Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Stiles had exactly 3.5 seconds of hope that today would be different.

He shoved open Scott’s front door, arms overloaded with books, notes, and a very full box of curly fries from the diner, barely managing to kick the door shut behind him.

“I come bearing gifts!” he called, grinning. “Did I mention I spent, like, four hours doing research on the—”

No one even looked up.

Scott was leaning over a map, deep in conversation with Allison. Kira and Lydia were laughing over something on Lydia’s phone. Jackson was sprawled out on the couch, twirling a lacrosse ball between his fingers like the human embodiment of boredom.

Stiles’ grin faltered.

He stood there, hands full, heart sinking. When he cleared his throat, Scott finally glanced up.

“Oh, cool, you got the fries,” he said, taking the box from Stiles without a second thought. “Did you bring my protein shake?”

Stiles blinked. “Uh. What?”

“My shake. I texted you about it.”

Had he? Stiles yanked his phone from his hoodie pocket, scrolling. Oh. Yep. Buried between ten other texts about pack stuff was a single: grab my shake?

Scott took Stiles’ silence as an answer. “Never mind, man. No big deal.” He plopped down next to Jackson, already eating.

Stiles swallowed down the seriously? that was threatening to escape.

He set his stack of research down on the coffee table, pushing aside magazines and an empty soda can (probably Jackson’s) to make space. “So, I’ve got some updates on the Omega—”

“Oh, dude,” Jackson interrupted, “we were thinking about hitting the diner after this. You coming?”

His chest warmed, for a split second, before—

“Oh, wait,” Jackson continued, “you got food earlier. My bad.”

Stiles didn’t even blink. “Yeah.”

Right.

Of course.

Stiles stood there, feeling like an idiot while the conversation went on without him.

It wasn’t the first time.

And, somehow, he knew it wouldn’t be the last.

Monday – The Long Walk Home

Stiles could feel it coming before it even happened.

His Jeep had been struggling all day—hiccupping at stop signs, making weird rattling noises every time he hit the brakes—but like the reckless optimist he was, he’d ignored it.

So, when Roscoe coughed one last time and died in the high school parking lot, Stiles just sighed, dragging his hands down his face.

“Come on, buddy. Just one more trip home,” he muttered, turning the key again. The engine clicked. Sputtered. Refused.

With a groan, he rested his forehead against the steering wheel.

After a long moment, he pulled out his phone, thumb hovering over Scott’s name.

His best friend had helped him before. Maybe he would again.

S.O.S. Jeep is dead. Again. Can you swing by?

He waited.

No response.

Frowning, he sent another.

Dude? At least let me know if you can’t.

Silence.

Letting out a sharp breath, Stiles stuffed his phone back in his pocket. He could wait, but there was no guarantee Scott would show up. And he sure as hell wasn’t going to ask his dad, not when he was pulling a late shift.

With one last pat to his useless Jeep, Stiles slung his backpack over his shoulder and started walking.

It was a long trek to his house, especially on foot. The first few minutes weren’t so bad—Beacon Hills was quiet at this hour, the sky starting to turn pink as the sun dipped lower. He kicked a stray rock, stuffing his hands into his hoodie pockets.

The quiet left too much room to think.

Scott had to have seen his text by now. Right?

Maybe his phone had died. Maybe he was just really busy with Kira.

Or maybe he just… didn’t care.

Stiles shook his head and kept walking.

By the time he hit the main road, his legs were already protesting. He was halfway through considering hitchhiking—terrible idea, Stiles, what are you, a horror movie protagonist?—when the low rumble of an engine approached from behind.

A sleek, familiar Camaro slowed to a stop beside him.

The window rolled down.

Isaac.

He draped one arm over the door, golden curls tousled from the wind. “You know, for a guy with a car, you do a lot of walking.”

Stiles snorted, stopping beside the passenger door. “What can I say? I like to keep things exciting. Like breaking down in an empty parking lot and getting ditched by my so-called best friend.”

Isaac’s brows dipped slightly. He tilted his head, gaze flickering over Stiles, like he was assessing something. Then, without a word, he reached over and popped the lock.

“Get in.”

Stiles hesitated. Not because he didn’t want the ride, but because—

Well.

Why was Isaac helping him?

He didn’t ask. Instead, he slid into the passenger seat with a sigh, letting the warmth of the car seep into his cold fingers.

Isaac pulled back onto the road, drumming his fingers against the wheel. “Jeep finally give up?”

Stiles nodded, rubbing his face. “Again. It’s basically held together with duct tape and hope at this point.”

“Yeah, well.” Isaac’s lips curled slightly. “Hope won’t get you very far.”

Stiles huffed a laugh, sinking deeper into his seat. “Tell me about it.”

The rest of the drive was mostly quiet. Not uncomfortable, though. Just quiet.

But when Isaac pulled up in front of the Stilinski house, he finally broke it.

“You know, you don’t have to wait for people to show up when they never do.”

Stiles stiffened slightly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Isaac shrugged, staring straight ahead. “Nothing. Just… maybe you should start paying attention to who actually has your back.”

Then, before Stiles could respond, Isaac unlocked the doors.

“See you around, Stilinski.”

And just like that, he was gone.

Stiles sat there for a long moment, staring after him, before finally dragging himself inside.

Tuesday – The Unexpected Company

The Beacon Hills Preserve wasn’t the worst place to kill time.

Stiles had meant to head straight home after school, but the thought of sitting alone in his house, waiting for a pack meeting he probably wasn’t even needed for, made his skin itch.

So, he wandered.

The woods had always been a little eerie, even in the daytime. But Stiles had spent enough time here over the years that it felt familiar, like an old friend.

Branches crunched beneath his sneakers as he picked his way along the trail, letting his mind wander.

He didn’t hear anyone approach.

Not until a deep voice broke through the quiet.

“You shouldn’t be out here alone.”

Stiles nearly jumped out of his skin.

He spun around, heart hammering, only to find Boyd standing a few feet away.

“Jesus Christ, dude,” Stiles gasped, pressing a hand to his chest. “Ever heard of announcing your presence like a normal person?”

Boyd just stared at him, completely unimpressed.

“You’re human,” he said.

Stiles blinked. “Wow, thanks for the update—”

“You shouldn’t be alone.”

Something in Boyd’s tone made Stiles pause.

It wasn’t condescending. It wasn’t even a command. It was just… factual.

Like Boyd had been expecting to find him here.

Like Boyd knew he was alone.

Stiles swallowed. “Yeah, well. It’s not like anyone’s gonna miss me.”

Boyd’s jaw twitched, like he didn’t agree. But instead of saying so, he just sighed and moved past Stiles, heading toward a fallen log.

He sat.

Stiles frowned. “Uh. What are you doing?”

Boyd looked at him like the answer was obvious. “Sitting.”

“…Right. But why are you sitting here?”

Boyd met his gaze. “Because you are.”

Stiles opened his mouth. Closed it. Then, with an exasperated sigh, he dropped onto the log beside him.

They sat in silence.

It was weirdly… nice.

Boyd wasn’t much of a talker, but for some reason, it felt good not to have to fill the silence.

After a while, Stiles glanced at him. “You, uh… come here often?”

Boyd huffed a quiet laugh.

“Not really.”

Stiles stretched his legs out, tapping his fingers against his knee. “Then why today?”

Boyd didn’t answer right away.

Then, finally, he said, “Just seemed like the right place to be.”

Something about the way he said it made warmth bloom in Stiles’ chest.

He didn’t push for more.

He didn’t need to.

Wednesday – The Cookies and the Realization

The thing about high school? People noticed stuff.

So when Stiles walked into school that morning carrying a large tupperware container of homemade cookies, it didn’t take long for word to spread.

Normally, he wouldn’t have cared.

He hadn’t made the cookies for popularity points or anything. He’d just—well.

He’d made them for the McCall Pack.

Because that’s what pack did, right? They looked out for each other. Did nice things.

Stiles had spent hours the night before, following a recipe his mom used to make, double-checking every step, making sure they were perfect.

And when he finally got to the cafeteria, setting the container down on the McCall Pack’s usual table, he expected at least some kind of reaction.

Instead?

Nothing.

Jackson was mid-conversation about lacrosse, barely even glancing up as he snagged one. Scott gave a quick “Cool, thanks, man,” before going right back to talking with Kira. Allison and Lydia grabbed theirs without a word.

And that was it.

No excitement. No appreciation. No anything.

Stiles sat there, stomach twisting, watching them eat like it was just some random snack—like he hadn’t put in effort for them.

Like he hadn’t tried.

“…Wow.”

The voice came from behind him.

Stiles turned just in time to see Erica Reyes reaching over his shoulder, plucking a cookie from the container with a sly grin.

“You made these?” she asked, holding it up.

“Uh.” Stiles blinked. “Yeah?”

She took a bite. Paused.

Then moaned. Loudly.

“Holy shit, Stilinski,” she said, eyes actually fluttering shut. “Where the hell have you been hiding this talent?”

Stiles blinked again.

“Wait, are they actually good?”

Erica shot him a look like he was stupid.

“Good?” She turned toward Boyd and Isaac—who had just walked in—waving them over. “Guys, you need to try these.”

Before Stiles could even process what was happening, the Hale Betas had fully descended.

Boyd reached in first, taking one with his usual quiet deliberation. He bit into it, chewed, and then gave a slow, approving nod.

Isaac, on the other hand, took one bite and whistled lowly. “Damn. Who knew Stilinski had hidden culinary skills?”

Erica smirked, tossing an arm around Stiles’ shoulder, half leaning on him. “Right? I feel personally offended that we’re only learning this now.”

Stiles, completely thrown, barely managed a laugh. “Well, I mean, I don’t exactly bake every day—”

“You should,” Isaac cut in, grabbing another. “Seriously, if this is what we get, consider it your new job.”

Boyd nodded. “Agreed.”

Stiles snorted. “Oh, sure, now I’m valuable to you guys.”

Erica squeezed his shoulder. “You’ve always been valuable, Batman.”

Something about the way she said it made him pause.

Because…

Because she meant it.

And for the first time, Stiles realized—he wasn’t sure if Scott’s pack ever had.

Thursday – The Woods and the Wake-Up Call

The mission had gone bad.

Scott’s plan had sucked, the Omega they were tracking had ambushed them, and everything had spiraled out of control fast.

So when Lydia had shoved Stiles behind a fallen log, telling him to stay put, he’d listened.

And when the sounds of fighting faded?

He’d waited.

And waited.

And waited.

The wind cut through the trees, sending a chill through his hoodie as he crouched behind the fallen log. His fingers curled into the damp earth, heart pounding as he listened for any sign of movement.

Nothing.

Not a single footstep.

Not a single voice calling his name.

They were gone.

A hollow, sinking feeling settled in his chest.

Surely they hadn’t… forgotten him?

Swallowing hard, Stiles slowly stood, peering over the log. The clearing was empty—trampled grass, broken branches, but no sign of the fight that had happened just minutes ago.

He grabbed his phone, hands cold as he pulled up Scott’s messages.

Stiles: Yo. You guys good?

No response.

Stiles: Hey, I’m still here, by the way. You coming back?

Silence.

His stomach twisted.

The fight couldn’t have been that bad, right? No one had gotten seriously hurt. They must’ve just… regrouped somewhere?

Without me?

He exhaled sharply, shoving his phone back into his pocket.

Fine. Whatever. He’d just walk back.

He was just starting down the trail when he heard it—heavy footfalls, twigs snapping.

Someone was running.

His entire body tensed, adrenaline surging—until a familiar voice called out.

“Stiles!”

It was Derek.

Stiles barely had time to process before Derek emerged from the trees, moving like a man on a mission, his eyes sharp and furious.

Stiles blinked. “Derek?”

Derek stormed toward him, scanning him like he was checking for injuries. “Are you okay?”

Stiles let out a weak laugh, still thrown. “Uh, yeah? I mean, I guess I would’ve been less okay if I hadn’t just been abandoned in the woods, but hey, no big—”

“They left you?”

Something about the way Derek said it—low, dangerous—made Stiles pause.

Derek’s jaw was clenched, his hands curled into fists at his sides. His breathing was sharp and uneven, like he’d been searching.

Like he’d been tracking Stiles.

“…Wait,” Stiles said slowly, realization dawning. “You knew I was still out here?”

Derek exhaled hard, raking a hand through his hair. “You weren’t with them when they got back to the house.” His voice was tight. “And Scott didn’t seem to notice.”

Stiles stared at him.

Scott… hadn’t noticed?

Hadn’t mentioned him?

Hadn’t said anything at all?

Derek’s gaze darkened, like he could hear every thought running through Stiles’ head. “I found your scent still in the clearing. You never moved. You were waiting.”

Stiles swallowed.

For the first time, it really hit him—if Derek hadn’t come looking, if he’d just trusted Scott’s judgment, Stiles would’ve been stuck out here for who knows how long.

He looked up at Derek, at the tension in his shoulders, the way his chest still heaved like he’d been running on instinct.

Like he’d been panicked.

Like he cared.

Stiles let out a shaky breath, rubbing the back of his neck. “Guess I should stop being surprised at this point, huh?”

Derek’s expression hardened. “You should stop expecting them to treat you like pack when they don’t.”

The words hit.

Hard.

Because Derek wasn’t wrong.

Stiles had spent so long trying to prove himself, trying to be valuable, trying to keep up—only to be met with indifference.

And here was Derek—grumpy, emotionally constipated, half-feral Derek—treating him like he actually mattered.

Like he belonged.

Derek inhaled deeply, like he was calming himself, then flicked his gaze back to Stiles.

“Come on,” he said. “I’ll drive you home.”

Stiles hesitated.

And then he nodded.

Because maybe—just maybe—this was the first time he actually felt like he wasn’t alone.

Friday – The Invitation

Beacon Hills High was the same as always—flashing fluorescent lights, half-broken lockers, the faint scent of sweaty desperation and bad cafeteria food.

Stiles wasn’t sure when the shift had happened—when he started dreading stepping into the school more than usual. Maybe it had been gradual.

But today, for the first time in a long time, he wasn’t walking in alone.

Isaac flanked his right, long-legged and casual, hands stuffed in his hoodie. Erica strolled beside him, confident as ever, her sharp grin aimed at anyone who dared look at them wrong. Boyd lingered close by, quiet and steady. Cora was somewhere up ahead, probably terrifying freshmen.

For the past week, they had just… been there.

Close enough to watch over him, far enough that the McCall Pack didn’t notice.

And Stiles had started to realize—he liked it that way.

It wasn’t something spoken. Wasn’t a forced thing. It was just… natural.

He wasn’t sure why that made his chest ache the way it did.

“Alright, Stilinski,” Erica’s voice broke through his thoughts as she tossed an arm around his shoulder. “The real question is—are you gonna come actually hang out with us tonight?”

Stiles blinked. “What?”

Erica gave him an unimpressed look. “You’ve been hovering around us all week, but you still haven’t committed.”

Isaac snorted. “Yeah, it’s like you’re trying to ghost us, but we keep showing up anyway.”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “That’s because you do keep showing up.”

Boyd hummed. “We’re persistent.”

Erica leaned in, her grin sly. “So, what’s it gonna be, Stiles? You coming to the Hale hangout, or you got better things to do?”

Stiles hesitated.

He did have plans. Technically.

There was supposed to be a McCall Pack meeting tonight.

But would anyone even notice if he wasn’t there?

The thought sent a sour feeling curling in his gut.

Would Scott text him? Would anyone?

Did he even matter in their meetings?

Erica must have seen the war in his head, because she nudged him lightly. “Come on, Stilinski. You don’t have to decide your whole life right now. Just come chill with us. One night.”

Boyd nodded. “See if anyone notices you’re gone.”

Stiles’ stomach twisted.

Because, deep down?

He already knew they wouldn’t.

He exhaled slowly. Then, finally, he made his choice.

“Alright,” he said. “I’m in.”

Erica’s grin brightened. “Good choice.”

Friday Night – The Hale Pack Hangout

The moment Stiles stepped into the Hale loft, he realized just how different this was from McCall Pack meetings.

For one?

There was no pressure.

There was food on the counter, music playing low in the background, a sense of ease that Stiles had never felt at Scott’s gatherings.

This wasn’t a strategy session, or a mission briefing.

It was pack.

Boyd was already at the makeshift bar area, mixing something that looked suspiciously alcoholic.

Erica was lounging across the couch, one leg thrown over the armrest, scrolling through her phone.

Isaac was messing with something in the kitchen, probably stealing food.

Cora was in a corner, pretending she wasn’t listening to everything.

And Stiles?

Stiles was welcomed in.

“Hope you like pizza,” Isaac called. “Because that’s all we got.”

Stiles grinned, toeing off his shoes. “Man, you act like I wouldn’t live off pizza if I could.”

Boyd smirked. “I mean, considering your diet, I wouldn’t be surprised.”

Stiles gasped. “Excuse you, my diet is excellent. I balance all my food groups.”

Erica raised an eyebrow. “You literally ate Sour Patch Kids for breakfast.”

Stiles pointed a finger at her. “First of all, that’s a fruit.”

Isaac cackled. “Oh my god, no it’s not.”

“Secondly,” Stiles continued, ignoring him, “I also had coffee, which is technically a bean, which means I had two food groups, so there.”

Boyd shook his head. “That’s not how it works.”

“That’s exactly how it works,” Stiles shot back, flopping onto the couch beside Erica. “You guys are just mad I found the loophole.”

From across the room, a deep chuckle echoed.

Stiles froze.

Everyone did.

Because Derek Hale—grumpy, brooding, doesn’t smile for anyone Derek—was laughing.

Isaac’s head snapped around so fast he nearly pulled something.

Erica’s jaw dropped.

Boyd looked like he had just witnessed a miracle.

And Stiles?

Stiles could only stare as Derek shook his head, still amused, genuine warmth in his eyes.

“Jesus,” Cora muttered, looking at her brother like he had just grown a second head. “Did you just laugh?”

Derek’s lips pressed together immediately, but it was too late.

Stiles smirked. “Aw, Derek, was that a laugh? At my joke? I feel so honored.”

Derek groaned. “Don’t make it a thing.”

“It’s absolutely a thing,” Isaac said, grinning like an idiot. “Derek laughed. I think that means Stiles wins. He gets your loft now.”

Derek glared. “That’s not how this works.”

Stiles beamed. “I don’t know, Alpha, I think it might be pack law.”

Erica snickered. “Yep. It’s official. Stiles lives here now.”

Derek rolled his eyes, but there was a tiny smile on his face, and something warm bloomed in Stiles’ chest.

Because…

This.

This felt right.

Chapter Text

By the time Stiles got home, he was still buzzing.

Not from alcohol—Boyd had confiscated his drink when he’d tried to sneak one—but from something else.

Something that felt a lot like belonging.

His dad was still up, sitting at the kitchen table with a tired look and a steaming cup of coffee.

Stiles hesitated in the doorway.

“Hey, kid,” his dad said.

“…Hey,” Stiles replied.

The Sheriff glanced up at him, then really looked at him.

And somehow, like always, he knew.

“Rough night?”

Stiles swallowed. Then shook his head. “Actually… no.”

His dad raised an eyebrow.

Stiles exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “I was with… the Hale Pack.”

The Sheriff took a slow sip of his coffee. “And?”

Stiles hesitated.

And then, before he could stop himself, everything spilled out.

The way he felt invisible in Scott’s pack. The way they left him behind. The way Derek’s pack just… treated him like he mattered, like he didn’t have to prove himself every second.

By the end, his dad was quiet.

Then, finally, he said, “If they make you feel like you belong, maybe that’s something worth holding onto.”

Stiles blinked.

And in that moment, he knew.

He was done waiting for the McCall Pack to see him.

Because he had already been seen.

And it was time to move on.

Stiles had never really been possessive over his house.

It was just a house.

Sure, it was where he grew up, where most of his best memories with his mom were, where his dad and him just barely survived those first few years after she died—but at the end of the day, it was still just walls and a roof.

Until, suddenly, the Hale Pack started showing up.

At first, it had been subtle.

Boyd would swing by when Stiles got home from school, plopping down on the couch like he’d always had a claim to it. Isaac would steal food from the fridge, shrugging when Stiles shot him exasperated looks. Cora commandeered the armchair. Erica draped herself over the furniture like she was the queen of the castle.

And Derek…

Derek stood in the kitchen too often, always looking vaguely exasperated whenever they got loud.

Stiles wasn’t sure when it happened, but at some point, his house became theirs too.

And his dad?

His dad noticed.

Which was why, one Sunday, after the fourth time catching Isaac making a sandwich in his kitchen like he lived there, Sheriff Stilinski snapped.

“Alright,” John said, dropping the Sunday paper onto the counter with an exaggerated sigh. “If you’re all gonna treat my house like a second home, you’re watching football with me.”

There was a pause.

Stiles, mid-bite of his own sandwich, nearly choked.

Isaac blinked. “Like… football football?”

“Is there another kind?” John deadpanned.

Boyd perked up.

Stiles barely had time to process before Boyd, normally the quietest person in the room, said with actual excitement: “Hell yeah!”

John grinned, already grabbing the remote.

“Now we’re talking.”

By the time kickoff started, it was clear that Stiles had lost control of his house.

Boyd had fully taken over football night, sitting beside the Sheriff like they were long-lost best friends.

“The problem is their defense,” Boyd was saying, gesturing toward the screen. “They’re playing too far inside, which leaves them open for deep routes.”

John nodded along, completely engaged. “Exactly! And the safety isn’t dropping back fast enough. At this rate, they’re just asking to get burned on a post route.”

Boyd pointed at him. “That’s what I said last game!”

Stiles stared.

Isaac leaned in beside him, voice low. “Is Boyd… bonding with your dad?”

“That’s not bonding,” Stiles muttered. “That’s merging souls.”

Meanwhile, Derek—stoic, emotionally unavailable Derek—was actually participating.

“You’re both missing the point,” Derek said, frowning at the screen. “It’s not just the defense. Their offensive line isn’t holding. They need to run a zone blocking scheme if they want to get anywhere.” Boyd tilted his head. “You watch college football?”

Derek shrugged. “Laura used to make me watch it with her.”

Stiles snorted. “Oh my god, that explains so much about your personality.”

Derek shot him a look.

And Stiles, because he had zero self-preservation, grinned back. “What? Being raised on contact sports and grudges? That tracks.”

Derek rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitched.

Stiles could handle Lydia’s condescension.

Most of the time.

But there were days—days when she was particularly cutting, when she dismissed him like he was nothing, when Jackson snorted in agreement beside her—where it got to him.

Like today.

All he had said was that Star Wars was a superior franchise to Star Trek, and suddenly Lydia was rolling her eyes so hard she practically saw into another dimension.

“Honestly, Stiles,” she sighed, flipping her hair, “do you ever think before you speak?”

Jackson snorted. “Clearly not.”

Stiles opened his mouth to fire back—

But before he could, a wild Erica appeared.

More accurately, Erica jumped onto his back.

“Batman!” she gasped, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. “You must carry me to my Batmobile! I cannot be expected to walk all the way there.”

Stiles stumbled, catching her thighs automatically. “What—Erica—”

“It’s an emergency!” she continued dramatically, loud enough to fully cut off Lydia and Jackson’s conversation. “I am a delicate flower! I refuse to walk on my own!”

Lydia’s eye twitched.

Jackson stared.

Stiles, realizing exactly what Erica was doing, bit back a grin.

“Alright, alright,” he said, adjusting his grip. “To the Batmobile!”

And then he took off, Erica whooping as she waved smugly over his shoulder at Lydia.

Stiles hadn’t meant to show up at the Hale loft.

At least, not alone.

He had spent all day preparing—figuring out a full meal, bringing all the ingredients, excited to cook for the whole pack—only to arrive and find…

Nobody.

Except Derek.

Standing in the kitchen.

Looking confused.

“You, uh, expecting someone?” Derek asked.

Stiles shifted, holding up his grocery bags. “I was… gonna make dinner. But I guess everyone bailed for patrol.”

Derek frowned. “They didn’t tell you?”

Stiles sighed. “Apparently not.”

There was a pause.

Then Derek said, carefully, “You could still cook.”

Stiles blinked.

Derek crossed his arms, looking away, voice gruff. “I mean. If you want.”

Stiles tilted his head, grinning. “Are you saying you want me to make you dinner, Alpha?”

Derek glared. “I’m saying you already brought the food.”

“So… yes?”

Derek exhaled sharply, running a hand down his face. “Stiles—”

“Don’t worry, big guy,” Stiles interrupted, smirking. “I’ll make you the best meal of your life.”

By the time dinner was ready, Stiles was fired up.

Not just from cooking, but from something else.

Something that had to do with the way Derek kept watching him, the way Derek hovered behind him like he wasn’t sure how to interact, the way his eyes softened just a little when Stiles laughed to himself.

Stiles slid a plate across the counter.

Derek hesitated.

Then took it.

They ate in comfortable silence.

Until, finally, Stiles grinned. “So, how’s it feel to be wined and dined by me?”

Derek raised an eyebrow. “You didn’t make wine.”

“Details,” Stiles said, waving a hand. “Still counts.”

Derek smirked, just slightly. “It’s not bad.”

Stiles grinned.

Because somehow, in the quiet, in the shared meal, in the way Derek actually relaxed around him—he knew.

This?

This was just the beginning.

Chapter Text

Stiles had just stepped into the locker room when a voice practically purred behind him.

“Stiiiiiles~”

He had exactly one second to react before Erica latched onto his back, arms draping around his shoulders, pressing her cheek dramatically against his.

“My favorite human,” she sighed, “how ever did I survive the weekend without you?”

Stiles stumbled forward, yelping. “Erica! Personal space! Locker room!”

Isaac leaned against the lockers, grinning. “Nah, I think she missed you, man.”

“Obviously,” Erica agreed, completely unrepentant. “I mean, you’re the only reason I show up to school on Mondays.”

“Oh, really?” Stiles deadpanned. “Nothing to do with the fact that you need passing grades to graduate?”

Erica hummed. “Eh, details.”

Isaac smirked. “You should be honored, Stilinski.”

Stiles rolled his eyes, dropping his bag onto the bench. “Oh yes, truly. My existence has peaked. I have an over-affectionate werewolf using me as a Monday morning emotional support animal.”

Erica gasped dramatically, tightening her grip around his shoulders. “Stiles, I am offended. I am not just affectionate on Mondays.”

Isaac snorted. “She’s got a point.”

Stiles groaned. “Why do I hang out with you guys?”

“Because we’re fun,” Erica said, pressing a loud, obnoxious kiss to his cheek before finally letting go.

“And because your other pack sucks,” Isaac added, voice too casual.

Stiles froze.

Erica’s expression shifted.

For a moment, Stiles wasn’t sure what to say—but before he could think too hard about it, Boyd entered the locker room.

“Stiles,” Boyd greeted, nodding in approval. “You actually showed up on time today.”

Stiles scowled. “Okay, rude.”

Boyd smirked. “Just saying. Maybe hanging out with us is making you more responsible.”

Erica perked up. “Oh my god. Are we a good influence?”

Isaac snickered. “Unlikely.”

Stiles groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “You guys are the worst.”

“That’s why you love us,” Erica sang, winking before flouncing off to her locker.

Stiles huffed, but…

He couldn’t stop smiling.

Stiles sat at the McCall Pack’s table out of habit.

He shouldn’t have.

Not after everything.

But old routines died hard, and for whatever reason, part of him kept thinking—maybe today will be different.

It wasn’t.

Lydia was talking over him.

Jackson barely acknowledged him.

Scott was distracted by Kira.

And when Stiles tried to contribute—tried to tell them about the rogue Omega he’d overheard on police reports—the reaction was immediate.

“Stiles,” Scott sighed, rubbing his forehead, “we already talked about this. We’ve got it handled.”

Stiles blinked. “Have you? Because last I checked, you haven’t actually tracked them yet—”

“We’re working on it,” Scott interrupted, voice sharper than usual. “We don’t need you hovering over every little detail.”

Stiles stared.

A slow, awful feeling twisted in his gut.

It wasn’t the words that hurt.

It was the tone.

Like he was being annoying. Like he wasn’t helping, just getting in the way.

Lydia gave him a pointed look, like she agreed.

Jackson snorted, muttering under his breath, “Finally, someone said it.”

Stiles’ stomach dropped.

He gripped his tray tighter.

Took a slow, steady breath.

And then he stood up.

“Cool,” he said lightly. “Noted.”

And then he walked away.

He didn’t look back.

Didn’t need to.

Because none of them called him back.

Stiles barely made it three steps before Erica’s voice called out.

“Yo, Batman!”

He turned automatically—only to see her waving at him from across the cafeteria, flanked by Isaac, Boyd, and Cora.

Isaac kicked out a seat.

Boyd tilted his head, like he was waiting.

Cora just raised an eyebrow, unimpressed, as if to say, Well? What are you waiting for?

And Stiles…

Stiles didn’t even hesitate.

He walked over, dropping his tray onto the table, exhaling deeply as he sat.

“Bad meeting?” Isaac asked, already guessing.

Stiles slumped. “Ugh. You don’t even know.”

Erica slid a cookie onto his tray. “We kind of do.”

Stiles paused, glancing between them. “…Wait, were you guys watching?”

Boyd took a bite of his sandwich. “Observing.”

Cora nodded. “Gathering evidence.”

“Lurking,” Isaac added helpfully.

Stiles snorted, shaking his head. “You guys are such stalkers.”

“We’re concerned,” Erica corrected, resting her chin in her hands. “There’s a difference.”

Stiles felt something warm in his chest.

Because here—with them?

He didn’t feel like he was in the way.

Didn’t feel like he had to prove himself.

For the first time in a long time, he felt like he was exactly where he belonged.

After lunch, Stiles had one class with Scott.

Normally, it wasn’t so bad.

Today, though?

Scott was pissed.

“Why’d you leave lunch?” he asked as soon as they sat down.

Stiles blinked. “Why not?”

Scott huffed, rubbing his forehead. “Dude, come on. You just stormed off.”

“Because I got tired of being talked down to,” Stiles shot back, irritation bubbling up.

Scott’s jaw tightened. “You’re overreacting.”

Stiles laughed—sharp and humorless. “Am I?”

Scott looked frustrated, like he didn’t understand.

Like Stiles was making a big deal out of nothing.

“Stiles, we’re still pack—”

“Are we, though?”

The words came out before he could stop them.

Scott froze.

Stiles took a steady breath, lowering his voice. “When’s the last time you actually included me, Scott? You don’t even ask me if I’m okay. I could’ve died in the woods last week, and you didn’t even notice.”

Scott flinched.

And for the first time, Stiles saw some realization flicker across his face.

Like maybe—just maybe—he was finally getting it.

But it was too little, too late.

Because Stiles had already made his choice.

And the Hales?

They were waiting for him.

Chapter Text

Beacon Hills had three traditions that the town actually took seriously:

1. The Homecoming game.

2. The Summer Lake Cookout.

3. The Fall Festival.

It was one of the few times the entire town came together without some kind of supernatural crisis looming in the background.

Instead, Main Street was shut down for the event, lined with food trucks, vendors, and games. Families roamed freely, kids ran wild, and laughter filled the air.

And because Sheriff Stilinski was one of the town’s most prominent figures, he was expected to be there.

Which meant Stiles was, too.

The moment Stiles and his dad stepped onto the festival grounds, the Sheriff let out a low whistle.

“Man,” John mused, surveying the crowd. “The city council really went all out this year.”

Stiles nodded, stuffing his hands into his hoodie pocket. “Yeah, they’re probably trying to distract everyone from the last town crisis.”

His dad snorted. “You mean the sewer explosion incident?”

“Or the mysterious deer stampede?”

“Or that unexplained power outage that lasted exactly twelve minutes?”

Stiles grimaced. “Yeah, we’re a menace.”

His dad patted his shoulder. “You’re a menace. I just clean up the mess.”

Stiles was about to protest when something caught his eye.

Or rather, someone.

His old pack.

Scott. Lydia. Kira. Allison. Jackson.

All standing off to the side, watching the crowd—watching the Hale Pack—with varying degrees of irritation.

Stiles’ jaw tightened.

Because just thirty feet away, completely oblivious, was his new pack—the Hale Pack, laughing, playing carnival games, teasing each other.

The difference was stark.

The McCall Pack stood rigid, talking in hushed tones, looking like they were calculating a battle plan.

Meanwhile, the Hales?

Isaac was stealing food off Boyd’s plate. Erica was flirting with some guy at a food truck. Cora and Derek were arguing over caramel apples, and Boyd was quietly thriving at the basketball game booth.

They were having fun.

They weren’t watching their backs.

And they weren’t paying attention to the McCall Pack at all.

But Stiles and his dad?

They noticed everything.

John hummed under his breath. “Well. That’s interesting.”

Stiles exhaled sharply. “Yeah.”

His dad eyed Scott’s group for a second longer before making a decision.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s go say hi to your pack.”

Stiles blinked. “Wait, really?”

John raised an eyebrow. “Son, do I look like I enjoy standing around near people throwing petty looks?”

Stiles grinned. “Nope.”

And so, without another glance at the McCall Pack, the Stilinskis walked toward the Hales.

“Well, look who it is,” Erica said, grinning as they approached. “Beacon Hills’ favorite human and Stiles.”

John gave a mock sigh, dramatically placing a hand over his chest. “Finally, some recognition.” He says before cracking a smile, and elbowing Stiles.

Boyd smirked. “We appreciate your service, Sheriff.”

John gave a mock bow. “Much obliged, son.”

Stiles snorted, elbowing Erica. “Wow. I see how it is. My dad gets all the love, and I just get teased.”

Isaac grinned. “Obviously.”

Cora raised an eyebrow. “You literally asked for it, though.”

Erica leaned into Stiles’ side, draping herself dramatically over him. “Shh, Stiles, just accept your fate.”

Derek, standing a little further back, rolled his eyes, a light smile on his face.

John caught it immediately.

And suddenly, he was paying attention—to the way Derek’s gaze lingered on Stiles, to the way Stiles lit up around the Hales.

Huh.

Interesting.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Cora and Erica smirking at him, clearly thinking the same thing.

John smirked back.

For the next hour, the festival was nothing but laughter.

Boyd annihilated the competition at the basketball game, winning an absurdly large stuffed wolf.

Isaac won a goldfish, then immediately turned to Stiles. “You’re responsible for him now.”

Stiles spluttered. “What— Why am I—”

“His name is Sir Finnegan McFlippers,” Isaac declared, handing him the bag.

“Are you serious—”

“I am dead serious.”

Erica, meanwhile, used Stiles as a human shield when she accidentally pissed off a vendor.

“Stiles, help!”

“Erica, why did you throw popcorn at that guy—”

“He was rude, Stiles.”

“Erica—”

And Derek?

Derek hovered nearby, always watching, always aware.

At one point, he and Stiles ended up at the same food truck, awkwardly standing beside each other as they waited for their orders.

Derek cleared his throat. “So. You’re having fun?”

Stiles grinned. “Is that concern I hear in your voice?”

Derek sighed. “Stiles—”

“Aw, Derek, are you worried about me?”

Derek glared.

Stiles beamed.

John, watching from a distance, exchanged another look with Cora and Erica.

This time, they grinned knowingly.

From the other side of the festival, the McCall Pack was not happy.

Scott clenched his jaw. “They’re really getting close to him, huh?”

Lydia crossed her arms. “Clearly.”

Allison frowned. “Even the Sheriff seems to like them.”

Scott hated how that made his stomach twist.

Hated how Stiles hadn’t even glanced in their direction all night.

And he hated—really hated—the way Derek was looking at him.

Like Stiles actually mattered.

Like he belonged with them.

Scott’s fists curled.

He had a bad feeling.

A really bad feeling.

And he was right to worry.

Because when the night ended, and Stiles should have gone home—

He left with the Hales instead.

The ride back to the Hale loft was warm.

Not temperature-wise—because Derek refused to turn the heat up in the Camaro—but in a different way.

A way that settled deep in Stiles’ chest.

Isaac was pressed against the window, lazily making shapes in the condensation with his finger.

Erica was singing along to a song on the radio off-key just to be annoying.

Boyd, ever patient, was ignoring her entirely.

And Derek?

Derek was focused on the road, but every once in a while, his eyes flickered toward the rear view mirror—checking on Stiles.

Just… checking.

And that alone was more than Stiles had gotten from his old pack in months.

By the time they arrived, Stiles had fully accepted his fate.

The Hales weren’t just bringing him along—they were keeping him.

As soon as the door shut behind them, Erica flopped onto the couch, throwing her arms over her head with an exaggerated sigh.

“Derek,” she groaned. “We require entertainment.”

Derek raised an eyebrow. “Then go home.”

“Rude!” she gasped.

Boyd, ever the instigator, snorted. “He’s not wrong.”

Isaac, still half-asleep, collapsed onto the floor, stretching like a lazy cat. “If I die here, just leave me.”

Stiles snickered. “Dramatic much?”

Isaac waved a hand weakly. “It’s been a long day.”

Erica rolled onto her stomach. “Stiles, make yourself useful and entertain us.”

Stiles blinked. “What do I look like? A circus clown?”

“Yes,” Boyd said immediately.

Stiles gasped, pressing a hand to his chest. “Wow. Et tu, Boyd?”

Isaac, face still planted into the carpet, mumbled, “Tell us a story, Stilinski.”

Stiles sighed deeply, dropping onto the couch beside Erica.

“Alright, fine,” he said. “You want a story? I’ll give you a story.”

He thought for a second, then smirked.

“Once upon a time,” he began, dramatically, “there was a broody Alpha werewolf who lived in a sad, abandoned loft. He was known across the land for his tragic eyebrows and emotionally constipated nature.”

Erica perked up immediately. “Oh, this is already good.”

Boyd hid a smile.

Derek, from across the room, glared. “Stiles.”

“Shh,” Stiles said, waving him off. “Story time.”

Isaac grinned, eyes sparkling with mischief. “What happened next?”

“Well,” Stiles continued, grinning, “one day, a beautiful and devastatingly intelligent young man—who, for the sake of this story, may or may not have been me—stumbled into his life and made things significantly more interesting.”

Erica cackled. “Oh, I love this.”

Derek pinched the bridge of his nose. “I hate this.”

“You love this,” Stiles corrected. “Anyway, this ruggedly handsome young hero—again, possibly me—realized that the Alpha had terrible taste in interior decorating and, out of the kindness of his beautiful heart, decided to bless the loft with his presence.”

Isaac wiped a fake tear from his eye. “Truly, a hero.”

“Thank you,” Stiles said, nodding sagely.

Derek exhaled sharply. “I’m kicking you all out.”

“No, you’re not,” Erica said, smirking.

And she was right.

Derek wasn’t.

Because even though he grumbled, even though he pretended to be annoyed, he didn’t stop them.

Didn’t stop the laughter.

Didn’t stop the warmth.

Didn’t stop Stiles.

Because somehow, this was home now.

Later that night, while the others loitered around the loft, Stiles found himself in the kitchen—grabbing leftovers from the fridge.

Or at least, trying to.

Because Derek was already there, arms crossed, watching him with mild suspicion.

“…What are you doing?” Derek asked.

Stiles paused, mid-reach. “I’m getting food?”

Derek narrowed his eyes.

Stiles raised an eyebrow. “What, you think I’m gonna poison you?”

Derek exhaled, pinching the bridge of his nose. “No. But last time you were in my kitchen, you tried to microwave tin foil.”

Stiles grimaced. “Okay, one time, and suddenly I’m a kitchen hazard?”

“Yes.”

Stiles huffed. “Rude.”

Derek just raised an eyebrow.

Stiles scoffed, rolling up his sleeves. “Fine. You know what? I’ll prove it. I’ll make something actually edible.”

Derek hesitated.

And then—curiously—he leaned against the counter.

“…Fine,” Derek muttered. “But if you burn my kitchen down, you’re buying me a new one.”

Stiles grinned. “Deal.”

And so, for the next thirty minutes, Stiles cooked—and to his surprise, Derek actually helped.

Or, well.

He supervised.

“That’s too much garlic,” Derek muttered, peering over his shoulder.

Stiles rolled his eyes. “There is no such thing.”

Derek huffed.

Stiles smirked. “What, you don’t trust me?”

Derek hesitated.

And then, with something unreadable in his expression, he muttered: “I do.”

Stiles’ hands froze over the cutting board.

His heart did a weird thing.

Slowly, he looked up—only to find Derek already watching him.

The air shifted.

And for a moment—just a moment—Stiles swore the world got quieter.

Then—

Isaac’s voice broke the moment.

“Oh my god, do I smell food?”

Stiles jumped.

Derek stepped back immediately, clearing his throat.

Isaac and Erica bounded in, followed by Boyd and Cora.

“Feed us, Stilinski!” Erica demanded.

Stiles groaned. “I literally made one plate.”

“Sharing is caring!” Isaac said, already trying to steal a bite.

Derek scoffed, moving to block them. “No, it’s mine.”

Stiles smirked. “Wow, possessive much?”

Derek just glared, but there was something else in his expression—something soft.

Something that said, Maybe I don’t mind sharing… with you.

And that?

That felt like something real.

Chapter Text

Scott didn’t get it.

At first, he thought maybe Stiles was just busy—maybe he was going through one of his weird hyperfixation phases again, where he got too caught up in something and didn’t have time for anything else.

But after weeks of distance?

After watching Stiles walk away from their table at lunch?

After seeing him laughing and playing games with the Hale Pack at the festival?

After seeing him leave with them?

Scott couldn’t ignore it anymore.

Something was wrong.

And the worst part?

He wasn’t the only one who noticed.

“Okay,” Jackson said, slamming his hands down on the lunch table. “What the hell is happening with Stiles?”

The pack—what was left of it—sat in tense silence.

Allison frowned, shifting uncomfortably. “He’s… spending a lot of time with them.”

“Obviously,” Lydia said, arms crossed. “But the real question is: why?”

Scott clenched his jaw. “I think… I think they’re manipulating him.”

Kira’s eyes widened. “What?”

Scott exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “It’s Derek. It has to be. Stiles would never just leave us on his own.”

“Wouldn’t he?” Jackson cut in, raising an eyebrow. “Because I distinctly remember him walking away at lunch. No one forced him.”

Scott stiffened. “That’s not—he wouldn’t do that without a reason.”

Lydia scoffed. “Maybe you just don’t like the reason.”

Scott bristled. “They’re using him!”

“Or maybe,” Allison said, voice careful, “they’re treating him better than we did.”

Scott’s stomach twisted. “That’s not true.”

Lydia scoffed.

Scott shook his head, heart pounding. “You guys don’t understand. This is what Derek does. He takes people—my people—and he turns them against me.”

Lydia’s jaw tightened. “That’s a really convenient excuse for ignoring how we treated him.”

Scott flinched.

But he refused to believe it.

Refused to believe that this was Stiles’ choice.

There had to be another explanation.

And if Stiles wouldn’t listen to him, then maybe…

Maybe the Sheriff would.

The Beacon Hills Sheriff’s Station was eerily calm that night.

It was quiet—a slow shift, the kind that allowed John Stilinski to catch his breath after a day of chaos. He sat at his desk, flipping through stacks of paperwork with the rhythmic hum of the fluorescent lights overhead. For once, there was nothing to rush, nothing to do but to work in peace.

Then, the door slammed open, and the McCall Pack stormed in.

“Evening, kids,” John greeted, raising an eyebrow at their collective tension. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Scott stepped forward, looking more serious than John had ever seen him. His jaw was tight, his eyes flickering with an unsettling urgency. “Sheriff, we need to talk to you. It’s about Stiles.”

John froze for a heartbeat. A jolt of concern washed over him, but he quickly dismissed it. If he was to worry about Stiles, the alert would come from a different alpha.

Slowly, he set his pen down, the soft clink of it hitting the desk louder than he expected in the sudden stillness of the room.

“I’m listening,” he said, keeping his voice steady.

Scott’s breath hitched, as if he wasn’t quite sure how to put the words together. “It’s about—about Derek. And his pack. They’ve been… they’ve been influencing him.”

John leaned back in his chair, arms folding over his chest in a defensive posture. He studied Scott for a moment, his mind whirring. “Is that right?” he asked, keeping his tone deceptively calm.

Scott’s voice cracked with the urgency of it all. “Yes! They’re—they’re pulling him away from us. From his real pack. And I think—I think they’re manipulating him, and I just—I just don’t want him to get hurt.”

John held his silence for a moment, his gaze hardening as he weighed his son’s worth in this situation.

“You think Stiles doesn’t know what he’s doing?” he asked slowly, his voice low but pointed.

Scott hesitated. “I think they’re—clouding his judgment—”

John exhaled sharply, his breath audible, filled with an edge. “Jesus, Scott.”

The words hung in the air between them, heavy and biting, a warning wrapped in disappointment.

Scott froze.

Because there was something in John’s voice now. Something that wasn’t just frustration—it was cold, it was cutting. It was disappointment, sharp and palpable.

“Do you even hear yourself?” John leaned forward, voice thick with the sting of his words. “Stiles isn’t a child, Scott. He’s not some weak pawn for anyone to move around at will. If you honestly believe that he’s being ‘manipulated,’ then maybe you’ve never understood him at all.”

Scott’s stomach turned, a sense of guilt creeping up his throat.

“Sheriff—”

“No,” John interrupted, his voice suddenly slicing through the tension. “Let’s talk about this. Let’s talk about how my son has risked his life for you. For all of you. How he’s been kidnapped, tortured, nearly killed more times than I can count—all for your pack.”

His words hit like a sucker punch, each sentence a nail in the coffin of Scott’s guilt.

Jackson shifted, uncomfortable, and Lydia’s gaze flickered to the floor. Kira’s face was turned away, her expression unreadable. Allison swallowed hard.

Scott felt like he’d been hit with a freight train.

John wasn’t done.

“Let’s talk about how he’s always had your backs,” he continued, his voice growing rougher with each word. “How he’s been your planner, your research guy, your decoy—your friend.” His tone sharpened. “And how you repaid him by making him feel like he was never good enough.”

The words sliced into Scott like a blade, deep and unforgiving.

John’s breath was tight as he leaned back in his chair, shaking his head slowly. “And now, now that he’s finally found people who actually appreciate him, you come crawling in here, blaming them? You really think this is their fault?”

Scott’s fists clenched at his sides, the urge to argue rising in him. “That’s not—”

But John cut him off. “You left him in the woods, Scott.”

The room went deathly silent.

Scott’s breath caught in his throat.

John’s voice dropped, quiet but thunderous, each word soaked with a bitter kind of disappointment. “You didn’t even notice he was gone.”

It was a simple sentence, yet it carried the weight of everything Scott had done wrong—everything he’d failed to see.

John shook his head slowly, eyes burning with an emotion that Scott couldn’t quite name. “And you have the audacity to call yourselves his pack?”

Scott’s chest tightened, every breath harder to take.

Because he knew. He knew, deep down, that he had screwed up in ways that couldn’t be undone. But hearing John say it, seeing that fire in his eyes? It was like being hit with the full force of the truth.

And then, just when Scott thought the ground beneath him couldn’t crumble any more—

“You know,” John said, his voice a low growl, each word sharp and deliberate. “For years, I saw you as one of my own. I treated you like a son, Scott. Hell, before you ever became the ‘true alpha,’ before any of this werewolf nonsense, you were already part of this family. You were Stiles’ best friend. You were my kid—the kid I’d fight for, protect, believe in, even when I didn’t understand half of this world you’re in.”

Scott flinched, but John wasn’t done.

John leaned forward, his eyes filled with disbelief. “I put my trust in you. I backed you up, no questions asked. I treated you like one of mine because I believed you had what it took. I believed you were the kind of person who could lead, who could take care of the people who mattered. But now?”

The words hit like a ton of bricks. Scott couldn’t look away from John’s gaze—couldn’t escape the quiet rage simmering in those eyes.

“Now?” John shook his head slowly, his voice thick with disgust. “Now you’ve got this pack, this ‘family,’ and you can’t even keep it together. You let Stiles—my son—feel like he wasn’t enough. You left him in the woods. You didn’t even notice he was gone.”

Scott’s chest tightened, the air leaving his lungs. He could feel the weight of John’s words crushing him, the reality of what he’d done sinking in, the guilt crawling up his throat. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

“Do you even hear yourself, Scott? You can’t lead anyone if you don’t even know how to stand by the people who’ve been there for you since day one.” John’s voice cracked with raw frustration. “A real alpha would never leave his own behind, would never let someone who’s given everything to this pack feel like they’re invisible, like they don’t matter. You couldn’t even protect the one person who’s always had your back, and now you’ve got the nerve to blame someone else for the mess you’ve made?”

Scott swallowed hard, but the knot in his throat wouldn’t budge. He couldn’t even bring himself to meet anyone’s eyes. He could feel the weight of Lydia, Jackson, Kira, and Allison’s stares burning into him, their disappointment palpable.

Lydia’s face was a mixture of sorrow and disbelief, her hands gripping the edge of the table like she might shatter it if she touched it for too long. Jackson’s jaw was clenched so tight his teeth were grinding, his eyes flickering between Scott and John, trying to avoid the guilt that seemed to hang in the air.

Kira was staring at the floor, her fists tight at her sides, like she was trying not to react to what was being said but was failing miserably. Allison was biting her lip, her face flushed with the weight of it all, struggling to reconcile the person Scott used to be with the one standing in front of them now.

And Scott?

He stood frozen, his body trembling as if John’s words had physically knocked the wind out of him. Every fiber of his being was screaming to defend himself, to explain, to make it right, but there was nothing to say. Not anymore.

John’s voice softened, but the hurt behind it was even sharper. “I thought of you like a son, Scott. I really did. But right now, standing here looking at you… I’m glad you’re not.”

The room was silent, suffocatingly so.

Scott could feel the eyes of everyone on him now. The hurt, the disappointment, the betrayal.

He had failed them. And it was clear as day to everyone standing there.

Chapter Text

The Beacon Hills Preserve was quiet.

John Stilinski stepped out of his patrol car, adjusting his belt as he made his way toward the abandoned building that had somehow become home to an entire pack of werewolves.

He didn’t have to knock.

The door was already open.

And inside, standing near the kitchen, looking vaguely suspicious, was Derek Hale.

John raised an eyebrow. “You always leave your door unlocked?”

Derek crossed his arms. “I knew you were coming.”

John snorted, stepping inside. “Of course you did.”

There was a pause.

Derek’s gaze flickered toward the door—then back to John, wary. “Is something wrong?”

John exhaled, walking toward the couch and lowering himself onto it with a groan. “Not wrong, exactly. Just… something I thought you should hear.”

Derek didn’t sit.

Didn’t relax.

Just watched him, waiting.

So John got straight to the point.

“I had a conversation with Scott last night,” he said.

Derek’s jaw tightened.

“Yeah,” John muttered, rubbing a hand down his face. “That was about the reaction I expected.”

Derek sighed sharply, bracing his hands against the counter. “Let me guess. He thinks I’m manipulating Stiles.”

John nodded. “Bingo.”

Derek let out a humorless laugh, shaking his head. “Of course he does.”

John studied him.

Noticed the way Derek’s shoulders tensed, the way his fingers dug into the counter, the way his breathing hitched—like something about this actually got to him.

And suddenly, John understood.

Derek was worried.

Worried that maybe—just maybe—there was some truth to what Scott had said.

And that?

That wouldn’t do.

Not on John’s watch.

So he did what a good father should. He reassured him.

John exhaled, leaning forward. “Listen to me, son. I don’t want you listening to Scott’s words like they’re gospel.”

Derek didn’t react.

But he also didn’t disagree.

John sighed. “That kid has a big heart, but he’s also got a big ego. He doesn’t like that Stiles is choosing you guys over him, and instead of reflecting on why, he’s blaming you.”

Derek clenched his jaw. “I’m not making Stiles do anything.”

“I know that,” John said, voice firm. “And more importantly? So does Stiles.”

Derek exhaled sharply, looking away. “Then why does it still feel like I’m doing something wrong?”

John frowned. “What do you mean?”

Derek hesitated.

John froze.

Because Derek wasn’t talking about Stiles.

He was talking about Kate.

John’s heart ached.

And suddenly, everything clicked—why Derek hesitated around Stiles, why he kept his distance, why he always looked like he was waiting for someone to tell him he wasn’t allowed to have this.

He thought he was repeating the past.

John sighed, running a hand down his face. “Derek.”

Derek didn’t look at him.

So John did what he had always done—he spoke with honesty.

“You are not Kate,” he said, voice gentle but firm.

Derek’s jaw ticked.

John leaned forward. “You hear me? You are not her. You are not a predator. You are not grooming him. You are not hurting him.”

Derek’s fingers curled into fists.

John pressed on. “You think I haven’t been watching? You think I don’t notice the way you treat my son?”

Derek’s breathing was shallow now.

John shook his head. “You don’t push him. You don’t control him. You watch him. You support him. And, god help me, you like him—probably more than you know how to admit.”

Derek’s throat bobbed.

John sighed. “And he likes you, too.”

That?

That made Derek still.

John sat back. “I trust you with my son, Derek. So don’t you dare listen to Scott and let him convince you that you don’t deserve this.”

The room was silent.

Derek stared at the floor, eyes unreadable, his breath uneven.

Then, finally—softly—he muttered, “Thank you.”

John nodded.

And then, because why not, he grinned, relaxing on the couch.

“So,” John said, leaning back in his chair, his casual tone belying the glint of mischief in his eyes. “You gonna tell me how werewolf relationships actually work, or do I have to Google it? I’m pretty sure that would pull up some pretty weird results.”

Derek froze. His head snapped up, caught completely off guard by the lightness of the question, the implication behind it. “What?”

John’s smirk deepened. “Oh, come on, Derek. If my kid’s gonna get tangled up with a werewolf, I need to know how this works. Gotta make sure I’m prepared for any weirdness. Trust me, this is all for him.”

Derek blinked, his thoughts scrambling to catch up. “What do you—?”

John raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms over his chest, leaning forward slightly, the easy confidence of a man who knew exactly how to get under someone’s skin. “The mate thing. Does it work like a normal relationship, or is it… I dunno, more intense than that?”

Derek opened his mouth, then closed it, realizing just how unprepared he was for this conversation. He shifted uncomfortably, glancing at the floor. “It’s complicated.”

John’s smirk was unyielding. “Oh, I’m sure. Try me.”

Derek dragged a hand over his face in frustration. Why was John so… casual about this? “Fine,” he muttered. “There’s a bond. A mate bond.”

John nodded, clearly not satisfied yet. “Okay, I’m with you so far. Go on.”

Derek sighed, his fingers tightening into fists at his sides. Why was he explaining this? “It’s instinctual,” he said, voice low, hesitant. “Emotional. It’s about trust, about connection—”

“Sounds pretty much like any human relationship, doesn't it?” John interrupted, one side of his mouth twitching upwards.

“No,” Derek snapped, immediately regretting the sharpness of his tone, but it couldn’t be helped. “It’s more. It’s… deeper. You can’t just switch it off. It’s… permanent.”

John raised his hands in mock surrender, his grin still hanging in the air like a challenge. “Hey, I’m just trying to keep up. Don’t bite my head off.” He tilted his head, giving Derek a sharp look. “You ever felt that before?”

Derek froze, the question striking harder than he’d expected. Stiles smiling flashed in his mind. His heart skipped a beat, and for a split second, the walls inside him felt like they were starting to crack.

He couldn’t answer.

The hesitation was everything.

John saw it, and Derek knew he did. And in that moment, a shift happened—John’s eyes softened, just barely, but enough to make Derek’s stomach twist.

“Yeah,” John said, his voice almost conspiratorial now. “I thought so.”

Derek’s chest tightened. He didn’t know whether to feel relieved or utterly exposed. “You’re the worst,” he muttered, shoving his hands into his pockets and turning away.

John chuckled, rising to his feet with a deliberate slowness. “And yet, somehow, my son adores me.” He slapped Derek lightly on the shoulder as he passed, his gaze lingering on him a moment longer than necessary. “Don’t worry. He’s got you for backup now, doesn’t he?”

The words hit Derek like a punch to the gut. His mind short-circuited, everything suddenly feeling too close, too real. For a moment, he couldn’t move, couldn’t speak.

John didn’t wait for a response. He was already at the door, hand on the knob, about to leave.

“Wait—” Derek blurted, turning quickly, his voice unexpectedly raw.

John glanced over his shoulder, eyes a little softer now. “What?”

Derek had no idea what he wanted to say, but somehow, it didn’t matter. The words weren’t the point. It was the fact that John had given him a glimpse of something he wasn’t ready for—something he wasn’t sure he could handle.

John smiled, the sort of smile that said he understood everything Derek wasn’t saying. And then, with one last brief nod, he opened the door.

“I’m just saying,” John said as he stepped into the hallway, his tone casual, but the weight of his words heavy, “he’s not the only one who needs backup.”

And then he was gone.

Derek stood frozen in the silence of the room, his mind racing. What did that even mean? Did John really think that Derek could be that—the backup – for Stiles? He approves?

Derek didn’t know what to do with the knowledge that, in some strange way, John believed in him. And that... made him feel both terrified and something else. Something he couldn’t quite name yet.

But as the seconds passed, Derek knew one thing for certain.

The game had changed.

And maybe he wasn’t as prepared as he thought he was.

But whatever happened next, he was going to have to face it.

Chapter Text

Stiles had barely stepped into the loft before he knew something was up.

For one, everyone was grinning.

And not just regular grins—these were shit-eating, suspiciously excited, barely-holding-back laughter kinds of grins.

Which was terrifying.

Stiles paused, narrowing his eyes. “Okay. What’s going on? Why are you all looking at me like that? Do I have something on my face?”

Isaac snickered, nudging Erica. “He’s so clueless.”

“Painfully,” Erica agreed.

Boyd smirked. “I almost feel bad.”

Cora crossed her arms. “Almost.”

Stiles took a step back. “Okay, I don’t know what kind of cult sacrifice ritual this is, but I want no part in it.”

Derek—who had been standing suspiciously quiet this whole time—rolled his eyes.

“Just shut up and take it,” he muttered.

Stiles blinked. “Take wha—”

Before he could finish, Derek threw something at him.

Stiles caught it instinctively, blinking down at the bundle of thick black leather in his hands.

His stomach flipped.

Slowly, he unraveled it—fingers trailing over the soft, worn texture, the faint scent of pine and something distinctly wolfish woven into the material.

It was a leather jacket.

But not just any leather jacket.

A Hale Pack jacket.

Stiles’ throat tightened. “Oh.”

The room was quiet now.

Boyd tilted his head, watching his reaction carefully.

Erica, for once, didn’t say anything.

Isaac just grinned, like he knew exactly what this meant.

And Derek?

Derek’s arms were crossed, but his shoulders were tense, his gaze locked onto Stiles with something too serious to be casual.

Stiles swallowed hard. “Is this…?”

Isaac nodded. “Yeah, man.”

Erica smirked. “It’s official.”

Stiles looked up at them. “I’m official?”

Cora rolled her eyes. “Obviously.”

Boyd nodded. “You’ve been official. This just makes it obvious to everyone else.”

Stiles exhaled sharply, something warm settling deep in his chest.

He had been pack for weeks.

He had felt it.

He had known it.

But now?

Now the whole world would know.

His fingers curled around the jacket’s sleeves—felt the weight of it, the significance of it.

A symbol.

A claim.

A family.

Stiles inhaled slowly.

And then, carefully, he slipped the jacket on.

It fit perfectly.

Isaac whooped, fist-pumping.

Erica squealed, flinging her arms around him. “Oh my god, you look so good!”

Boyd smirked, nodding approvingly.

Cora just huffed, but her lips twitched like she was holding back a smile.

And Derek?

Derek exhaled slowly, eyes dark, something soft and unreadable in his expression.

Stiles grinned, flexing his arms in the sleeves. “Damn, I feel cool.”

Isaac grinned. “You are cool, man.”

“Yeah,” Erica agreed, beaming. “You’re one of us now.”

And Stiles?

Stiles had never felt more at home.

The moment Stiles stepped into school the next day, the reaction was immediate.

People stared.

Whispered.

Because he wasn’t wearing his usual hoodie.

He was wearing a black leather jacket.

Not just any jacket.

The jacket.

The Hale Pack jacket.

Isaac and Erica flanked him immediately, looking pleased as hell.

“Damn,” Isaac muttered, smirking. “This is hilarious.”

Erica grinned. “They don’t know what to do with this information.”

And she was right.

Because across the hall, Scott’s pack was staring at him like he’d just set their houses on fire.

Scott’s face was frozen in shock.

Allison and Kira looked uncertain.

Jackson looked annoyed.

Lydia’s lips pressed into a thin line, but she didn’t say anything.

Stiles ignored them.

For the first time, he didn’t feel the need to justify himself.

Didn’t feel the need to check in.

Didn’t feel the need to ask permission for the choices he made.

He just walked past them—leather jacket snug around his shoulders, Isaac and Erica laughing beside him—without a second glance.

But the McCall Pack?

They weren’t going to let him get away that easily.

They caught him at lunch.

Scott, face tense, cornered him by the lockers.

“What the hell is this?” Scott demanded.

Stiles raised an eyebrow. “Lunch?”

Scott scowled. “The jacket, Stiles.”

Stiles shrugged, playing it off. “Oh, this? Just a little something my pack gave me.”

Scott flinched at the word.

“You’re not a Hale,” Lydia said, arms crossed.

“Funny,” Erica said, appearing behind Stiles like a demon summoned by drama, “because we seem to think he is.”

Jackson snorted. “Of course you do.”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “What’s your problem?”

Scott clenched his jaw. “They’re not your pack, Stiles. They’re using you.”

Stiles’ stomach twisted.

Not because he believed it.

But because that was exactly what Scott had done to him for years, and he had the nerve to project it onto Derek’s pack.

“You’re wrong,” Stiles said, voice firm. “And honestly? I don’t care if you think otherwise.”

Scott’s face hardened. “Stiles—”

“No,” Stiles snapped. “I’m done. I gave you everything, Scott. And you left me behind.”

Scott winced.

Stiles shook his head. “You don’t get to be mad at me for finding people who actually see me.”

The group was silent.

Scott’s eyes flickered, like he wanted to argue—but the words wouldn’t come.

Because he knew.

Deep down, he knew.

Stiles shook his head one last time.

And then he turned.

Walked away.

Straight toward his real pack—Isaac, Erica, Boyd, Cora—who were waiting for him at their table.

Where he belonged.

Chapter Text

The end of senior year was nothing like Stiles had expected.

There had been no dramatic battles, no life-or-death supernatural crises, no tragedies looming over them like storm clouds.

For once, his life had been good.

Since the moment Derek had given him that leather jacket, everything had fallen into place.

Stiles and Derek had settled into their relationship naturally, without hesitation.

John had seen it coming a mile away and had, in true dad fashion, rolled his eyes and said, “Yeah, obviously,” before going back to reading his paper.

The Hale Pack had flourished, with Stiles fully integrated into their dynamic.

And best of all?

Scott and the McCall Pack had stayed away.

So now?

Now, Stiles stood in the Beacon Hills High football field, wearing his red graduation gown, watching families milling around after the ceremony, feeling nothing but pride and relief.

Because he had made it.

He had made it through high school, through this town, through everything—

And now, he had a future worth looking forward to.

“Alright, Stilinski,” Erica grinned, adjusting his graduation cap. “Are you ready for the most important moment of the day?”

Stiles smirked. “What, getting my diploma?”

“No,” Boyd said, shaking his head. “Kissing your boyfriend in front of everyone.”

Isaac snorted. “Oh yeah. You gotta own that shit, man.”

Cora smirked. “Make it dramatic.”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “Oh my god, you guys are the worst.”

“And yet, here you are,” Erica sang, winking.

Before Stiles could respond, strong arms suddenly wrapped around his waist, pulling him against a solid chest. Stiles is happy to finally be able to touch Derek in public, having restrained themselves while Stiles completed high school. Stile tried to argue for waiting until he turned 18, but was convinced to wait.

Stiles grinned, leaning back into Derek without hesitation.

“Hey, big guy,” he murmured.

Derek huffed, his breath warm against Stiles’ neck. “Are they bullying you again?”

“Always,” Stiles sighed dramatically.

Erica snickered. “We’re helping.”

Derek rolled his eyes but didn’t let go.

Instead, he tilted Stiles’ chin up, his gaze soft in a way Stiles never got tired of seeing.

And right there—in the middle of the chaos, in front of their families, in front of the entire town—Derek kissed him.

Slow. Warm. Unapologetic.

Erica let out a wolf-whistle, Isaac punched the air, Boyd smirked knowingly, and Cora just smirked like she won a bet.

John, standing nearby, shook his head fondly, muttering, “Took you long enough.”

The moment should have been perfect.

And it was—

Until Scott ruined it.

“Are you kidding me?!”

The sharp voice cut through the celebration like a knife.

Stiles sighed before even turning around.

Because of course.

Of course Scott couldn’t let him have this moment.

Stiles turned, still standing in Derek’s arms, as Scott stormed toward them, face twisted with anger.

“This—this is why you left us?” Scott demanded, gesturing wildly at Stiles and Derek. “Because of him?”

The crowd went silent.

Nearby families paused their conversations.

Students glanced over, whispering amongst themselves.

And suddenly, Stiles realized exactly what this looked like—Scott McCall screaming at his ex-best friend on graduation day right after he kissed his boyfriend.

Scott wasn’t just outing his bitterness.

He was outing himself as the kind of person who lost a friendship because he couldn’t handle change.

Stiles exhaled sharply, feeling nothing but secondhand embarrassment.

“Dude,” he said, voice flat, “you are literally making a scene in front of the entire town right now.”

Scott ignored him, pointing at Derek. “You manipulative—”

“Oh, hell no,” John cut in, stepping forward before Derek could react.

His Dad Voice™ was in full effect.

“Scott,” John said, voice calm but sharp, “you need to take several steps back before you say something you regret.”

Scott shook his head, eyes wild. “No, Sheriff, you don’t get it! Derek—he’s a grown man—he’s a pervert—”

That was the breaking point.

Derek flinched, stepping back like he’d been punched.

His shoulders curled inward, his breathing hitched, something dark flickering behind his eyes.

Self-doubt.

Because of course that was Scott’s go-to attack.

Because of course Scott would throw Kate’s damage back in Derek’s face.

And Stiles?

Stiles saw red.

“You asshole,” Stiles snapped, stepping forward. “You don’t get to say that.”

Scott hesitated. “Stiles—”

“No, shut up,” Stiles said, furious now. “I chose him. I did. And if you can’t accept that, then that’s your problem, not mine.”

Scott stumbled, like he couldn’t comprehend that this was actually happening.

Stiles shook his head, voice calm but biting. “This is embarrassing, dude.”

Scott froze.

“Look around you, Scott,” Stiles continued, gesturing to the crowd. “Everyone here thinks you’re yelling at me because I’m gay.”

Scott’s face drained of color.

And sure enough, people were glaring at him, murmuring under their breath.

Parents. Teachers. His classmates.

Scott McCall—the town hero—was now publicly yelling at his ex-best friend on graduation day over a kiss.

And it wasn’t a good look.

Scott’s mouth opened and closed, like he was trying to think of something to say.

But it was too late.

He had already lost.

John exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Then, slowly, he turned to Scott.

And when he spoke?

His voice was cold.

“Do not contact me or my family again unless you are reporting a crime.”

Scott recoiled. “Sheriff—”

“That’s enough,” John said firmly, his eyes like steel. “You have said more than enough tonight.”

Scott looked around, desperate—but no one came to his defense.

Not Allison.

Not Lydia.

Not even Kira.

And finally, finally, Scott seemed to understand.

He had ruined this beyond repair.

He had lost Stiles forever.

Scott’s shoulders dropped, his hands falling to his sides.

And then?

Without another word, he walked away.

There was silence after Scott left.

Then, slowly, Erica exhaled. “Whew.”

Isaac smirked. “That was a lot.”

John sighed, rubbing his temples. “I need a drink.”

Cora clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Welcome to the pack, Sheriff.”

John blinked. “Wait, what?”

Boyd smirked. “Yeah, man. You’re one of us now.”

Issac and Erica start chanting “one of us.”

John groaned. “Great. More of you.”

Stiles grinned, wrapping an arm around Derek. “Come on, big guy,” he murmured. “Let’s go home.”

Derek exhaled, shoulders finally relaxing.

And together—with their pack, with their family, with their future ahead of them—they walked away.

Where they belonged.