The first thing Stiles notices is that Derek has stopped slamming doors.
It shouldnât feel like a loss.
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 heâs afraid of breaking something thatâs already shattered?
They donât fight anymore.
They used toâŚGod, they used to.
Explosive, messy arguments that left them both breathless, Derekâs 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 itâs 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 thereâs something out there worth looking at.
There isnât. There never is.
âYouâre late,â Stiles says, because itâs something. Because silence feels like drowning.
Derek doesnât turn. âPack business.â
The conversation dies before it even starts.
Stiles swallows, something bitter crawling up his throat. âRight. Cool. Yeah. Pack stuff. Obviously more important than-â
Because Derek doesnât ask, âMore important than what?â
He doesnât turn around.
And Stiles hates that he doesnât push it anymore.
âWhatever,â Stiles mutters instead, looking away. âDoesnât matter.â
It always matters. Thatâs 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.
Stiles feels it like a touch.
Stay. Talk to me. Please.
Instead, he pretends he didnât notice.
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.
Thereâs space between them, just a few inches, but it feels like miles.
It wasnât always like this.
There was a time Derek couldnât keep his hands off him. A time when Stiles would curl into Derekâs side and feel something solid, something steady, something safe.
Now, even breathing feels too loud.
Because if one of them reaches out and the other doesnât respondâŚ
And neither of them can survive that.
Days turning into weeks of almosts and not-quites.
They orbit each other carefully, like theyâre both aware that one wrong move will send everything crashing down.
And maybe thatâs the cruelest partâŚTheyâre trying so hard not to hurt each other that theyâre bleeding out slowly anyway.
âYou look awful,â Peter says casually one day, leaning against the loft railing.
Stiles doesnât even look up from where heâs hunched over the counter. âWow, thank you, Peter, thatâs so helpful. Really constructive feedback. I feel healed already.â
Peter hums. âThatâs funny, considering youâre very clearly not.â
Then he shrugs, too fast, too sharp. âIâm fine.â
Peter smiles, slow and knowing. âAh. The famous last words of emotionally repressed idiots everywhere.â
âOkay, wow, fuck you.â
âYou and Derek,â Peter cuts in smoothly, âare exhausting to watch.â
That gets Stilesâ attention.
He looks up, glaring. âNo one asked you to watch.â
âAnd yet here I am,â Peter says lightly. âWatching the two of you slowly destroy yourselves because neither of you can manage a basic conversation.â
âWe talk,â Stiles snaps.
Stiles opens his mouth. Closes it.
They donât. Not really.
âYou think love is supposed to look like this?â Peter asks, voice quieter now, sharper in a different way.
Stiles scoffs, defensive. âYou donât know anything about-â
âI know exactly what it looks like when two people love each other so much theyâd rather suffer than risk losing it,â Peter interrupts.
Stilesâ chest tightens. âWeâre not-â
âYou are,â Peter says simply. âAnd itâs pathetic.â
Anger flares, quick and bright. âYou donât get to-â
âYouâre afraid,â Peter continues, like Stiles didnât speak. âBoth of you. Terrified that if you actually say what youâre feeling, itâll be the thing that breaks you.â
Stilesâ hands curl into fists.
Because thatâs not wrong.
Peter steps closer, voice dropping.
âBut hereâs the part youâre too stupid to realize,â he says. âYouâre already breaking.â
Silence crashes down. Heavy. Unavoidable.
âYou donât heal by pretending nothingâs wrong,â Peter adds, softer now. âYou heal by tearing the wound open and dealing with it.â
âThatâs easy for you to say,â he mutters.
Peter tilts his head. âIs it?â
For a moment - just a moment - thereâs something real in his expression. Something tired. Something that looks a little too much like experience.
âYou love him,â Peter says.
Stiles exhales shakily. âYeah.â
âThen act like it,â Peter replies.
He pauses when he sees Peter.
Tension immediately coils in his shoulders. âWhat are you doing here?â
Peter smiles faintly. âFixing your relationship.â
Derekâs expression darkens. âLeave.â
Peter just shrugs, pushing off the railing. âOr donât. Continue as you are. Iâm sure this ends well.â
He moves past Derek, then stops, just long enough to murmur âYou canât heal something you refuse to touch.â
The silence he leaves behind is unbearable.
Derek stands near the door.
Stiles stands by the counter.
Neither of them speaks for a while
It slips out of Stiles before he can stop it.
And for the first time in what feels like forever, he looks at Stiles like he actually sees him.
But itâs also a relief.
âOkay,â Stiles breathes, voice shaking. âOkay, good. Not good - bad - but like, good that weâre acknowledging that weâre not good becauseâŚyeah, no, weâre definitely not good.â
Derek takes a step closer.
âI didnât know how to fix it,â he admits quietly.
Stiles laughs, a broken sound. âYeah, well, same. Turns out ignoring it? Not the move.â
Derek huffs, almost a laugh.
âI thought⌠if I pushed too hardâŚâ Derek starts, then stops.
Stiles shakes his head. âI thought if I said the wrong thing, youâd leave.â
Ugly and exposed and terrifying.
Derekâs eyes soften, something aching breaking through. âIâm not going anywhere.â
âYou donât know that,â Stiles says immediately.
âI do,â Derek insists.
âI choose you,â Derek cuts in, voice rough. âEven when itâs hard. Even when it hurts. I choose you.â
Stilesâ chest cracks open.
Thatâs all heâs been waiting to hear.
âIâm scared,â Stiles admits, quieter now.
Derek nods. âI know.â
âI donât want us to keep⌠doing this,â Stiles says, gesturing weakly between them. âThisâŚwhatever this is. It feels like weâre dying in slow motion.â
Derek steps closer until thereâs no space left.
âWe stop,â he says simply.
Stiles swallows. âJust like that?â
âNo,â Derek says. âNot just like that. Itâll be hard. Weâll mess it up.â He hesitates. âBut we talk. Even when itâs ugly. Even when it hurts.â
Stiles lets out a shaky breath. âYeah. Yeah, okay. I can do ugly.â
Derekâs mouth twitches then he moves. Carefully, like approaching something fragile.
His hand brushes Stilesâ wrist.
Stiles doesnât pull away.
Later, when they lie in bed, the space between them is gone.
Stiles is tucked against Derekâs side, Derekâs arm wrapped around him like heâs afraid to let go.
âHey,â Stiles murmurs into the quiet.
âIf we start doing the silent suffering thing again,â Stiles says, âIâm gonna fight you.â
Stiles smiles, small but real.
âYeah,â he whispers. âGood.â