he understands my pain. Stiles slides his hand down my arm, resting it on my wrist. His touch is gentle, comforting, warm.

I leave part of my grief, my sadness, all the bad things that happened to me buried in empty graves. The other part, the one that doesn't contain such bad things, I share with him, and with his caresses, he makes them suddenly disappear, leaving me to focus on his touch. I'm simply carried away by him.

We don't need to say anything else, and he doesn't need to confirm that he's also grieving the loss of someone important, because words can't bear the weight of our pain.

Maybe he understands me because he lost his mother too. That must be it.

Before we enter the cabin, Stiles stops behind me, and I turn to him, attentive.

"I almost forgot," he says to himself, blinking. He widens his brown eyes and runs his right hand through his tangled hair, messing it up even more. "Open the passenger door for me, my pillow is there."

I frown, wondering why there's a pillow in the backseat. But without hesitation, I do as he asks. I press the button on my car keys, and my car unlocks. Stiles leaps from the porch floor, quickly descending the steps, the gravel crunching under his nervous footsteps, and then he heads toward the door, opening it. And voilà, there's his pillow.

How come a pillow was there the whole time and I didn't notice? I refuse to accept that I didn't notice it. How can I be a werewolf without even noticing such a common and ordinary object as a pillow? What is happening to me? But only now do I remember seeing him with it in his hands, walking awkwardly toward me. At that moment, I didn't even care what it was for. My attention was on Stiles.

But now the question escapes my lips.

"Why did you bring it?"

Stiles slams the door shut, pillow pressed against his chest, and brings his light brown eyes to mine, like a ray of light cutting through the immersive darkness of a cave. I take another deep breath. And then he smiles, the cheekiest, most mischievous smile I've ever seen, but at the same time, the purest too.

"Because I can't sleep without it," he declares, clutching the pillow tightly. His voice echoes through my mind, my heart racing. We hadn't seen each other for a week for various reasons, Peter being one of them, but, forgetting them now, I dare to imagine that Stiles missed me, that he wants me around. His next words send shivers down my spine, I don't know if it's fear or euphoria, but I just enjoy the sound they convey as his lips pronounce them: "And I don't think I'll ever be able to again."

I finally exhale, wanting to kiss him, taste him, corrupt him, grab him with the full intention of total surrender.

I want to love him.

Stiles has his back to me, sitting on the black faux leather sofa in the living room, right next to the blazing fireplace, headphones dangling from his ears as he watches Batman: The Dark Knight on the laptop he brought with him. And he even said, without realizing it, the famous phrase "I am Batman," loud and clear. I chuckled softly when he did. Stiles feels quite comfortable inside the cabin, I can tell because of the way he's sprawled on the sofa, his back against the armrest and both legs up on the upholstery. I'd be uncomfortable if anyone else were acting like this here. But he's fine. He can. I don't care.

After all, we're here to clear our heads.

"Is the soup ready yet?" Stiles asks anxiously, addressing me from across the room, in the kitchen. There's a gap here connecting the two rooms, something I know my father built to help with my mother's and his own chores. I can picture him chopping cilantro just like I'm doing now. Stiles sits on the edge of the couch and, glaring at me, he roars, "I'm hungry!"

The laugh comes easily, but it hurts a little when I do it. I decide to ignore the pain, to look happy for once, deciding I can be someone different around him. At least someone sociable. Stiles frowns as I increase the volume of laughter, and I try to contain it in the meantime. He must be surprised that the wolf is smiling, and even I am, but I don't care about appearances right now. Not in front of him.

"Ha!" I say, biting my lower lip to stop myself from laughing. "I knew you liked it!"

His sharp eyebrows arch, and the left earbud dangling from his ear falls out, his mischievous eyes disbelieving what they see. Does my smile leave him bewildered?

"No, I do not like it," he says, stuttering, blinking those enormous eyelashes nonstop. "I'm just hungry enough to eat anything." Stiles composes himself slightly, as I'd predicted, and his sarcasm begins to drip from his lips. "What can I do if you only know how to cook soup?"

I'm stunned by his insinuation, and even a little challenged, after all, I'm a werewolf. But the urge to grab the dishtowel to my left and throw it at Stiles isn't stopped. I look like a wolf cub playing with one as I smile and revel in this moment. The poorly made ball of cloth flies between us, hitting him in the face, forcing him to lean back. He lands sprawled on the couch, his legs dangling excessively over the side.

"I think I'm blind, Derek," he says, whimpering, holding back a nervous laugh.

My smile softens, along with a momentary worry.

"Oh, fuck you, Stiles!"

Smiling, Stiles leans back on the couch, stretching his torso, and again we exchange more playful, playful glances, only this time they're more intimate and pure, genuine and energetic. The moment lasts a few more seconds, and we hold it. Suddenly, he stands up from the couch, and with that, my heart races beneath my ribs. I prepare to kiss him as he approaches me with quick strides, his dark eyes studying me hungrily, and then…

Stiles stops a meter away from me.

"Where's the bathroom?" he asks tensely.

I blink twice, startled, trying to comprehend what's happening now. From his anxious expression, I can't tell if he really needs to go to the bathroom or if he's just teasing me in a way I haven't yet grasped. I decide to inhale the air around him slowly, taking in every scent he emanates. To notice something beyond his woody fragrance and the provocative scent of his bare skin. I already know what's beneath it, and it rings a warning to me.

"Go up the stairs. It's the first door on the right in the hallway," I direct bluntly, as our warm bodies pulse. The words come out of my mouth fast and hard, making my relaxed state vanish.

He doesn't look at me as he walks toward the stairs, to the opposite side of me, and I try not to notice the scent I've caught on him. But I can't ignore it.

Stiles is nervous about being in this cabin with only me, and he has no idea I'm nervous about being alone with him, too. We yearn for the same carnal desire, the same overwhelming feeling. We want the same thing. We want to make a mistake that will lead to something right. But he's still not sure what he wants. And I respect him for that.

I hope he doesn't mind using the bathroom in my room.

"So Cora, your little sister, Scott, and Melissa are arriving in Beacon Hills tomorrow, and you're telling me this now?" Stiles asks, a little electric, with his bowl of soup in hand, his hair still damp from the bath he took in my room's bathtub, now sitting on the red rug next to the fireplace. We decide to stay here instead of sitting at the solid wood table behind the sofa, near the opposite wall. It's better right here, with the warmth filling us as we stand face to face. The night floods the room.

I lift my bowl of soup to my mouth and swallow the lukewarm broth and the remaining noodles, chewing on the few remaining carrots. When I finish it, I set it down beside me, running my thumb across my bottom lip to clean it. It's warm, just like my whole body.

"Hey, Scott told me he'd let you know," I reply sincerely, looking him in the eye, "so I left that responsibility to him."

Stiles frowns, setting his plate aside, making a face that's already plastered to my eyelids.

"Oh, right, I blocked him again." Suddenly, the memory comes to me along with a shy giggle I'd never heard before. Scott is still grounded for lying and keeping the truth from him. A fear sparks inside my chest. If Stiles finds out what I'm hiding from him, it will be hard to get his forgiveness. The worst part is, I'm fully aware of it. "Shall we play a game?"

I press my lips together as I stare into his.

"Which one?" I ask, deeply curious. I look back into his dark eyes, the fire crackling in the fireplace in front of us casting an intense, sensual light over us. A smile escapes me at a certain idea I have in mind. "What kind of game are you talking about, Stiles?"

His brow arches at my words, but it doesn't even crease.

"Truth or dare, Derek," he says, blushing.

"Oh," I blurt out, almost disappointed. "Let’s go."

"I'll start," Stiles points out eagerly. "Do you choose truth or dare?"

I answer almost immediately:

"Dare."

"Um... show me your wolf eyes. Please."

There it is, the lie that always comes back to haunt me. The lie that will haunt me until he discovers the truth about me, about my eyes, and what I unfortunately had to sacrifice for them to become that shimmering, deadly blue. The wolf inside me opens its eyes. I don't know why, and it's not just now, but I see a bit of Paige in him. The courage, the loyalty, the sarcasm, and the grace she had. He even has the same eyes, the same moles as her.

"They're beautiful..." he says, letting the air out of his lungs through his mouth. I blink, and my irises return to emerald green. Impressed, Stiles doesn't take his eyes off me.

"Okay, now it's my turn. Truth or dare?"

"Truth," he answers as quickly as I do.

The question catches, stuck in my throat, as if I know it will hurt him bitterly. But the wolf inside me wants to know the answer, so, since we both want it, I ask:

"What really happened to make you break up with Theo?" My voice comes out thick, almost a whisper.

The question startles him, making him shrink into himself. Stiles looks away from me to the flames dancing in the rustic cabin fireplace, crackling between the chimney and reaching out into the open air, into the dense, stormy night above us. His expression is grim, his shoulders slumped. I don't know what's going on in his mind, but in mine, there's only shame at the question I asked.

"You don't have to answer if you don't want to. I don't want to interfere in your life," I say, more than sincere, struggling not to hug him and warm his slender body.

He turns to me, but doesn't look me in the eye. I fear his answer.

"I broke up with Theo because..." he begins thoughtfully, deciding whether or not to tell me what happened. A scent of pain permeates him. "Because he raped me."

The answer crashes down on me like a bolt of lightning striking a wretch, charring him from the inside, burning all his internal and vital organs. As the hatred I feel for Theo grows even more intense in my chest, reaching a blaze, I grip my wrist, clenching it at my side.

Stiles stares at me, analyzing me.

"I'm going to kill that son of a bitch!" I mutter to myself through gritted teeth.

"Derek, no," Stiles says calmly, catching my attention, softening some of my anger with his voice. "If I told you this, it's because I trust you. Don't tell anyone, okay? Don't make me regret telling you what happened to me. I trust you so much," he repeats seriously, making his gaze clear as he fixes his gaze on me. "And I hope you respect my decision not to let anyone know about this." I narrow my gaze at him. I'm confused. His voice isn't choked. He's stronger than I imagined. "Yes, you're the first person I've told this secret to. Not even Scott knows what happened."

I can't contain myself any longer, and before I know it, I'm holding his nervous, agitated hand, which hangs from his knee, bringing the touch of my brown skin to his, white and soft. We're warm enough, but I feel the chill coming from him. I want to dispel it with my warmth, to end the icy existence that lies within your ravaged heart. I want to warm you.

"Can I ask you a question?" I hear myself ask him, my voice lower than a whisper, before I'm even sure what to ask. We share this moment now, just between us, with only the night and the forest as witnesses to yet another secret that unites us, that brings us closer.

Attentive, listening to every crackle of the fireplace in front of us, Stiles stares at his own hand and my warm fingers intertwined with his. He seems to imagine something, for he smiles as faintly as the northern spring breeze, but even so, I see sadness behind that face prone to smiling. He follows his eyes to mine, a certain flame in them, something shimmering in his gaze.

"You just made one," he says sarcastically, the sadness fading from his expression and voice, hiding behind his youthful appearance. I know how it works; I'm quite skilled at hiding my feelings too. He caresses my palm as he watches me think, sliding his fingers between the calloused lines, letting my warmth touch him. "Tell me, Derek, what's your question?" he asks, smiling.

Staring into his dark eyes in the dim light, I feel anxious and light at the same time, more nervous than I've been since I met him. It feels like this is the first time I'll do something like this, but it's not.

"Can I kiss you?" I ask nervously, knowing I've already asked Paige this same question, and she answered it with a kiss...

Surprising me, Stiles leans forward and seals his lips with mine— just like her —the texture of them intoxicating me with the same intensity the full moon exerts on the wolf inside me. I want to grab him right here, in front of the fireplace while we undress each other, but I can't.

He's the one in charge, and I just obey.

Stiles climbs on top of me, onto my lap, rubbing his sweatshirt against my jeans. Sex pheromones exude from every pore. His tongue tangles with mine, hot and wet, bold and agitated. He truly knows how to mask his sadness. His hands glide over my hard chest, never stopping kissing me, never stopping driving me crazy, resting them on the back of my neck. As our bodies pulse in sync, I let his scent be etched into my memory once again.

I feel his waist, squeezing it lightly, still hesitant about whether I can touch him or not. I try not to be hasty.

He grinds on top of me, panting, biting my lower lip, his brown eyes staring into my green ones. My cock throbs beneath my jeans at the sight of him so sensual. The heat from the fireplace seems to increase. The friction of the fabrics we wear causes me a certain agony, and it's only because I long to see him naked. I want to strip him naked and fuck him as good as possible, I want to revel in his nakedness as if he were a forbidden, immaculate god.

"I'm tired of playing truth or dare," he confesses, panting. I almost growl when Stiles pulls his mouth away from mine. I hold him tight, my arms wrapped around him. "Take me to your bed. Now."

The permission he gives me is all I need. I stand up from the red carpet, Stiles against my torso, holding him by the thighs as I stand. I pull him closer, his hot breath invading my lungs, with a gentle push of my hands. With him rubbing his cock against my abdomen, it's going to be hard to get to the bedroom.

Stiles is killing me with horniness.

I find myself climbing the steps to the upper floor, my lips burning from the many bites Stiles gives me. He purposefully teases me, with the sole purpose of making me want him even more. He doesn't know how much I already want him. I don't think he ever will. His kisses are different, special. An addiction I know I won't be able to shake anytime soon.

He is the moon I will follow until after dawn. And even if one day there's no more in the sky, sadly, I'll howl just as much for his arrival.

The steps end, and I'm still holding him in my arms when we stop in front of the door. I open it easily with my shoulder, pushing it open, and before we reach the bed, Stiles gives me a kiss that takes away all my oxygen as he holds my face in his gentle hands. Disoriented, I stagger for a few moments until I bump into a wooden surface.

I almost beg for his touch when he lets go of my arms and falls like a feather onto the double bed.

"Derek"—my name leaves his mouth and echoes through the room—"do you really want me to ask?"

Stiles lies awkwardly on the bed, undoing it, the blankets dragging with his movements. The muscles in his legs and abdomen contract as he rests his head on the pillow. He relaxes, feeling comfortable. It excites me. Seeing him all over, without shame or restraint, makes my body throb and heat. I want to know how many moles there are—I hope I can count them all.

I move forward slowly, climbing onto the bed as if it might break under our combined weight. I hope it doesn't break now, no matter how reinforced it is . My feet are in the air, over the hardwood floor, my body inches from his. I just need to lean in...

He opens his legs for me. My jaw nearly drops when I see a mischievous smile spread across his lips— I'm surprised —his eyes shining a very light brown, almost amber.

"Do you want me to take off your pants?" That's the stupidest question I've ever asked. How does he manage to make me so vulnerable?

Sitting up in bed, Stiles stands up, our faces closer, the faded gray fabric of the T-shirt he changed after his shower clinging to his chest. His breath warms my face in the darkness of the room, the night almost dominating the space. The only beam of light we have comes from the moon, which hovers above us, still far from its peak. He enters through the open glass doors, giving this moment a silvery hue, while the white curtains dance with the breeze that enters the room. But even now, I feel the moon beneath my skin, gently caressing it. I breathe.

"Only if you let me take off your shirt first," Stiles proposes determinedly, dictating the words like a song.

I nod to him, allowing him to do whatever he wants with me, my eyes focusing on his slender hands.

His touch is gentle and a little hurried, yet equally warm. But there's something different about him now. A desire, a longing. Stiles is feeling curiosity. The nervousness still shows in our sweat, but less so. Enough to make us both wonder at our bodies. When I realize it, he's already pulling the shirt over my head and, as he pulls it off, tosses it away, to the corner of the room.

In the dim light, Stiles discreetly wets his lips with his tongue as he scans me with his brown eyes, moving them from my smooth, muscular abs to my broad, defined shoulders. Seeing him with his moist, reddened mouth is an affront I won't ignore. I fill mine hungrily, penetrating it with my tongue, while my hands move down his waist and squeeze his suggestive buttocks beneath the sweatshirt that covers them. The kiss makes our bodies vibrate simultaneously, heating them, hardening them beneath the skin. I'm insatiable for the taste of his mouth, and I know he feels the same for mine.

Sneaky, Stiles unbuckles the belt of my pants, slowly pulling them down, never stopping his kiss. My black boxer briefs are now exposed, and I feel the weight of his fervent gaze on me. Even in the darkness of the room, the shape and size of my cock are evident. And I can see that Stiles is thoroughly enjoying stimulating it with his hands, even with it still beneath the fabric.

I frown, panting, looking as deeply as I can into his eyes.

"Take off your shirt," I ask breathlessly, not thinking much about his firm hands stimulating me. I'm already starting to miss his mouth on mine. "I want to see you better too."

He obeys me and pulls his shirt off his body, undressing without hesitation in front of me. Stiles is lighter than I thought—his skin is flawless—with a firm chest and a defined stomach, and I also think he's more prone to bruising. Maybe his skin reddens easily. We'll see. As I kneel down, I pull off my jeans, Stiles settles back on the bed, waiting for me with his eyes on mine. Devouring me with them.

He looks at me in such a different, sexy way that it doesn't even seem like the Stiles I know. But rather, a dream, an illusion. Things I've had with him a few times. The truth is, everyone is different behind closed doors.

"Can I take off your sweatshirt?" The question comes out of my mouth like a command, an order. I feel his skin crawl at the intense tone of my voice, and in a second, I shiver along with him. "Or do you want to take it off yourself?"

I've already taken off my sweatshirt, and his underwear too.

The taste of Stiles's cock in my mouth is salty, strong. The pleasure I drown in as I sink him down my throat is indescribable. Hearing him gasp, feeling his slender hand pushing my head against him, the heat his body exudes, the depth he wants me to reach... All of this makes me increasingly crazy for him.

The moment I asked for this blowjob, Stiles was surprised by the question, and he must have even thought I was joking or something. But when I undressed him completely, leaving him vulnerable the way he leaves me, noticing every subtle feature of his body, I think he realized that wasn't the case and let me do it.

On that faded morning, I remember almost letting him feel forced into something he didn't want to do. And that, the hesitant, frustrated reaction I sensed but hadn't yet realized its origin, was the work of his trauma caused by Theo. I try not to think about him now—maybe when I get the chance to see him again—I just focus on giving pleasure to the boy who has me on all fours at his feet, craving his attention, his warmth, and his body against mine.

I want him to fuck my mouth.

And to do that, I speed up my movements, making a quick sequence with my lips, pushing his cock even deeper into my throat. His veins stand out as he applies more force to what he's doing to my head, thrusting himself deeper and deeper into me.

"Fuck me," Stiles demands, his pale chest rising and falling. "I want you inside me. Now."

The words surprise me just as much as when he smiled that smile. But I prefer not to lose myself in them, because I have to maintain my control . I meet his eyes in the darkness and realize I'm panting just as hard as he is. But I'm not tired; I've barely started.

"I don't have a condom here," I say, almost distressed, positioning myself above his body. "Do you want to stop?"

A faint smile crosses his face, and after a few seconds that felt like hours to me, he answers, looking at me:

"No, keep going." Surrounded by my arms, Stiles settles between them, rubbing his skin gently against the thin fabric of the bed, touching me a few times. Maybe he's trying to leave his scent on it? I don't think so. "Is there something I need to know?"

I understand his question perfectly.

"No," I answer sincerely.

His skin is warmer and softer on his thighs, I notice it as I slide my hands over them, which, unlike his, are rough and heavy. The hands of a wolf. I position myself between his legs, gripping the gap between his thighs and knees firmly. Using one hand, I wet two of my fingers to ease my entry. I slide them along his slit, slowly entering, slowly teasing him, opening him to me. I press myself against his body, gently placing the head of my eager cock inside him. His dark eyes never waver from mine.

He wants to see me surrender to this feeling. In fact, we both do.

Stiles groans loudly, letting the oxygen in his lungs dissipate into the air. Slowly, I sink deeper into his body and his movements. He's so hot... so tight... so perfect.

I close my eyes.

"Oh my God."

He wraps his arms and legs around me.

"Are you enjoying this, Derek?"

I swallow hard, afraid to move, knowing I'll come soon.

"Yeah."

He kisses me passionately, his tongue swiping teasingly between my lips.

"I want this to be like everything I know you imagined. The way you imagined it."

But I've never imagined anything remotely like this moment, this tonight. Nothing.

Slowly, with a control that shocks me, I begin to move my hips, thrusting in and out of that incredibly tight place. He groans against my lips, his hot breath intoxicating me. His moan, the sound he made, was so fucking exciting, so I move a little faster, a little harder, so he moans again. This feels so good . I've never felt anything like what I feel right now.

"You're so beautiful," he whispers and chuckles, "and so good."

Indeed, this moment is beautiful, in every detail—the silvery moonlight flooding the room, the heat we exude with each touch, our bodies connecting as one. I feel so close to him. As if what we're doing isn't just about sex. It's about us. I lift my head slightly to see his face, and our eyes meet in the darkness. In that moment, I understand why he suddenly invented a game of truth or dare. Because he wanted it as much as I did. And now we're here, enjoying the intimacy, the desire, and the excitement. But we know it's not just that, this physical, carnal contact. It never was .

My body reacts, moving faster, harder, and deeper, and before I know it, I'm fucking him savagely, each violent thrust punctuated by a grunt deep in my throat and the sound of skin slapping against skin. I grip the wooden headboard, almost desperate, as if I need to contain myself. Stiles reaches for his cock and jerks off just as wildly as I fuck him, every muscle in his arm, abdomen, and chest flexing, pressing me against him. It's how I like sex: sweaty, intense, and wild. Watching him lose control beneath me, I finally come .

But not because of his chest, arms, or cock. I wasn't even looking at those parts.

It was his eyes. It was that feeling in them, yet unnamed, that sent me tumbling into clear, calm waters.

Amber like the dawn.

I fall above him, landing beside him on the bed. The clean air that enters the room through the glass balcony doors fills my lungs.

"Tired?" he asks, turning to the side to see me better.

"Yeah, a little. Why? Do you want a second round?"

"No, Derek, I already want to sleep."

Something comes to mind.

"Do you want me to get your pillow downstairs? I can get it for you in a flash."

"Stay here, Derek. Don't go. I don't need that pillow to sleep with."

I frown, suspicious.

"Then why did you bring it?"

"As much as you're a werewolf, you're incredibly naive, Derek."

"What do you mean?" I retort in disbelief. "I'm not naive."

"Yes, you are." Stiles props his elbow against the bed, propping his head on his hand to look up at me. He snorts slowly. "I don't need that pillow to sleep with me anymore ."

With my chest burning and my throat closing in a knot, I imagine an answer, but I want to hear it from their lips to be sure this is all real.

"What do you need, then?" I ask anxiously, staring at their gazes.

"I need you with me."

THE LAKE

PART TWO

S T I L E S  S T I L I N S K I

I wake up face down on the bed, my eyes still closed. The blankets around me seem to invite me to stay there, lying there, sleeping, warming myself on a cloudy day, but I can't. I want to start this morning as soon as possible. After all, my brother is arriving today! I feel a cold breeze invade the room, as if urging me to get up. The lack of warmth is more noticeable now.

I drag my left hand across the tangled sheet covering the bed, small waves of the thin fabric passing through my palm. I search for the most accessible source of heat on this pleasantly chilly day. Derek . My hand is fully extended, still searching for his warmth. I feel where he should be, but feel only the cold engulf the space beside me. I open my eyes, still sleepy and lazy, and I'm sure he's not here watching me wake up, to greet me with a good morning kiss, and then to push him away because he'd have bad breath— what a cliché idea I had, huh! —I glance to the left corner of the room, my head still buried in the pillow, just to make sure he's not there, and, as I predicted, there's no trace of him. If he were in the bathroom, I'd be able to see him… I turn my gaze to the balcony with the most natural view possible of the forest surrounding the cabin. The French doors of the room are open, the white curtains flutter as another blast of cold air fills the room.

A heavy crack of wood cracking echoes outside.

I quickly turn to the side, crumpling my arm beneath me and stretching my legs to sit on the corner of the bed, and the white blanket falls off me. I'm completely naked. That's why I wanted so much to stay warm this morning. Hmm, it's comfortable to sleep like this. Actually, it's comfortable to be comfortable.

Even more so with Derek Hale being such a good guy to me.

I stand up, stepping onto the cool, varnished wood floor that makes up the room, the curtains stopping their swing. As I walk toward the sound that continues steadily, the balcony takes shape in the radiant daylight. Last night I was too busy doing other things to see this incredible view of the forest... My God, this place is beautiful!

Wow, fuck, I didn't know Derek was a lumberjack!

His back is turned, facing the balcony, a few feet away. The axe he's holding looks quite heavy and quite large, at least from this distance. Pause. I chuckle to myself at that stupid joke I just made in my head. And the memories come rushing back, my body boiling.

He sucked my dick so good.

He fucked me so fine.

His moan was so hot!

I feel the head of my cock brush against my upper thigh, and then I stop thinking about him inside me—inside me, to be exact. I can't get hard right now. I haven't even brushed my teeth or put on underwear. I'll brush them and look in my bag for something to talk to him about. It's a thousand times better than standing here staring at him like a weirdo. I bite my lip.

His ass is so... delicious.

"Are you really going to just stand there and watch me without saying anything?" Derek says, his back turned, his voice electric, and I half-awaken from a trance. In a single gesture, he splits a small log in half with the axe. "Or did you come here to help me chop wood for the fireplace?"

I smile sheepishly, leaning against the kitchen door, still feeling the coolness of cheap toothpaste on my lips. Green forest surrounds us and birds sing somewhere around here, and I inhale the fresh air as I feel goosebumps run through my body—which is already covered by a red-striped flannel shirt, and underneath, I'm wearing only black shorts with little skulls. I wore them for a purpose . Clean air, the scent of wet earth, the sound of a stream nearby. I snap back to reality, clasping my flip-flops tightly on my feet, while Derek chops another log with incredible precision. Finally, I push myself away from the doorframe, also varnished like every other corner of this cabin, in a shade that borders on bronze. I walk over to him, taking in his broad back and nice butt once more. I smile, but with bad intentions.

He turns, pinning me with a look that makes me bite my lip hard, holding back the urge to kiss him. The tank top he's wearing, which highlights his large chest and clearly displays the defined muscles of his body, isn't helping.

I'm beside him, his emerald eyes fixed on mine, the air draining from my lungs, the planet spinning beneath our feet. I look like a fucking teenager acting like this. Wait, I'm a teenager... So, with that in mind, I do what any other gay teenager would do.

I kiss him like it's the last time, pressing us together, wrapping my arms around him, and biting his full mouth. I want to mark him somehow, the way he marked me, and continues to mark me. He must think I don't know what he's doing, leaving his scent on my body and disguising all that masked affection with his frown. But, in truth, I like it, everything. Even the exaggerated protectiveness he tries to have of me.

I part our lips, now less embarrassed.

"Good morning," I say, breathless.

Derek rests his forehead against mine, and I see a beautiful smile form on his face, warming my heart.

" Good morning," he says, radiant under my eyes.

His large hands slide down my back, gently caressing me in circular motions. I, holding onto the base of his broad waist, millimeters from his mouth, remembering his scent, his skin on mine, and the way he let himself be carried away by me.

I hate to ruin such a wonderful moment, but I need to know something.

"Did it rain a lot here?" I ask, in his arms. "Did the storm hit?"

The ground is wet, that's obvious, but I don't know if it's because of that storm or if it calmed down this morning. I didn't hear anything last night; I slept like Sleeping Beauty. I stifle a laugh and wonder why I asked such a stupid question.

Somewhat dazed, Derek looks at me, then at the blue sky above us, then at the ground. Thoughtful, and half-lost in his wolf senses—I think—he answers:

"No…" he says, slowly breathing in the air around us, his chest rising and falling. The tips of his ears twitch, and I widen my eyes, stifling a laugh. "I'm sure, it didn't rain."

I look away from his gaze, stepping out of his arms, walking toward a small path that opens a few steps away. He makes a move to follow me, to follow me to the path that I'm sure leads to the lake, but he doesn't. A stab of guilt pierces my heart—and that's a shitty feeling, with a shitty memory.

"Okay, then I can swim in the lake without a problem," I say, meeting his dull eyes. I've never seen them like that.

Standing still, Derek just slightly furrows his thick eyebrows. The only sign of confusion he has.

"Yes, you can."

He looks pale and frozen from this distance, and even holding an axe like that, he poses no danger to me. (I don't know why I thought that.) He looks like a child lost in the woods. He noticed I'd backed away. But then again, I shouldn't have backed away like that, not like that. Here's your gay teenager with anxiety issues.

He raises the axe, ready to split another log in half, the biggest one.

And before he does, I ask:

"You're going there later, right?"

He stops in midair with the axe in his hands, and for a moment I think he's going to respond with something sharp, harsh. But no.

"I'll just finish here," he says gently, "and I'll be right there."

I give him a brief smile, and he gives me a restrained one. Then I walk to the trail, hating myself for doing this just because I regretted saying, "I need you with me."

But I can't deny that I'm afraid of giving myself over again and ending up destroyed all over again because of a guy. Because of someone who ended up using me. Like Theo did.

I hear the crash of the log shattering, and I know Derek split it in one fell swoop.

Maybe the rising full moon is having that effect on him. Or maybe it's me?

The lake is quite large. Its color ranges from dark green to shimmering black. I read somewhere that the color of a lake's water depends on the trees surrounding it, and that fits perfectly here, since most of the green area is either oak or pine, I can't tell which. The forest is dense, far from the lumberyards and urban waste, and I think that's what keeps the place so natural, which is also beautiful.

I wet my lips and quickly close my eyes, walking on the pier that extends about 8 meters above the lake's edge. My steps make some strange creaking noises, but nothing happens. For example, a hole suddenly opens, causing me to fall into the water, leaving me with several injuries to tend to later. I snort loudly, exhaling the nervous energy I feel just thinking about being submerged.

Derek was wrong; I'm not a fan of water.

It's not that I don't shower, it's just that I'm kind of terrified of lakes, reservoirs, any place with a large body of water. My father did that to me, teaching me how to swim the hard way. I remember him throwing me into a lake, not as deep, not as dark as this one, but the fear of dying was as great as if he'd thrown me into the current of a raging sea. And I also remember struggling so much that, looking back on it now, I swear I looked like a crazy duck dying.

I reach the end of the pier, with only one thought in my head.

I'm falling in love with Derek Hale, and I'm pretty sure he's feeling the same way about me.

Then, I feel nothing. Just a leap, the air leaving my lungs and the cold water freezing my skin.

I keep my eyes out of the water, my nose bubbling with the oxygen draining from me. I'm close to the pier, of course. I wouldn't swim far from here if you paid me.

The water is very cold, even freezing. It's late fall, and the low winter temperatures have been quite noticeable these past few weeks. But I can't explain it, I like the cold as much as I like the heat. I don't have a favorite.

Swallowing down the fear of something pulling me under, taking me to the bottom of this dark lake, I remain completely submerged and swim for a few meters. Fearless of anything, of anyone. I open my eyes; several greenish dots appear in front of me, the slowness of my body relaxes me, the sound of the water soothes me. I rise to the surface and let myself float as I like to do.

A few moments pass, and the sun, standing out in the blue sky, slowly burns my body, a relaxing contrast to the cold of the lake. My mind wanders, and I let myself be free, going with the current, letting it carry me.

I haven't felt as free as I do today in a long time. I truly smile, and with that gesture, I forget the wounds in my soul.

"Can I keep you company?" Derek's familiar voice wakes me, and I sink again, submerging myself, almost thrashing around like a crazy duck.

His silhouette seen underwater is large and clear, blending into the blue sky and the lake's reflection. Even with my clear view of what he's wearing, all I know is that he's shirtless. And maybe just in his underwear. Maybe.

I surface quickly, and I'm sure he's only in his boxers, which are black like my shorts. And we're both shirtless... Interesting.

I nod, smiling at him, pushing my wet hair back. Water runs down my face.

Before he jumps into the lake, Derek pulls down his boxers a little, revealing the thin line of hair that runs from his ripped abs to his cock, and then stretches, a mischievous smile on his lips. Then, after my mouth is almost open, he leaps off the pier toward me, narrowly missing me.

When Derek comes back up, I slap the water, and a cold spray hits him square in the face, and he loses it, shaking his head. I'm a good shot. Always have been.

"Oh, so it's like that?" Derek says, with a forced tone of vengeance and a mesmerizing smile. "Get ready, I won't take pity on you."

And he really doesn't.

He gets a barrage of cold water in my face, wave after wave, one after the other, hitting my eyes, blinding me, leaving me vulnerable to his next aquatic attack. I put my arms up to protect myself while I see nothing. And when everything goes calm again, it's time for my counterattack, but Derek isn't in front of me, waiting to shoot me in the eyes.

Where is Derek?

I get my answer when he pulls me down, quickly and gently. I get time to take one last breath before I'm submerged again. In the lake, his hands are gentler, warmer, and softer. I lose myself in his touch.

I smile underwater, inches from his beautiful face, as I hold him in my arms.

Chapter Text

"Is everything going as planned? Have the weapons, ammunition, and other supplies arrived yet?" Kate asked, direct and focused, checking the weapons needed for the lethal trap she planned against the werewolves. Christopher simply listened silently, watching her give the orders. After all, it was his sister's turn to lead the mission. "Everyone be at your posts, ready."

The large white room of the Argent house was dark, morbid, and cold, sinking into absolute silence as the moments passed, almost too long for Christopher. The only sign of light— and life —came from the sun rising outside, not quite radiant and warm, bright and encouraging, but enough to dispel the sad image of the ornate angels in the house's construction, saddened by the weight they carried on their shoulders.

"Are you sure of what you're going to do, Kate?" Christopher asked, his voice soft and serious as always, settling into the sofa, which was also white, like the rest of his house. She, his only sister and younger than him, put her cell phone in her pocket and began to analyze him, searching for weaknesses and flaws in his behavior, Chris thought, his eyes fixed on hers.

Kate crossed her arms over her chest, positioning her brother fiercely and courageously. In the darkness of the room, she looked like a ghost. The jeans she wore gave her an air of relaxation and youthfulness, something she did purposefully to deceive her prey—whoever they might be.

"Never ask a woman if she's sure what to do or not." The level brutality on her pretty face always suited her very well, and Chris had long since grown accustomed to his sister's abrupt personality. "Just let me lead the operation, little brother ."

He didn't like being called that; in fact, he never had. But Kate always did what she wanted, how she wanted, and testing his patience was one of those things. However, he remained as serious and focused as his sister, who almost pouted when she didn't get the reaction she wanted from her brother.

Chris, sitting, leaned forward, putting his elbows on his knees and staring thoughtfully around the room.

"We're not sure if Peter Hale is the new Alpha. If he's the one in the hospital security footage."

Kate almost laughed at his statement, sarcastic and acidic as always. Still with her arms crossed, she tossed a lock of blond hair to the side, wavy and shiny against the dull tone of the room.

"So, answer me," she began excitedly, her fierce fangs growing. "Why did you pay someone to erase the security footage?" The question made Chris flinch; the insinuation was an affront to her integrity, to her warm, silver blood. Seeing this, she continued mercilessly: "Why did you abort the last operation, the one to hunt down the Betas? Why didn't you decide to keep an eye on that girl in the hospital bed, Allison's little friend? I know why. You, little brother , are becoming weak."

The sharp edge of her pale blue gaze made it clear that Kate was overstepping her authority with him, even as his sister. Something slipped in that moment, in their glances, in their uncomfortable conversation, and they both knew exactly what it was.

"And you're becoming a killer, Kate."

Even though her eyes were light brown, now, from where Christopher stood, they looked completely black, an immensity of shadows and dancing figures. Kate, who had just been called a killer, remained standing like a statue, without even sighing. But then a cruel smile appeared, and Chris, who had decades of experience with supernatural creatures and had escaped death several times, felt fear for his sister. And this wasn't the first time...

"Your wife, the mother of your beloved daughter, would be ashamed of you, Christopher. Ashamed of the disappointment you became as a hunter, as a father, trying to hide the truth from your own daughter!"

There was a glass coffee table between the two sofas in the living room. Chris was sitting on the one on the left side of the room. There was a table —the man stood up suddenly and, with a single, strong, and swift enough movement on the wooden corner, shattered the glass into dozens of pieces and shards scattered throughout the room.

"Don't talk about her!" he roared, completely enraged. His wife had been murdered three years ago—and grief still fired his rage like a loaded rifle—by an entire Pack of wild werewolves living in northern Canada. She and Kate had ventured alone to kill them, but when they got there, Kate said at the time, the number of wolves was far greater than they had imagined. And his wife's life ended on a frozen hilltop, and the entire Pack's didn't last another five days after the death of his daughter's mother.

Her porcelain face didn't even twitch; neither the sharp shards nor her brother's wrath frightened her. Brave and bloodthirsty , as her father always told her.

"I'm sure it's him, the new Alpha. And I'd bet my hand that Derek is on his side with Uncle right now," she said harshly, oblivious to Chris. Turning her back on him, Kate walked toward the ornate white ceramic fireplace, turned on the gas, and, with a match in hand, set fire to the wood and ashes already embedded in the enameled marble. She stood in front of the lit fireplace, thinking—perhaps, Chris deduced—and realized she could actually put her hand to the fire . And before he could stop her, Kate turned back, still close to the blazing flames, and said, "You know, Chris, I just remembered something old Gerard used to say to us when we were kids." She didn't like to talk about him with Chris, for obvious reasons. Kate was the black sheep of the family. That surprised him, and she continued, empty and distant: "When something is impure, abnormal, against nature, it needs to be burned to be purified."

Perplexed, and nothing more. Christopher Argent, for several years of his dynamic and intense life, refused to accept a fact. But now, he accepted it completely, seeing the truth in his sister's insatiable, hollow eyes. Kate was a murderer.

Seeming to read his thoughts, she stood smiling near the flames, deadly and uncontrollable.

"Little brother, let's purify them, burning them until there are no bones left. Nothing left."

At the top of the stairs, sitting on the icy second-floor floor, Allison Argent sat, stunned and perplexed by what she'd just heard. How could what they said be true? The supernatural doesn't exist. Does my family hunt and kill werewolves? But even though she didn't believe it, nothing escaped her; she heard everything the adults said in the harsh conversation they insisted on continuing. Even after a few cold and threatening moments, the name of someone she loved was mentioned in the discussion.

And, absurdly, in a second, it all made sense.

Scott, her ex-boyfriend and the reason for her broken heart, was a werewolf now, and it was because of that that he'd abandoned her, that he'd destroyed everything between them and what they might once have had.

She rose from the floor and, determined, headed to her room with light, slow steps, so as not to make noise, while her mind worked hard to think of what to do.

She came to a conclusion, and it was the one that saved them. At least some of them.

It wasn't the first time he'd been there alone, and he was starting to think it wouldn't be the last.

Theo only thought Java Hones was cool when he had Stiles's invigorating and intense presence, and on this silvery-gray morning, like the others this past month, the coffee shop was a drag, lacking the company of the boy he had a crush on. And to top off his utterly boring day, Theo, in the far corner of the coffee shop, in a dark, knife-edge-cold space, stared in dismay as his boyfriend chatted with someone else. The other guy .

Derek didn't have expensive clothes, a luxurious mansion in an upscale neighborhood, a top-notch education, or even a powerful name like Theo Raeken. But what he had that the boy didn't was Stiles's undivided attention, who couldn't stop staring at the mouth of the vermin in front of him—Theo's words. Anger and hatred only grew in his heart as they smiled and touched each other happily.

From the moment they arrived, they both ignored him. Especially Stiles. But deep down, Theo didn't think he'd seen him there yet. On the other hand, Derek, a combination of muscle and wanton violence, had already been looking in his direction as soon as they entered the establishment. The menacing look he gave him was a warning, but Theo desperately wanted to disobey him, just to savor the taste of victory.

He didn't follow orders from anyone. Much less from an insignificant insect like Derek Hale.

But even though he didn't want to confess, Theo feared Derek. His threat that night was clear: he'd turn him over to the police, an attempt on his life. Being exposed as a stalker of a boy wouldn't sit well with Mr. Raeken, and that was one of the main reasons he'd distanced himself from Stiles so quickly—the locker was still Theo's best security. Her words still haunted him to this day, almost a week after what happened, forcing him to stay away from the one he would always love, the one who would never leave him alone . Not even in the depths of darkness.

But even so, Theo was on top. At least, that's what he thought.

The photos he'd taken in Stiles's room, the ones containing horrific images of werewolves, Celtic rituals, and accounts of people claiming to have lycanthropy, were printed out and taped to his bedroom wall, like a panel of clues to solve. A puzzle to be solved. Theo ruled out the possibility of it being something involving some stupid game Stiles enjoyed, because he knew them all. And the other alternative sounded a little more real than any he could have, besides, of course, the recent incidents—and people—in Beacon Hills being connected to all of this.

Werewolves existed, and Derek was one of them, apparently. Even considering the idea was idiotic to Theo. But ignoring the facts was worse. Erica, Boyd, and Isaac were as well as they had been before the accident, and Theo also couldn't ignore the fact that they had recovered so suddenly after the "animal attack." And Lydia, the fiery-haired girl Theo had never liked, who remained hospitalized with deep, thick gashes across her stomach—he'd seen it himself. And they still said a bear had done it to her. All lies. There were no bears and never had been in the Beacon Hills forest. Nor had any other animal that could inflict such damage as they had on Lydia. Theo researched all this, to be sure of what to do. He chose to lurk, to believe in the possible answer to the strange figure a few feet away.

Suddenly, entering the coffee maker with an apprehensive air, Allison Argent appeared in dark, neutral colors that suited her slender, sharp posture perfectly. Not only were her clothes like this, but her heart could also be described the same way. She looked ready to pounce on someone, Theo thought, as she walked toward the coffee shop's most smiling boys , a forced smile on her face, the young Raeken would say. Stiles and she greeted each other, amicably, unlike the fleeting moment she'd had with Derek, who'd left his hand extended for a moment, and she'd only returned the gesture after a while and with a touch of indifference. A hesitation clearer than water. Theo was loving the sight of it, his suspicions taking shape and taking shape before his eyes. A gratuitous spectacle that lifted him from his boredom. What does "Argent" mean in French? , he thought, and in a second, the answer came: Silver .

Did Allison know anything about Derek? If so, he'd wring the long-awaited answer out of her, of course, not literally...

"He's here," Stiles said to Allison, and Theo almost didn't hear him, leaning over the table as he did. He knew who they were talking about instantly. Scott, Stiles's dumb, straight friend, had returned to Beacon Hills, finally finishing the funeral of his paternal grandmother. Could it really be true?

And the Silver's reaction upon hearing this was indescribable, at the very least, unforgettable to Theo—and very suspicious, too.

"Is Scott here, in Beacon Hills?" He's not..."

Theo thought she'd stay a little longer, to entertain him and help him understand what was happening in town. But, to his surprise and that of the two in front of him, it spun around in a sideways glance, darted through the coffee shop, and through the door, disappearing down the street the same way it had appeared. Out of nowhere.

All the customers were alerted by the sound of the door slamming, including Stiles, who was staring at the grimy window of the cafe. Derek watched Theo, who only realized he was under the man's menacing gaze when Stiles turned his attention to the insect . They both stared at him, Stiles with a hint of pain in his eyes, Derek with utter contempt.

Mockingly, Theo smiled, lifted his mug of unsweetened coffee—he only drank it that way to stay in shape—and drank the hot, sour liquid.

Bitter as the hell he felt without Stiles in his life, with him. At least, for now.

The anxiety Stiles felt about meeting his brother was overwhelming—it was almost suffocating—but not as great as the urge to punch him when he finally came face to face.

Scott wouldn't be hurt if Stiles punched him in the face, and that was a certainty Stilinski knew. After all, werewolves didn't recover the way humans did.

Derek, who was driving the Camaro to the McCalls' house, three blocks from Java Hones—and Theo—had told Stiles some very personal things about himself back at the cabin, specifically at the lake. His bisexuality and backpacking lifestyle, which Stiles already had some knowledge of, didn't surprise him—and after this conversation about life, the two made out underwater. But when he asked Derek's age (which, frighteningly, the boy hadn't known until that moment) and Derek replied with the phrase, "I'm older than I look, but younger than you think," it truly confused him, more so than when Stiles was trying to memorize calculations and equations in advanced physics at BHHS. It was all very complicated. Finally, Derek said that if he were a normal human, he would be around 25 years old now.

On the main avenue that led to Stiles's house, Derek turned onto Seventh Street, the same number of blocks from where it was located. Stiles wanted to ask Derek if he'd been to his friend's house yet, but decided to remain silent. Maybe it was a wolf thing to know where everyone is , he thought, but then something caught his attention. About 20 meters away, in the house where he'd once felt so welcome, Stiles saw three silhouettes; Two were very familiar to him, and the other, the third, the female, carrying a large, heavy box with enviable comfort on her lap, was unknown, for now.

Cora, Derek's younger sister, was there, a few feet from her older brother. And, looking at the driver beside him, Stiles could see, in his attentive emerald gaze, that he was as anxious as he was. But unlike him, Derek hadn't seen his sister in years, and out of respect, still on the way back to the city, Stiles decided not to ask questions about it.

He patted his hand on Derek's stiff arm, the touch softening him a little.

"Don't be so nervous, Derek," Stiles said calmly, only to soothe the pain of a possible scar that wasn't embedded in his skin, but in the past. That's what he believed.

Raising his thick eyebrows slightly and smiling sideways, Derek replied, bold as he rarely was:

"I'm not nervous, Stiles."

Stiles, unconvinced, simply patted Derek's arm and then sprawled across the passenger seat, watching through the windshield as two of the most important people in his life walked out of the house and back onto the paved sidewalk. He smiled and said eagerly,

"Tsk, you’re not nervous," he said playfully, undoing his seatbelt, a crooked-jawed face lighting up with a smile. "I am."

"Why did you punch me in the face?" Scott asked, half-dazed, half-angry, smoothing his hand over the redness growing on the right side of his face. He was tanner, Stiles would say, thanks to the scorching Mexican sun, and a little stronger, too; the muscles in his arms stood out beneath the long white shirt he wore. His hair was trimmed on the sides and layered on top. He'd finally ditched the bowl cut. (No one had hair like that anymore.)

The red mark disappeared, leaving no trace of its existence.

" Why? " Stiles found himself raising his voice, almost too enraged. "Because you lied to me, hiding what was really going on with you."

There, on the paved path that led to the McCalls' porch, arguing with Scott, Stiles felt like family, like any other Saturday morning. No lies, no secrets. Just the presence of people who had always mattered to him—or had only recently begun to matter.

"Sorry, I should have told you sooner," Scott said seriously, dropping his strong arms to his sides. "But you didn't have to punch me, did you, Stiles?!"

The spotted human smiled like a cheeky child who had just pulled off his pranks. Stiles, every now and then, felt like that, a child.

"Stop, it didn't even hurt," he said, nonchalantly, gesturing with his hands. "Come on, give me a hug, dammit." Reverberating like a trumpet, descending the porch stairs, Melissa scolded, like the mother she was:

"How many times have I told you not to swear, young man?"

His cheeks flushed, burning like embers, embarrassed at being corrected in front of Derek and his sister. As Stiles searched for words to respond, she marched over to him and Scott and embraced them in a unique, warm, and tight hug. Warm as only Melissa's could be.

With his face resting on her shoulder, Stiles said, emotionally:

"Sorry, Mom… Melissa," he corrected himself, and couldn't say why. His chest tightened. "I missed you."

"We missed you too, son."

And just like that, in that fleeting moment, he felt himself literally embraced by his mother. And the pain in his chest disappeared.

"So, this is the famous Stiles Scott and Melissa couldn't stop talking about?" Cora asked, pointing with her chin, her arms crossed, her voice heavy and slightly sarcastic. (Stiles was already starting to like her.) She wore a black faux leather jacket, brown boots, and dark jeans, her ash-brown hair falling over one shoulder. "I thought you were fatter."

Her light brown eyes were subtly scanning him, and Stiles, who thought she'd inherited them from her mother, Talia Hale, simply said, sarcastically in every word,

"Yeah... yeah, I guess that's me. Are you Cora? I thought you were a lot more menacing."

She laughed, surprise evident in her expression, and looked at Derek, who was standing between them, only closer to Stiles, almost at his side. Cora turned to the boy, took a few steps, and extended her hand.

Stiles shook it, greeting her informally.

A fierce smile flashed across her lips, Cora's hand warming.

"You thought right, Stiles."

When they released each other's hands, Melissa and Scott emerged from the house, no longer carrying a suitcase, backpack, or box to retrieve from the trunk of Cora's car, which wasn't a Camaro like Derek's, but was also black like his. They approached the trio, Melissa smiling that her plants were still alive and Scott feeling light and happy as ever. A damp, cool breeze blew past, raising the hairs on Stiles's arms and taking away Scott's soft expression.

Cora frowned, almost as if she were going to, the gesture was so slight, her nostrils flaring. There was a scent there they caught, and it seemed to be coming from Stiles... and Derek.

"You had a nice weekend," she said precisely, glancing between Stiles and Derek. "You two, right?"

The sarcasm seems to flow from her, too, Stiles thought, shoving his hands into the pockets of his worn jeans.

"Mmm-rumm, that was great…" Embarrassed by what Scott and Cora might have sensed from them, Stiles fell silent.

Derek, who had been silent until then, murmured softly, close to Stiles's ear. Stiles smiled,

"Yes, it was."

Cora, slyly, with a small smile on her face, leaned in, "Sorry, I didn't hear you, Derek."

"We need to go now," Derek snapped, scowling, making Stiles jump at the sound of it so loudly in his ear. " He still doesn't like waiting, Cora."

Peter . It was him they were talking about; they were surely going to meet to discuss important matters, but this time, Stiles didn't even bother asking if he could go, because everything that mattered to him was just steps away. The story of an alpha killer would wait; for now, he only had time for his family.

Cora replied sharply, heading for the Camaro:

"Okay, then let's go."

Before Derek could move away, Stiles grabbed his right arm and whispered in his ear, feeling the wolf's skin crawl at his approach:

"Please, don't look like that. It's scary sometimes, you know?" Derek looked at him, challenged, almost offended. "She's your sister, calm down."

After a few moments, Derek and Cora disappeared at the end of the street, the gray morning contrasting with the black carriage disappearing around the corner of Seventh Street. Before leaving, the wolf made a move to kiss Stiles, wetting his lips, but didn't.

Stiles didn't think much of it.

"So, guys, where are my tacos?" he said, turning to see Melissa's sincere smile and a now-stunned Scott. "Too early for this joke, huh?" They both responded in unison, Melissa more enthusiastically than her son.

"Yes, Stiles."

"Madara's not allowed!" Scott snapped, sitting on the bedroom floor with Stiles, playing Naruto on his PS4, a used but useful video game he'd bought from a shopping app a long time ago. "This is the third time you've done it with him, Stiles! He's too over-the-top!"

"I think the lycanthropy package comes with several perks that qualify as over-the-top, but that doesn't mean I'm crying like you, bro!"

"Oh, screw you!"

"Aww, love you too" Stiles said excitedly, bumping his shoulder against Scott’s, who then started laughing with Stiles.

The laughter soon died down, and another match, won by Stiles, began.

“So, are you and Derek having a thing?” Scott asked, fending off Stiles’ attacks in the game. Stiles glanced at him sideways, attacking him mercilessly. “Like, I don’t know, dating, or just getting to know each other, or are you two just hooking up?”

In the game, Scott had taken a lot of damage, and Stiles was starting to worry he would suffer in real life too. How about another punch in the face?

“Good question, a very good one,” Stiles said frantically, using his avatar’s ultimate attack against Scott’s. “But I’m going to counter it with another. And you and Cora, are you dating? I saw your face when she left, and Derek’s sister didn’t even look at you.” Scott looked at him, his black eyes boiling like dark magma. Stiles always noticed everything (Everything!). He burst out laughing, and seeing his expression, stopped. "Sorry."

Calming down, Scott took a breath and began questioning him again:

"I'm serious, Stiles. Are you two dating?"

Tired of the interrogation, Stiles said, stressed:

"Why do you need to know? I don't meddle in your love life, man. I never have. And now you're meddling in mine?"

Losing his composure, and the game, Scott rushed in, saying:

"It hasn't even been a month since you broke up with Theo…"

The final straw broke Stiles's patience, and without Scott noticing, since he was paying attention to his friend, he lost the game again. But they didn't laugh this time.

"But it's been 10 days since your lie made me hate you." It's been ten days since you walked away from me and took your mother with you, our mother... Don't interfere in my life and don't use Theo as an example. You've lost that right, and it'll be hard to earn it back.

"I already apologized..." he said through gritted teeth.

"And I already forgave you." Stiles, irritated, dropped the controller on the floor and, when he turned his eyes to Scott, found his glowing, like two fireflies on a summer night. "Why are your eyes yellow ?"

Scott shook his head, his eyes returning to normal.

"Oh, I'm sorry if I scared you, I lost my concentration, Stiles, I'm sorry..."

"Calm down, calm down. But why are your eyes yellow and Derek's blue?"

Out of nowhere, as if it were already predestined, Stiles's cell phone rang loudly, a call coming in. And, with the phone already pressed to his ear, his eyes still on Scott's, he answered, not bothering to see who it was.

"Son?" Noah's energetic voice called, his father speaking to him.

Blinking and searching for his own voice, Stiles, who was busy thinking about the blue and yellow eyes, answered his father.

"Hi, Dad. What's up?"

"Where are you?" Noah asked, his tone harsh and soft. Sometimes even Stiles forgot his father was a sheriff.

"I'm at Melissa's house, she's already here with Scott."

"Oh, okay…" he stammered, sounding surprised on the other end of the line. "We'll talk later, then, son."

His father's tone was worried, apprehensive, and that alarmed Stiles.

"Why, Dad? What's wrong?"

Suddenly, cutting through the brief silence, Scott's phone beeped in his pants pocket, and he pulled it out, still holding the video game controller. He saw the message and, surprised, focused his full attention on it, on the phone screen, as Noah continued:

"The case of the dead body found in the woods is completely nonsensical. The suspect's footage just disappeared from my computer, and the suspect himself disappeared, which shouldn't have happened because he was supposed to be in a vegetative state... Anyway, I thought I'd ask for your help when I got back. Can you believe the woman who shared an apartment with Cameron Roberts was found dead, the nurse , right there on the Hale property? And speaking of Hale, I urgently need to talk to your boyfriend. Let him know, okay?”

Stiles, who had received all this in silence, was stunned and perplexed by this situation he'd gotten himself into. Cameron and Vivian were now a unique connection to the Hales, to Derek… Horrible things could happen if they were discovered, especially depending on Peter. And who should have deleted the files and footage? Had Peter done it? But of all this, what worried him most was the fact that he was lying to his own father, that he was coercing a vicious killer. Stiles swallowed.

The silence didn't last, because the boy had to answer something.

"Yes, yes…"

"Will you," Noah asked seriously, "cooperate with me, Stiles?"

"Yes, Dad, I will," he said reluctantly, lying painfully. Stiles knew Peter had already killed two women in cold blood, including one in front of him (he tried not to think too much about Vivian), but he also knew he couldn't turn Peter in. The reasons were obvious: if he turned him in, he could kill everyone in the station, criminals and cops alike, including his own father. And he could also take it out on his own brother, Scott, or Melissa, or perhaps kill all three of them, making Stiles's death the most agonizing and horrific possible. Not even Derek could defend him from the alpha. "See you later?" he finally asked.

"Sure! Don't linger there, I miss you, son."

With his head aching and his heart pounding under his ribs, Stiles said goodbye, feeling completely empty.

"Okay, bye."

On the other hand, happy with his son's return, Noah exclaimed,

"Bye, future FBI."

After he hung up, everything passed in a flash, as if that moment belonged only to him. Scott got up from the floor, searched for a t-shirt in the box he'd brought with him, took off the one he was wearing—yes, Stiles glanced at his friend's tanned abs, but without malice—and put on a new, clean shirt, heading for the bedroom door.

"I gotta go, bro," Scott announced anxiously, his phone in hand and looking at Stiles, who was still sitting, the screen still on. "Allison wants to meet me."

"There goes the dog with its tail between its legs," Stiles said spitefully, finally having a chance to make that joke.

"Fuck off!" Scott cursed irritably, disappearing through the door.

"I had to make fun of you, man!"

Derek didn't say anything during the trip to the cemetery, and Cora didn't either (she didn't even look at him).

They didn't talk about Stiles, the boy with Derek's scent ingrained in his clothes and body, and they didn't say anything about Scott, another boy who also had Cora's scent on his clothes, body, and other places...

She would soon find Peter, her only living uncle, who was waiting for her there, among worn tombstones and buried corpses, with a gray, rainy weather against them as a backdrop . It might rain later, she thought, glancing up at the sky, feeling the moisture fill her lungs. Derek continued to walk impassively beside her, and he purposely let nothing escape his body: fear, tension, worry, nothing. Cora did the same, and she remembered that she learned to do this on her own. Her parents had died too young to teach her how to control herself on nights with a full moon, and she, too, had lost all the tricks they could have taught her as a wolf. And something else that happened too early was her running away from her brother, Derek.

Seven years ago, when Cora hadn't yet had her first transformation, Derek was seduced by the bitch Kate Argent, or damned slut, it didn't matter to Cora. And one hot afternoon, while she was picking wild roses for her mother, her home and family were burned to ash and bones. And all of this, in Cora's mind, was Derek's fault. He'd always known the Argents were hunters, yet he'd still been led astray by a beautiful pair of legs and ample breasts. To her, Cora, as a child, he'd been the one who had ruined her entire family, and after that day, after her escape from him, Derek was no longer her brother.

(She survived and grew up alone, dealing with every possible mess in her life. Until she found a reason to share her pain, someone, really.)

Cora kept wondering why she'd helped him—agreeing to care for two strangers, one of them a young Beta who'd never faced a Full Moon before; welcoming Scott and Melissa into her own home in the Mexican countryside; coming here on a long, tiring journey; and, most importantly, why she was walking toward an undead being.

"Cora Hale," Peter intoned, smiling, "how long has it been since I saw my dear niece?" His back was to two large, polished headstones, faded by the time they'd been placed there. There were seven others following the vertical row of graves, and the names on them made Cora's stomach turn.

"It's been a long time, Uncle," she said, dry and cold, her hair ruffled by a blast of frigid air that petrified her. His courage to bring her here, in front of the graves of her parents, grandparents, uncles, and cousins, was truly a request, an offer. Cora didn't need Derek to tell her what Peter wanted (since he barely texted her), because it was clear he would invite her to join his new Pack.

"I'd say it was sad not having you around, Cora, but, you know, I was in a vegetative state, so…" He laughed lightly, as if the memory of spending seven years in a hospital bed was nothing special, funny. Suddenly, his tone became more serious, almost commanding. "Did Scott arrive?"

The question hung in the air, thick as rock and worrying like a bomb. Cora wondered why he was worried about Scott, but chose not to answer. They could sense his feelings for the boy.

Suddenly, his voice soft, Derek answered:

"Yes."

"Why didn't you bring him?" Peter asked gently, his eyes shining an arctic blue, the space between his brows deepening. "I'd like to meet my first creation."

Derek looked at Cora, seeking some kind of support from her, some help in this situation, and he found it.

"You'll have another chance, Uncle," Cora said respectfully. "Well, I know you want something from me," she gently crossed her fingers over her abdomen, choosing the right words, "and I already know what it is, but just in case, it's best to wait for you to invite me."

He smiled, showing his too-white, too-bright teeth (Cora hated that smile), and if he was suspicious, he didn't show it, but he said,

"I'm glad to know my niece wants to join me, just like your brother. You'll be my new Beta, Cora."

"There's something that's been bothering me ever since I learned you were the new Alpha of Beacon Hills. So, Uncle, from whom did you get the Alpha power? When, more or less?"

He stared at her impassively, sensing whatever emotions she felt. He remained standing there in his black clothes, as black as the night, and calmly said:

"I was blessed by the Moon itself, after years of waiting for its sweet mercy. I was trapped in my body, detained like a prisoner forgotten in a cell to die. I was trapped within myself. We know how difficult it is for a werewolf to go without a Full Moon, now imagine not being able to transform for 95 consecutive moons. Feeling the power, but not being able to use it. Finally, last month, in October, I could feel something new when the Moon rose silver in the sky, which restored the rise of the wolf within me. I got out of bed with slow steps and, invading the window, felt the vivid, warm power in my veins, and with that, my total transformation came. Gigantic, powerful, and ferocious. An Alpha in every sense of the word. And it was the Moon itself that gave me this power."

She didn't believe anything Peter said, but she didn't argue with anything inappropriate either; after all, he could easily split her in half. Everyone knew that to be Alpha, you either kill one or, in very few cases, become one. And she was certain her uncle wasn't "blessed." She almost laughed at the thought.

Suddenly, Derek spoke, and Cora remembered he was beside her.

"How did they find Vivian's body?"

Peter raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms, defiant as a lion.

"I think you already know how, Derek. Erica called the cops anonymously saying there was a body there, buried behind the house. I had to teach her and her bodyguard, Boyd, a lesson."

Derek squirmed, struggling not to say what he wanted, not to defy an Alpha. In the end, he remained silent as a statue of iron and steel. And Cora, watchful as an eagle, simply took in that information, keeping it to herself.

Somber, Peter turned back to the headstones, his back straight and strong as a tree trunk. The cold cemetery air that froze Cora's insides made her hear and feel better. The hatred between them was almost a thick, heavy curtain. The atmosphere was menacing.

"I will avenge the death of your parents, my mother, my brothers, and all the others who burned to death in that fire. The Argents will feel the pain I suffered trapped in my own body in the tearing of their skin. I will kill them; they will all perish beneath my fury."

After a few endless moments (and after saying she would reconsider her proposal to join her uncle), walking with Derek's silent companion out of the cemetery, a ray of light appeared in Cora's mind—the truth, perhaps.

Could Laura have been killed by Peter's claws? The last time Cora had seen her, she was still an Alpha. And a month ago, when she had last heard from her, when she had traveled here to Beacon Hills alone, Laura had said she was staying with a girl named Vivian. And if Cora wasn't mistaken, the woman was a nurse at the city hospital.

She considered asking Derek, but it was impossible that Peter had killed his own niece. Impossible?

Stiles was happy with the amount of pizza in front of him; three warm, unopened boxes, steam rising from the cardboard packaging. Melissa had bought them for a family dinner—she was too tired to cook anything tonight. And before she, Stiles, and Scott were even there, ready to eat their fill, Melissa went to the hospital that afternoon and quickly scheduled her return to work, starting tomorrow, Sunday. Scott, sitting to Stiles' left at the table, was acting strangely; in fact, he seemed completely sullen. He looked at his hands and twisted his fingers every now and then, as if he wanted to twist them, break them one by one. Stiles wondered if he'd done something to make him look like that, but no, maybe it was the conversation with Allison that had put him in such a peculiar mood. Stiles decided to leave him alone and not ask anything—the possibility of him biting him was real.

The last time Stilinski checked his phone, it was 6:47 PM. And before he could bite into his first slice of Portuguese pizza with ketchup melting over the hot crust, Derek and Cora knocked on the front door. Melissa quickly ran from the kitchen to the living room to answer them, as it was raining outside and they could get wet (it looked like it would rain more and more until the end of the night). Stiles had ignored the rain for long enough, and he should have been prepared for the storm that was about to arrive.

"Pizza!" Cora, bold and with her brown hair dripping wet, burst into the kitchen, and this made Stiles a little jealous of her and Melissa, because even he didn't have that much freedom. "Can I?" Cora pointed to a still-closed box, seeming to know what was in it, and, with Melissa's maternal consent, she opened it and took out a large slice of pepperoni; she devoured it in an instant.

Silent and somber, Derek emerged, a little wet, watching his sister with a small smile on his face, and walked over to where Stiles was standing at the far end of the table. Immediately, the boy rose from his chair (unsure of why he did so suddenly) and grabbed Derek by the waist, kissing him—that kiss was valid for now, for the moment Derek hadn't properly said goodbye to him. The wolf's cold, hard face warmed welcomingly, the moisture evaporating from his lips as if a living flame had just been lit there—the raindrops that had come with Derek ran down the curves of their faces and shattered in the kiss: refreshing.

Derek pulled him closer in his strong, heavy arms, wanting him more than anything, wanting to protect him until the end, from everything and everyone.

The black leather of his wet jacket stretched with every movement. His hands traced Stiles's lean, sinuous body, and Derek felt like a painter admiring his muse in that moment.

They deepened the kiss—heat invading them—and both, without a doubt, wanted to burn in it.

"Can you stop this, bro?!" Scott said irritably, his eyes fixed on them; they looked like two empty voids staring at each other.

Stunned, Stiles pulled away from Derek's thick lips, and Derek saw that he was in the same state as him, only a little more startled.

"Are you serious , Scott?" Stiles said indignantly, pulling away from the arms holding him. "I didn't know you were a werewolf and a homophobe."

"I'm not a homophobe!" Scott exclaimed nervously, as if surprised at himself. "I'm just asking you to stop this... with him..."

Melissa, who at that moment seemed like she wanted to go for her son's jugular, simply crossed her arms and, stressed, said:

"What's wrong with Stiles kissing Derek? Do you own him now? I didn't know you were in charge of his relationships, Scott. Apologize to both of them now."

Scott squirmed at the thought of apologizing to Derek—but to Stiles, after this, he would even apologize.

"I'm not going to apologize to him," he said, his tone slightly lower, focused only on his mother at the other end of the table. Cora just watched them. "And, Mom, you know why I don't want them together... you know..."

"What reason is that?" Stiles asked, who by this point was already a nervous wreck. Scott suddenly fell silent, and so did Melissa. Cora was already silent, eating, just listening to them, and Derek, who was almost beside her, didn't even seem to breathe. "Now you two are going to keep quiet? Start and finish, Scott, because I can walk out that door and never come back, and you know I can do that without a second thought. So, damn it, what reason is that ?!"

"Earlier today you asked why my eyes were yellow and Derek's were blue..."

"And what does that have to do with..."

"My eyes are like that, yellow, because I've never taken anyone's life, Stiles. But he's killed, right, Derek?" Scott asked, a venomous sneer in his mouth, his eyes never leaving the withdrawn man beside his brother. "He killed an innocent."

You know those moments when you feel small, smaller than everything around you, and even your vision makes you think you've actually diminished? It was that sense of vulnerability Stiles felt at that moment. His heart threatened to stop and his legs to collapse to his knees.

"He threatened my mom and me, Stiles, saying that if we didn't cooperate, he'd break his end of the deal we made before I left and take care of you himself. He'd kill you if I didn't do what he wanted!"

"And what did he want?" Stiles found himself asking, his voice lower than a whisper and his heart racing like a thousand machines.

(Stiles hadn't stopped looking at Derek—and Derek didn't even dare look back at him—it was like it had been a dream ever since, and out of nowhere, it turned into a terrible nightmare.)

"He wanted my help to take down the Alpha and steal his powers after all. That's what my end of the deal was for: I'd go to Mexico, learn to control myself, and return to Beacon Hills to help him kill the bastard who turned me. That guy wasn't doing any charity, Stiles. Derek just wants power! He even threatened Allison."

His face wet with tears, Stiles approached Derek, who was still looking down at his feet. With a mixture of sadness and anger in his heart, he pleaded, sobbing,

"Tell me this isn't true, tell me Scott misunderstood what you said and didn't understand what you meant. Look at me, Derek! Look me in the eyes, damn it, and tell me this isn't true! Tell me you were only here to protect me. Please, look at me and tell me…"

"Everything he said is true," Derek whispered sadly into the absolute silence, and Stiles collapsed as if it were a punch to the face, as if he'd just been shot in the stomach. He felt himself dying inside, a needle of pain piercing his flesh, tearing it apart. But this wasn't the first time he'd felt betrayed by someone. Now, to him, Derek felt just like Theo.

Stiles, his face hot from crying, didn't know how, and didn't even bother to force his memory, but before he knew it, he was outside, soaking in the heavy rain, running aimlessly, fleeing all those voices and truths. He wanted to disappear, evaporate like boiling water.

If someone called for him to come back to the house and talk about what happened, to explain everything, he wouldn't listen—Stiles didn't want to hear anything else, just the pounding of his heart and the resonant sound of the rain on his skin.

He ran, and ran, and ran…

However, about five blocks away from Scott's house, Derek caught up with him and grabbed him by the arm; without force or violence—his touch was no longer lifeless. As the rain lashed them with bursts and bursts of large, thick drops, the moon showed in the dark sky.

"Let me go!" Stiles yelled, exasperated, finding his voice and breath again. "Don't touch me!"

Derek was completely soaked when Stiles turned to him, and finally looked into his eyes, where raindrops were running down his cheeks and into his stubble. Or were there tears there too? Stiles didn't want to know, not anymore. The wolf's greenish gaze made his heart break—and this wasn't the first time he'd felt this way, either.

"I can explain, Stiles…"

"EXPLAIN WHAT, DEREK?! How you threatened them, their lives, and mine, my father's? Or how you used me as your sex toy? The sex you had with me, I've already been abused, must have been difficult to get me into bed with, right? And all of that simply to have the power of an Alpha."

"It wasn't just for power, nor to use you, Stiles. I did all this to restore my family's name, my name… Please…"

"I trusted you, damn it, how I trusted you! After Theo, I'd never been with anyone else. No one! Then you show up, get involved, fake feelings, and get me into bed, as if it were easy for me! And rest assured, it's not! IT'S NOT FOR ME! I trusted you with my body and my heart… You're nothing but a murderer like your uncle!”

"Please, let's talk…"

"NO!"

Then Stiles disappeared from there, running, and running, and running until he reached home, the rain beating down on him violently. There, taking advantage of the fact that his father hadn't arrived yet, he climbed the stairs and went to his room, wetting and dirtying the floor with his sticky shoes.

In his bed, away from everyone, and especially from Derek, Stiles cried a lot, because deep down, he felt dirty, once again.

Used, once again.

The silence of the gas station filled the air around the wolf, and the emptiness in Derek's heart only grew as he thought of Stiles. Memories came rushing back, his voice harsh in his head. The words hurt his skin, and the tears streaming down Stiles's white face with the rain only shattered his heart further. Derek didn't place any blame on Stiles. Because, besides having deceived and lied to him this whole time, he knew it could all be discovered.

Stiles was just a victim in this story.

He began filling the gas tank, the numbers scrolling on the machine behind him. The silence was heavy in the place, as if it were palpable, as if it could touch him and tear him apart with its razor-sharp claws. Derek thought he deserved this, was almost certain this was his punishment, to always be alone , to be the lone , unhappy wolf.

Not so alone , he thought. The moon was watching him. It was nearing its full peak, and its addictive power was already subtly touching his skin, like a warning, a command to prepare.

The idea of ​​fleeing Beacon Hills flashed through his mind, and so did the likelihood of it happening. If he abandoned Stiles now, Derek would never hurt him again, and as a result, he would live, unlike Paige, who became involved in his life and died in his arms.

Stiles is so much like Paige…

Suddenly, the air was split in half by a bullet that whistled past his ears, nearly hitting him in the head, cornering him with the deafening roar. Then, before he could even try to dodge the next shots, a blinding flash exploded into white sparks, partially blinding him; the light seemed to come from all sides. Derek saw several silhouettes nearby, near the gas station and across the deserted street. He dove back, trying not only to escape the gunfire he was being targeted in, but also to escape the wolfsbane bullets that hit him in the chest.

It worked quickly, and the werewolf fell, not only to the concrete floor of the station, but to the very darkness of his being.

A voice came before he fell asleep and never woke again, and the executioner spoke, brimming with disgust and visceral hatred:

"We've caught the runaway dog, boys." It's her. "What am I going to do with you, puppy?" she whispered low enough for only Derek to hear.

There was no doubt.

It was Kate Argent.

With the windows closed and the thick curtains blocking the midday sun from entering, it was almost impossible for Stiles's room not to be completely stuffy and hot, even hotter than if he'd opened the windows before bed. The Sunday sun whipped like scorching coals outside, and some of its heat had already taken its toll on Stiles's body. Sitting on the edge of his bed, which had been damp as old cloth since last night when he'd come home soaking wet, Stiles was dripping with sweat; the black T-shirt he'd worn last night clung to his back like a sticky second skin, and his wet hair stank like the rest of the place—it didn't even feel like a normal late autumn day.

Sitting there, still waking up, that bad feeling kept coming back, as if it had risen from his stomach to his throat and temporarily trapped there. Stiles knew what it was, because last night, during the storm, he'd let himself be enveloped in that fatal, destructive pain, crying, and screaming, and hating himself… like he hadn't done in a long time.

He then decided to get up and tidy up the mess in his room, to try to forget that person : he opened the curtains and windows, which were a bit stuck; he changed the damp sheets on his bed and put them in the dirty clothes box in the bathroom; he took off the grubby, wet socks that were thrown in the corner of the room and put them in the bathroom box as well. Finally, looking at his reflection in the mirror, Stiles saw that he was a wreck. There were faintly deep, black circles under his eyes, darkened from crying himself to sleep all night… And his skin had a strange, dull look. So, seeing himself this way, he got ready with his toothbrush and toothpaste and, after taking care of his oral hygiene, he then took care to wash away the stench with a cold, relaxing shower.

And he lingered in the shower for a long time, tears mingling with the water droplets falling on him.

Lying on the living room couch, with the television tuned to some random channel, Stiles was feeling better after the soothing shower he'd taken. The green striped boxer shorts and white tank top he wore matched his current mood. His father wasn't home, but rather at the police station downtown. And as was customary, Stiles was going to have lunch without him, alone once again. And no, Stiles didn't want to go to the McCalls' house and have lunch there with Scott. For him, the owner of that crooked jaw was partly to blame for his broken heart. Of course, Stiles tried to ignore all of this (the feeling of being betrayed by his best friend and his boyfriend... by Derek, now a stranger, who only entered his life to stay close to the walking insurance policy that was Stiles, all his own assumption). This whole situation, even though he didn't want to agree, was like what had happened with Theo, since the feeling of helplessness was the same.

Suddenly, someone knocked on the door, politely and measuredly. Stiles, startled, found himself walking toward it, leaving the living room and a boring TV show. He unlocked it, turned the knob, and opened the door. He wished he hadn't gotten up from the couch.

Their faces creased with worry, Scott and Cora stood in the doorway, both dressed in worn, casual clothes. She was a little more dressed up than he.

"Good morning," Scott greeted in a whisper, trying not to look into Stiles's sparkling eyes, who completely ignored him.

Crossing his arms over his chest, blocking them from crossing the threshold, while glancing back and forth between them, Stiles asked curtly,

"What do you want?"

Scott, head down, simply lowered his head and looked at his feet. Cora stepped forward, and to Stiles, she smelled something inside, in his house. The wolf looked deep into his eyes, brutal and savage like that guy's—that's how Stiles thought of Derek now—and said, so close he felt the heat of her body brush against his,

"Yeah, Derek's not here. Come on, Scott, I told you it was a waste of time coming here."

And she walked away from the house, resolutely, cutting through the tall grass in front of the Stilinski residence.

"Wait," Scott said nervously, and she stopped only when she reached her silver 4WD. The boy turned to Stiles. "We're looking for Derek. He's not answering anyone's call. Did you happen to see him?”

Stiles raised his eyebrows and shook his head, not believing the audacity of that question.

"Are you seriously asking me that?" he said, his voice a little higher and even more cutting. Scott probably regretted asking it at that moment.

Stiles saw Cora's agitation in his peripheral vision, and at that exact moment, she spoke loudly:

"Scott, COME ON! We're wasting our time here!" He turned toward her, apprehensive. While Stiles just watched them.

"He could go looking for you with us…"

"I'm not going anywhere, and I'm not going looking for anyone either."

The words tumbled out of his mouth without a second thought, but even though they were so unintentional, he couldn't feel any remorse for their weight. Scott, half-impressed, half-hurt, turned to his friend, seeming to know what Stiles was feeling when he said those words, his expression growing lighter. The moment stretched for seconds.

Eager and in control, Cora exclaimed, hurriedly getting into her car:

"Great. Let's go, Scott!"

He, the one who Stiles considered a brother, simply stepped away from the entrance and shoved his hands in his jeans pockets before saying,

"If you change your mind, Stiles, we'll be in the hospital morgue…"

And then he was interrupted by Stiles roughly slamming the door in his face.

Derek, handcuffed to a reinforced metal grate that was visibly muddy, tried to remain alert, focused, listening to everything around him—especially a leak that insisted on dripping in the left corner of where he was standing; where he couldn't see the sunlight to know what time it was. It could be night, and he wouldn't know if the full moon was shining in the sky with all its power. But he thought the sun was still high above, warm and bright like the star it was, because in the cube dungeon where Derek was, the atmosphere was stuffy, torrid, and humid. The smell of earth was almost suffocating.

Remembering warm presences earlier that day, Derek had received a sudden visit from Allison, Kate's only niece and Scott's ex-girlfriend—just the memory of the boy's name was a one-way trip—who appeared through the stainless steel portal accompanied by her murderous aunt.

The girl watched him from afar, stunned, her large black eyes analyzing him fearfully.

"Are you sure he's a…"

"Werewolf?" Kate added sarcastically, approaching a device connected to high-voltage wires that ran to the metal grate and connected to Derek's body. "He's a freak, Allison."

The niece remained still, hugging herself, cowering like a frightened child.

"But he seems so human," Allison murmured, ignoring Derek's pleading looks.

"Does this look human to you?" Suddenly, when Kate activated a device connected to the grate where Derek was trapped, a horrific discharge of electricity coursed through him with the speed of lightning, pain and burns rippling through his body, charring him internally. Derek let the wolf show itself, and Allison was startled and left the room. "That's what I thought, dear."

Outside, after Kate had finished her electrifying moment with Derek, she and Allison were leaving when the wolf, still recovering from the shocks, heard the older hunter say:

"We have to prepare ourselves. Tonight we're going to kill all those bastards, dear."

Allison didn't say anything to Kate, but her heart felt like it was about to leap out of her chest. Was it from euphoria or worry? The wolf couldn't answer.

The only thing he knew was that the Moon could still save him from that place, giving him some of her immense power. Or maybe they'd come to help him get out, and unfortunately, thinking about it, if they found him, they might not make it out alive—they'd all die there, at Kate's hands.

But Derek didn't have much faith in that possibility of being helped. Not after what had happened.

A few hours later, Kate Argent emerged from the dungeon again, only this time she was alone. With a wry, mischievous smile on her face, she closed the stainless steel door and quickly approached Derek, who was still tied to the metal grate.

"Seeing you like this, trapped, unable to defend yourself or move, brings back my earliest memories. Do you remember what we did, Derek? How we did it ?"

Kate ran her cold hand over Derek's bare, sweaty chest, and he was repulsed by her icy touch. Suddenly, when he noticed, she had grabbed his belt, pretended to take it off, but she didn't. However, she lowered her head to the wolf's ripped abdomen, and with her warm, slimy tongue, Kate licked it, her brown eyes sparkling with audacity.

"Of course you remember, handsome," she whispered, close enough to kiss him. "Because it was one afternoon, after some crazy sex, that I killed your entire family. Actually, I ordered them killed, but that's the same thing, isn't it?"

He remained still, breathing slowly, like a monk in his prime. And she pulled away from him a little, discouraged that she hadn't gotten what she wanted.

"Smile, Derek. Why don't you smile more?" People must be annoying you, right? Or maybe your family told you that too, hottie? But whatever it is, I understand you, because I'm like that too: grumpy and joyless. Except, of course, when I'm chasing freaks like you. I feel like a little girl at an amusement park."

He continued to look down at the concrete floor beneath his feet, trying not to give her the attention she craved. His heart was pounding with rage in his chest.

She continued, irritated, her irony hissing in the air:

"Seriously, you're not even going to make a move on me, sweetheart." Derek Hale, the jerk who was seduced by a hunter who turned his family to dust, did you tell them, before they died, about us? About our relationship?

If Derek hadn't been chained to that fence, he would have already shut Kate up once and for all. But even though he was there without having done anything to anyone, he would have continued to listen to what she had to say. Maybe the hunter would say more than she should?

"You're not going to tell, are you? Hmm, I think you'd like to know how your uncle became Alpha. Or did he tell you the truth?" She trailed off thoughtfully, her eyes analyzing a situation Derek didn't know. "No, he wouldn't. Peter is blinded by power, but that doesn't mean he's stupid, not completely."

Her eyes locked with his; Derek was now directing his full attention to Kate, who smiled.

"As I imagined, little Derek doesn't know anything."

"You have no idea what you're talking about," he muttered irritably.

"And you, you idiot, have no idea that your uncle killed your sister to become Alpha! Yeah, he killed Laura, the beloved firstborn daughter, or should I say, the first pup of the litter!" Kate spat, distraught, a manic expression on her face.

What ? Derek thought, IT CAN'T BE! Confusion filled his mind in those palpable moments, almost more painful than the certainty of the torture he would sooner or later suffer there. Could Laura Hale, the daughter and eldest sister of his mother's former Pack, really have been killed at the hands of her own uncle, Peter Hale? Or was that just another lie coming out of that damned Argent hunter's mouth? After all, Derek, like Cora and… Stiles, was also suspicious of that whole "moon-blessed" thing and all that other bullshit.

"You're lying!" Laura ran away years ago and never came back!

"Really?" she asked, smiling. "So, tell me, why do you think he disfigured and killed a stranger in the middle of the woods, just like that? Did you see the photos of that Cameron Roberts? If you did, you didn't look closely. Because she had the same brown eyes as your mother," Kate said, drifting off, thinking of Laura's frigid, torn face in the police photos, and Derek felt his stomach churn at the sight of that sickly expression on her.

He fell into complete silence, stunned by all the information, his face growing darker and more filled with sadness.

Ruthlessly, Kate smiled, leaving the room, leaving him alone with his internal torture—which was as effective as cuts and burns.

" He killed your sister ," she hummed contentedly, slamming the steel door shut.

"Just shut the damn door!" “Cora whispered, approaching the cold morgue drawers, glaring deadly at Scott. “Someone might see us here!”

With a click, the door closed, and a sick look settled over the young man.

“There,” he murmured.

Cora passed one, two, three, four large, icy metal drawers. In the fifth, a shiver running through her body, she found what she was looking for.

“Cameron Roberts. Family not found.” The cold, grimy obituary taped to the side of the fifth drawer clearly stated who was inside. Cora placed her hand on the doorknob, which froze her with a morbid cold. She opened the drawer bluntly, and, frowning, felt a horrible odor of formaldehyde invade her lungs. Scott, who was right behind her, quickly backed away, covering his face, but Cora, who hadn't taken a step back, pulled back the metal table the body was on and, trying not to think too much about what she was doing, opened the semi-transparent bag in which the corpse had been placed. Seeing that image (the purple skin; whitened joints and limbs; the lacerations all over the body, especially the face), Cora felt a slight urge to vomit. However, even beneath the nauseating odor of the chemical, formaldehyde, she noticed the presence of a familiar scent, one that had been etched into her olfactory memory for years. The feeling of being torn apart also came with it. Being right was painful. "Peter really killed her."

"Why would he do that?" Scott asked, nauseated, a note of genuine surprise in his voice.

"For power," Cora whispered distantly, caressing her older sister's icy face. To her, Laura still had an air of beauty even then. The deep cuts no longer frightened her, but they gave her the strength to fulfill a silent promise made there, in the complete silence between sisters. "It was always for power."

"I don't understand, Cora," Scott said, a little louder than he should have.

Cora—who had been dead inside for some time—seemed unfazed by the fact that she remained there, caressing her sister, decided to speak, sadness in every note of her words:

"He never made an effort to be kind and considerate to the members of our old Pack. We knew he hated not having succeeded his own father, my grandfather, and thus not having become the next Alpha of the pack, and somehow, we all understood what he was going through, even my own mother. On the other hand, she ended up being born the firstborn daughter of a rare line of werewolves already born with lycanthropy, and, as has always been the duty of the firstborn son of the Alpha couple, she succeeded her father and became the Alpha we knew... And she carried this burden until her last breath. Therefore, Laura, as the firstborn daughter, had this right from birth, but she didn't want to kill my mother when the time came to assume control of the Pack. So, before Derek even met Kate, Laura ran away, abandoning everything and everyone. Years later, in the far north of our country, on the Canadian border, I finally found her. We reconciled, and everything was fine. But the Alpha of the Pack she was part of ended up harassing one of his Betas, a recent Transformed, and that's how Laura managed to become Alpha, killing a huge sexist son of a bitch. And the rest of the story is here in front of us. The story of how he managed to steal an Alpha's power.”

"We still have to find Derek and stop whatever Peter is planning," Scott said anxiously, walking down the main hospital corridor with Cora in tow, ready to hide from her mother, who didn't know he was there. "How are we going to do that?"

"I have an idea, but I don't know if it will work," she said, more hopeful than sad. At least, that's what Scott thought.

"What's this idea?"

They hurried through the building's front door, the afternoon fading from the sky, the orange sunset decorating it with artistic brushstrokes.

"Call potential allies to attack a common enemy." She spoke seriously as they walked to her silver 4WD. Out of nowhere, she heard a message arrive on Scott's cell phone, which he immediately checked with concern. Cora ignored it. "Let's arrange a meeting with Peter's Betas."

However, Cora's plan (which was to use the Betas' anger against the Alpha on his first full moon) didn't work. In a call from Scott's cell phone, none of them agreed to confront Peter. Only one of the boys, Boyd—Scott told Cora his name, who didn't know him—showed a spark of courage to do so, but Erica and Isaac soon changed his mind, finally putting an end to the wolf's strategy.

Her plan of attack against Peter was falling apart.

Although Cora felt a sense of failure, the search for her brother would not cease. Even if Derek had done what he did to her (and to the rest of the family, in her mind, of course), he would still be her brother. The only one alive. The only one she could fight for, the one who could try to "hide" the past in a little box and save him from possible death.

Saving Derek was her only goal at that moment.

As the hours passed, soon after he no longer had Kate to irritate him, Derek received a visit from a brute, about six feet tall, bald, and white. Neo-Nazi style , he thought before receiving a series of violent punches to the face and precise blows to the stomach—all of the punches were delivered to the werewolf with silver brass knuckles, which by that point were already spattered with blood red.

The hours passed slowly, like the wolf's attempts to heal its wounds, and the attacks continued, strong and unforgiving. As a hunter should be, Derek thought, his jaw dislocated for the third time. However, the brute, already tiring of crushing him, couldn't finish the job and kill him. And that was the only thing keeping Derek alive. For now.

He was still breathing only because Kate Argent herself wanted the pleasure of killing him, and she wouldn't be long in coming.

After spending the entire afternoon depressed, listening to sad songs like Lord Huron's "The Night We Met," Coldplay's "The Scientist," and Lewis Capaldi's "Someone You Loved," Stiles finally decided to visit Lydia in the hospital, where she was still unconscious. He thought about checking to see if she was better and asking her for advice, even though he knew Lydia wouldn't answer him, only listening to him lament the breakup between him and Derek. And soon, the worry about the "guy's" whereabouts returned. Why hadn't he answered Cora and Scott? Why had he literally disappeared out of nowhere? Why hadn't he texted me?

Stiles forced himself to suppress those thoughts, because just remembering him—his warm skin, his intimidating body, his emerald eyes—made his whole body tremble with longing and anguish.

He was ready to leave. He had changed his clothes—instead of his old white tank top, he opted for a newer, more stylish t-shirt of the same color, complemented by a green-and-white striped flannel shirt. As for pants, he chose his favorite: a pair of light blue jeans, tight in just the right places, and finally, his old white Converse sneakers—and fortunately, he had already found the keys to the Jeep.

He went downstairs, opened the living room door, locked it, and headed for the Jeep, with the blue sky and the sun disappearing, leaving only a beautiful orange sunset to welcome the majestic night that was about to arrive. Suddenly, Peter stepped out from behind the Jeep, contrasting sharply with the vehicle's blue bodywork, as he was wearing only black clothes (t-shirt, pants, and shoes). His false good-guy expression was etched on his face. He irritated Stiles so much—so much, even more than his presence there.

Peter, forcing a gentle look into his striking light blue eyes, approached the driver's side door and stood there, his deadly hands behind his back, his chest open.

"Hello, Stiles. How are you?" he greeted, his tone polite and pleasant. But that facade of etiquette didn't fool Stiles, and it was proven when the man continued, saying, "Well, today you're going to help me find Derek. Actually, it's now."

The boy remained still, a few feet from the feared Alpha, but the words that left his mouth were expelled with excessive doses of pure hatred.

"No, I'm not going," Stiles said through gritted teeth. "I have no idea where—"

"Either you help me find him," Peter interrupted calmly, "or I'll kill the people you love. Maybe that redhead in the hospital will be the first. Her name is Lydia, isn't it?”

And there was an obvious decision, along with Peter's camouflaged happiness; the choice seemed easy; anyone would choose to save the life of a good friend, but Stiles's selfishness and self-preservation screamed at that moment. He'd already risked so much for everyone around him, for the people he loved, and now, he was being pressured to find the one who hurt him so much, who deceived him, who used him. It was like telling him to swallow his pride. But after all, if he did, swallowed his pride, what would happen to his life? Die? Live? He wanted to laugh just thinking about it.

"How am I going to find him?" Stiles finally asked, deeply worried. The sky grew more beautiful, bringing in the merciless and beautiful night.

"You're smart," Peter said shrewdly, walking to the passenger door, waiting for Stiles to unlock it. "You can easily figure out a way to find my nephew."

Stressed, Stiles reached the Jeep and unlocked it, and they both got in. He started the car, and the car roared to life. Peter seemed impressed by something about him, about Stiles, as he couldn't take his eyes off the boy.

"Next time, Peter, be more polite," the human said, nervous with that blue gaze on him, his hands tense on the steering wheel. "Don't come growling at me like I won't do whatever you want. I'm very obedient, you know?" And Stiles smiled, pretending to flirt with Peter. Surprised, he narrowed his eyes and laughed (and licked his lips with his hot tongue).

"Let's go, kid," Peter said, a trace of a smile on his face, and Stiles could have sworn he'd only just noticed how gorgeous he was. Unfortunately, he is a murderous asshole who deserves to die.

And so, in silence, they made their way to the forest closest to the city, followed from afar. Danger was imminent.

The ground was damp, and the air thick. The forest whistled as Cora prepared to howl, to, as a last resort, find Derek, her brother. The moon was still slowly rising in the dark sky; night hadn't yet fully filled it, but the presence of its power was already noticeable on the wolf's skin. The full moon was approaching!

Cora filled her lungs, wrinkled her nose (sniffing Scott's nervousness, who was behind her, near an oak tree), and, arching her back, she howled, so loud and vibrant that her entire body shivered. And she felt the same thing happen to Scott, who vibrated with the sound that reverberated through the forest. Cora, after howling for a few seconds, stopped and listened. All she could hear were birds flying, deer running in the distance, and the sound of trees being shaken by the wind…

And then, far away, to the west of where they were, Cora heard a howl. A return. A cry. A call for help.

Without thinking twice, without looking back, without considering saying anything to Scott, Cora ran as fast as a wolf could run, cutting through the forest, into the undergrowth, and stepping on the wet leaves and damp earth. Her hair whipped the air around her.

Her brother was calling her, he was asking for her help!

On the way to the forest, Stiles had a plan in mind: to try to track Derek's location by hacking his cell phone, so Peter wouldn't want to kill him if he couldn't find him. Stiles had learned how to do this from Danny last year, when, at his house, doing a chemistry project with a partner, Danny tried to find out where his boyfriend was. After a phone call, he turned out to be his ex (the guy in question was at a gay nightclub, cheating on him). The only things Stiles needed to locate him were his laptop, which had been in the backseat of the Jeep since his vacation, Derek's cell phone number, and a little time. But apparently, he didn't need to do anything else.

"Stop the car," Peter ordered apprehensively. He and Stiles were on a dirt road, unmarked and poorly maintained, in the middle of the forest in the dead of night. The night was engulfing the forest more and more. "Did you hear that noise, Stiles?"

"Yes... Was that a howl?" he asked, shivering at the sound.

The howl that echoed throughout the forest had stopped, and Peter, beside Stiles in the passenger seat, seemed to have heard a message, a code, for he was concentrating hard, replaying each note of the sound in his head. The corner between his eyebrows was furrowed, and his mouth was slightly open. His blue eyes stood out in the dim light inside the car.

Peter turned to Stiles, who wished he wasn't admiring the red lips, the light blue eyes, the thin beard, the symmetrical face... If Peter noticed the boy's gaze on him, he ignored it.

"Derek is asking for help. But why would he be in the middle of the forest? Right here?" Peter, in his calm, husky voice, asked a rhetorical question, and Stiles immediately understood why. To the west, within the woods, a few hundred yards away, was the old Hale house. "I know where he is," Peter whispered, and in a louder voice, he added, "Or rather, where they imprisoned him."

Stiles, his brow slightly furrowed and a feeling of worry in his chest, asked, waving his hands,

"What do you mean, 'Derek's asking for help'? Wait, the hunters kidnapped him, didn't they? But why would they do that to Derek? He didn't do anything! Unless Kate Argent is behind this, maybe she wants to..."

"Kill him?" Peter added, apparently surprised by the boy's sagacity. A challenging smile grew on his lips. "You're very clever, but you missed one point, one detail. Kate doesn't just want to kill my nephew, she wants to kill all the werewolves in my new Pack, Stiles." He said it as if it were the most normal thing in the world, as if he'd been through worse, and that frightened the human. "Derek, Cora, Scott, Boyd, Erica, Isaac, me, especially me , and even your little friend, who Kate will surely burn alive. She wants to kill us all . And for that to happen, Kate Argent needs me."

Stiles shifted in the driver's seat and came face to face with Peter, who was analyzing his every move. His heart was pounding wildly in his chest and his breathing was becoming more and more uneven. Kate would kill them all. That couldn't happen!

"And what do you intend to do? Kill her?" Stiles asked, unsure of what he would feel if Peter actually killed the woman. It was a strange feeling, the kind that has no name. He felt sick at the thought of the Alpha ripping out every internal organ from her body and eating them.

As beautiful as Peter was, he was still a monster to Stiles. A monster who kills people, just like Derek , he thought about it and felt a bitter taste in his throat, as if faith were running down his throat. He pushed the thought away.

"Please don't give any spoilers," Peter said, a wry smile on his face, his blue eyes fixed on Stiles's brown ones. "But yes, I will kill her."

The Alpha's statement faded into the air, along with Stiles's hope of not seeing any more corpses this year. The human sat back in the seat, and Peter, who had already unbuckled his seatbelt, began to watch him again.

"Can I propose something?" Peter asked darkly, his voice huskier and more intense.

Stiles, stretched out in the seat, his head resting on the headrest, glanced sideways at the wolf beside him and said,

"What is it? Some kind of pact with a demon, or do you want me to buy razor blades, because, after all, the full moon will be at its peak soon, and your hair will start to appear, and you'll need…"

"Do you want me to bite you?" Peter asked out of the blue, and Stiles, without knowing why, shivered all over, even starting to blush. The wolf, seeing that reaction, rephrased the question and offered him a cheeky smile, while the boy tried to adjust himself in the jeep's seat, embarrassed. "Do you want me to turn you into a werewolf, my dear Stiles?" Peter whispered, too close, too hot, too determined...

Peter reached out and grabbed Stiles's arm, gripping it tightly. The human, feeling the warm, soft touch of Peter's skin on his, melted and watched the scene in utter ecstasy: the sleeve of his flannel shirt being gently lifted; his white arm exposed, vulnerable; the Alpha's mouth opening into fangs; his hair standing on end; The white fangs were about to pierce him, tear his skin…

"No..." Stiles whispered with difficulty, breathless. "NO!" he exclaimed, taking a deep breath, half determined, half tempted. Peter quickly released his arm and stepped back a little, a slight expression of surprise on his face. "Don't do this, Peter, I do not want it."

"You're lying, Stiles," the wolf said bluntly, having already read all of Stiles' chemical and bodily reactions. It was like being naked in front of someone. "Your mouth says no, and your heart screams yes."

Stiles had never considered the possibility of becoming a werewolf; he was simply curious to know what it would be like to run, hear, feel, and communicate like one. Maybe, deep down, he really wanted that bite. But he wouldn't be certain of it out of the blue. After all, lycanthropy was a curse, and curses, in general, were permanent.

"I won't offer you that power again, Stiles," Peter warned. He got out of the Jeep, closed the door, and through the crack in the lowered window, he said seriously, "Go back to town, kid, you don't belong here."

And so, walking left, west, into the forest that grew darker and darker, Peter soon disappeared. And Stiles remained there, sitting inside the Jeep, his mind tired from thinking so much and his body exhausted from carrying more weight than he'd ever carried in his entire life. It wasn't easy being a human among werewolves. Not at all.

He closed his eyes, and only then, in the darkness of the Jeep, did Stiles find calm and peace. He fell asleep there, unintentionally, as the moon rose in the sky, brightening the vastness of the night.

His visit wouldn't be long in coming. After all, he never liked delays.

Hurried footsteps echoed through the underground passage where Derek was trapped, and he already knew where the place was. It took him a while to figure it out, and that's what made him feel like a complete idiot at the time. His family had had a dungeon beneath their house for centuries, serving as a place for the younger werewolves to hold out until the end of the Full Moon. And Kate had been sick enough to trap him there, beneath the place where his entire family had been burned alive. This was surely the hunter's plan: to torture him in multiple ways at once.

And there she came again, accompanied by someone, opening the stainless steel door. But it wasn't Kate Argent...

"Brother!" Cora exclaimed excitedly, stepping through the portal toward Derek, who had been hanging from a rusty, muddy grate all this time. Scott, apprehensive, stood at the door. "I'm going to get you out of there," she said boldly.

She, panting heavily, her hair and clothes tangled, quickly reached out to release him, and with a sharp snap, Cora did so, breaking the rusty handcuffs, her expression heavy with stress.

"How did you find me?" asked Derek, who was already on his feet and, feeling a little dizzy, leaned on his sister's shoulders, who didn't mind his shirtlessness.

"The howl," she replied, holding him effortlessly. "Derek, you howled back at me."

"Oh… yes," he whispered, too exhausted to remember, taking his first steps toward the door. He glanced in that direction, alarmed that Kate might appear at any moment, brutal and murderous like the sociopath she was. "I'd forgotten about that." Derek staggered, and Cora pulled him close, and he said weakly, "I swear, I thought I was hallucinating."

"You're dehydrated," she said, punctually, "and you must be starving."

"Cora, did Peter really kill our sister?" Derek asked quietly, bluntly.

"Yes," and her answer was sharper than a razor's edge.

Cora, joining Scott at the door, quickly walked with him and Derek out of the room, but it was too dark to see anything a meter ahead of them. But even so, they continued on the path they had come in, the darkness consuming them with every step.

"I have to tell you guys something," Scott said nervously, his back to hers, slightly ahead of the other two, who had remained silent until that moment.

The boy, who noticed the green and brown gazes out of the corner of his eye, waiting for the revelation he'd said he had, walked more slowly to avoid appearing too distressed.

And, exhausted, Derek and Cora only stopped walking when Scott leaned against the smooth wall of the tunnel, the two of them watching him together.

"Yesterday afternoon," Scott began, murmuring, "I met with Allison and…"

" You want to talk about her now? " Cora asked, half irritated, half tired. These two emotions combined only worsened her reaction, and Scott, having spent weeks with the wolf (and other things besides), already knew this clearly. "We're busy, in case you hadn't noticed. We'll sort out what's going on between us later," she said, sharp and precise, walking with an intrigued but not surprised Derek close behind. He almost smiled at the sight.

"Cool," Scott said, following them, "but that's not what I want to talk about. We met this afternoon at Java Honey's, and she told me Kate would try something, that she was already prepared to ambush us."

"What?" Cora and Derek said in unison, Scott already cowering beside them.

"So you already knew Derek was going to be captured?!" Cora snapped, glaring at him as she held her older, heavier brother over her shoulders.

"I wasn't sure it would happen, Cora. ​​It wasn't until it happened that I thought about what she told me. And after we left the hospital, she also texted me that you'd be here in the woods, Derek."

Cora, who wanted to rip Scott's face off, yelled, reverberating throughout the tunnel.

"We spent all afternoon looking for him, and you're telling me this now?!" Your…

"Cora, now all we have to worry about is getting out of here alive." Derek interrupted her, whispering, his legs still shaking, his whole body aching from the shocks, the punches, the hunger… And a worrying thought crept into his mind, far more important than his current situation there. "Stiles isn't here, is he?" he asked worriedly. "In the car or… waiting."

"No, he's not here and he didn't even want to come," Cora replied impetuously, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye. Overhearing their conversation, Scott stepped forward with a certain levity, avoiding the subject and a possible discussion about the scene he'd caused at Melissa's, his mother's, house. And Derek, in the shadows, leaning on his sister, felt abandoned by Stiles. He knew it was wrong to want him to be the one to rescue him there, in the dungeon, but the well-being of that dotted-with-dots boy remained his only concern. "You really like him, don't you?" Cora asked curiously.

"Yes," Derek answered, blushing, smiling wearily at her, feeling like an immature teenager again. "I think I'm in lo…"

"Before you start assuming anything, you have to be sure of your feelings, because no one deserves to be hurt, at least not twice in a row," she said sincerely, with certainty in every word (and a touch of sarcasm, too).

Derek's greenish gaze met her brown. His sister was connecting with him, even amidst the barbs and sharp words. This had always been Cora's peculiar way.

Noticing the warmth and affection in her brother's gaze, Cora Hale, who never talked about feelings, finally spoke, surprising herself and Derek.

"I've grown attached to them too, to Scott and Melissa," she huffed softly, exhausted from carrying Derek on her shoulders and having all of this happen on a full moon night. It was a wild pressure that seemed to be releasing at any moment, and they both knew all too well that monstrous sensation beneath their skin. "It's like having a family again, I don't know, I can't explain it," she whispered, embarrassed at not knowing how to express herself, and in an instant, they both saw the exit appear a few feet ahead, Scott's tall, strong silhouette standing out against the silvery moonlight.

Hurrying out of that dungeon, Derek imagined Stiles's tearful, sad face last night, under the heavy, freezing rain that lashed them harshly. His patched-up heart tightened in his chest, twisting, and it was then that he knew he still had one. And it beat only for Stiles. It continued to live only for him.

"I know what it's like too," Derek confessed to Cora, walking together to a small, dark clearing, saddened by Stiles's absence.

Deep in his heart, he knew he deserved this.

“Something seems wrong,” Scott said anxiously, leaving the clearing and heading toward the old Hale house at the head of the group.

"Don't say that," Derek scolded, managing to take his first steps on his own, without his sister's help. The full moon, as much as it was a curse (Stiles's words), was still a way to regain enough strength to stand, even if with difficulty. "Not at a time like this."

Scott, climbing a small depression surrounded by trees, turned, following Derek and Cora behind him. He said,

"But…"

Cutting sounds echoed through the night breeze and whistled through the slender trees. Derek was the first to fall; an arrow had been embedded in his bare abdomen, another in his left thigh. He roared in pain and fell to the ground, groaning. And Cora, too, was struck soon after; two arrows slammed into his back, one on top of the other, long and painfully sharp—and a third narrowly missed his head. She let out an agonizing scream through the darkness of the night. All of this happened in seconds.

Even roaring and dying in pain, Cora spoke to Scott, her eyes yellow like two fireflies on a summer night.

"Scott, cover your eyes, now!"

There was no point in speaking anymore; he was fixated on the image in front of him: Allison, about 15 meters away from him, accompanied only by her aunt, Kate, was pointing a black arrow at him, deadly and dangerous. It blended perfectly with the foliage of the forest and the night that was growing stronger and more present. He released it, and hot white sparks burst into the air, blinding him.

Cora and Derek, who had kept their eyes closed during the attack, broke the arrows embedded in their skin and, dragging themselves away, carried a stunned Scott with them to the protection of their old house, just a few meters away. Kate and her niece, who followed in her aunt's shadow, headed toward the three werewolves, like executioners heading toward their victims.

They, the wolves, huddled together, cornered, in the clearing in front of the house. The reason for such desperation in their hearts was simple: there were hunters all around the property, behind trees, hidden among bushes and thickets, armed and ready to kill them. Derek counted at least five distinct heartbeats there, lying in wait. There could have been more hunters, scattered throughout the forest, waiting for a fleeing wolf. They would have died anyway. Their number was far greater.

Kate suddenly appeared in front of the trio, while they were still lying on the ground. Allison was pale as a sheet of paper right behind her aunt.

"Look, everyone," the hunter snapped, a maniacal smile on her face, her eyes roaming the surrounding woods. "I did say they were coming to help him. They don't abandon their own, even if they're filthy dogs.”

Rude, pretentious laughter echoed from the shadows of the trees surrounding the clearing to where Derek and the others stood. The hunters under Kate Argent's command laughed at them, their weapons drawn and loaded, ready to spray gunpowder into the air.

Kate, sounding more like a curious cat than anything else, said to Derek in her sharp, electric voice,

"Aren't you going to introduce me to your sister, Derek?"

"Shitty hunter!" Cora cursed, exasperated, crawling across the ground toward Kate, who laughed acidly at her. "Come here so I can wipe that smile off your face, bitch!"

Between Derek and Scott, the older one was closest to Cora, who he saw had dug her sharp nails into the earth to keep from ripping the hunter in half. The younger man, who had been right behind Derek for this long, was frozen, staring at Allison with a kind of pleading in his eyes. She struggled to ignore him, but couldn't help but follow her brown eyes to his.

"Wow, I like it, she's got guts," Kate said, amused, pulling a gleaming pistol from the holster at her waist. She aimed the tip of the gun at Cora's forehead, who stared back at her, strong and courageous as ever. She seemed to have already accepted her fate. "Yeah, but she won't have the guts for that long."

"Kill me instead!" Derek exclaimed pleadingly, throwing himself into the revolver's sights, knocking Cora aside, saving her. The apprehensive look he had given his sister would be his last. The gun was already pointed at her head, Kate's finger already pressed on the trigger. "Sister, I…" he whispered to Cora and…

A high, serious voice reverberated through the darkness of the forest; it belonged to someone familiar to him.

"No one's going to kill anyone here." Christopher Argent stepped into the light, his face filled with suppressed hatred. His blue eyes flashed as he saw his daughter, Allison, there, bow and arrows in hand, following in Kate's footsteps. But without rushing to reprimand her, Chris, enraged, quickly turned to his own sister, who had turned to stone with shock. (No hunter in the shadows dared laugh.) "We follow a code. We hunt those who hunt us. Or have you forgotten that, Katherine?" Every word was spoken with hatred, through gritted teeth, especially when he said his sister's name, as if he were restraining himself from doing something he would later regret.

Derek took a deep breath when he saw Kate tremble, the silver light of the full moon glinting on the same-colored pistol. She lowered the gun, but not enough to unnerve the wolf.

"Yes, I remember, Christop…"

"However," he interrupted her, his voice heavy as thunder, "you point a gun at two teenagers who haven't done anything to anyone. Their eyes tell the truth." Christopher took firm steps forward, his sister killing him with her eyes. "And as for Derek, he's just another whim of yours, isn't he? He's just the latest piece of evidence you haven't been able to get rid of for seven years, or am I wrong, Kate?"

Ice-cold, she answered him:

"I can't believe you fell for that story that I killed their parents…"

His voice rang out again, this time more violent and heavy.

"You want to keep deceiving me?!" Chris snapped, exasperated, his blue eyes lingering on Allison. "You even brought my daughter into the middle of your madness!"

"She's in charge of herself…" Kate spoke loudly for everyone to hear, until she was interrupted by a wet splattering sound, as guts fell onto the carpet of dead leaves on the ground. One of her subordinates lay dismembered, lying lifeless to the right of her.

A gigantic shadow crossed the clearing, its eyes as red as embers in the monstrosity's face. Death, pleas, screams, and gunshots followed it.

"NOOO!"

"DIE, YOU BASTARD!"

"P-Please…"

"Kate, help me…"

The five hunters in the shadows of the forest were already dead when the immense being approached on two paws the three wolves, who were now standing, and the last three hunters, who were pointing their best weapons at the beast before them.

Or rather, the great and powerful Alpha.

Stiles woke abruptly from a nap he was taking inside the Jeep, hearing the sound of a car approaching him, and he jumped suddenly, startled. He didn't even know how long he had been asleep. The vehicle in question was getting closer by the second, its headlights shining into the Jeep's side mirrors, blinding Stiles's sleepy gaze.

Unaware of what he was doing, he threw himself against the door beside him and, opening it, staggered out of the Jeep, placing the palm of his left hand in front of his eyes against the bright beam of the headlights. He slowly approached the car coming toward him, leaving his own door open. With some difficulty, the only thing he could see was the color of the car's bodywork: it was light gray, also worn and old. He doubted he knew the owner of the vehicle; it could be someone lost or someone who lived nearby—if anyone lived nearby.

Then, suddenly, as if a candle flame had gone out, the car's headlights died. The darkness of the night swallowed them suddenly, in a moment.

Stiles blinked his eyes until he could see clearly again, but they burned like embers and hurt when he tried to open them. And finally, after a long time, he saw who the driver of that old car was.

It was Theo Raeken in the frightening shadows of that car.

His ex-boyfriend, ex-friend, the person who had taken something that was supposed to be Stiles's alone, that only he, only he , had the right to know who to do it with and how to do it . And time stopped in that instant just so he could sink into that excruciating pain—the boy began to tremble with fear at the sight of that figure in front of him. The anguish of remembering what he had experienced that afternoon, months ago, at Theo's house, ached from his skin to his bones. And if he hadn't controlled himself—taking sleeping pills and eating; reading blogs and watching videos of people who had been through the same thing as him; and, most importantly, ignoring what had happened (which he knew was wrong to remain silent and not report the attacker)—those memories would certainly have consumed him once and for all. However, when he told Derek what happened to him, it was as if the weight lifted, ceased to exist for a few long moments. Derek respected him, understood his timing, and, most importantly, gave Stiles the power to choose over his own body.

For him, Derek had been his first, not Theo.

When Stiles realized it, he was already there, about twenty feet away, his arctic-blue gaze, cold and piercing, scanning him thoroughly. Theo, in his expensive clothes and well-groomed appearance, looked sad and… worried, somehow. But Stiles knew that looking like it wasn't being like it. With that boy, anything could be expected—from pretense to fake crying, and thank goodness Stiles already knew that.

With furtive glances, Theo stopped watching Stiles and momentarily turned to searching for someone in the Jeep. Stilinski noticed the corners of the person's lips tugging into a slight, discreet smile—the pretense disappeared—and with that, Stiles's nervousness only increased.

"You're alone, that's good," Theo said agitatedly, his voice a little hoarse, his eyes icy on Stiles. "We have to go now."

"Tsk." Stiles shook his head and, looking him in the eye, said, "I'm not going anywhere with you."

Theo relaxed his tense shoulders and, with an air of superiority and disguising his obvious agitation, took careless steps forward, and Stiles immediately backed away when he saw him approaching. The need to get out of there was overwhelming.

(He could try to punch him if he tried anything—though Stiles knew he wasn't so good at that—or run into the woods and lose him there, or quickly get in the Jeep and fly away from that place, just to leave the bad feeling of being in the same place as Theo. Or he could use the baseball bat that was still in the trunk of the Jeep—that place was a mess.)

Seeing the other's hesitation, Theo gestured "calm down" with his hands and took five steps back, which wasn't enough for Stiles. Never would be.

"I already know everything." The calm and feigned politeness in his voice disgusted Stiles. "I know about Derek, Scott, and the Argents. You don't have to lie to me anymore."

"What do you know?" Stiles asked instinctively, without a trace of concern on his face or voice. After all, if he knew about the werewolves, what harm would he do to them? Theo was only human; he wouldn't hurt the people close to Stiles's heart.

"Everything," he said dismissively, a hint of a smile on his lips, his teeth white and perfect.

The night perpetuated in the cosmos, glorious and absolute around the two of them; both completely alone on a winding dirt road, surrounded only by a dark and silent forest. The full moon, shining silver in the night sky, watched them in total silence, in its untouched fullness, while Stiles—without knowing why—asked for a little help to illuminate him at that moment. He begged, meanwhile, for help...

And nothing happened, and then he turned to Theo curiously.

"And how do you know everything?"

"Seriously? This now?! Get in the car and I can explain it better somewhere else, Stiles," Theo said authoritatively. "Let's get out of this forest right now..."

"You saw my research on werewolves, didn't you?" "He cut him off, sharp, in the blink of an eye. It was as if someone had whispered it in his ear to make him say such a thing.

Stiles silently thanked the Full Moon, because when he saw the clear surprise in Theo's arctic eyes, he knew it was true, that he was on the right track, that the Moon was helping him—or was he still too sleepy?

"You broke into my house, went into my room, and went through my things. You could be arrested, you know?" Stiles said sarcastically, his eyes fixed on Theo's loose mask.

"Ugh, don't mess with me, Stiles," Raeken muttered irritably. Then he sighed loudly and, stressed, said, "A guy comes into your life overnight and, suddenly, he doesn't stop visiting you, hanging out with you, protecting you... I was suspicious." Theo pointed to himself, to the puffed-out chest he insisted on maintaining, and said shamelessly, "I'm just trying to save you from him. That's all."

"Now I understand why this car," Stiles said, pointing to the car Theo had followed him with, now completely ignoring Raeken's worried looks. He'd probably bought that old thing to go unnoticed by Derek and Stiles. He was still the same . "You were lying in wait, watching me, weren't you? At my house, at the coffee shop, and here, and God knows where else!"

Theo was stunned. He'd never been silent for so long in his life. His eyes darkened, became somber, as did his facial expression and posture. They seemed to merge with the prevailing night around them, the shadows, the darkness. Now, he was truly sad—or was that what he wanted to convey to Stiles?

"Oh," Stiles gestured, insultingly, "and you, Theo Raeken, are the last person in this world I'd want saving me. Even calling you a person feels wrong..."

"I'M TRYING TO SAVE YOU, DAMMIT, OR ARE YOU FUCKING DEAF NOW!?" Theo yelled, irritated, a sick expression on his face: his eyes wide, a twitch between his eyebrows, and his mouth open, showing his white teeth in the dim light (He'd never done that in front of Stilinski, who was even more wary with him there). "Stiles, please," he said firmly, calming himself, running a hand through his perfectly combed hair, "just get in my car or your Jeep, I don't care, I just want us to get out of here."

Even with Theo unstable and dangerous like that (just a few steps away from him), Stiles took a few seconds to think about how to get out of there without that maniac. He couldn't say, but he felt that, somehow, Derek and Scott needed him at the old Hale house; It was as if fate, destiny, was drawing him to that place. He had to get out of there soon.

Stiles whispered to himself something that had popped into his mind:

"I don't need anyone to save me. I'm strong enough to stand up on my own, and keep standing up on my own."

"What did you say?" Theo asked, calmer and more curious, feigning a politeness that no longer suited him as well as before. "I didn't hear you."

Before his courage could fade, Stiles decided what he needed to do to escape (and hoped he wouldn't be arrested for what he would do next).

"Theo, can you take the keys out of my Jeep's ignition, open the trunk for me with the remote, and get my cell phone from the glove compartment, please? I just need to get my backpack from back here," Stiles asked, slightly polite, pointing to the trunk directly behind him, trying not to show fear or apprehension. Nothing was best.

Of course, that was just a mask he'd learned to use from Theo, who, when they were dating, loved to see him ask for things, belittle his pride, and beg for attention...

And the plan worked perfectly, because Theo, out of nowhere, was happy and puffed up with reason, as if he'd won some kind of bet with himself.

"OK. Thanks for trusting me," he said hoarsely as he passed Stiles, who gave him a forced, friendly smile.

And just like that, Theo disappeared, getting into Stiles's Jeep, which suddenly unlocked.

For Stiles's escape to work, everything had to happen quickly and perfectly: opening the Jeep's trunk, done; finding the baseball bat without making too much noise or attracting Theo's attention, who was stretched across the driver's seat to get his cell phone from the glove compartment, done; preparing to knock him out with a bench, done.

Walking close to the blue side of the Jeep, heading toward an armed and fearless Stiles, was Theo, saying,

"Here's the cell phone and the keys…"

The thud was dull, and so was Theo's fall onto the dirt road. Stiles landed a blow to the left side of his face, on the temple, hard enough to knock him to the ground. Theo, all of 5'7", lay there, now caked with dirt, in a near-fetal position, still breathing. Stiles wouldn't be arrested for murder.

The boy with the baseball bat in his hands looked up and, focusing on the gigantic full moon in the night sky, thanked him:

"Thank you, Mrs. Moon."

And before heading to the Hale house, Stiles grabbed some chemical supplies from the junk-filled trunk and disappeared into the woods.

Shadows and dancing trees followed him as he ran west. Toward Derek.

Derek was shivering with the wave of fury he felt coming from Peter. His fangs and claws were already bared, just as his blue eyes stood out against the darkness of the night; Scott and Cora's bright yellow ones also gleamed.

Christopher, by the time Derek noticed, was already beside his daughter, who fearlessly wielded her black bow and a long, thin arrow, aiming it at the Alpha's head. Kate, now to Allison's left, also held a revolver in her hands, pointed at Peter, who fixed her with his large red eyes. In fear, the hunter backed away from the monster, slightly hasty.

And the Alpha advanced, merciless, with a hunter's endless thirst for blood.

Christopher and Allison Argent, who fired ineffective bullets and arrows as the untamed beast advanced, were thrown away by the thing—the man, Chris, passed out when he awkwardly hit his head on a large rock. The girl took a while to recover from the fall.

Kate emptied all her ammunition into Peter's deformed, enormous, hairy arm, and he laughed when he saw her empty. Cora and Scott were stunned to see the macabre scene: the Alpha grabbing her from behind and pressing his sharp claws into the hunter's alabaster skin—not even Derek could move to help her (the past and the present were not cooperating in her favor). He retracted his fangs and claws, and, standing up straight, the wolf resolved to simply wait for the most opportune moment to appear.

Cora glanced at him sideways and understood what he might do.

A telepathic voice resounded through the air and shadows, loud and frightening, vibrating the oxygen molecules around the clearing. It was Peter, the Alpha. And only the three werewolves there could hear him.

"FOR OUR FAMILY. FOR YOU. FOR THE NEW HALE PACK!"

Suddenly, the monster before them, the wolf, tore at Kate's chest, from her sweaty neck to her left breast, shredding her entire body to paper-thin leather. Ripping out her carotid artery with his fangs, Peter threw her dying body at the feet of Cora and Derek, who found the corpse watching him, its brown eyes lifeless, the night as a backdrop—Allison whimpered in the corner of the shattered house's staircase, her bow and arrow nearby.

Peter's voice echoed through the wolves' minds again, this time calmer and more measured.

"IF THERE'S ANY DOUBT IN YOUR MINDS, IT'S BEST IT'S RESOLVED NOW. FOR THEY TWO ARE NEXT. AND I DON'T WANT TO KILL ANY OF US."

Peter was referring to Christopher and the young Argent hunter, Allison.

"You won't kill her!" Scott shouted protectively, raising his voice for the first time since arriving. "She won't be your next victim!"

Derek crossed Kate's prone body on the ground and, keeping his gaze fixed on the Alpha's torch-like eyes, said seriously and unwaveringly,

"Peter, you're not going to kill the girl."

Fangs bared, forming a haunting smile, Peter asked,

"AND WHO'S GOING TO STOP ME?"

"Me," said a voice so familiar and electric that it startled Derek, who until then had been unflappable and focused. He'd been like that before he'd met him.

Stiles appeared out of nowhere from the forest, dressed casually and with a slight look of victory. The demon before him was just another one he would vanquish that day.

The being before him was stunned, and furious.

Before the Alpha could do anything, Stiles threw a dull, glowing object at him. In a flash, it turned into an inferno, the night exploding with heat and flames. Peter struggled, flames searing his torso and legs, roars of pain echoing through the forest.

Derek tried to cross the fire spreading across the carpet of leaves surrounding the clearing to get Stiles out of the Alpha's direct line of attack. But he couldn't, and neither could Scott, who was restless, watching his defenseless friend receive a deadly attack from Peter at any moment. None of them (Cora included) could have imagined this would happen, and only more seemed to happen.

Stiles, carrying another Molotov cocktail—which Derek had only just realized what it was, judging by the strong smell and the shattered shards of chemical balloon everywhere—and with an animalistic voracity in his expression, shouted, without taking his eyes off the flames engulfing the thick, bristling skin of the screaming beast in front of him:

"ALLISON!" He was panting and exhausted, and the girl staggered to her feet, unsteady but determined. "HERE!"

Stiles threw the other Molotov cocktail into the air, with surprising height and aim. The explosive liquid swirled inside the chemical container. Peter rushed toward the human…

And a loud, audible crack of shattering glass echoed, echoing Peter's screams and roars. Peter was completely enveloped in a curtain of scalding flames, burning his hideous, diabolical face. Suddenly, before he could catch Stiles, Derek, dirty and dripping with sweat, kicked him, sending him flying away, using only the strength and determination of ten men.

Seeing that Stiles was okay, as he gave him a gentle, loving look, Derek followed Peter through a trail of smoke and embers. The smell was nauseating, repulsive, and the image was surely much more than just nausea. Peter was burned, his skin and hair gone, and he had already returned to his human form, which was fragile and mortal.

Derek leaned over the carrion and, unstoppable, his hands clawed, whispered to his uncle:

"You took my sister's power and life." His green eyes locked with Peter's blue, who, in a blink, trembled under the threat his nephew posed. "And now I take yours."

Derek slit his uncle's throat in a flash, power invading him, complementing him, and a fine rain fell as he stood, distancing himself from the corpse and walking toward Stiles, standing alone in a vast expanse of the clearing with a complacent smile on his lips.

A silver-plated bullet, ownerless, pierced the smoky clearing and, out of nowhere, pierced the human's back, Stiles, who, as if in slow motion, fell to the cold, damp ground.

Blood already bathed the carpet of dead leaves on the ground. Water soaked him.

A sudden, cold rain fell on the mottled boy's warm body, drops of water washing over his dark hair and his casual, new clothes. Stiles, fighting back laughter because his back ached, was soaked again, for the second night in a row this week. This might be bad luck , he thought, too sleepy to keep his eyes open.

There were so many things he hadn't done. Stiles thought about it in that moment before Derek appeared, sad and hopeful at the same time, and gave him the strength to survive this situation. But Stiles knew he couldn't. And that was the worst part. Knowing.

It kind of irritated him to be certain he was going to die and leave sadness in the hearts of the most important people in his life. However, he had already accepted his fate, his destiny.

He knew he was going to… stop living.

Thinking about it hurt.

It hurt.

It burned.

It stung.

And there was Stiles, in the arms of the only man who truly loved him, who defended him, who understood him, and, most importantly, who knew how to hold him right. Stiles wanted to cry so much, so much. But he preferred to leave that wet, graceful, and sarcastic image of himself to Derek. And what would happen to the little box of stupid questions to ask Derek Hale? Surely no one would know of its existence, because he hadn't told anyone about it. It would cease to exist with him.

Before he died, Stiles spoke tearfully in Derek's welcoming arms:

"I-I'm not mad at you... Sometimes I feel everything too much... You made me happy... Be happy..."

The wolf's cozy warmth suddenly increased, and Stiles felt even more embraced by his love.

"No! Stiles, you're not saying goodbye!" Derek said, interrupting him, desolate and faint. "Don't leave me..."

Everything grew increasingly hazy, the light of the full moon fading, the warm touch and emerald eyes fading into the darkness of the night, heading for death.

But before he could hear no more, he caught a voice unintentionally from Derek, who seemed to be crying above him (Stiles had never seen him cry, yes, never.):

"Don't die in my hands like Paige."

And finally, there was no more light. There was nothing.

A scream reverberated constantly and loudly throughout the city, reaching the ears of the wolves there in the dark forest. There was only one being with that voice. The banshee had just woken from her slumber.

Stiles woke up dazed, with a strong smell of gasoline and smoke in the air he inhaled, a strange pain coursing through his body like an electric shock, his head feeling like the focus of such agony. It throbbed like a heart after being stimulated by a fright, and he felt very nauseous too.

Where am I? he asked himself, disoriented, looking up, trying to see through the thick curtain of smoke that surrounded him. He narrowed his eyes and, more confused and lost than ever, saw where he was, and on this he wouldn't be alone: ​​the inhospitable and dark Route 66 loomed before him, endless in the darkness of the haunting night that was spreading around him. And, apparently, the deer he had hit had already been dead on the hood of the Jeep for some time. Stiles backed away a little, with a look of disgust and a nagging pain in his head.

Stiles didn't know how, but suddenly he found himself lying face down on the road, a faint night dew pelting his face with freezing drops as he took in his surroundings. Strangely, he couldn't remember how he'd ended up there, out of nowhere, in the middle of Route 66, with a dead deer on the hood of the Jeep. He only remembered dropping Scott and Melissa off at the airport and hanging up on Theo, his ex. That was all, but nothing. Everything was a big blur in Stiles's memory. Until…

From the shadows of the road, standing like a ceramic statue, Lydia appeared in Stiles's vision, like a figure, a ghost. She began walking slowly toward him, wearing a white hospital gown, apparently wet, like her fiery hair, as it dripped with water with every step she took, and her expression was incredibly stunned.

Lydia stopped on the side of the road—Stiles didn't even blink—her face barely moved as she spoke:

"Don't die! Stay alive, Stiles!" Lydia's voice sounded shrieking to him. Her face, gestures, and speech were almost otherworldly to the eyes; it was as if she weren't real, as if she didn't belong in this world. Then, suddenly, she screamed, her pale eyes turning to gray squiggles in the darkness: "DON'T DIE!"

Stiles opened his eyes, finding himself staring at blinding lights above him. Gradually, he heard people whispering in alarm among themselves and the insistent sound of wheels scraping the floor along the corridor where he was being carried on a stretcher, which hadn't gone unnoticed either. Stiles was disoriented and injured, but certain familiar voices, worried and distressed, literally woke him up. He was in the hospital, and he was alive, and covered in blood, and too drowsy. At least now there was light, not darkness. There was the possibility of life, not the certainty of death.

He opened his eyes and, uncomfortably, blinked them repeatedly, until the morning light streaming through the large windows to his left no longer disturbed him. A familiar, medium-sized figure approached where Stiles lay—in a bed he soon found quite comfortable and soft—and, recognizing the restrained smile and the slight wrinkles on the man's face, the boy quickly returned a smile, a somewhat pained and forced one, but a smile nonetheless.

It was his father, Noah, with a welcoming and caring look on his face and wearing his old sheriff's uniform. And they were both in a very large and airy room, perhaps too expensive for their health insurance.

"Son," he asked worriedly, his brow furrowed in a familiar frown, approaching Stiles's bed, "are you okay?" "Dad..." he began, his voice a little hoarse as he tried to get up from the bed, but all he could feel was pain. "Ouch. Yes, I think."

"Do you want me to call a nurse?" Noah asked suddenly, turning to the door about twenty feet away from them. "You know what... CAN SOMEONE COME HERE... MELISSA!"

"Dad, I'm fine," Stiles interrupted, half-exasperated, half-smiling. "You don't need to bother anyone at the hospital. Or did you forget there are patients here?"

"Sorry..."

Suddenly, as if remembering something, Stiles blurted out a question:

"What day is it?"

"Wednesday," Noah answered, watching him. Before the boy asked how much money his father had paid for that apparently very expensive room, the man, out of the corner of his eye, said: "When did I start being so absent from your life, son? How did I end up distancing myself from you?"

"What... What do you mean 'absent,' Dad?" Stiles replied, a little taken aback by what Noah thought was happening between them. "You didn't distance yourself... you just gave me more space to discover myself and feel free in the process of acceptance, that's all. But that's not the reason I'm hospitalized, or is it and I don't know?" He finally quipped, trying to forget the times he'd been absent as a son.

"No, the reason you're here is because of that son of a bitch!" Noah cursed angrily, his eyebrows arching.

"Which son of a bitch?" The question was asked, and Stiles almost crossed his fingers that the person his father was talking about wasn't De...

"The one who shot you. It was an accident, but he did, and you almost died. I almost lost my only son. " He announced his hatred for the man who had shot Stiles, who sighed loudly in relief that it wasn't that person. "Don't worry, he's already in custody. I've taken the necessary steps."

"What are you talking about?"

"Christopher Argent already told me everything." The relief the younger Stilinski felt evaporated into the air. "About the group he put together to hunt the animal that killed Cameron Roberts and attacked your friends, son, which we later discovered what it was after a thorough and rather confusing forensic examination." Unfortunately, the mountain lion also attacked his friends—five of them, if I'm not mistaken. The beast even killed the man's own sister, Kate, I think. Memories of dismembered bodies, of hellish flames, of hot blood, and of a hideous monster flooded Stiles' mind. He suddenly accepted two things: the lie Argent had told had convinced him, and that that night, with everything that had happened, would never leave his memory. "The only thing I don't understand is why you went out into the woods on a Sunday night, accompanied by your unarmed boyfriend, to track down the whereabouts of his uncle, Peter, who until then had been the potential suspect in Cameron Roberts' death. And Peter still hasn't been found…"

Stiles gradually stopped listening, his heart tightening, a haunting night looming before him. Blood, death, pain…

"Is Derek okay?" Stiles asked uneasily.

"I don't know your boyfriend that well, but he's been really down after you were admitted. Oh, and he's the one paying all the hospital bills, don't give me that look, Stiles. Christopher Argent and I tried to pay for the bills that would come with your treatment, but Derek insisted and refused to let Argent pay. Your boyfriend told him that 'your shitty kindness wouldn't change the fact that an innocent person is in the hospital.' I also found that pretty heavy to say and even a little strange."

"How is Lydia?" Stiles asked, changing the subject he'd brought up, as he slid closer to the pillow and then laid his head on it. "Is she still here, in the hospital?"

Noah, sitting on the edge of his son's bed, suggested a smile and answered thoughtfully:

"No, she was discharged on Monday, and if I'm not mistaken, Lydia and her other friends are planning a welcome home party for you, son. It'll be nice to celebrate life, especially now, right?" he confided sarcastically.

"Funny…" Stiles replied, too tired to say anything more acid than that.

His father's cell phone rang loudly and, somewhat irritated, Noah answered whoever it was. It might have been work, because whenever they called him from there, the sheriff adopted a questioning, unchanging scowl.

"OK. I'm on my way," Noah, stern and patient, said into the phone. When he hung up the brief call, the look he gave his son was one of sincere apology. "I really have to go, son, it's important. Otherwise, I'd stay here with you."

"It's okay, Dad, not at all," Stiles murmured comfortingly.

"I'll come back and get you in a few hours, okay? Your clothes are in that backpack over there, on the armchairs."

The boy lying on the bed nodded, and seeing his father get up from the edge of the bed and head for the door, he forced himself to a sudden, cheerful voice and said,

"Be safe."

Once he was alone, Stiles thought about how to shower and eat with the excruciating pain in his back. The bullet wound was still healing, and he was sure it wasn't pretty. Imagine the effort it took to get out of bed!

After taking a long, hot shower in the bathroom of the room where he'd been placed (he still couldn't wrap his head around the idea that Derek had paid for his stay), Stiles buttoned up his dark jeans and put on the wine-red T-shirt his father had left there in his old backpack so he could get ready to leave the hospital. In case Noah, his father, was coming to pick him up soon.

He turned the smooth metal doorknob, opening the white oak door of the luxurious bathroom he had just used. As the steam from the hot water drifted into the cool morning air that entered the room through the window someone had left open, Stiles saw Derek sitting in one of the armchairs against the bedroom wall. The man looked up when he saw him leave through the powder room door, and Stiles, his heart almost leaping into his throat, noticed that Derek was anxious and worried. Even in his dark clothes and with his now massive, imposing expression, he didn't look like the old Derek, scowling and with that wild beauty he always had. As they exchanged silent, mournful glances, there, facing each other, Stiles could see a rare sadness and guilt in the wolf's emerald eyes, a thin beard, and a glaring depressed look.

Derek, whose shoulders had previously been slumped and his hands clasped together, rose from the chair, straightened, and wandered off to say something to Stiles. Suddenly, Stiles walked toward him barefoot and wet, and uneasily blurted out,

"Why did you pay for this room?" The question sounded accusatory, with subtle, soft notes of anger, and somehow, Stiles couldn't help it. But Derek's dull gaze made him soften his voice; he wasn't necessarily angry with the wolf after all. "I didn't need him, Derek," he whispered, shoving his hands in his pockets.

"I knew you'd scold me for paying," he confessed, absorbed, as he crossed his arms over his chest and stared at Stiles's spot-dotted neck, who didn't mind Derek's blatant appreciation.

At 10:00 a.m., on a cloudy Wednesday, in the hospital, in the middle of school break, Stiles never considered the possibility of being in a situation like this: dealing with strong feelings that seemed to overwhelm his chest; recovering from a (nearly) stray bullet that nearly took his life; werewolves and their like, mainly; and Derek, who, inexplicably, even with everything that had happened, wouldn't leave his mind for a moment.

"But anyway," Stiles began questioningly, pausing briefly to stretch his shoulders, "where did you get the money to pay for this room?"

"Family savings." The answer came quickly and honestly, without wavering in Derek's serious, intense voice. He suddenly released the tension in his forearms, moving the muscles from his hands to his trapezius, and blinked, his green eyes shining. "It wasn't a bother."

Stiles, without knowing why, anxiously wanted to shorten the steps separating them, throwing himself into Derek's strong arms, caring for and comforting the other and himself in that hospital room. Killing his own uncle, the one who had cared for him and watched him grow up, watching him burn in hellish flames and then killing him with his own hands, wasn't something Derek would soon forget, and Stiles knew it. And he also knew that his hospitalization had affected the wolf intimately and deeply; the sunken gray corners around his eyes confirmed it.

Derek, with a look of confusion and stress on his face, huffed softly and said,

"Your father called me to say you were awake and to come get you. Apparently, they called him to the police station—something quite important, I think." The wolf looked down and saw Stiles's slender, pale, wet feet, and then smiled faintly. "Are you ready yet?"

Ignoring Derek's green, judgmental gaze with some embarrassment, Stilinski, walking around the hospital room, replied,

"I'll just find my slippers in my backpack. The sheriff knows I'd never be able to bend over with the bullet hole still healing in my back. Absolutely not."

Derek remained silent as Stiles searched for those slippers. Opening a worn bag that had been on the bed and rummaging through it, he soon found them: they were red with white stripes, and they looked funny on his white feet.

Still with his back turned, gathering the clothes he'd taken from the backpack, Stiles said,

"So, you mean the Argents covered up the carnage back in the woods? I never thought they'd help us. Yeah, I was wrong."

"Stiles, forgive me for not telling you the truth from the start. About me making a deal with Scott and hiding the real reason I came back to Beacon Hills. But most of all, about lying about my true eye color.” Stiles remained frozen on his back, listening to his heart pounding harder and harder against his ribs. Little by little, everything was turning gray in his eyes, especially the sky outside. "I should have been honest the night we met, but I was afraid of how you might react. So I lied. If you never want to see me again, Stiles, I understand. I just want you to know that you're amazing, and that, god, you were the one who made me feel things I hadn't felt in a long time." Suddenly, breathless, Stiles turned to Derek, his eyes glittering in the dim shadows of the room. "I'm sorry if I hurt you. But know that what we experienced, from our first kiss in the woods to that special night at the cabin, was more than real to me. I won't bother you anymore."

Before Derek could even dare walk out the door, Stiles stopped him, not with a gesture, but with a question.

"Derek, who's Paige?" Hearing that name murmured by the boy, Derek stopped in the doorway, perplexed, and, after taking a breath and raising his head, he turned back to Stiles, who remained standing, watching him uneasily. “You said her name before I passed out there in the clearing, before I almost died.” His words brought back memories that were worse than being whipped by ten men at once. And the tone of his voice, Stiles's, only increased the torture even more. “Anyway, this is a good opportunity to show that there is still honesty between us two. So, who is she?

With a lump in his throat and tears in his eyes, Derek confided in Stiles, in the silence of solitude, sadness in every word:

"She was my girlfriend, my first love, my father said. We met in high school, before I even met Kate Argent. Paige was smart, beautiful, kind, and a bit introspective. I remember falling in love with her the first time I saw her, there in the hallways at school, while I was playing basketball with some friends. We ended up arguing because she was studying music in a class and I was bothering her, making noise in the hallway where she was. After that argument and a few days, I got closer to her and we started to get to know each other better... How I regret it."

"What do you regret, Derek?" Stiles asked unhappily, his face filled with regret.

"For entering her life. I was too selfish, and she was too innocent. I asked an Alpha ally of my former Pack to bite her, turn her into one of us, and this without Paige's consent. One night during the waning moon, he attacked her to turn her, and... it didn't work... she couldn't handle the bite, and I ended up putting an end to her suffering, her pain. I killed her, Stiles. I killed my first love. I didn't know she would die from the bite; I was practically a child... She screamed and cried in agony, Stiles, to this day it haunts me. That's how I got those blue eyes, for killing an innocent."

Derek Hale couldn't hold out a second longer, and, surprising Stiles Stilinski for the second time, he cried, tears streaming down his symmetrical, shiny face, his eyes burning red. The pitiful sound of Derek's sobs was too painful, and Stiles couldn't stand there listening to him wail any longer. He crossed the room with quick strides, walking to the unhappy wolf in the far corner, and with a light tug, he gathered him into a strong, meaningful, and warm hug. At that moment, Derek allowed himself to collapse into Stiles's secure arms, who held him tighter and tighter with each heavy sob, tears wetting the left side of his wine-red shirt.

"I'm not Paige, Derek, I'm Mieczyslaw Stilinski. Sti to my friends," Stiles, still holding him in his arms, joked as the man turned his gaze to him, and he soon gave a weak, sad smile. They kept their eyes fixed on each other; so close, so real, and so sincere. "I just want you to stop lying to me and not disappear from my life. In fact, don't even think about it."

"Stiles, I heard your heart stop beating, your body go cold. I can't put your life at risk like that again. I would never , ever forgive myself if you died because of me…"

"I'm alive, my heart is racing, and I know you can hear it now. And most of all, I'm here, in your arms. Derek Hale, or Alpha, or whatever, let me be a part of your life, okay? Or do I have to ask you pretty please?"

By this point, Stiles's brown eyes were already slightly watery, the emotion overwhelming and intimate between them. Their bodies fused together, lost in these overwhelming, profound feelings. He, Stiles, understood that this wasn't just a hug anymore, that it was something much more complex and sensitive than that.

"You're crazy," Derek whispered, enchanted, fixated on Stiles, staring at those red lips that had always driven him to ruin.

And then Stiles kissed him, and Stiles's kisses were hot and incredibly sincere, his entire lean, sinuous body focused on what he wanted, and his entire heart focused on that too. For a long, intense, intoxicating moment, Derek believed Stiles wanted nothing more than his company, and that they would never be apart. At least, not for a very, very long time.

"I'm starving, Derek," Stiles murmured, out of nowhere, against the wolf's lips.

Derek—the man who never laughed—laughed heartily at what the boy had said. And then, surprised, Stiles joined in Hale's hearty laughter. An inopportune moment, but one very much appreciated.

"THIS WON'T COME OUT!" Stiles exclaimed, stressed.

"Then hit it harder," Derek suggested politely.

"I'll try, but I know it won't come out like that," Stiles confessed irritably, already tiring of the physical effort.

They were in front of a candy machine in one of the hospital hallways, and Stiles had already spent over two minutes trying to get his candy out, which was stuck between the glass and the machine's metal wheel. His hunger was only growing at this point, and he certainly wasn't going to give up the chocolate candy now. In a not-so-well-thought-out attempt, Stiles began to swing the contraption back and forth; And it happened once, twice, three times, four times, and…

BOOM!

It fell to the floor just in time for Derek to pull him out, saving him from being crushed by an old candy machine and allowing their bodies to be reunited once more. And before they could leave without paying for the damage to that now-broken old thing, Stiles picked up his chocolate candy from the floor and, accompanied by Derek, his unofficial boyfriend, headed for the hospital exit. To life outside.

After all, there was still a long way to go before the end of the vacation.