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Stiles clutched his pillow tighter, burying his face into it as if it could smother the thoughts racing through his head. He squeezed his eyes shut, but it was useless. Derek’s voice still echoed in his mind, rough and low, the kind of whisper that curled along his skin like smoke.
It’s just sex. No feelings.
That’s what Derek had said from the start. And Stiles had agreed. Hell, he’d practically jumped at the arrangement. Hot, broody werewolf who also happened to be very skilled in bed? Yeah, Stiles hadn’t exactly needed convincing.
The problem was, Stiles’s heart hadn’t gotten the memo.
Every time Derek left his bed, pulling his jeans back on like the most frustratingly gorgeous walk of shame imaginable, Stiles found himself aching. He wanted more than the hurried, whispered moments in the dark. He wanted mornings. He wanted Derek’s hand in his, not just claws in his sheets. He wanted him.
And if Derek ever found out?
Stiles rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling. If Derek knew the truth—that Stiles thought about him every night before sleep, that his chest burned whenever Derek looked at him like he wasn’t allowed to care—he’d shut this whole thing down. No more sex. No more stolen nights. Derek would vanish behind those walls of his and lock Stiles out completely.
Stiles couldn’t lose him. Even if he only had Derek halfway, it was better than not at all.
The discovery came faster than Stiles ever expected.
They’d just finished—sweaty, breathless, the sheets tangled beneath them. Derek was already rolling away, reaching for his shirt, when Stiles’s mouth got ahead of his brain.
“You know,” Stiles blurted, “you don’t have to leave right away. You could stay. Just… once.”
Derek froze, his broad back taut. Slowly, he turned to look at him, eyes narrowed. “Stiles.”
Stiles swallowed hard. “I mean—it’s not a big deal. Just thought maybe—”
“Don’t do that,” Derek cut him off, voice sharper than claws.
Stiles sat up, stung. “Do what?”
“That.” Derek’s gaze was hard, unyielding. “Don’t pretend this is something it’s not.”
The words landed like a blow, but Stiles forced a shaky laugh. “Wow, okay. Message received. No cuddling aftercare for me, got it.”
But Derek didn’t move. His jaw was clenched, his hands balled into fists at his sides. He was angry.
And then, suddenly, his nostrils flared. His eyes flickered red for the briefest second.
“Shit,” Stiles muttered under his breath. He knew that look. He’d seen Derek scent lies before.
“You’re not just joking,” Derek said slowly. His voice had dropped an octave, dangerous and raw. “You want this. You feel something.”
Stiles’s throat went dry. He couldn’t lie—not when Derek would smell it instantly.
“Yes,” he whispered. “Fine. You win. I like you, okay? More than I should. I think about you all the damn time. And I know you don’t want that, and I know I’ve screwed everything up, but—”
“You should’ve told me,” Derek snapped.
Stiles’s chest constricted. “So you can end it? Yeah, thanks, but no thanks.”
For a moment, the room was thick with silence. Stiles braced himself for the inevitable—Derek storming out, slamming the door, severing whatever fragile connection they had.
Instead, Derek sat back down on the edge of the bed. His expression was unreadable, but the fury was gone.
“You think I don’t feel anything?” he asked quietly.
Stiles blinked. “Uh, yeah? That’s literally what you’ve been saying since day one.”
Derek let out a humorless laugh. “I told myself it was just sex. I needed it to be. Because feelings… they get people hurt. And I can’t afford to lose someone else I care about.”
Stiles’s heart stuttered. “Wait. You—care?”
Derek’s eyes met his, unflinching. “Too much.”
It was like the floor dropped out beneath him. All this time, Stiles had been killing himself, hiding how much he cared, terrified Derek would leave. And Derek had been doing the same damn thing in reverse.
“You’re such an idiot,” Stiles breathed, half-laughing, half on the verge of tears.
“Yeah,” Derek admitted, voice low. “So are you.”
The next few weeks weren’t perfect. They fought—about stupid things, about big things, about how to navigate whatever this was now. But for the first time, Stiles didn’t have to pretend. When Derek pulled him close afterward, when he let Stiles rest his head against his chest, Stiles didn’t have to lie to himself and call it meaningless.
It meant something. To both of them.
One night, weeks later, Stiles drifted toward sleep in Derek’s arms, Derek’s steady heartbeat under his cheek. Derek murmured, “You still think about me before bed?”
Stiles cracked a sleepy grin. “Yeah. Except now I don’t have to imagine.”
And for once, Derek didn’t argue. He just held him tighter.
The end 💙🧡