My Writing Corner - She/her 30+

Ashes to New

Complete one shot - 2,616 words

Hey thanks. I'm thankful to be alive today as well!

Pieces

Complete one shot - 3,210 words

Derek doesn’t crave ordinary love. He doesn’t even believe he’s capable of it. His love is something feral, something that howls in the dark and kneels in daylight only for Stiles.

Heyo! Here is the story

It’s not with an explosion or a roar or even a scream. It’s with the sound Derek makes when Stiles collapses in his arms - a broken, animal noise that doesn’t belong to any language Derek knows anymore.

“No - no, no, no, no.” Derek’s hands are slick with blood, Stiles’ blood, soaking into his palms and wrists and the sleeves of his jacket. Too much. It’s too much. He presses his hands harder, uselessly, like force alone can bully life back into a body that’s already giving up.

Stiles’ eyes flutter. He’s pale. Too pale. His mouth opens like he’s trying to joke, because of course he is, because Stiles Stilinski doesn’t know how to leave quietly.

“Hey,” Stiles breathes, voice thin and reedy. “You’re… doing the face.”

Derek shakes his head violently. “Don’t talk. Don’t…you have to stay awake. Sheriff’s coming. Boyd’s calling Deaton. You’re fine, you’re fine, you’re-”

Stiles’ fingers twitch weakly, catching in Derek’s jacket. “Derek.”

The way he says his name stops everything.

Derek looks down.

Stiles’ gaze is steady now, lucid in the way Derek has learned to fear - the way people look when they’ve already made peace with something you haven’t even begun to understand.

“You have to listen to me,” Stiles says.

“No,” Derek says immediately. “No. You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to say goodbye.”

Stiles’ mouth curves, faint and soft and devastating. “Wasn’t planning on goodbye.”

Then his hand goes slack.

The world doesn’t end loudly.

It ends in Derek’s chest, collapsing inward, crushing his lungs until he can’t breathe.

“No,” Derek whispers. “No! Stiles…Stiles!”

He presses his forehead to Stiles’ temple, breath hitching, waiting, listening, begging for a heartbeat that doesn’t come.

Boyd freezes a few feet away, phone still in his hand, eyes wide and horrified. Cora stumbles to a stop behind him, snarling denial already rising in her throat.

Peter says nothing.

The Sheriff arrives minutes later, lights flashing red and blue across the wreckage, across Stiles’ still body in Derek’s arms. Noah Stilinski takes one look at his son and drops to his knees like the bones have been ripped out of him.

“No,” the Sheriff says, hoarse. “No, no, no-”

Derek doesn’t let go.

They try to take Stiles from him. Boyd tries gently. Cora tries angrily. Peter tries last, voice low and dangerous.

“Derek,” Peter says. “He’s gone.”

Derek bares his teeth, eyes burning red. “You’re lying.”

Peter doesn’t flinch. “I wish I were.”

The Sheriff’s hands shake as he cups Stiles’ face, presses his forehead to his son’s. Derek hears the sound he makes and realizes, dimly, that he will never forget it. It will haunt him longer than any fire ever has.

••••••

Stiles is dead for three hours.

Long enough for the hospital to call it.

Long enough for the Sheriff to sign paperwork he doesn’t remember reading.

Long enough for Derek to sit on the floor outside the morgue, back against the wall, staring at his hands like they belong to someone else.

Everything is wrong. Cold. Empty.

Cora paces like a caged animal. Boyd stands guard, jaw clenched, eyes glassy. Peter leans against the opposite wall, arms crossed, watching Derek with an expression that’s too sharp to be grief, but not far from it.

“This isn’t right,” Derek says suddenly.

Peter lifts an eyebrow. “Death rarely is.”

“No,” Derek snarls, standing. “This feels…wrong. He’s still here.”

Cora stops pacing. “What do you mean?”

Derek presses a hand to his chest. His wolf is restless, whining, circling like it’s searching for something it’s lost.

“He’s not gone,” Derek says. “I can feel him.”

Peter’s gaze sharpens. Something calculating flickers behind his eyes.

“Well,” Peter says slowly, “that’s interesting.”

••••••

Stiles wakes up on a metal table.

Which is…rude.

He groans, blinking at the fluorescent lights overhead. “Wow,” he mutters. “This is… not the afterlife aesthetic I was promised.”

His chest aches. His head pounds. Everything feels like he lost a fight with a semi and died.

Then the door slams open.

Derek barrels into the room like a hurricane given human form, eyes wild, face wrecked, grief still carved into every line of him.

They stare at each other.

“Wait,” Derek says, voice breaking immediately. “But you died!”

Stiles squints. “Huh.”

He looks down at himself. Wiggles his fingers. Takes a breath.

“I guess it didn’t take.”

For half a second, Derek looks like he might laugh.

Then he sobs.

He crosses the room in two strides and pulls Stiles off the table and into his arms like he’s terrified that if he lets go, Stiles will vanish again. Stiles barely has time to yelp before he’s being crushed against Derek’s chest, breath knocked clean out of him.

“Derek..okay, hi. Love the enthusiasm but ribs-”

Derek doesn’t loosen his grip. His hands shake violently where they clutch the back of Stiles’ shirt.

“I watched you die,” Derek whispers, forehead pressed into Stiles’ neck. “I watched you leave.”

Stiles goes still.

“Oh,” he says softly.

The door opens again. The Sheriff freezes in the doorway, eyes locking on Stiles - alive, breathing, very much there.

“Stiles?” Noah whispers.

Stiles lifts a hand weakly. “Hey, Dad.”

The Sheriff crosses the room in a blur, pulling Stiles into his arms too, crying openly now, shaking like the world almost ended and he’s only just realizing it didn’t.

Boyd exhales shakily, laughter bubbling up through tears. Cora lets out a choked sound and turns away, swiping at her face like she’s furious about it.

Peter watches from the doorway, lips curling into something smug and relieved and deeply unsettling all at once.

“Well,” Peter says. “That’s convenient.”

Derek doesn’t let go of Stiles. Not even when Stiles threads his fingers into Derek’s jacket and holds on just as tight.

“Don’t ever do that again,” Derek says fiercely.

Stiles swallows, eyes burning. “Yeah,” he whispers. “Wasn’t a fan.”

Derek presses a kiss into Stiles’ hair - unthinking, instinctive, real - and Stiles lets himself lean into it, alive, here, heartbeat strong and stubborn and his.

Whatever took him didn’t win.

It shouldn’t feel like a loss.

But it does.

Because slammed doors mean anger - sharp, loud, undeniable. Slammed doors mean something is wrong and Derek is willing to show it. This… this quiet? This careful, measured way Derek moves around the loft like he’s afraid of breaking something that’s already shattered?

This is worse.

This is how things rot.

They don’t fight anymore.

Not really.

They used to…God, they used to.

Explosive, messy arguments that left them both breathless, Derek’s eyes burning red, Stiles pacing like a caged animal, words flying too fast, too sharp, too honest. It had been ugly, yeah, but it had also been real. They said things. They meant things. They felt things.

Now? Now it’s all swallowed. Pressed down. Ignored.

••••••

Stiles leans against the kitchen counter, arms crossed tight over his chest, watching Derek from across the loft.

Derek is at the far window, back turned, staring out into the night like there’s something out there worth looking at.

There isn’t. There never is.

“You’re late,” Stiles says, because it’s something. Because silence feels like drowning.

Derek doesn’t turn. “Pack business.”

Two words. Flat. Final.

The conversation dies before it even starts.

Stiles swallows, something bitter crawling up his throat. “Right. Cool. Yeah. Pack stuff. Obviously more important than-”

He cuts himself off.

Because Derek doesn’t ask, “More important than what?”

He doesn’t turn around.

He doesn’t engage.

And Stiles hates that he doesn’t push it anymore.

“Whatever,” Stiles mutters instead, looking away. “Doesn’t matter.”

It always matters. That’s the problem.

Everything matters, and neither of them will say it.

••••••

They eat dinner in silence.

Not even sitting together. Derek at the table, Stiles on the couch, the TV on low just to fill the space with something other than the weight pressing in on them.

At one point, Derek glances over.

Just for a second.

Stiles feels it like a touch.

He almost looks back.

Almost says something.

Stay. Talk to me. Please.

Instead, he pretends he didn’t notice.

And Derek looks away.

They go to bed like strangers who know each other too well.

Derek lies on his side, back to the room.

Stiles stares at the ceiling.

There’s space between them, just a few inches, but it feels like miles.

It wasn’t always like this.

There was a time Derek couldn’t keep his hands off him. A time when Stiles would curl into Derek’s side and feel something solid, something steady, something safe.

Now, even breathing feels too loud.

Too risky.

Because if one of them reaches out and the other doesn’t respond…

That would break it.

And neither of them can survive that.

So they don’t try.

It builds like that.

Days turning into weeks of almosts and not-quites.

Almost conversations.

Not-quite arguments.

Almost touches.

Not-quite affection.

They orbit each other carefully, like they’re both aware that one wrong move will send everything crashing down.

And maybe that’s the cruelest part…They’re trying so hard not to hurt each other that they’re bleeding out slowly anyway.

••••••

Peter notices.

Of course he does.

Peter always notices.

“You look awful,” Peter says casually one day, leaning against the loft railing.

Stiles doesn’t even look up from where he’s hunched over the counter. “Wow, thank you, Peter, that’s so helpful. Really constructive feedback. I feel healed already.”

Peter hums. “That’s funny, considering you’re very clearly not.”

Stiles stills.

Just for a second.

Then he shrugs, too fast, too sharp. “I’m fine.”

Peter smiles, slow and knowing. “Ah. The famous last words of emotionally repressed idiots everywhere.”

“Okay, wow, fuck you.”

“You and Derek,” Peter cuts in smoothly, “are exhausting to watch.”

That gets Stiles’ attention.

He looks up, glaring. “No one asked you to watch.”

“And yet here I am,” Peter says lightly. “Watching the two of you slowly destroy yourselves because neither of you can manage a basic conversation.”

“We talk,” Stiles snaps.

Peter raises an eyebrow.

Stiles opens his mouth. Closes it.

Because…No.

They don’t. Not really.

“You think love is supposed to look like this?” Peter asks, voice quieter now, sharper in a different way.

Stiles scoffs, defensive. “You don’t know anything about-”

“I know exactly what it looks like when two people love each other so much they’d rather suffer than risk losing it,” Peter interrupts.

That hits. Hard.

Stiles’ chest tightens. “We’re not-”

“You are,” Peter says simply. “And it’s pathetic.”

Anger flares, quick and bright. “You don’t get to-”

“You’re afraid,” Peter continues, like Stiles didn’t speak. “Both of you. Terrified that if you actually say what you’re feeling, it’ll be the thing that breaks you.”

Stiles’ hands curl into fists.

Because that’s not wrong.

Peter steps closer, voice dropping.

“But here’s the part you’re too stupid to realize,” he says. “You’re already breaking.”

Silence crashes down. Heavy. Unavoidable.

“You don’t heal by pretending nothing’s wrong,” Peter adds, softer now. “You heal by tearing the wound open and dealing with it.”

Stiles’ throat burns.

“That’s easy for you to say,” he mutters.

Peter tilts his head. “Is it?”

For a moment - just a moment - there’s something real in his expression. Something tired. Something that looks a little too much like experience.

Then it’s gone.

“You love him,” Peter says.

It’s not a question.

Stiles exhales shakily. “Yeah.”

“Then act like it,” Peter replies.

••••••

Derek comes back later.

He pauses when he sees Peter.

Tension immediately coils in his shoulders. “What are you doing here?”

Peter smiles faintly. “Fixing your relationship.”

Derek’s expression darkens. “Leave.”

Peter just shrugs, pushing off the railing. “Or don’t. Continue as you are. I’m sure this ends well.”

He moves past Derek, then stops, just long enough to murmur “You can’t heal something you refuse to touch.”

And then he’s gone.

The silence he leaves behind is unbearable.

Derek stands near the door.

Stiles stands by the counter.

Neither of them moves.

Neither of them speaks for a while

“Are we… okay?”

It slips out of Stiles before he can stop it.

Derek freezes.

Slowly, he turns.

And for the first time in what feels like forever, he looks at Stiles like he actually sees him.

“No,” Derek says.

Honest. Raw. Immediate

It fucking hurts.

God, it hurts.

But it’s also a relief.

“Okay,” Stiles breathes, voice shaking. “Okay, good. Not good - bad - but like, good that we’re acknowledging that we’re not good because…yeah, no, we’re definitely not good.”

Derek takes a step closer.

Then another.

“I didn’t know how to fix it,” he admits quietly.

Stiles laughs, a broken sound. “Yeah, well, same. Turns out ignoring it? Not the move.”

Derek huffs, almost a laugh.

“I thought… if I pushed too hard…” Derek starts, then stops.

Stiles shakes his head. “I thought if I said the wrong thing, you’d leave.”

There it is.

The truth.

Ugly and exposed and terrifying.

Derek’s eyes soften, something aching breaking through. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“You don’t know that,” Stiles says immediately.

“I do,” Derek insists.

“You can’t-”

“I choose you,” Derek cuts in, voice rough. “Even when it’s hard. Even when it hurts. I choose you.”

Stiles’ chest cracks open.

That’s all he needed.

That’s all he’s been waiting to hear.

“I’m scared,” Stiles admits, quieter now.

Derek nods. “I know.”

“I don’t want us to keep… doing this,” Stiles says, gesturing weakly between them. “This…whatever this is. It feels like we’re dying in slow motion.”

Derek steps closer until there’s no space left.

“We stop,” he says simply.

Stiles swallows. “Just like that?”

“No,” Derek says. “Not just like that. It’ll be hard. We’ll mess it up.” He hesitates. “But we talk. Even when it’s ugly. Even when it hurts.”

Stiles lets out a shaky breath. “Yeah. Yeah, okay. I can do ugly.”

Derek’s mouth twitches then he moves. Carefully, like approaching something fragile.

He reaches out.

His hand brushes Stiles’ wrist.

Waits.

Stiles doesn’t pull away.

It’s not fixed.

Not even close.

But it’s a start.

Later, when they lie in bed, the space between them is gone.

Stiles is tucked against Derek’s side, Derek’s arm wrapped around him like he’s afraid to let go.

“Hey,” Stiles murmurs into the quiet.

“Hmm?”

“If we start doing the silent suffering thing again,” Stiles says, “I’m gonna fight you.”

Derek hums. “Good.”

Stiles smiles, small but real.

New English album from Monsta X dropped and the very first song on the album made me fucking sob and then start writing.

Not completely - Stiles Stilinski is physically incapable of complete silence - but the words have changed. The constant rambling commentary that once filled every room like electricity has dulled into something thinner, quieter. The jokes are there, but they land differently now, like someone trying to remember how laughter used to work.

Derek notices because he has spent years learning the sound of Stiles.

The rhythm of his speech when he’s excited.

The rapid-fire spirals when he’s anxious.

The quiet moments when something is wrong.

And lately, Stiles sounds like none of those things.

He sounds… empty.

••••••

It starts small.

Stiles forgets things.

At first Derek assumes it’s normal, everyone forgets things sometimes, but Stiles used to have a mind like a steel trap. He remembered license plates, crime statistics, the exact wording of Latin spells they'd only seen once in dusty grimoires.

Now Derek catches him staring at his phone like it's betrayed him.

“Where’s the sheriff’s department again?” Stiles mutters one afternoon, squinting at the map app.

Derek freezes halfway through pouring coffee.

“You’ve basically lived here your entire life.”

“Yeah but like…street names change in my brain sometimes,” Stiles says with a shrug that’s too casual.

Derek watches him a long moment.

Stiles avoids his eyes.

The next thing Derek notices is the insomnia.

He can hear it when Stiles stays over.

Werewolf hearing means Derek knows when Stiles is awake at three in the morning, pacing the loft floor. The creak of wood. The uneven breathing. The restless shuffle of someone who doesn't know where to put their own body.

It’s familiar.

Derek used to do the same thing after the fire.

But Stiles never had.

Stiles used to sleep like someone who knew exhaustion was the only way to survive tomorrow.

Now Derek hears the pacing night after night.

Eventually he walks upstairs.

Stiles is sitting on the kitchen counter in the dark, staring at nothing.

The city lights through the windows turn him into a silhouette - thin shoulders, bent posture, one foot swinging idly.

“You should be sleeping,” Derek says quietly.

Stiles startles.

Not dramatically. Just enough that Derek’s chest tightens.

“Jesus, dude,” Stiles breathes. “You’re like a stealth ninja wolf.”

“It's three a.m.”

“Yeah well my brain missed that memo.”

Derek crosses the room slowly.

Up close, Stiles looks tired in a way Derek has never seen before.

Not just lack of sleep.

Worn.

Like someone who's been holding themselves together for too long.

“You’ve been awake every night this week,” Derek says.

Stiles shrugs.

“Sleep’s overrated.”

Derek studies him.

“You used to say sleep was your superpower.”

Stiles gives a small laugh.

“Yeah well I also used to think fighting monsters was cool.”

The words land between them heavier than they should.

Derek sits on the counter beside him.

For a long time neither of them speaks.

Then Stiles says quietly,

“Do you ever feel like everything after high school is… fake?”

Derek turns his head.

“What do you mean?”

Stiles stares out the window.

“I mean we fought literal demons. Ancient fox spirits. Alpha packs. Hellhounds.” He gestures vaguely. “Actual apocalypse-level bullshit.”

His voice is hollow.

“And now I work in an office.”

Derek waits.

Stiles keeps talking.

“I sit in meetings about paperwork formatting.”

A laugh slips out of him, sharp and brittle.

“I saved the world and now my biggest problem is a printer jam.”

Derek understands the shape of this feeling.

He’s lived inside it.

But hearing it from Stiles makes something in his chest ache.

“You wanted normal,” Derek says carefully.

“Yeah.”

Stiles runs a hand through his hair.

“Turns out normal is… weird.”

He swings his foot again, restless energy with nowhere to go.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to be now.”

Derek frowns slightly.

“You’re still you.”

Stiles looks at him.

And for a second Derek sees something raw in his eyes.

“Am I?”

The question isn't sarcastic. It isn't rhetorical.

It's quiet.

Lost.

••••••

It gets worse after that.

Stiles starts drifting.

Not physically. he still shows up to work, still answers his dad’s calls when he stays at the loft, still visits the pack sometimes - but Derek can feel the difference.

Stiles used to move through the world like he belonged everywhere.

Now he moves like a visitor.

Detached.

Like none of it quite sticks to him anymore.

One night Derek finds him sitting on the floor of the loft surrounded by old case files.

Maps. Photos. Newspaper clippings.

The table looks like a crime scene again.

“Stiles.”

Stiles doesn't look up.

“I thought maybe if I read through everything again it would feel real,” he says.

Derek kneels across from him.

“Real?”

“Yeah.”

Stiles taps a photo of the pack.

Scott. Lydia. Kira. Allison. Derek. Himself.

They look impossibly young.

“We were kids,” Stiles murmurs. “Kids don’t stop kanimas and darachs and nogitsunes.”

Derek's throat tightens.

“Kids shouldn’t have had to.”

Stiles finally meets his eyes.

“That’s the thing.”

His voice trembles just slightly.

“I don’t know how to be a person who isn't… that.”

Derek feels something shift inside his chest.

Slow understanding.

“You think the only reason you mattered was because of the supernatural.”

Stiles laughs quietly.

“Harsh phrasing but yeah.”

“You mattered before that.”

“No I didn’t.”

The words come out fast. Automatic.

Like Stiles has already had this argument with himself a thousand times.

“I was just the hyper kid with anxiety and too much caffeine. Then suddenly there were monsters and suddenly I was useful.”

He gestures at the mess of evidence.

“I had a purpose.”

Derek says softly, “You still do.”

Stiles shakes his head.

“No one needs me to figure out ancient rituals anymore.”

“That doesn’t mean you stopped mattering.”

Stiles looks away.

“You ever notice everyone else moved on?”

Derek frowns.

“Scott’s leading a pack. Lydia runs half the supernatural research community. Kira's literally guarding a spirit sword in another dimension.”

His smile is thin. “Meanwhile I'm arguing with Karen from HR about stapler budgets.”

Derek watches him carefully.

“You think your life is smaller now.”

Stiles nods once.

And for the first time Derek hears it clearly.

The quiet grief under everything.

••••••

The breaking point comes two weeks later.

Derek gets a call from the sheriff.

“Is Stiles with you?”

Something in Derek’s stomach drops immediately.

“No.”

There’s a pause.

“He didn’t come home last night. And he didn't tell me he was staying at your place ”

Derek is already grabbing his keys.

He finds Stiles at the preserve. Of course.

The jeep is parked crookedly near the trailhead.

Derek follows the familiar scent path through the trees until he hears breathing.

Stiles is sitting on the fallen log where they used to plan hunts.

His shoulders are hunched.

His hands are shaking.

Derek approaches slowly.

“Stiles.”

Stiles doesn't look up.

“I thought if I came back here it would feel like something again.”

Derek sits beside him.

The forest is quiet. Wind through leaves. Distant birds.

“Did it?” Derek asks gently.

Stiles swallows.

“No.” His voice cracks. “I just feel… empty.”

The word barely escapes.

Derek looks at him carefully.

Stiles's eyes are red.

Not from crying.

From holding it in too long.

“I don’t know who I am anymore,” Stiles whispers.

The confession sounds like it physically hurts.

“I used to be brave.”

Derek’s brows pull together.

“You still are.”

Stiles shakes his head violently.

“No I’m not.”

His breathing picks up.

“I’m just a guy who survived some really weird shit and now I’m supposed to pretend it didn’t fundamentally break my brain.”

Derek feels his chest tighten.

Stiles laughs weakly.

“You know what the worst part is?”

Derek waits.

“I miss it.”

The words hang heavy in the air.

“I miss having a reason to matter.”

Silence stretches between them.

Then Derek says quietly,

“You think the only way you mattered was by being useful.”

Stiles nods miserably.

Derek reaches over.

Grabs the front of Stiles’s jacket.

Stiles startles.

Derek pulls him closer.

“Look at me.”

Stiles hesitates.

Then meets his eyes.

Derek’s voice is low. Steady.

“You mattered because you stayed.”

Stiles blinks.

“What?”

“When everyone else ran,” Derek says, “you stayed.” His grip tightens slightly. “You stayed when there were monsters. You stayed when you were terrified. You stayed when people died.”

Derek’s voice roughens.

“You stayed with me.”

Stiles’s eyes widen slightly.

Derek doesn't look away.

“You think your purpose was solving supernatural mysteries,” Derek says. “It wasn’t.”

Stiles swallows.

“Then what was it?”

Derek’s answer is immediate.

“You were the anchor.”

Stiles stares at him.

Derek continues quietly.

“You kept us human.”

His voice lowers.

“You kept me human.”

Stiles’s breath catches.

Derek releases his jacket but doesn't move away.

“That doesn’t stop mattering just because the monsters are gone.”

Stiles looks down at his hands.

“I don’t feel like an anchor.”

“You feel lost.”

Stiles nods slowly.

Derek exhales.

Then he says something he’s never admitted out loud before.

“I felt the same way after the fire.”

Stiles looks up immediately. “What?”

Derek stares out at the forest.

“I lost my family.”

His voice is calm but heavy.

“And suddenly there was nothing left to fight for.”

He glances at Stiles.

“I thought that meant I didn’t exist anymore.”

Stiles listens silently.

Derek continues. “But that wasn’t true.”

“Then what was it?” Stiles asks softly.

Derek’s gaze settles on him.

“It meant I had to learn who I was when I wasn’t surviving.”

The words settle slowly.

Stiles absorbs them.

“You think that’s what this is?” he murmurs.

Derek nods once.

“You survived.” A small pause. “Now you’re figuring out how to live.”

Stiles exhales shakily.

“That sounds terrifying.”

Derek huffs softly.

“It is.”

For a moment neither of them speaks.

Then Stiles says quietly,

“Can you help me?”

Derek answers without hesitation.

“Yes.”

The word is simple. Certain.

Stiles studies him.

“You’re not going anywhere, are you?”

Derek shakes his head.

“No.”

Something fragile shifts across Stiles’s face.

Relief. Small. But real.

Derek nudges his shoulder.

“Come on.”

Stiles groans.

“Please don’t say something motivational.”

“We’re getting breakfast.”

Stiles blinks.

“That's it?”

“Yes.”

Stiles considers this.

Then slowly, reluctantly, a tiny smile appears.

“Okay but if we’re rebuilding my existential sense of self I demand pancakes.”

Derek stands.

“You always demand pancakes.”

Stiles gets up beside him.

For the first time in weeks, Derek hears something familiar in his voice.

“Yeah but now they're therapeutic pancakes.”

Derek shakes his head.

But he lets Stiles walk beside him back toward the jeep.

Chapter 2: Coming "home"

2/? Currently 6,924 words

Through a series of letters between a soldier overseas and a quiet man running a nonprofit called Homeward Path, set on helping veterans, two strangers build an unexpected bond before they ever meet. As Stiles' time in the Middle East winds down, he's forced to face what “coming home” really means.

Chapter 2: some things weren't just sparks, they were flames

2/? Currently 5,421 words

Derek Hale remembers his life as he lies bleeding and possibly dying on the forest floor. A Derek Hale character study.

Which is to say: the coffee tastes burnt, the fridge is making a noise that sounds ominously sentient, and Peter is sitting at the kitchen island wearing Derek’s hoodie like he owns it.

Cora is there too, perched on the counter, swinging her legs and scrolling through her phone.

Stiles is also there.

Which is, Derek realizes belatedly, probably the problem.

Stiles is pacing.

Not the usual Stiles pacing, either. This is aggressive pacing. Arms flailing, words spilling out faster than Derek can track, socked feet slapping against the loft floor like he’s trying to wear a groove into it.

“I’m just saying,” Stiles says, gesturing wildly at absolutely nothing, “if you’re going to ignore your phone for twelve hours, maybe you could consider the fact that I might assume you’re dead? Or kidnapped? Or dead and kidnapped?”

“I was at the shop,” Derek says, evenly. Calmly. Patiently. Like a man who has had this argument before. “My phone died.”

Stiles spins on him. “Phones don’t just die, Derek. They give warnings. They blink. They vibrate. They cry out for help.”

Peter hums into his mug. “That last one might be projection.”

Cora snorts.

Derek shoots Peter a look. “Why are you still here?”

Peter smiles sweetly. “Your hospitality is unmatched.”

“Get your own coffee.”

“I did.” Peter taps the mug. “From your cabinet.”

Stiles throws his hands up. “See? This is what I’m talking about. Zero boundaries. No communication. Absolute emotional negligence.”

Derek frowns. “Why are you this upset?"

Stiles opens his mouth.

Closes it.

Opens it again.

“Well maybe,” Stiles says, voice rising just a little, “because when you disappear without telling me, my brain immediately decides you’ve run off on some reckless alpha martyr mission and I don’t find out until I’m identifying a body and-”

“I left you a note,” Derek says.

“You left me a Post-it that said ‘Back later.’”

“That is a note.”

“That is a threat.”

Cora leans toward Peter. “Is this-”

Peter nods. “Yes.”

Derek rubs his temples. “Stiles. I was gone half a day.”

“Half a day is six hours too long when you have a habit of almost dying,” Stiles snaps. “Sorry that I care about you.”

There it is.

The silence lands like a dropped plate.

Stiles freezes.

Derek freezes.

Peter slowly lowers his mug.

Cora blinks.

Stiles swallows, eyes wide, and then - because this is Stiles Stilinski and there is no off switch - he barrels straight through it.

“I mean obviously I care,” Stiles says quickly. Too quickly. “Because you’re, you know…you. And you’re important. And if something happened to you it would be bad. For me. Emotionally. Like, devastatingly bad. World-ending bad. Can’t-breathe bad. Which is normal. For friends. Best friends. Or…whatever we are.”

Derek’s brain has left the building.

Peter’s eyebrows are somewhere near his hairline.

Cora looks between them. “Wait,” she says slowly. “You’re not together?”

Stiles laughs. A little hysterically. “What? No. Why would we-”

Peter cuts in, delighted. “Oh, sweetheart.”

Derek croaks, “What?”

Cora hops off the counter. “We thought you were dating.”

Stiles stares at her. “I’m sorry, what?”

Peter gestures vaguely between Derek and Stiles. “The domesticity. The way you argue like an old married couple. The fact that Stiles sleeps here more than at his father’s house.”

“I sleep on the couch!” Stiles protests.

“With his hoodie as a pillow,” Peter says. “And his scent soaked into it.”

Derek’s ears are burning.

Cora shrugs. “Also you pack his lunch.”

“I pack everyone’s lunch!”

“You cut the crusts off his sandwiches.”

Stiles’ mouth opens. Closes. “He doesn’t like crusts.”

Derek mutters, “They’re unnecessary.”

Peter beams. “See? Courtship.”

Stiles turns slowly toward Derek. “Did you think that we were dating too?”

Derek finally finds his voice. “I…no. well…I didn’t-”

“You didn’t think to mention that?” Stiles demands.

Derek looks miserable. “I thought you knew.”

“Knew what?!"

“That I-” Derek stops. Breathes. Tries again. “That I like you.”

The world stops.

Stiles’ face goes completely blank.

“Oh,” he says.

Peter hums. “There it is.”

Cora grins. “Told you.”

Stiles’ laugh this time is soft. Disbelieving. “You - wait - you like me?”

Derek nods once. Then, because apparently today is the day of honesty, adds, “A lot.”

Stiles sways slightly. “Cool. Cool cool cool. Because I-” He gestures vaguely at himself. “I may have just accidentally confessed my undying devotion in front of your entire family.”

Peter raises his mug. “We’re touched.”

Cora claps. “This is better than TV.”

Stiles looks at Derek, eyes bright and a little watery. “I like you too. A lot. Like…ridiculously. I just didn’t think-”

Derek steps closer. Careful. Like Stiles might spook.

“I was going to ask you out,” Derek says. “Eventually.”

“Eventually,” Stiles echoes. “We live together.”

“I wanted to do it right.”

Stiles smiles. Soft and fond and completely undone. “You are doing it right.”

Peter clears his throat loudly. “So. Are we interrupting or-”

“Yes,” Derek and Stiles say in unison.

Cora laughs and heads for the door, grabbing Peter by the arm. “Come on. Let them figure it out.”

Peter allows himself to be dragged, calling over his shoulder, “Use protection! And labels!”

The door closes.

Silence.

Then Stiles exhales a laugh. “Well. That was a thing.”

Derek nods. “We should talk."

“Definitely.”

A beat.

Stiles steps forward and presses a quick, awkward kiss to Derek’s mouth.

Pulls back.

Grins.

“Hi,” he says.

Derek smiles back, slow and warm and absolutely certain. “Hi.”