The first thing Stiles notices is that Derek has stopped slamming doors.
It shouldn’t 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 he’s afraid of breaking something that’s already shattered?
They don’t fight anymore.
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.”
The conversation dies before it even starts.
Stiles swallows, something bitter crawling up his throat. “Right. Cool. Yeah. Pack stuff. Obviously more important than-”
Because Derek doesn’t ask, “More important than what?”
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.
Stiles feels it like a touch.
Stay. Talk to me. Please.
Instead, he pretends he didn’t 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.
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.
Because if one of them reaches out and the other doesn’t respond…
And neither of them can survive that.
Days turning into weeks of almosts and not-quites.
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.
“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.”
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.”
“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.”
Stiles opens his mouth. Closes it.
“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.
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.”
“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.
“You love him,” Peter says.
Stiles exhales shakily. “Yeah.”
“Then act like it,” Peter replies.
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.”
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.
“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.
“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.”
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 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’s been waiting to hear.
“I’m scared,” Stiles admits, quieter now.
“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.
His hand brushes Stiles’ wrist.
Stiles doesn’t pull away.
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.
“If we start doing the silent suffering thing again,” Stiles says, “I’m gonna fight you.”
Stiles smiles, small but real.
“Yeah,” he whispers. “Good.”
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