I'd rather eat (glutenfree) cake

Humpback whales singing off the leeward coast of O’ahu

<— to answer these tags on main, since it’s a fun question, our guide lowered a hydrophone and so my phone is leaning on the railing right next to the hydrophone

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.”

but then I realised that same challenge would be infinitely more funny with folks who have atypical or horror OCs

Quiet Morning - Anke Roder , 2026

Dutch, b. 1964 -

Still Life with Foxgloves and Ferns , Digitalis - Martha Darley Mutrie

British , 1824-1885

My latest Guardian Books cartoon.