Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Run.

Run as fast as you can.

That’s all that clouded her mind as she sped down the highway in the storm. She didn’t want to think. She didn’t want to feel. This wasn’t happening. She didn’t just walk into her house after losing her job and exhausted, only to see her boyfriend rutting against someone else.

She had wanted to say something. Scream something. Anything. She had wanted to stop him from looking so shocked, so guilty, like he hadn’t been caught. She wanted to stop the excuses from tumbling out of his mouth. She wanted to stop her hand from striking his cheek. She wanted to stop him from yelling obscenities at her. From laying his hands on her. She wanted her love to mean something to him.

But she couldn’t. So she didn’t.

After the shock, and the nameless slut screaming filth in her face, she fled, black eye blooming and now homeless, on her motorcycle, running from everything. Again.

The sky cracked open above her as she tore through the rain, leaving behind the town of Black Fog, speeding toward the cliffs near Beacon Hills. She should slow down. She should have worn a helmet. She should not have taken the winding road next to the sea.

But it was too late now. As the storm grew heavier, she lost control. The tires slipped and her bike went down, shattering the world.

Pain exploded through her body. She looked down her body at her leg pinned beneath the weight of the wreck. She laid her head back on top of the asphalt as she felt the wet warmth of her blood mixing with rainwater. Still, she didn’t move. The full moon shimmered through the mist that rolled in from the cliffs, blanketing the space around her in a silver haze. The wind howled and the fog swallowed the road.

She started to cry, her tears blending with the pouring rain. Deep, heaving sobs that echoed down the empty miles of road. She had to move, but she didn’t want to. She felt peaceful and chaotic. She wanted to stay right there and disappear into the fog and mist.

She wanted to run but she was so tired.

Rain drops fall from everywhere.

With her eyes closed she tilted her head to the side of the road where the sea opened up cavernously. When she opened her eyes, she gasped. He stood just ahead, watching.

She sobbed harder and reached out her unbroken arm toward him. She didn’t know what she was asking for, help, forgiveness, something, anything, but the harder she reached, the farther he drifted until he vanished into the fog.

I reach out for you but you’re not there.

It was too much. The world dimmed around her. Her limbs felt distant. The cold seeped in and the pain dulled, but she didn’t care. She waited. For him. For something. He had been there. She had seen him. He wasn’t just in her head. He couldn’t be.

So I stood, waiting, in the dark, with your picture in my head… story of a broken heart.

She saw him again, at the edge of the fog. She needed to reach him.

With a growl of pain, she yanked her shattered leg from beneath the bike. Her skin tore open. The bone pierced through muscle and flesh but she didn’t stop. Instead, she ignored the limp swing of her broken arm as she staggered forward, clutching it to her side. Blood streaked down her frame, the rain washing it clean just as quickly.

When she reached him, she leapt toward him. And fell right through. Her body hit the ground hard. She felt a snap that was too familiar as her ribs cracked. She didn’t care.

This wasn’t right. She didn’t want to leave. She didn’t want it to end like this. She wanted to go home, crawl into bed, pretend none of this ever happened. But she couldn’t. And now... now she didn’t know what to do. So she cried a lake of tears on the broken highway.

Stay with me, don’t let me go, cause I can’t be without you. Stay with me, hold me close, because I built my world around you and I don’t wanna know what it’s like without you. So stay with me.

Stay with me.

It was too much. She clawed at her chest, gasping. Her fingers dug into her sternum, desperate to rip her heart free. How could something so small hurt this much? Her nails scraped skin. She didn’t stop. Let it bleed. Let it end. A sharp cold kissed her skin. She looked down. The rose locket. That stupid “just because” gift. It clung to her neck like a noose now. Inside, a picture of a couple frozen in time—laughing, loving, and alive. She clutched it to her trembling chest as she gasped and choked on their broken future.

I’m tryin and hopin for the day, when my touch is enough to take the pain away. Cause I’ve searched for so long, the answer is clear, we’ll be ok if we don’t let it disappear.

There he was again. Further this time. Maybe she hadn’t gone far enough before. Maybe if she just…

She stood. Again. Her wounds screamed, but she ignored them. He reached for her. She reached back. No contact. Just mist. Just air.

The rain blurred her vision, so she blinked fast, frantic to hold on. Don’t lose him again. She thought as she wiped at her face, desperate to see. He was still there. Still smirking. And then he faded. Again.

What did I do wrong? Was I not enough? Did I love too much, or not enough? Why wasn’t I enough for you?

Stay with me, don’t let me go, cause I can’t be without you. Stay with me, hold me close, because I built my world around you and I don’t wanna know what it’s like without you. So stay with me

Stay with me

She screamed. A sound so raw it cracked the sky. She tore the locket from her neck and hurled it into the mist. Thunder boomed as rocks tumbled around her. She was trapped. A landslide closed both ends of the road. There was no way back. No way forward.

She looked up at the moon. Clouds blurred its edges. Nothing would ever be the same again. Her last human effort meant nothing. People hurt you. Words break you. Love kills you. No one stays. No one ever stayed to help what they broke in you. She was done.

I’ve searched my heart over so many, many, many times. No you and I is like no stars to light the sky at night. Our picture hangs up to remind me of the day, you promised me we’d always be and never go away. That’s why I need you to stay.

She collapsed. First to her knees. Then to her side. Her ribs screamed at her under the weight. She didn’t flinch. She didn’t want to feel anymore. As the blackness started to descend on her vision, as the tears fell unchecked, she stared towards the sea, at the vast nothing before her, eyes going numb and detached, empty and hollow.

Just before the dark took her, she thought she saw Stiles' smirking face again.

Stay with me, don’t let me go, cause I can’t be without you. Stay with me, hold me close, because I built my world around you and I don’t wanna know what it’s like without you. So stay with me.

Stay with me.

Chapter Text

The first thing she noticed wasn’t the light. Or the quiet. Or even the bed.

It was the pain.

A sharp, intrusive kind of pain, dull around the edges but clawing through every nerve like glass beneath skin. It came from everywhere. Her chest, her leg, her ribs, her skull. Everything was screaming. But it was the kind of pain that felt like a reminder.

You’re still here.

Then came the softness. Something was underneath her. It felt too soft, smelled too clean. Not concrete. Not gravel. Not the sharp bite of broken bones on cold earth. She was warm, dry, inside.

No.

No, no, no, no. Please. Fuck no. she frantically squeezed her blurry eyes closed as her muscles snapped tight into tension like a wire pulled too tight.

Her skin started to crawl. Then her heart thudded once, hard, then stuttered into something wild and uneven. Her thoughts came fractured and fast in flashes. She couldn’t name them. Couldn’t hold onto them.

Fire. Ache. Cold sweat. The smell of pine. Fabric. Hands. A wall. A door. Her leg. Her ribs. The moon.

This isn’t real. This can’t be real. I’m not supposed to be here. S he thought as darkness and quite briefly flashed in her mind.

Then….. Stiles.

She panicked

Her lungs buckled and she opened her mouth and screamed. It started low but climbed fast, a ragged, feral sound bursting from her throat. One part fury, one part terror, all of it grief.

The scream splintered her own skull, filled every inch of space, tore through the air like a siren. She didn’t know what she was screaming at. The room. The air. Herself maybe? But she couldn’t stop. It tore through her like a broken wire.

She screamed again, louder.

Again and her voice cracked, but she kept going. Her body trembled violently. She screamed until it felt like her ribs were breaking again, until the world blurred at the edges.

The sheets tangled around her legs as she thrashed weakly, distantly she noticed the left felt heavier. Her arm slammed against something hard and a pain exploded down her shoulder, and she screamed again.

Louder.

Angrier.

She screamed like the sound could crack reality in half and send her somewhere else.

Footsteps thundered on the floor below, but she didn’t hear them. She didn’t care. Not until the mattress shifted.

Someone was suddenly too close beside her. Hands touched her and strong arms wrapped around her broken body, pulling her somewhere not far. Her body convulsed in their grip. She kicked weakly, flailed, but her limbs didn’t listen.

Everything was wrong. Too soft. Too still. Too human. Too alive.

The arms didn’t crush her, just held steady. Just there, containing her. And somehow that was worse.

They’re trying to keep you here. They know what you did. They know what you are. They know you didn’t stay obedient. They know about stiles. Something whispered in between the screaming.

She writhed harder. Her throat tore with another scream. Every part of her rebelled against the touch. She wasn’t in a bed anymore, she was back there. She could feel the basement under her knees soaked with water, blood, and shame.

She was on her knees, steel chain against her neck. The rusted cuffs, the scent of bleach. They were coming. The door was opening. She could hear them. Feel them. Hands where everywhere.

Screaming. Failing. Again.

And again.

No. No. No.

Hands on her meant punishment. Hands meant control. Obedience. Pain. Always pain.

Something in her, something she didn’t even know still existed, that she thought broke with Stiles on that road, snapped. She twisted her broken body trying to get out of the grip until her muscles spasmed and collapsed beneath her. Her left arm screamed with every motion. Her ribs flared white-hot. She kept trying anyway. The pain helped, she knew she deserved it.

When she realized she couldn’t escape just yet, her screams collapsed into silent sobs. Her throat gave out, but her lungs didn’t stop. No voice. No volume. Just a low, shuddering collapse into something silent and bottomless. Her face was pressed into fabric with her tears soaking through it. She couldn’t stop shaking. Her ribs pulsed with raw heat, and the burn in her chest deepened into something she couldn’t name.

She was so tired. She didn’t want this, didn’t want to be here. She didn’t want a bed, or warmth. She didn’t want a future. She wanted to claw herself out of her body, peeling off the parts they made. Rip open her skin and escape from inside.

She just wanted to be gone and finally disappear.

They had stolen everything else from her, let her choose how she dies at least.

But her body had limits, and it failed before her heart did. Her strength left her as her eyes rolled back. She passed out, still locked in that silent, endless painful sob.

She came to again slowly fluttering her eyes open to half mast. Everything felt a bit blurry around the edges and she didn’t hurt as much. The world felt too still.

The pillow beneath her head smelled like rain and something woodsy, like the edge of a forest. There was a blanket draped over her body that was too warm and soft against sweaty skin that didn’t feel like hers anymore. Her hair clung to her forehead. The room was still and dim. As she blinked slowly, she realized she wasn’t alone.

There was a body beside her. The wide solidness of the chest inches from her cheek indicated a male. He wasn’t touching her, not exactly, in the hazy fog she could make out his hand resting extremely lightly against her side. He was close enough for her to feel every rise and fall of breath against her side. The heat of his body filled every inch of air between them.

Her stomach turned and she didn’t move. Couldn’t. The panic didn’t instantly slam into her limbs this time. It rolled in slowly and powerful, like a predator just out of sight, crouched low and silent. She laid there, eyes half-open, breathing as shallowly as she could.

Her chest tightened as her breath hitched. Her eyes burned. Her ribs throbbed as she tensed further as the panic started rising tall in her chest. She moved, twitched really. Not far, just an inch to the left away from the hand so the contact was lost. But it was enough to make the pain explode inside her like an electric shock.

Her leg was being sawed in half and glued back together. Someone had struck flint against her ribs bone. Her arm was stabbed, stiff, immovable and wrong. All of it like fire licking under her skin. Her chest pulled tight like wire was being strung around her lungs.

Good. Let it hurt. She thought. The pain gave her something sharp enough to hold onto, long enough to escape.

Her eyes darted around the room as her mind tried to make sense of the room. Dark wood floors. Gray walls, heavy curtains. A large window but too far. A door, closer.

She needed to get out. Now.

She sat up suddenly, or tried to. Her body didn’t respond the way she wanted it to. A moan tried to claw its way out of her, but she bit it back. She shoved the blanket off her body, feeling like it was removing skin. Still, she moved as fast as she could, adrenaline coursing through her every nerves. She dragged her body off the bed, casted leg swinging uselessly to the floor. Her arms burned with effort. Her vision blurred as she whimpered, grabbing the edge of the bed, and dragging herself to standing.

She didn’t care. She needed out.

Her hand reached the edge of the nightstand. She used it to pivot, trying to find the door as her vision swam from the pain. But the walls shifted around her and she couldn’t tell which direction was right.

Then a hand touched her forearm and she reacted instantly in panic.

The noise that ripped from her throat wasn’t human. Her elbow slammed backward in reflexive instinct. Her shoulders twisted and she bit back a scream and swung wildly with her good arm, missing her target. But it didn’t matter because the hand left her body. She was a feral cornered animal scrambling, kicking, dragging herself away from the bed with one leg and both hands.

The man moved with her like someone trying to stay close without making it worse. But she couldn’t see that. She was too far gone now in the haze. Panic had overtaken her and all she saw was a threat. Someone else who wanted to take her last bit of control.

She hit the floor with a grunt from her flailing. Her casted leg landed first, the shock of impact causing stars to burst across her vision. She gasped and her nails scraped wood as she clawed at the floorboards, trying to drag herself with trembling fingers toward the nearest corner. Her legs twitched but didn’t respond. She had to get out. But she didn’t know where the door was anymore. Her vision blurred and the corners of the room folded in like a tunnel.

There were other voices in the room now. Too many footsteps. She hadn’t noticed them come in and she couldn’t tell how many. The door had opened and they were talking low and urgent. But she couldn’t understand the words, their voices all blended together into static. What was going on? All she knew was they were blocking the door, her only possible escape and she suddenly couldn’t breathe.

Her ears rang with a harsh wind and her chest collapsed inward, lungs stuttering. There was no air as she clawed at her ribs. She shrieked, a hoarse, guttural sound that didn’t sound human as she ripped at the bandages covering her ribs. Something warm leaked beneath her fingers but she kept going. Again and again. Harder and harder.

Get it out. Get it out. Get it out. She thought frantically. Her hands wouldn’t stop. Her chest just wouldn’t open. If she could just dig deep enough, she could pull it out. This thing inside her that kept making her breathe. This thing that wouldn't let her go.

The walls swam and her vision tunneled even more. The voices were too loud, someone was breathing too loud and what was that awful high pitched keening? She didn’t want this. She didn’t want to be here.

Then a low sound ripped through the room, deep and animalistic. It vibrated through the floor and made the figures stop silent and step back, slowly inching out of the doorway and out of sight.

All but one.

She couldn’t see who it was. She didn’t care. She kept clawing at her chest, her breath sputtering in her throat, her vision swimming in and out of black. She vaguely saw large hands surface in front of her limited vision and felt them wrap around her biceps before she was pulled into a pair of equally large arms.

She tried to shriek, a ragged sound of protest, but the arms just tried to steady her against a body. They maneuvered her gently in a lap and pressed her forehead against a wide male chest, one hand cradling her head, the other holding both her wrists. His chest was solid and warm, almost burning. There was a low rumbling, steady, voice in her ear whispering.

“Stop.”

She couldn’t hear him over the roaring waves and the high keening noise in her ears.

“Stop. You’re bleeding.”

She struggled to free her wrists, to claw at her chest again. Not even feeling the warm liquid under her nails or traveling down to her navel.

“Please. Just breathe.”

He turned her head more to place her ear against his chest. His heartbeat was steady. Heavy and real.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

“Just follow me. Breathe with me.” he said again. His breathing slowed and at first her body tried to follow and betray her again. But her lungs were too tight. Her throat too raw.

“In,” he murmured. “Out. In… out.”

Right as she was on the edge of the darkness taking her, her lungs obeyed him before her mind caught up, and slowly, very slowly, her breath caught rhythm. Eventually, the black retreated and the waves started to fade and the voice broke through.

“Breathe with me,”

Her fingers stopped trying to claw away the pain. Her limbs hung limp. Her chest rose and fell painfully as her breath rasped, sharp and dry. Her chest felt flayed open.

In. Out.

In. Out.

Her head sagged further into him as she slowly came to her limited senses again, hand curled against the front of his shirt out of reflex, not want. Her eyes blurred with new silent tears as he held her carefully, saying nothing else.

She was still here. Still breathing, and she hated it. She hated that his breath was steady, like it belonged to someone who had never been shattered.

But most of all, she hated that, just for a second, her heartbeat matched his.

And her body didn’t want it to stop, no matter how much her heart and mind screamed.

Chapter Text

Each breath was borrowed. She didn’t want it. Every inhale felt like betrayal. Her lungs, traitorous things, kept dragging in air she never asked for. Too steady to belong to her.

The scent of rain and forest wrapped around her like a blanket—pine and petrichor, moss and bark left damp by the storm. It clung to the room, to her skin, to him. But it didn’t reach inside her. Not really.

She was somewhere deeper. Somewhere locked and cold, where air didn’t reach and light didn’t belong. A place that smelled like bleach and rust. A place where the screams always echoed back louder. There was no present. No before. No future. Just this.

She didn't remember how she got here. Time blurred sideways.

One moment she had been clawing at herself on the floor, drowning in a panic that cracked the inside of her skull—and the next, she was sitting upright, planted on the edge of a counter beneath sterile white light.

She blinked slowly at the man in front of her, but the world wasn’t real enough to make sense of. Everything was blunted, dreamlike, soaked in static. She heard his voice through a fog.

“I need to look at your chest.” He spoke to her in a slow, steady murmur. The tips of his ears reminded her of a fire unfortunately not long forgotten.

She didn’t register him. She wasn’t there but her body was. Sitting upright now on a bathroom counter. Back against the mirror. Her head lolled slightly to the side, eyes half-lidded. She blinked.

Her gaze wandered down to her chest, catching on the soaked fabric of the shirt she wore. Blood had spread outward in dark stains, painting her in uneven patches of crimson. She tilted her head slightly, watching the way the fabric clung to skin that was no longer whole. Her chest had split open in places, Skin hung there in strips, pink and raw, curling outward in the shape of pain she couldn’t fully feel. Just a dull pressure.

She blinked at it, slow, detached and unbothered. The pain was there, but it felt distant now. This was the only thing that made sense, bleeding, hurting. She knew this. It was the only language she understood. This was her.

“You’re hurt pretty bad,” the man said quietly. His voice was rough and awkward, but not unkind. “I need to check how deep it is. You’re not gonna want that shirt on much longer anyway.”

She didn’t answer. Didn’t flinch. Her body just sat there, unmoving, like she’d been placed and forgotten. Her silence wasn’t stubborn. It wasn’t protective. It was survival. It was absence.

She saw his hands rummaging through a cabinet next to her, long fingers pulling out sterile packages, rolls of gauze, a brown bottle with a white label. Antiseptic. Thread. A needle. None of it felt real. Nothing did. Not the coolness of the marble under her thighs, not the warmth of the shirt clinging to her ribs, not the wetness at her side.

Even the pain, when it ebbed and flowed through her, was dim.

“If you want help, I can…” he trailed off, clearing his throat like the words caught in it, unsure, then lifted his hands slowly, palms out, fingers spread. “I’m not gonna hurt you. I just—if I don’t clean that, it’ll get worse.”

She didn’t respond. Just kept staring at her chest as if it might disappear if she looked long enough. He stepped closer. She didn’t move.

He paused. One step. Two.

Close enough to touch. Then, softly, “I need to get the shirt off. It's... it’s gotta come off either way. You’re soaked through.”

A breath moved through her chest, faint and broken. A shadow of breath. Not a choice. Just survival continuing without her permission.

Her arms rose—trembled—and she caught the hem of her shirt. She managed to lift it halfway up before the movement jolted fire through her ribs. She gasped sharply, eyes widening for the first time in minutes, and her arms fell back to her lap.

She didn’t cry right away. Her body just stilled, the trembling starting in her fingers and traveling up. Then the tears came silently—falling, not flowing. Like her eyes were leaking grief she didn’t know how to stop.

“Okay,” he murmured and sighed to himself. “That’s alright. I can...let me help.” His tone wasn’t coaxing or sweet. It was solid. Quiet. He spoke like someone who expected to be ignored, but who meant every word anyway. His hands hovered near her shirt, then retreated.

“I’m going to touch the fabric. Just the shirt though” he rushed out, “not you.” Still nothing. No nod. No blink. Her eyes were glass.

He stepped forward slowly, fingers brushing the soaked hem of her shirt, he moved slowly, inch by inch, lifting the shirt and peeling it upward with a care so deliberate it almost felt unreal. He didn’t rush. Not once. Every movement was careful, as if she might vanish if he moved too fast. He spoke the whole time—not loudly, not nervously, just enough to be there. To let the sound of his voice fill the silence she refused to leave.

He didn’t comment when her ribs revealed skin torn and swollen. When her scars—old and faded and too many—came into view. He didn’t look at her like she was something broken. He didn’t look at her like she was anything. It was… almost worse.

“You’re okay. I’m going slow. Just need to see how bad it is.” he whispered. She didn’t know if he was reassuring her or himself.

When he finally eased the shirt up and over her head, and it fell away from her shoulders, her body twitched, just barely. Her arms made a weak motion to cover herself, but her muscles wouldn’t cooperate. She sat exposed in her stillness, trembling only slightly, her expression unreadable. He noticed. Without a word, he reached for the bloodied shirt and laid it gently across her chest. It stuck to her, still damp, but it covered what she wanted to hide.

“Better?” he asked. Then he shook his head at himself. “Sorry. Dumb question.”

He turned to the supplies he had gathered on the counter. ““Alright, this part may suck. Antiseptic’s cold, just a heads-up.” he said, voice still low. “Um..it also stings a bit. Sorry.” The antiseptic spray came first. The cold was sudden. Sharp. A biting burn followed. She breathed in sharply but made no sound. Her body tensed, ribs creaking, then stilled again.

“Almost done,” he murmured, watching her face. “Just breathe.” He blew across the wound gently, trying to ease the burn. She shivered at the warmth of his breath but didn’t look at him. She stared past him at the wall.

Then came the glint.

Her eyes locked on the flash of metal between his fingers. The needle. He caught her stare. His voice was steady but careful now. “I have to stitch it,” he said then, more carefully. “Its bleeding too much and I don’t think bandages alone will work. It won’t hurt. The antiseptic’s numbing.”

She didn’t answer. Didn’t blink. Her silence was thicker now. Heavy. Her breathing sharpened. Her eyes dropped to the glint of silver. The light caught the needle, and something ancient snapped in her spine. She didn’t move suddenly. She didn’t scream. When he took a single step closer, she just flung one arm out with trembling force, knocking the needle to the floor with a soft clatter.

She shrank backward, pressing herself into the mirror behind her, eyes wide but still not fully seeing him. She couldn’t run. Her body wouldn’t let her. But she didn’t have to consent. That was all she had left.

He held still for a second just staring at her, then backed away. “Okay,” he said. No anger. No push back. “No stitches. Got it.” He knelt with steady movements, picked up the gauze instead and began to unwrap it. “I’ll bandage it. That’s it. Just cloth. No metal. Nothing sharp.” He spoke gently, but not patronizingly. As if he were trying to convince her as much as himself that this would be okay. She didn’t resist or respond when he stepped closer again. Just watched him unseeingly like a deer caught in headlights. Silent and terrified. Not quite here.

He worked in silence now, wrapping the wound as delicately as he could. Every motion was methodical, steady, sure. His hands didn’t shake, but his shoulders stayed tense. For the briefest of moments the gentleness woke her up. She could feel there was a story in his hands. One he didn’t speak aloud. She didn’t want to know. She couldn’t carry anyone else’s pain right now. Hers was already too loud.

He tied off the wrap and stepped back, watching her carefully. “I’m gonna get you a clean shirt.” He said awkwardly as he stepped out and returned a moment later with a big soft black t-shirt, worn at the collar and sleeves.

“It’s the smallest I have,” he said, holding it out without touching her. “Didn’t think you’d want anything tight.” She stared at the fabric in his hands, fingers twitching slightly at her side.

“Right..um..I’m just going to…” he trailed off as he gently pulled it over her head and maneuvered her arms throw the holes before slipping the ruined shirt out from under the new one. The fabric swallowed her tiny frame and fell over her knees like a shroud. She disappeared inside it.

“You, uh…” He cleared his throat. “You’re safe here. No one’s gonna come in without your say-so. I made that clear.” He watched her for a long moment, searching her face for any kind of reaction. “I’m Derek, by the way. In case… I don’t know. You need a name to yell at or something.” She said nothing. But the name etched itself somewhere in the fog of her mind.

He moved quietly now, turning away from her and packing up the supplies, returning everything to its place. With his back to her she finally moved. She didn’t watch him. She just turned her body away slightly towards the door and closer to the mirror and curled in on herself, knees pulled to her chest, wrapping her arms around her legs like a shield. Pain flaring through her chest and ribs with every movement.

The reflection in the mirror next to her didn’t register. She didn’t look at it. She didn’t know who that girl was. That empty shell with black rain-matted hair and dried blood on her pale face. A wraith in borrowed skin.

The screams in her head hadn’t stopped. The voices. The memories. The ghost of chains, of metal, of commands screamed through gritted teeth, of false trust burning her last tether.

Trust had hands and closed doors and words that turned into knives.

Tears pricked her eyes again. But they didn’t fall this time. She buried her face in her knees.

She wanted it all to stop.

A low, quiet familiar sound broke the silence. Her stomach growled. Derek looked over from the doorway. “I’ve got soup. Thought you might want something warm.”

She didn’t respond as he crossed the room slowly and lifted her into his arms again, careful not to startle her. She didn’t resist, just let her limbs hang loose. Her body was too far gone. He carried her back into the bedroom and laid her down gently, settling her on the farthest side of the bed, near the alcove window. Away from the door.

He retrieved a tray from the nightstand and sat beside her, setting it across his lap. “Tomato,” he said simply. “Warm. Easy to eat.” He lifted the spoon resting inside and held it out toward her. “Here.”

She stared at it.

“You don’t want it right now?”

She did, but there was some reflex ingrained in her by them and reinforced by Stiles.

Hunger wasn’t allowed, it was something she had been taught to ignore. Hunger meant weakness or punishment. Hunger meant wanting. And she wasn’t allowed to want anything anymore. She was taught to survive, even when she didn’t want to. To survive meant shrinking. Disappearing. Being small enough to wrap fingers around twice. That was how you stayed safe. How you stayed wanted.

So she looked away.

He didn’t push her. Just nodded and set the tray aside, back on the nightstand. “I’ll leave it here in case you change your mind,” he said softly. Then, quieter, “Just so you know, you don’t owe me anything. Not food. Not words. Not trust.”

She turned away to face the wall and window, curling into the sheets. The pain screamed again and she welcomed it.

Derek didn’t say anything else. He didn’t comment on her silence. He just stayed beside her, watching her breathe and shudder. And when she began to cry again, soundless and small, just tears slipping silently into the fabric of the blankets—he didn’t try to stop her. He just stayed.

‘”I’m here.” His words were so soft. Almost lost in the silence.

One thought finally drifted through the screaming haze in her mind as she slipped into a nightmare sleep, I should be dead. But for now, Derek was the only thing keeping her body from vanishing.

Chapter Text

It started with a heartbeat—loud, frantic, and so desperate it felt like it could shatter bone. Then came the scream, ripping up through the floorboards like a shockwave. It wasn’t just loud—it was broken. Ripped out of her like it cost her something vital to let it go.

Derek froze mid-motion, halfway through folding a towel in the laundry room. The second scream was worse—sharper, almost feral. The scent of agony surged into his nose, flooding his senses. His spine stiffened, eyes flaring red before the towel slipped from his hands. He didn’t think. He ran.

Two strides into the hallway and the others looked up, startled. Isaac’s eyes widened. Boyd paused with a spoon in hand, cereal forgotten. Erica had just started to speak, voice cutting, concerned—but Derek was already storming up the stairs.

Another scream cut through the house, even higher. Frayed. Raw. Her voice cracked like something inside her was unraveling. It stirred something inside Derek that had no words—just ache. Fear. Urgency.

She didn’t even have a name yet. All he knew was that she’d been barely conscious—barely alive, when he found her, bloodied and limp. Since then, she hadn’t made a sound. Not until now. And something in that sound felt like it had been buried in her for years. He didn’t know what had been done to her, but he was starting to hate whatever left her like this with a venom that made his claws itch.

He hit the landing and shoved the bedroom door open so hard it bounced off the frame. The smell inside the room hit him first—panic, sweat, blood, and something old and scorched. She was thrashing on the bed, legs tangled in the sheets, casted foot dragging across the mattress. Her body twisted violently, like she was fighting chains only she could see. Her back arched, fists clenched, and then an arm shot out and struck the headboard with a hollow crack. Her mouth opened again and another scream ripped free, chest rising and falling in brutal gasps, tearing at the air between them.

Derek moved fast. Settling carefully on the edge of the bed like you’d approach a wounded wolf mid-snare. Arms raised, palms open—not to threaten, but to prepare. She didn’t even see him, mind wasn’t in the room. Body locked in combat with ghosts. And losing.

He recognized this kind of fear. The scent of it. The kind that burned through muscle memory and rewrote reality. Even now he could feel the echo of it under his skin. He’d lived in it. Drowned in it. That sharp metallic sting when your body believes it’s dying even if your mind knows better. But watching it happen to someone else—someone so small and hurt and clearly holding herself together with the last of her will—it hit different.

His hand hovered inches from her shoulder. What the hell was he supposed to do? She was in so much pain.

“Hey—” he said gently, just loud enough to reach her. It made no difference. She thrashed harder.

So Derek did the only thing he could. Moved behind her, slowly and carefully. Sliding his arms around her, trying to be something solid without turning into another cage—and braced. She fought him with everything she had. Harder than she should’ve been able to. Feral. Desperate. Her nails scraped his shirt, and for a moment he thought she might actually throw him off.

But he held steady.

“You’re safe,” he whispered, knowing it wouldn’t land. But saying it helped him, even if it meant nothing to her. She kept screaming. Her body shook violently, then started to lose power. Her voice cracked, breath breaking into fragments. And then—just like that—silence. Her body slumped against him, too exhausted to keep fighting.

Derek closed his eyes, jaw tight. This helplessness—it made his bones ache. Made his hands curl into fists he didn’t use. He didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know if there was anything that could be said that wouldn’t sound hollow. He could tear through hunters, through threats. But this? This was a battlefield he couldn’t even see.

He didn’t let go. He sat with her, letting her fall apart quietly into the front of his shirt. Hot tears soaked through the fabric, and still he didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just held her. Tried to be steady enough for both of them as the sound of pain filled the entire room.

When she finally went limp, he eased her back onto the bed. One trembling hand brushed her damp hair from her brow. She was still breathing. Her pulse was still there. Barely. But she was alive and that was enough—for now.

He stayed close, back against the headboard, lost in thought but watching carefully. Eyes trained on every shallow breath, hearing sharpened instinctively, attuned to the smallest change in her heartbeat. The panic had faded, but it lingered around the edges. Her scent still carried it—fear layered over exhaustion. Beneath it, something quieter was starting to emerge. Not peace, not safety. Just… survival. He could work with that. Survival was something he understood.

Derek kept his hand close enough for comfort. The room stayed still for a long while he watched his arm turn black. They looked steady, but they didn’t feel that way. He counted the beats of her heart under the noise in his head.

When she stirred again, it was slow, almost imperceptible. Her eyes fluttered open, glassy and unfocused.

Derek didn’t move. But he could smell it before anything else—adrenaline rising again, bitter and sharp. Her breath caught. Her muscles tensed. He watched as she pulled away slightly, just enough to break contact. She froze, dilated eyes darting. Wide. Wild. Terrified.

He pulled his hand back deliberately, giving her space. Then she moved to sit up, her body folding under its own weight. Still, she kept pushing. He knew that look. Knew what it meant when someone kept going not because they could, but because stopping would mean collapsing. He admired it. Feared it. Respected it.

She flung the blanket off like it was poison. He could see the pain written in the way she moved. And yet she kept going, one hand reaching blindly for the nightstand. The whimper she let out still trying to stand, cut something in him that bled out.

“Wait—don’t—” stepping toward her, watching a delicate hand reach for the nightstand. Her vision was going—he could see it in how her steps were listing sideways like the ground was water.

In retrospect, maybe he shouldn’t have tried to steady her. Something took over the second fingertips brushed her arm, a sound erupting that triggered a memory of cubs breaking bones, howling for their parents.

She struck out—elbow sharp, hand flailing. Then her legs buckled and she collapsed, dragging herself toward the far corner like she needed to get away from him before her lungs gave out. Derek’s gut twisted painfully at the sight. Instead crouching low —slowly, trying to make himself small. Non-threatening. But she wasn’t in the room anymore. Not really.

Then the door creaked behind him.

“Derek?” Isaac’s voice. Followed by Jackson. Erica. Boyd.

No.

The scent of panic exploded in the room, covering everything in a thick blanket, overwhelming even his own lungs. His eyes went wide as she screamed again—ragged and high—and he realized too late that the sight of his pack had pushed her past breaking. She was clawing at her ribs, shrieking, keening so high pitched his ears rang. Like she was trying to dig something out of herself. Blood was soaking through the bandages. He could smell her ribs. Broken. Her lungs tightening into collapse. Her body was trying to shut down.

Derek didn’t think. He growled. “Out,” Low. Resonant. The word didn’t need to be loud. His Alpha presence pushed it. A command woven through instinct. The pack went still. And then, wordlessly, they obeyed—closing the door behind them.

He turned back, watching her trying to dig. To tear something out of herself in a haze. His chest ached with hers. He hated this.

Crossing the room in three strides, he caught her wrists—not hard, but firm enough to hold them steady. Just enough to pull and cradle her gently into his lap. Firmly pressing her trembling frame to his chest, the only shield he had for her.

Downstairs, no one spoke as they walked back into the living room. The pack moved in that quiet, scattered way wolves sometimes do when something has unsettled them deep.

Boyd leaned silently against the wall, arms crossed but jaw tight. Isaac sat at the edge of the couch, hands clasped between his knees, bouncing slightly with nervous energy. Erica paced, her boots thudding against the floor. Jackson stood by the window with his arms folded, watching the shadows outside like they had something to say.

“I didn’t know someone could scream like that,” Isaac finally said, voice hushed. “It sounded like she was dying.”

“She looked like it too,” Erica muttered, expression unusually guarded.

“She kind of is. Not physically, maybe. But whatever is in her…” Boyd trailed off, staring up the stairs. The girl upstairs shook something primal inside all of them.

Erica stopped pacing. “Derek’s trying, but he’s not built for this.”

Jackson scoffed, shrugging a little too quickly. “What do you expect? Derek dragged home a trauma case. That’s not going to be clean. Besides, he’s an Alpha. He should be able to handle it.”

Boyd turned toward him slowly. “Being Alpha doesn’t make you a trauma counselor.”

“She didn’t even look at us,” Isaac added. “She looked like she was somewhere else entirely. Like she couldn’t even see the room.”

“She saw enough to think we were a threat,” Erica said, and for once, her voice didn’t carry any bite. Just quiet sadness.

Jackson rubbed the back of his neck. “He didn’t have to growl like that.”

“You felt that growl?” Erica snapped. “That wasn’t for us. That was for her. That was the only thing he had left to give her—space.”

No one argued.

Then Isaac asked what none of them wanted to admit. “Do you think Derek’s okay?”

Boyd dropped his voice. “He sounded scared.”

Erica sat down finally, fidgeting with her rings. “He didn’t look okay. He looked like he was breaking right along with her.”

They all looked at the ceiling, where the sounds had faded, but the weight and smell of them still lingered.

And none of them said what they were all thinking—that if Derek was breaking, maybe this time they wouldn’t know how to put him back together.

“Stop,” Derek’s voice was somewhere between Alpha and human.

“You’re bleeding.” You’re not breathing.

Please. Please. Please. Derek closed his eyes, pressing her forehead against his chest and held her hands in one of his.

“Please, just breathe,” he said again, voice trembling now, more human. Trying not plead over the noise that came out of her.

Nothing.

Focusing on his own heartbeat, he slowed it intentionally. Focused on breathing steady. Letting the calm pulse fill the air. Praying it echoed into her bones.

“In,” he murmured. “Out.”

Again. “In...out.” This time, he felt her ribs twitch. Then again, a breath catching shakily. But real. Her body sagged a little. That was all it took for something to loosen in him slightly.

“That’s it. Just like that. You’re doing good.” He whispered barely able to say it without his voice cracking. She finally matched him—just barely. Broken little inhales that he could hear shaking her ribs, but it was something.

“Good,” he whispered, not sure if it was for her or for himself. “You’re doing good,”

They stayed like that. Breathing together. Her head tucked under his chin. His skin was burning. Her blood was leaking. His heartbeat was louder than it should be. Too exposed. Too much. He didn’t want to let her go, didn’t think he could right now.

Eventually, she stopped shaking, breathed on her own. Curled tighter against him. And when her hand curled weakly into the front of his shirt—barely more than a twitch—Derek didn’t flinch. Just tightened his hold and let his own breath shake.

Chapter Text

Time passed differently here. Or maybe it didn’t pass at all—maybe it just hovered. Everything was soft-edged and colorless, bleeding into one another like damp ink.

The air felt thick sometimes, like it remembered things she couldn’t. Days didn’t quite feel like days. There was no clear line between one and the next. No calendar in her mind to mark the beginning or end. Just by light that filtered in and faded out, and by the shape of Derek’s breathing. In the absence of anything else, the sounds became her tether. The scrape of a chair against the floor. The quiet thud of a cabinet closing. The low murmur of a voice, sometimes on the phone, sometimes with someone downstairs. She never listened closely enough to know which.

The room—the one that wasn’t hers, but smelled like pine and worn flannel and things she didn’t hate—had become the boundary of her world. She knew Derek lived in it too. Noticed it in the things that moved slightly: boots re-angled by the door, laundry folded without fuss. Sometimes she woke up to the sound of a zipper, the rustle of a jacket. Lights never turned on when she was asleep. He moved like he was trying not to exist. She didn’t speak. Not to him. Not to herself. The silence had become a refuge.

There was familiarity and routine now. A quiet rhythm: eat a little, try to sleep, get to the bathroom without help. Predictable enough that she didn't startle when she heard footsteps. Derek always moved the same way—steady, cautious, as though he was still unsure what kind of creature he’d brought into his home. And maybe he was.

Most days, she didn’t leave the bed unless necessary She’d gotten better, though “better” was generous. Her body was still healing. Certain movements made her clench her jaw involuntarily. But ribs didn’t ache with every breath anymore. The stitched gash on her thigh was a stiff pink ridge now, tugging at her skin like it was still learning to belong there. Her cast only causing a wince whenever the pain stretched through her like a pulled thread. Everything had settled into something manageable. Enough for her to use the wall to steady herself when legs ached if she limped too fast. Derek always lingered nearby without hovering.

The bathroom was small, functional, and mercifully attached to Derek’s bedroom. The first time she covered the mirror—weeks ago, maybe longer— it hadn’t been planned. Just a reflex. A towel yanked down and tossed over the glass before her reflection could stare back. That version of her—the blank-forest eyed girl with sunken cheeks and a stranger’s shoulders—was something she refused to meet.

Derek hadn’t said anything about it.

But later, in a quiet moment while she rested against the sink, the towel was gone. Not thrown out. Just gently folded and placed in the cabinet below.

In its place was a square of soft beige cloth taped across the mirror. No sharp edges. No metal trim. The soft haze broke just enough to slowly realize, that every reflective surface had disappeared. The chrome faucet had something folded around its base, even the metal trim on the light switch was dulled.

He didn’t say anything about that either.

There were still days when she lost track of what she was doing halfway through. She found herself standing in the bathroom, toothbrush in hand, unsure whether she’d already brushed her teeth or had just been standing there, frozen, for fifteen minutes. When the toothbrush finally slipped from her fingers, the clatter felt far away, like it belonged to another room. She stared down at it on the tile, as if it had turned into something unrecognizable.

Her balance was off. Dread coiled cold around her ribs, tightening like wire. Vision going gray at the edges, hands shaking. No trigger. No voice. Just the familiar narrowing of her world, the tunnel vision and rushing in her ears. The mirror—covered now—was now too close. Everything in her blurred.

Derek appeared in the doorway almost instantly, barefoot, hoodie half-zipped, hesitating. He didn’t ask if she was okay. Just tracked her face, then her hands, then the floor.

“Hey...”

All his movements were slow and deliberate as he stepped inside, picked up the toothbrush and rinsed it clean. When he moved behind her, she flinched, and he froze. “Sorry. Just—uh. You dropped this.” Setting it gently on the edge of the sink.

He shifted awkwardly from foot to foot, looking at her, then down at the floor, then back again.

“You want to sit down? You’re still unsteady.”

Her gaze stayed locked on the sink as a large hand touched her back—steady, broad, warm—and helped guide her to the bench he’d brought into the bathroom weeks ago.

“You’re okay,” he said, voice low but firm. “Just helping.”

She wanted to scream that she could do it herself. That she didn’t need help. But everything was still too tight, too hazy and hollow. She was shaking.

Derek grabbed a blanket hanging on the back of the door, something else that just showed up one day, and wrapped it around her shoulders. The shirt she wore—his shirt, oversized, soft from too many washes—slid off her shoulder just enough when he adjusted it.

She knew what he saw.

The room’s dim light caught pale silver lines against warm ivory skin. Her back was a mess of jagged, chaotic scars. Some were faded and shapeless. Others, narrow, deliberate.
So precisely drawn they could only have been made with intention.

His face changed. Jaw moving tight then still. Eyes shifting—red flickering at the edges for just a breath—before vanishing again. She thought maybe it was a trick of the light. There was no pity, no horror. Just a quiet kind of stillness. He looked for three seconds too long, before exhaling slowly.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t flinch. Just wrapped the blanket higher around her and kept his hands gentle.

“I’ll, um…bring you water,” he murmured, already heading out. “Then I’ll give you space.”

She sat there long after he left, staring at the covered mirror.

That night, she didn’t sleep. The air felt too tight like the walls had shifted just slightly closer together. Derek usually waited for her to fall asleep before lying down but had gone to bed a few hours earlier. Keeping to his side like it was a rule written into the floorboards.

But she couldn’t sleep.

The blankets smelled like soap and forest air. She curled in on herself, back pressed to the headboard, arms wrapped tight around knees. Breathes turned quietly shallow, short and quick, ribcage fluttering. Her thoughts were everywhere and nowhere as bones ached faintly. Not from injury, but from the weight of being.

She wasn’t sure if she’d made a sound, but Derek stirred with a slow exhale, shifting under the covers. He turned toward her, half-asleep, hair flattened on one side. Blinking blearily, he looked at her without fully waking.

Then—stillness.

When he inched closer and pushed himself up slightly, she flinched—breath catching, only then realizing she was trembling.

The sound started low. A vibration, not a voice, gentle and steady. At first, she thought it was in her head. But then it deepened, reverberating through the frame of the bed. Into her spine. Her ribs.

Her body seized, mind screaming. Every part of her wanted to reject it, every part that remembered fear, and pain. But it wasn’t threatening. Just…primal, wrong and right all at once. She couldn’t name it. It was like the house was growling. No. Like he was.

She found herself slowly swaying sideways toward him before she even realized she’d moved. Her forehead eventually pressing lightly against the edge of his upper arm. The shaking lessened. Her lungs found a rhythm again, syncing without permission to the sound coming from him.

He didn’t stop her, didn’t move. Instead the growl softened. Became a low hum, timed and protective.

She let herself stay there, eyes burning with no tears, half-curled into the side of someone who had never asked for anything in return.

When she drifted off, with someone’s heartbeat in her ear and body no longer trying to run, it was the first sleep since she could remember that didn’t come from pure exhaustion.

The next time forest eyes fluttered open, the blanket was pulled high around her. The other side of the bed was empty.

Something was tucked beneath her fingers—a note, edges crumpled and slightly smudged where her hand had clenched it in sleep. The handwriting was awkward, patient. Careful in a way that made something ache.

You’re safe.

No name. No explanation. Just those two words. She almost tore it up. Almost.

But instead, she read it four times. Then, without thinking, folded it once, then again, and hid it under the mattress.

Some words were too fragile to keep in the open.

She wouldn’t believe it tomorrow. But maybe she could believe it for now.

He’d started leaving more notes. Quiet reminders in slanted handwriting written in pen. Always brief, sometimes practical:

Remember water. Soup’s hot.

Sometimes they were crossed out and rewritten awkwardly, like he didn’t know how to phrase what he meant:

You don’t have to eat it all. Just something.

It’s been a few days—shower? You’ll feel better.

Need help with the bandages? You can nod.

She didn’t nod. Didn’t respond. But he kept writing them anyway— and she read every one.

She rarely touched the meals, and when she did, it was never out of want. A few bites of a cracker. A half-spoonful of broth. Just enough to keep the dizziness at bay. Most days, her stomach felt like a foreign object—something she carried out of duty, not belonging. Hunger felt too close to shame.

It had been Stiles who taught her that.

“Dolls don’t eat like pigs.” He’d said once—never cruelly, just offhand—brushing a crumb from her lip like she was something breakable. She’d tried to become what he wanted. Quiet. Pliable. Delicate. Learned to skip dinner, to measure portions by what wouldn’t make him frown. Be “his perfect doll,” always pristine, always presentable.

Back then, she’d even thanked him. He said she was special, his. It had sounded like love and he was the only one left.

Now, her body still bent itself into habits she hadn’t consented to. She wondered if he still saw her when she couldn’t stop seeing him.

Derek never commented on the pace of her recovery. He didn’t try to measure her progress. If anything, he seemed to watch her like she might disappear if he asked the wrong question.

There was something about the air here that felt different. Heavier, but not in the same way as the house she grew up in had been. Not with danger—but with density, like the house itself was listening.

She noticed odd things sometimes, if she was lucid enough—like how Derek always hesitated just before entering, like he was listening for something. The way he seemed to know when she was about to get dizzy before she did. The way his eyes sometimes glinted unnaturally in low light, just for a second. But she was too far gone to care. The world had always been strange. Men had always had secrets. She wasn’t interested in unraveling them.

The next time the panic came, she was already lost inside her head—trapped in fragmented not-dreams, curled in the recessed window nook beside the bed, wrapped in the blanket he’d brought her. This one crept in slower, like drowning in stages. Breath caught and lodged in her throat, sharp as glass. Her hands had gone numb under the blanket, heart kicking hard against ribs, frantic, like it wanted out. Fingers dug into her arms.

She couldn’t feel them. Couldn’t feel anything.

Derek had been folding something on the edge of the bed when it started. Though she wasn’t looking at him, she could feel him pause, attention shifting. She just sat rigid as the world narrowed, barely breathing.

That sound again—deep, resonant, steady. Somewhere nearby but not touching her. Not pressing. Just—being there. Her shoulders locked, jaw tightening, before her body shivered hard once, turning toward the sound like a plant following sun.

Then—he was there and she was leaning against him. Shoulder finding the edge of his, temple brushing the fabric of his shirt. She didn’t want to, wanted to push away. But her head tilted anyway, cheek resting into the heat of him, like it was magnetic.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t move to hold her, not right away.

Only when her shaking worsened did he shift slightly. An arm curling around her, slow and careful. The sound never stopped. It changed pitch with her breath, like it was syncing with her.

There was no shushing, no “you’re okay” like it was a spell to cast. Just stillness and rumbling that settled somewhere deep in her bones like a lullaby only her nerves could hear.

It didn’t make the panic go away but her stomach unclenched, shoulders dipped lower. Made it survivable.

She let him hold her. Not because she wanted to.

But because her body did.

Chapter Text

POV: Aurora

The window nook in Derek’s room faced the front of the house. From this high up—what felt like the highest point in the forest—she could see where the long gravel road vanished into the trees, swallowed by mist and pine. On quiet mornings like this one, the sky was just beginning to pale, and the silence stretched thick enough to muffle even her own thoughts. She liked the early hours. They felt removed from time, untouched by noise or expectation.

The room had become the only geography she trusted. The bed. The bathroom. The small table near the window where Derek left food, notes, and tea. The soft chair she sometimes sat in with knees pulled to chest when the walls felt like they were closing in. She still hadn’t left the room. The idea of stepping past the doorway made something primal in her coil up in protest. She knew other people lived in the house. Sometimes catching murmurs through the walls when she wasn’t too far gone inside her own head. Laughter in the kitchen. Music through a cracked bathroom door. None of it made sense to her. None of it touched her.

Derek had become a quiet constant. Present without being looming. He never raised his voice. Never asked for more than she could give. When the days were bad—and most of them still were—he left notes instead of words. Written in ballpoint pen, the ink always slightly smudged at the edges like his hands trembled when he wrote. They were never signed, but she always knew.

Left food. There’s tea if your head hurts. Not leaving long. No one here. He had written the word safe three times in the margins of the last one. Her eyes burned staring at it.

She had believed him.

Outside, the forest pressed gently against the house, distant wind brushing pine needles together like a hush. She sat curled in the window nook, wrapped tight in the blanket he kept draped over the chair. Knees drawn up, cheek resting against the cool glass. Sunlight glinted off the wet grass, breath fogging up the window, then cleared, fogged again. It was quiet. Calm. She was calm. Not happy. Not content. But still. Stillness was rare. A small, borrowed peace she hadn’t earned but couldn’t bring herself to reject.

The door opened.

There was no warning. No knock. The house had been silent. Then the dull creak of hinges and a voice—unfamiliar and far too close.

“See? I told you—”

It happened too fast. She turned too quickly, eyes wide, breath gone. Two figures filled the doorway—both tall, both unfamiliar males. One with sandy curls and wide, too-soft eyes. The other was sharp-edged and silent, his jaw set tight. Both looking just as startled as she felt. She didn’t know their names, didn’t want to. They didn’t belong.

Her body froze while mind scattered in every direction. The pressure in her chest built fast and sharp, like her ribs had turned inward and were piercing lungs. There was noise—words she couldn’t understand—panic came like a flood with nowhere to drain. Her body rejected the moment entirely. The world slanted. Everything tunneled before vision shuttered like a lens snapping shut. Blanket dropped from her shoulders. Knees buckled as she stumbled from the window and hit the floor.

Then—nothing.

POV: Isaac

The sound of her body hitting the floor wasn’t loud. Just soft, dull—like a dropped pillow. But it hit Isaac like a bomb.

His eyes widened as the room fell eerily still for a moment.

“Shit—oh my god—she fell—what—”

Isaac dropped beside her immediately, reaching out with shaking hands. Her skin was cold, breathes shallow and fast. He hadn’t even said anything yet—hadn’t gotten a single word out before she—

He hadn’t expected to feel it that intensely.

She had looked up at them and then gone rigid—completely still, like prey cornered by something with teeth. The scent hit him first. Terror. Pure, acidic, so strong it coated his tongue, made it hard to breathe. Made eyes water.

And then she collapsed.

Not like someone fainting delicately in a movie. She crumpled. Like her body had stopped working, like everything inside had just shut off. “I didn’t think—Jackson—she’s not moving—” His voice shook. “I didn’t think she’d—help me!”

Isaac didn’t even realize he was shouting until Jackson grabbed his shoulder with one hand. The other already pulling out a phone. “Shut up. I’m calling Derek.”

“I didn’t mean—” He reached forward instinctively, but stopped just before touching her again. “—just wanted to see—she’s been here for forever—didn’t think—”

His thoughts were scattered, heart pounding painfully, but it wasn’t fear of Derek yet—it was guilt. Ugly and full in his chest. She looked so fragile. And he had done this.

“She’s not waking up,” Isaac said, too fast. “Shit, Jackson—she’s not waking up.”

“What?” There was a growl—real and low—over the phone speaker in Jackson’s hand.

POV: Jackson

Jackson didn’t kneel, didn’t move. Pale blue eyes just stayed locked on her body curled and unconscious on the floor. She hadn’t made a sound. Hadn’t even screamed. The way she’d looked at them—

He had seen people pass out before—drunken friends at parties, kids fainting during assemblies—but this was different. Her face hadn’t just gone pale. It had emptied —like their presence had snatched the life right out of her.

He felt sick.

The whole idea had been Isaac’s. A quick look. Just to satisfy the curiosity. Jackson had rolled his eyes and gone along with it because he hadn’t expected anything to come of it.

He hadn’t expected her to be so… real.

The phone rang in his hand, once, then again. Derek picked up. Before Jackson could speak, Isaac started rambling.

“She fainted,” Jackson said, his voice tighter than he expected. “We came upstairs. Isaac wanted to see her. We didn’t mean—”

He didn’t finish the sentence. Didn’t defend himself.

It felt like his jaw wouldn’t unclench, like something was clawing up his throat and trying to choke him from the inside

Jackson had opened the door...

On the other end of the call, there was a pause. The sound Derek made wasn’t loud, but they felt it in their bones. Low and lethal. Isaac swallowed and pulled back from the girl.

...And now she was crumpled on the floor, fragile and unconscious, and Derek Hale was going to tear them both apart.

POV: Derek

He was already halfway home when the call came through.

The moment Isaac’s voice was heard—panicked, high, choking over apologies—his heart dropped, foot slamming on the gas. The note he’d written flashed through his mind, the word “safe” circling like a curse. He had written it three times. He had promised.

Taking the last corner too fast, tires spat gravel as the house came into view. He didn’t park. Just killed the engine and bolted up the wide porch. Senses stretched out ahead of him—her scent faint, distant, but tinged now with something poisonous: fear.

He could smell her fear from the bottom of the stairs outside.

The two males froze in the living room the second they felt it.

Isaac stood up too fast, heart in his throat. Jackson crossed his arms, trying to look unfazed, but his jaw clenched like a vice.

Derek walked through the front door like a storm contained in flesh. Staring up the stairs like he could see through wood, rebar and drywall to the third floor.

“Where is she?” His voice wasn’t a voice anymore—it was a command. The kind his betas couldn’t ignore.

Isaac flinched visibly. Jackson tensed and tried to intercept him, but the moment Derek turned his head, the growl that came out made Jackson freeze mid-step. It wasn’t human. It was pure Alpha fury.

“She’s in your room,” Jackson said quickly. “We didn’t mean—”

“You went into her room.” His voice wasn’t raised. That made it worse.

They both tried to speak at once.

“She fainted—”

“We didn’t mean—”

“You—” Derek’s eyes burned “—went into her space. You ignored every line I set.”

He took a single step forward, and both of them instinctively backed up. His posture hadn’t changed, but his presence had. The entire house seemed to shrink under it.

“She hasn’t left that room in six weeks. She doesn’t know what we are. She doesn’t know anything except what I’ve tried to make safe for her.” Voice cracking under the heat. “And you used that advantage because you couldn’t control your curiosity. And you terrified her.”

A full-bodied snarl ripped out of his chest, heavy with rage and betrayal. Isaac's knees nearly buckled. Jackson turned pale.

“She’s healing, barely, and you thought you had the right to intrude on that?” Another snarl, eyes flashing red—just for a second, but it was enough. “You don’t touch her space. You don’t look at her. You don’t even breathe in her direction.”

Isaac shrank back, eyes dropped to the floor. Jackson swallowed hard, but it was the stillness in him that gave him away. Like shame frozen in place.

“Derek—” Isaac started. “We didn’t think—”

“You didn’t think. You didn’t ask. You didn’t wait. She’s not a stray. She’s not a project. She’s a person who’s been through hell.” Derek said, voice low and dangerous, “If she doesn’t get better because of this, if she stops eating again, or sleeping, or—” He choked off the thought.

Silence followed.

“You don’t go near her again,” he repeated quietly. “Not unless she asks. Not unless I say.”

Isaac looked like he’d been hit. Jackson didn’t respond. Neither of them could meet Derek’s eyes.

“Get out of my sight.” Derek said, voice low enough to vibrate the walls. “Now. Before I make you leave.”

They left without another word.

He went up the stairs, pausing before opening the door. Fingers curling into fists before he even realized it.

The word safe had been written three times.

Once for reassurance.
Once for habit.
Once like a promise.

And now she was lying unconscious on the floor.

You lied to her.

POV: Aurora

She came back slowly.

First with an ache in her throat. Then heaviness in her limbs. Then awareness—she was lying down. Blanket wrapped tight around her, but differently, like someone else had tucked it there. Trying to blink away her swimming vision, she felt her cheek pressed against the soft dip in the mattress where her head usually rested.

The color in the room was off. The light was lower, the corners of the room glowed—afternoon maybe. Everything felt wrong with her head buzzing and chest burning.

The scent of the room was familiar, grounding—rain-damp wood, and something deeper. Derek. Her heart was pounding again, but not with the same jagged panic. Just confusion.

Then movement. Across the room, someone breathed. She startled and flinched back—

“It’s just me,” Derek said softly, voice rougher than usual. “You’re safe. I’m here. You fainted.”

He was sitting on the floor a few feet away, facing her. Back pressed against the wall under the window, shoulders tense. His jaw was tight, but his eyes were fixed on her with an expression she didn’t understand. Exhaling slowly, he lowered his gaze.

“They weren’t supposed to be here.” His voice was quiet, but it was tight at the edges. Guilt—buried beneath the calm. “They skipped school. I didn’t know. I wouldn’t have left if I did.”

There was a pause. A slow breath.

“I left a note, I thought—”

His voice faltered, looking at her again. Not just a glance. Looking.

“I’m sorry.” There was something fragile in the way he said it. Like he’d failed at something important.

The words didn’t help. The panic was bubbling up again, dizzying and sharp. She couldn’t find the edges of her thoughts. The last memory had been falling. The faces. The door. On the floor. Her lungs stuttered. She was still on the floor.

Derek sat with one knee drawn up, his elbow resting across it, watching her carefully. When the panic didn’t ebb, when her breathing turned ragged and hands started to shake again, ocean-colored eyes closed and a rumbling started in his chest, low and steady.

Her limbs trembled violently, still shaking with delayed terror. Body wanting to hide. To collapse. The sound thrummed through the floor and vibrated into her skin. It wrapped like gravity, anchoring. It held her.

With sudden need and breath hiccuping, she moved.

Not further into the bed. Not away from him. But suddenly, desperately, toward him—without pause, even after reaching his legs. She crawled over the bend of his knee, then all but collapsed into his lap like a child fleeing fire. Curling up there with no hesitation. Fingers clawed into the fabric of his shirt, face burying into his chest. Shivering. Breaths sharp, panicked.

Derek caught her without thinking, one arm wrapping instinctively around her back, the other bracing their weight. The pressure was feather-light, fingers spreading slightly to cover more of her—like he was trying to offer something of himself without taking anything.

She didn’t understand what she was doing—only that her body needed him. Needed the gravity of him, the sound, the steadiness.

And when his chin rested lightly on the top of her head, arms tightening, low rumble deepening in his chest, she curled in tighter.

“You’re safe,” he said again. Quieter this time. Like he was trying to believe it too.

She believed him. And this time, let the words and forest heavy scent calm her until the trembling slowed enough to breathe again.

Chapter Text

The air in the room had changed. It wasn’t cold, not really, but it carried something weightier than temperature—something harder to name. A shift in pressure. Like the scent of rain just before it hits the dirt.

Derek stood by the window, arms folded, weight leaning into the wall like he didn’t trust the floor. Outside, fog curled low between the trees. The forest hadn’t seen sun in two days. Even the birds kept their distance.

He glanced over his shoulder.

The change had been subtle at first—less eye contact, slower blinking. Her movements were quiet, efficient, almost robotic—rising just long enough to use the bathroom. Picking at the edge of toast or crackers before curling back into the bed. She had stopped reaching for the tea he left. Stopped pacing. The silence had shifted from safe to sterile.

She’d gone quiet again. But not in the same way. It was quieter like held breath, not like absence. Five days had passed since that night. Since she’d climbed into his lap and collapsed, trembling and boneless. As if something inside had been holding out, resisting, until it couldn’t anymore.

Now, she lay tucked beneath the blanket, curled tight and facing the wall, back to the room—as if trying to vanish into the folds. Breathing shallow, but steady. One bare hand was visible at the edge of the sheets—small, still pale, fingers slack. She hadn’t been this still since the first week she was here.

The window nook sat empty.

Her world had slammed shut again. It was a backslide of sorts. He knew it. But she let him near her, had started reaching for him. Not often. But it was something.

Derek exhaled through his nose, thumb dragging along the edge of his opposite wrist. He hadn’t left the room except to bring food, clean clothes, more tea. Sitting near the door now, where she could see him, his presence was a physical offering of safety he offered her every morning. The silence between them felt different now. Not warmer, exactly. Just—less like everything might shatter if he breathed wrong.

Sometimes, if he sat near the bed long enough, if she drifted into sleep and the room was quiet enough, her hand would slowly inch across the blanket. Like she was groping through fog, body knowing what her mind refused to risk.

Earlier that day, she’d curled into the corner of the mattress until her back bumped against his leg. She didn’t pull away. Stayed there, pressed to that single point of contact like it was the only thing anchoring her to the surface.

It made his chest hurt.

He waited—for her to come back.

She didn’t.

Still not better. But no longer trapped in the place she’d started. She’d chosen him—if only on instinct.

Instinct that meant everything in Derek’s world. It was more than he’d had before and that counted for something.

That was progress. Wasn’t it?

He wasn’t sure anymore.

Derek sat in the armchair across from the bed, feet flat on the dark hardwood, an unread book resting in his lap. The air was thick with pine and the faint herbal bite of Deaton’s ointment—something that clung to her bandages no matter how often they were changed. Late evening light filtered through the window in long, strained lines, not bright enough to stir her. Beneath the covers, her silhouette trembled—always trembling. Head shifting slightly on the pillow. Fingers clenched in the sheets. The house around them groaned in its bones the way old houses did, as if settling into the quiet tension between them.

His eyes dropped to her hand again. Near the wrist, a healed wound—just a faint, raised seam he hadn’t noticed those first few weeks. Old marks. Precise in a way that made his chest tighten if he looked too long. He tried not to. It didn’t matter where they’d come from. He already knew enough to hate whoever had left them.

She turned beneath the covers, a choked sound rising unbidden, lost before it formed.

It wasn’t a word. Not clearly. But it had shape—like something from a dream trying to crawl out. Her brow twitched, lips moving slightly.

“No…Don’t...Please…”

It was whispered like a wish. Like it hurt to say. But the room felt altered. Like the floor beneath him had dipped an inch. Like the walls had bent inward to listen.

He was across the room before he realized it, kneeling on the edge of the bed, careful not to touch her. Careful not to breathe too loud.

“I’ll be better. Don’t make me go back—”

Her body curled tighter somehow, shoulders drawing in like they remembered pain even now. A twitch—barely there—and then her face twisted, expression fracturing at the edges. Hands clenched closer to her chest. Another mutter followed—disjointed, raw, slipping into cracked fragments, breaking around the syllables now. Then her breath hitched.

“Don’t leave me in the dark again.”

Even in fear—even from a place her conscious mind couldn’t reach—he hadn’t known what her voice would sound like. It held him there, soft as breath. Something almost melodic under the panic. And it broke something in him.

He waited—a beat, then another— pulse thrumming in his throat. He didn’t know what the right thing to do was. He never had. “Hey,” the word came out soft, letting his voice drop low. “You’re dreaming. You’re safe.”

She flinched. Twitching like a hand had struck her in the dark. The blanket shifted slightly as another sound escaped her throat—A whimper, too small to carry across the room, and then silence. She didn’t wake.

Derek felt the shift in his own pulse. The instinctual surge of protectiveness, of fury—except there was no enemy here. Just this girl, curled like a secret in his bed, whispering to ghosts he couldn’t see.

Fists curled harshly at his sides. He wanted to fix this. Wanted to pull the pain out of her and bury it somewhere it could never touch her again. But that wasn’t how it worked.

So he growled softly—not at her, but for her.

The sound came from deep in his chest, low and rhythmic. It had become something she responded to, something she leaned into when nothing else could get through.

She didn’t stir. But the shaking slowed. Breath catching once more, then evening. The tension bleeding away in slow inches. Then, almost without warning, she shifted toward him. Fingers brushing the blanket, the edge of his knee. She curled—slowly, haltingly—over it. Like her body couldn’t stay away.

Derek didn’t move as her cheek pressed lightly against the fabric of his jeans.

His Alpha side went silent. Watchful. She needed calm, not dominance. Safety, not command.

It took everything in him not to reach out.

“Don’t leave me in the dark again.”

Spoken to no one, or maybe to the dark— but they stayed—sharp and lingering.

He stayed beside her long after her body went quiet again.

When the bedroom door finally eased shut—left slightly ajar in case she stirred—he leaned against the wall across from it, eyes fixed on the phone in his hand.

The hallway felt colder than it should. Walls too white. This house had stood empty for years, steeped in ghosts before he came back to it. Filling it with packmates had seemed like it might shift the weight.

Now, he wasn’t sure.

He started pacing a slow line.

The girl in his bed wasn’t getting better. Not really. Scabs had formed, bruises faded—but nothing in her movements spoke of healing. Every motion carried the hush of someone trying not to exist.

And tonight, for the first time, she spoke.

Not to him.

But in fear.

And all Derek could think about was Paige.

The sound of her voice when she asked him to stop. Paige—staring up with betrayal in her eyes, body buckling beneath the change he forced. That moment when the shift began, and she knew it would kill her. The way she screamed his name just before the pain tore her apart. He’d thought it was saving.

She’d been soft, too—but in a different way. Gentle, where the girl in his bed was all silence and shadow. Smiles that came easily, where this one barely blinked, barely breathed. And yet, when a broken “no” slipped from sleeping lips, it was another voice he heard—one from years ago. A body in his arms, breaking beneath a choice she never should’ve had to make.

“Keeping her here might be making it worse.” He said aloud, to no one.

The house didn’t argue. The walls didn’t shift. The quiet stayed.

Derek stared at his phone again, thumb hovering over a name.

Deaton

This call had been made once before—the day she was found, half-dead and bleeding out in his arms, pulse barely there. No other option had come to mind. No way to know if she'd survive the night.

Deaton hadn’t asked questions. Just patched her up, his face tight and quiet, and left before sunrise.

Since then, Derek had texted updates—how the broken ribs were healing, how her breathing improved, how her weight was stabilizing even though she barely ate. The vet hadn’t seen either of them since. Hadn’t asked what else was happening behind the door of Derek’s room.

And Derek hadn’t offered.

It felt like a failure. Like reaching out again meant something had gone wrong.

But something was wrong.

Derek couldn’t stop thinking about that voice in the dark.

“No…Don’t...Please…”

“I’ll be better.”

She hadn’t said those things tonight like someone dreaming. She’d said them like someone reliving.

He hadn’t saved Paige. Not where it counted or even mattered. He hadn’t known how.

What made him think he could save this current ghost?

His hand was shaking when he finally tapped the name.

The phone rang twice before it picked up.

“Derek.” Deaton’s voice was the same as always—measured, calm, somehow both present and distant. Like he already knew why Derek was calling.

“She’s not getting better,” He hadn’t meant to start like that. But once it was out, he couldn’t stop. “I mean… physically, yeah. Her body’s healing. But she’s still not talking. Not really. Not awake.”

Silence on the line. Not judgment. Just waiting.

Derek swallowed. “She doesn’t leave the room. Panics when people come near. Covers the mirrors. She’s… stuck. I don’t know what else to do.”

“She’s still not talking?” Deaton asked.

He exhaled hard. “She said something in her sleep. Tonight. First time I’ve heard her voice. It was—” He stopped. Pressed a palm against his chest like he could stop the echo.

“What did she say?” Derek didn’t answer.

Deaton continued, “You’ve already done what you can physically. Her injuries healed better than they should’ve, given what you described. But emotionally…”

“I don’t think I’m helping.” Derek said, more abrupt than he intended. “I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know how to keep her safe in her head. I don’t know if having her here is right.”

“You didn’t bring her there because it was easy.”

Derek leaned his head against the wall, looking at the ceiling. “She’s scared of everyone but me.”

“That’s something.”

“It doesn’t seem like enough.”

“Then maybe it’s time for her to meet someone new.”

The words came low, tight. A flicker of tension in his shoulders. “Not if she panics.”

“I’ll come by. Tomorrow. You don’t have to explain anything. You’re not trained for this, Derek.”

There was a conscious effort to not shatter the phone as his hand tightened. “I know.”

“I haven’t seen her since that first night. I’ve only seen what you’ve sent. And you’ve only sent me what you could quantify.”

“I didn’t think the rest mattered.”

“It always matters.”

Derek didn’t respond.

He was an Alpha. He’d rebuilt his pack after everything was torn from him. He’d survived hunters and trauma and fire and blood.

But this—this girl—was undoing him.

He stared at the wall. “She’s starting to trust me,” Derek said finally. “A little. I think. But I don’t know if I’m helping anymore or just making it easier for her to hide.” There was a brief hint of pain from how hard he swallowed. “I don’t think I’m what she needs.”

“You may not be,” Deaton said. “But you’re giving her something no one else has.”

“What’s that?”

“Space. Safety.” A pause. “Even if she can’t name it yet, you’re what she chose.”

Derek closed his eyes as he registered the steady heartbeat over the phone. “Come tomorrow. I you push her, if she panics, you leave. Got it?”

“Of course.”

Derek hung up before anything else could be said.

He didn’t go back into the room for a while. Just sat outside the door, listening for any sign of her breath catching again.

But she stayed quiet.

Eventually, he went back into the room, moving to the floor beside the bed, staring at nothing on the floor. Far enough not to startle her if she woke, close enough to be felt.

He sat there for a long time.

And when he finally looked up, the window reflected both of them in the glass—just faint outlines. Ghosted shapes. Her, small and still and sleeping. Him, hunched and watching, always guarding.

That had to mean something. Didn’t it?

He said nothing.

Just… stayed.

Chapter Text

POV: Aurora

The house was never too loud up here. But some days, silence had texture. Heavy. Grainy. Today, it was raw. She didn’t know the time. Just that the sun had shifted to the highest point in the sky.

Aurora sat perched on the bed’s edge, feet tucked beneath her, still wrapped in Derek’s hoodie—sleeves hanging well past the fingertips. The food remained untouched. Panic from the day before still burned raw in her chest. Eyes stayed fixed on the floor.

When the door creaked open downstairs—soft, controlled—she heard it. Had been waiting for it.

The sound of movement tightened her chest. More than one person. The creak of floorboards, the soft thud of footfalls. Familiar but too light, then too heavy. Her whole body stiffened, fingers digging into palms. Below, stairs shifted and groaned beneath unfamiliar weight, lighter this time, and then—after a pause—another set. That one she knew.

Derek.

The sound of his heavy boots was something she knew—the weight, the cadence, the subtle shift of muscle beneath fabric. Exhaling through her nose, focus narrowed to that rhythm, trying to anchor herself in it, even as her heart pounded.

She tracked them up all three flights of stairs. No one else was allowed this high. His room was the only one up here. She didn’t know why that mattered, but it did. They stopped down the hall.

A moment later, his were the only footsteps approaching.

She stared at the closed bedroom door, already bracing for when it opened slowly. Breath stuttering, but not breaking, his scent preceded him. Grounding and familiar—rain and forest, pine and moss after a storm.

Their gazes locked immediately. He didn’t speak right away, instead crossing to the bed. She only realized the shaking when the mattress dip, his weight settling beside her. Close enough that their thighs almost touched. Aurora curled into his side, eyes not moving from his face. Fingers clenched around the edge of the too long sleeves, white-knuckled.

His voice was low when it finally came.

“Remember I said someone was coming to check on you?” Derek asked, hand rubbing the back of his neck. His voice was quieter than usual, rougher too, like it didn’t want to disturb the air between them.

She didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

“He’s here.” There was a pause. “His names Deaton. He’s the one who helped me that first night. When I brought you here. He’s a vet, technically, but he’s… he’s helped people before. I trust him.”

She kept her eyes on him, still and silent.

He sighed, lowering his head for a moment, bracing elbows on knees. “He’s careful. He won’t touch you unless you’re okay with it.” Something in his voice caught. “Only if you’re okay with it. But I—” a shaky deep breath, “I need him to see you. Just one exam. That’s it. Just to make sure I’m not missing something. Then he leaves. But it has to happen.”

Her fingers gripped the sleeve cuffs tighter as a trembling started in her ribs.

The sound of someone else coming down the hall was too loud, freezing her. Derek glanced toward the door, then back. Meeting his eyes, sharp and fast, something cracked in her stare.

Panic.

“I’ll stay right here. I won’t leave the room. I won’t let anything happen.” Derek leaned closer, wrapping her in his arms. “If he needs to see something, we’ll be the one who moves anything.”

A heartbeat of silence.

“Only if you’re okay with that,” Derek added quickly. His voice had changed—softer now, coaxing but awkward, like he wasn’t sure what he was doing. “We can wait. He doesn’t have to—”

Her heart was jackhammering. She didn’t want to be touched. Didn’t want to be seen. But something in the way Derek had kept saying we instead of you or me made her throat tighten. Holding stare longer than usual, it was the closest thing to a yes she could manage.

“Okay.” He nodded once, like that was everything, while smoothing a palm lightly down her hair.

POV: Deaton

Derek opened the door and stood between them. The message was clear.

“She doesn’t talk,” he told Deaton. “And she doesn’t nod.”

A softness entered Deaton’s eyes. “Understood.”

“She’s scared,” Derek added, voice lower now. “But she’s trying.”

Deaton gave a slow nod. “Then I’ll be careful.”

Derek stepped aside to let Deaton enter with quiet, deliberate steps—a small black bag in hand, professional calm shielding something more tentative.

But the moment he saw her, something in that composure cracked.

He had seen many things in his life. But nothing quite like this.

She was smaller than he remembered. Not physically but smaller in the way people became after something broke them down. More compact. Folded in on herself. Despite the time that had passed, that first night remained vivid: unconscious, barely breathing, broken and bleeding across Derek’s arms. Now, she was awake—barely. Eyes tracked every movement with sharp, silent fear before drifting back to Derek. Physically stronger, maybe. But the trauma hadn’t lessened. It clung like a second skin.

He gave a gentle nod toward Derek, now seated beside her on the bed. Close enough to shield, yet careful to leave space if distance became necessary. She leaned in, shoulder brushing his arm, seeking proximity without hesitation. Tension radiated from Derek—Deaton could feel it, the electric edge of protective instinct just under the skin.

A few feet from the bed, quiet hands arranged supplies on the small table by the wall. Every motion deliberate. Nothing sudden. Still, Aurora’s panic rose with every inch he drew near. No one had touched her since arriving—no one but Derek. And even that, only rarely.

He didn’t speak to her right away. Only to Derek. “She needs to lie down.”

“She’s not going to,” Derek replied softly, gaze still on her.

“Sitting is fine. Let me begin.”

Deaton approached with care, reaching for the hem of the oversized hoodie, but the moment his fingers neared the fabric, her body jerked back violently, as if struck by something invisible. Derek let out a low breath, the sound rumbling from deep in his chest, steady and grounding. The reaction came almost immediately—not another retreat, but a sudden, tense stillness that took hold of her entire frame. Her breathing, still fast and shallow, began to shift—gradually finding a rhythm that wasn’t calm, but more controlled, as if her body, on some unconscious level, recognized the presence beside her even if her mind hadn’t caught up.

“Just breathe,” Derek said quietly, his voice rough but gentle. “You’re safe. I’m right here.”

Glancing at Deaton, Derek gave a subtle nod. “She lets me check the bandages.”

“You can guide me then. I won’t move unless you do.”

“Okay? Same routine,” Derek murmured to her, gently, their gazes interlocked. “Just like when I changed your dressings. Breathe. I’m right here.”

Not a girl—though the body spoke in that language. A woman, mind fractured into younger, smaller shapes, forced into the vulnerability of something much younger. Lips pressed tight. Breathing shallow. Still, she leaned further into his side, trembling just enough to be felt.

Jaw locked, hands fisted in the fabric of his shirt, she stayed close while Derek carefully adjusted the hem of the hoodie. Slow, precise—just enough to reveal the clean gauze stretched across her ribs. Beneath it, the stitched wound, stark and silent. Deaton’s gaze lingered. The lines were too precise. Too clean. Too practiced.

The vet worked with quiet efficiency, checking the healing—bruises, sutures, surgical glue—each motion clinical, but never cold. Whenever another wound needed exposure, Derek handled it with care, shifting fabric only after a quiet warning passed between them. And each time, her body flinched. A small, involuntary recoil.

Every reaction was observed closely—the way her eyes never left Derek, tracking him like the only solid thing in a world still shaking beneath her. And Derek, in turn, remained attuned to every flicker of discomfort, every tremor that moved through her frame, his presence steady and low, always rumbling beneath the surface. She edged even closer, pressing in until her forehead found a resting place against his bicep, as if the contact alone could hold her together.

“You're okay,” Derek said, eyes never leaving her.

Deaton had seen werewolves bond. Seen trauma. But this... this was something else. Something quieter. Older.

She gave a small tug on the fabric of Derek’s shirt, a barely-there pull that spoke louder than words. In response, his hand lifted—curled protectively in front of her chest, not making contact but forming a clear barrier, a silent command.

“That’s enough,” he said.

Deaton paused, patient but firm. “I’m almost done. Just one more minute.”

Derek didn’t move.

“Derek.”

After a long beat, the hand lowered, but stayed close, hovering in the space between them like a held breath. A soft whimper escaped, and the growl that followed was quieter this time, more instinct than warning. She curled slightly toward the sound, not realizing she’d done it.

Deaton worked with quiet efficiency, checking pulse, healing rate, and pressure points with practiced hands. The body beneath his touch was malnourished, but slowly mending. Responses to pain were dulled—muted in a way that spoke not of strength, but danger.

When it was done, he packed up his supplies, offering a quiet thank you meant more for comfort than courtesy. Derek eased her upright again and wrapped a blanket around too thin shoulders.

“You’re safe, I’m here.” Fingers found her wrist, thumb brushing gently along the inside as he added, “I’ll be back—just walking Deaton out.”

Then he rose and followed Deaton toward the door.

POV Derek/Deaton

Deaton waited until they were at the base of the stairs on the second floor before he spoke. His voice was calm, but edged with something more pointed than usual.

“You should have taken her to a hospital. Or at least told me it was this bad, She—”

“I know.” The word came out sharper than intended, shoulders rigid. “She’s getting better. You saw her.”

“No, I saw a ghost. There’s a difference.” Deaton said, quietly.

“She didn’t run.”

“She also didn’t breathe.”

“She’s not ready for anyone else.”

“She might never be. That’s not your call.”

“Yes, it is,” Derek snapped.

Deaton studied him. “That decision may not stay yours forever.”

Silence stretched between them.

“She trusts you, almost too much.” Deaton softened. “And you’re protective of her. You’ve kept her alive, Derek. You’ve made progress. But that’s not the same as healing her. You’re in over your head.”

Derek looked away.

“I thought about it,” He said eventually, arms crossed. “Taking her somewhere. Letting someone else—professionals—handle this.”

“And?”

Derek’s jaw clenched. “I can’t.”

Studying him, Deaton fell quiet. “Why not?”

Derek looked at the front windows filtering in soft forest light. The entire house smelled like rain and wood smoke, but his mind was on that room upstairs—on the girl with the haunted eyes and shaking hands.

“Because she wouldn’t survive it.” His voice cracked. “Because she’s already starting to trust me, and it would kill her if I broke that. She—” He looked down at the hardwood floors, “came to me. Looks at me when she can’t look anywhere else. I know it isn’t enough, but it’s what she chose. I won’t take that from her.”

Deaton didn’t answer right away. “I saw her face when you growled.”

Derek stilled.

“She trusted the sound before even registering it was you. That’s… more than instinct. That’s learned safety.” A pause. “She’s tied herself to you. You’re her only tether right now. But it’s also dangerous. For both of you.” Derek flinched.

“You’ve barely slept, isolated her and running on instinct. It got her this far, but—she needs more than safety.”

“I am giving her more.”

“You’re giving her you. But how long until that’s not enough?”

Derek could’ve growled again. Instead, he sat on the steps. Hands clenched.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “I thought I was helping.”

Deaton’s silence spoke volumes.

Derek hesitated. Wondering if he was making this worse. She trusts me. She looks for me. I know how to make her feel safe. Looking down the hall, something inside him cracked. Not loudly. Not with heat. Just certainty. “I’m not giving her up.”

Derek’s gaze was steady when her turned back to Deaton. “She doesn’t even know what this world really is yet. If she ever finds out... it’ll be from me. No one else. I’ll help her. I’ll get her better. But I’m not letting go. You think I’m too close. I am. But I’m also all she has.”

Deaton watched him wrestle with it, before sighing. “She’s not Paige.” A soft warning growl vibrated through the second floor. “ But you don’t have to let her go. Just stop trying to do this alone. You’re her anchor right now, but you’re also one person. Let others in.” Deaton held his red eyed gaze. “Let me help you do it right.”

POV: Pack

Downstairs, the kitchen was unusually quiet. The pack was gathered around the dining table, clustered with a mix of guilt, curiosity, and awkward silence. Waiting.

Isaac paced by the window, looking like he might jump out of his skin. Jackson stood leaning against the wall, arms crossed. Cool on the outside, but had been dead silent since Deaton arrived. Erica sat on the counter. Leaning forward, elbows on knees, fiddling with a tea bag she hadn’t steeped. Boyd stood leaning quietly against the fridge, off to the side, watching everything.

They all looked up when Derek came in.

“Well?” Isaac asked.

“She’s alive,” Derek said. “Now listen”

Deaton followed, looking at each of them carefully, before zeroing in on Isaac and Jackson.

“First,” he said, tone stern, “what you did—sneaking into her space—was inexcusable. You broke a boundary you didn’t even attempt to understand.”

Jackson’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t argue.

“That kind of mistake can retraumatize someone. It tells their body that safety is unpredictable. That the danger isn’t over. She doesn’t need curiosity. She needs care.”

Isaac looked down as Jackson shifted uncomfortably.

“We didn’t mean to,” Isaac mumbled, wincing.

“Intent doesn’t undo impact,” Deaton said gently. “You need to earn her safety back by being predictable. Quiet. Noninvasive.”

“She’s scared of all of you, doesn’t trust any of you.” he said flatly, glancing at each of the betas. “And she has every right to be.”

Erica opened her mouth, then shut it again.

“It’s not personal.” Deaton added calmly. “She’s traumatized. Not weak. Do not mistake the two.”

“She okay?” Boyd asked quietly.

Deaton nodded once. “Physically? She’s healing. Mentally? That will take time. But she has a better chance with all of you if you learn how to be safe people.”

Boyd nodded. “We got it.”

“Do you?” Deaton looked at Jackson. “You’re a smartass. You think that helps?”

Jackson rolled his eyes but didn’t argue.

“The best thing you can do right now is back off while remaining present. When Derek says it’s okay, let her see you, hear you. Let her build the understanding that not every unfamiliar sound means threat.” Deaton softened, just slightly. “If you want to help her, start by listening, not just with your ears, but also your senses. No loud entrances, sudden movements. No sudden smells—cologne, blood on your clothes. Let Derek guide it. Let her decide.”

Erica nodded. Boyd gave a single quiet grunt.

Jackson didn’t speak. But there was something different in his face. Less pride. More determination.

“Isaac—you have to stop feeling so much when she’s near. Don’t let your empathy run wild. She’ll feel it, mirror it.”

Isaac swallowed.

“She needs stability.” Derek stepped forward, shoulder to shoulder with Deaton. “You all provide that, or you leave.”

Deaton placed a hand on Derek’s shoulder. “If this is what you’re committing to, then keep doing what you’re doing. But accept help when it’s offered, let your pack help you.”

Derek nodded, silently.

“Now go be her anchor.”

Later That Night: POV Derek & Aurora

Derek returned to the room after the others had gone to bed. The loft room was dark, half full moonlight streaming in through the spacious window. She hadn’t turned on the lights, hadn’t moved from the bed. Even as he placed tea and a new bandage kit down on the table. Slipping a small folded note under the edge of her cup.

You’re safe. I’m here. Always.

He’d written it again. Underlined it, brushed fingers against the corner of the paper longer than they needed to. He had found the stack of notes she hid under the mattress, like she wanted to keep the reminders of his honesty and wanted to give her more of those.

She was facing the window still wrapped small in his hoodie. He was about to back away when he saw it— a small hand appearing slowly, fingers peeking out from the sleeve—small, tentative—not toward the tea. Toward him, brushing his sleeve before gripping.

Noticing the curve of her back, body tucked toward the wall, he froze. A faint tremor rippling through her arms as he sat slowly on the edge of the bed. She pulled. Just enough to make him shift.

Climbing fully into the bed, he sat with back to the headboard, head tipped against the wall. It took time, but then the mattress whispered—soft weight shifting towards him. Nothing was said as she climbed into his lap and curled. Strong arms curled around her, one arm around shoulders, the other resting lightly across her hip, pulling her close.

Rain had started outside, the house creaked with wind. They could smell petrichor in the air. Moss. Bark. Her body trembled faintly against him before the low and steady rumbling started in his chest. Derek placed his chin on top of her hair while her head rested against his chest,. He could smell the fear lessen but not disappear. Could feel the tension give way as fingers curled in his shirt. When her breathing evened out and slowed, he let his eyes close.

She hadn’t spoken again. Not even in her sleep. But something was changing. He could feel it in the silence between them.
Need, tentative trust, and choice.

He didn’t sleep. Just held her, through the silence, through the fear, through everything neither of them had words for. Grateful beyond words that she was letting him.