This is supposed to be a happy time.

A time of celebration and cheer.

There's music playing.

Good food.

Good drinks for both the aged and under-aged.

There's plenty of space in Lydia's house. Stiles and Scott are playing in the pool with Kira and Malia. Some kind of, girl-on-your-shoulders splash business she has absolutely no interest in. The parents are talking parent things in the kitchen. Liam and Mason keep trying to outdo each other on the diving board. Lydia's talking closely with. . . somebody. She doesn't know him, which rubs her the wrong way. Not because she doesn't recognize him, but because she recognizes so many already.

She knows all these people, their names, occupations, what side of town they live on. She knows eventually Scott and Kira will zoom in on each other and play at being not-girlfriend and not-boyfriend. She knows Malia will dunk Stiles and overestimate how long he can stay under and he'll forgive her as soon as he can breathe again. She knows Mama McCall and Papa Stilinski—as everyone except their children refer to them, she knows that too– are sitting next to each other at the table, talking animatedly with Kira's parents or Liams parents like they don't look like what they look lik–

“ He's from UCLA.”

Suddenly there's Derek, at her side. How long he's been there, she doesn't know. But he's there. Arm around her shoulders like it belongs there. It feels like it does. “ Smells human, if that's what's bothering you. You're making your grumpy mercenary face.”

She can't begin to explain how upset she is that one, she apparently has a 'grumpy mercenary face', and two, that Derek can recognize what it is and what's causing it. That he can look at her, tell what's bothering her, and find a way to make her feel better about it. She doesn't like being read. She doesn't like how he knows things she never told him. She doesn't like how he can just come up near her and she won't notice until he talks or touches her. Or that apparently he's got free reign to actually touch her without getting punched for it. She lets him. Consciously, unconsciously, she allows it. When someone in the house calls his name and he goes to see what they want him to lift this time, she instantly feels bereft of his presence, his body heat, his touch.

It makes her scowl and drain the beer bottle in her hand. The beer Derek brought her earlier when she didn't even mention wanting something to drink. The beer that happens to be the brand she favors, though she'll really drink anything, and there's no reason for him to know that either.

Seven times she's referred to as “Derek's girlfriend.”

Mama McCa—Melissa McCall makes some off-handed comment about what a good boyfriend Derek is.

Lydia introduces her to the ULCA friend just like she introduces everyone else in the group.

She can't handle this shit.

At 6am, Derek goes for his morning run like he does every morning. When he returns, she'll be gone. Every single trace of her will be gone.

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It's been a month. Maybe two. She hasn't really been keeping up with the days. She doesn't have much reason to. There's nothing she's looking forward to anymore, nothing she needs to remember. There's just working and moving. None of it in California. She'll never return to California. She'll stay far the fuck away from California for the rest of her life. Tomorrow, she'll be in Kentucky. Georgia after that. Maybe Canada next.

She's been careful to move sporadically. Leave no trail. Don't linger in the same place longer than she has to. She doesn't know that she's being pursued, or chased. She shouldn't be. Derek should have been furious with the way she left. He should shut out every thought of her and move on with his life like she has. There's no reason for him to be trying to follow her when she's the one that abandoned him. It's just in case. She won't be found unless she wants to be found.

So it's the shock of her life when she answers the door one night, expecting terribly unhealthy Chinese take out, and instead it's Derek fucking Hale standing there. Just standing there in her doorway, hands behind his back, like she hasn't been avoiding his ass for weeks. He doesn't look upset. He doesn't look expectant. He doesn't even look smug. He just looks. . . relieved. All of that relief directed at her. Like he's been holding his breath all this time and now he can breathe.

Everything she had outrun, everything she'd left behind in Beacon Hills slammed into her. Knocked the wind right out of her.

Immediately, his face goes hard. His eyes flash; looking everywhere quickly. His nose works just as hard. But he finds no threat to make her act this way. It's just him. She's just reacting to him. That should do something. Should make him feel hurt, or mad, or offended, or something.

But no, his face just softens again and he's looking at her in that way that makes her breathless. He looks at her like he always does. The way he looked at her first thing in the morning, the way he looked at her before he went to sleep, the way he looked at her after bandaging an injury, the way he looked at her whenever he came into the same room she was in, the way he looks at her like she's the most amazing thing in the world to him.

“ No, no, no.” She's shaking her head as she moves away from the door. She gives him her back because she can't handle that look anymore. She's not amazing. She's a coward and he should know that by now. “ You can't be here. How the hell can you be here? I've been moving constantly, how did you find me?”

The door shuts softly behind him but he doesn't move far from it. Doesn't move to touch her, or intercept her or invade her space. He's just there. He's just there being Derek. “ I didn't find you. I knew I wouldn't be able to because you were running from me. But Peter could.”

That admission makes her head whip around to look at him incredulously. “ Peter? Peter Hale? Your uncle, Peter? That Peter? That's bullshit, he hates me. Why would he help you find me?”

Derek shrugs. “ I twisted his arm.”

“ What could you possibly threaten him with to make him do that?”

“ Oh, there was no threatening. There was, however, a hammerlock submission hold. I literally twisted his arm.”

Even though she's distraught, the image is too good to pass up an amused chuckle. “ Jesus Christ, Derek.”

He smiles at her. The same smile that makes her light up inside. Makes her acutely aware of her how hard and how fast her heart beats. Makes her legs as useful as warm jelly. Makes her want to believe him when he tells her things, whispers endearments against her skin at night, in the morning, whenever the mood strikes him. One day he's going to tell her he loves--

“ Oh God,” her hand goes to her forehead and she squeezes her eyes shut to strengthen herself. It's not enough. It doesn't work. Turning away doesn't work. Walking away doesn't work. She wants to run again. But he's blocking the only exit to her room short of jumping ten stories out of her window and frankly, that's not beneath her either with how she feels. How he makes her feel. “ You can't do this to me again. You can't do this. You're not my client anymore. You don't have any business with me. My job is over, Hale.”

His smile goes away, but it isn't sadness that replaces it. Just understanding. Worse, agreement. He just fucking nods his head like she's right. “ You're absolutely right. I'm not your client anymore. I don't have anymore business with you. And your job is over. Has been for a month now, I think.”

It just upsets her more that he's not arguing. “ Then what the hell are you doing here?! Why'd you bother tracking me down?!”

“ You know why, Braeden.”

Those words tighten her throat up. For a handful of seconds, she cannot breathe. Even with her back to him, with her hand in her hair, she's losing it over three words. They're not even the words she ran away from to begin with. Where does he get all this ammunition to use against her? “ You shouldn't be here anyway. I left you, Derek.” Her words are designed to hurt. To open fire on him until he retreats. She can't look at his face while she does it, but she can fire blindly over her shoulder until she hits him. “ Isn't that enough of a hint for you?”

He moves, and she tenses. But it's only to face her, even if she won't face him. “ You didn't leave me, Braeden. You ran. There's a difference. You can't tell because you've always been running.”

His assumption alone makes her angry. The fact that he's right leaves her enraged. Now, she'll face him. But it's with fury on her face. “ You don't know anything about me, Hale!”

“ I know that you like to eat peanut butter in the middle of the night. If you can't find something to put it on, you'll just eat it out of the jar with a butter knife. Not a spoon. A butter knife. I tell you over and over, you're gonna cut your tongue. But you won't listen. I know you only listen to Seether when you're sad. I know you only call me by my last name when you're mad at me. I know you like the sound of the city at night and you hog the covers like no one I've ever seen. That includes both of my sisters. I know—”

“ Stop it.” Her words come out stiff, like a warning she's not used to giving. She's not used to giving Derek warnings. Derek gets free reign that no one else does. Derek got free reign that no one else did. “ None of that—None of that was real. None of that was supposed to happen. You were my client, that's it. Once the job is over, I don't care about you, or anyone else! I don't care about the McCall pack, I don't care what college Lydia wants to go to, I don't care about Stiles wanting to go into the police academy, I don't care about Scott wanting to be a vet tech—I don't care!”

But he doesn't stop. Hell, he doesn't even slow down. “ I know you're scared, Braeden.”

“ Fuck you!” This is exactly what she didn't want to happen. She's falling to pieces and he gets to watch her do it. No matter how tightly she winds herself back up, she never gets very far. “ I'm not scared of anything! I don't care if you die tomorrow! Get out! GET OUT!”

His face changes. She thinks she's won. She's wrong though. Her vision is blurry and undependable. She can't control that anymore than she can control her voice, or her words, or her actions or Derek. He does look effected. He does in fact look heartbroken, but not for his own heart.

“ Braeden—”

She won't do it. She won't listen to another goddamn thing he has to say. She won't let him do it. She won't let him make her care again. She's a mercenary. She doesn't have feelings of her own. She reflects the morals of her client and collects the money, the end.

She had no reason to stay in Beacon Hills as long as she did. She had no reason to start leaving her things in Derek's loft and spend more nights there than she did anywhere else. She had no reason to learn all the parents names and kids names and supernatural type and future plans. She has no reason what so ever—especially now—toknow what size Derek's shirts are, that he throws his head back when he laughs fully, that he goes running at 6am because he likes the smells and sounds before everything wakes up and ruins it, that for some ungodly reason he likes kale chips and eats spinach of his own free will, that he'd rather read the book a hundred times than go see the movie, but if he does go, he'll still appreciate it and only tell you the differences if you ask him.

She has no business knowing any of that shit.

Why does she still know that shit?

Hands in her hair, she's losing control of the whole situation, if she ever had any control of it to begin with. Spiraling downward. All this running, all this distance, these days put between them mean nothing. It's as real here as it was in the loft, at parties, in public, in front of the pack and in private.

There's pressure building up in her chest, in her throat, in her head. She's been trying, she's been so damn desperate to keep it from escaping. She just wants it to go away. She just wants Derek to go away.

This time he does get close enough to touch her. His hand falls to her shoulder and her body remembers it. Remembers the way his hand feels against her skin, his hand is bigger than her's, a little rougher, but comforting in its heat and presence and God fucking, that's it.

When she turns around to face him, it's with a gun in her hand.

“ I hate you.” That gets his attention. Now he's taking her seriously. Standing there, tears in her eyes that she can't get rid of, shaky voice she can't stabilize, aim that isn't sure or true, but it's all she knows to do. She has to defend herself somehow. He's broken every other defense she has—

—and then her gun is gone. Out of her hand. Not just out of her hand though, out of her hand, and unloaded. The magazine smoothly falls into his waiting palm like he's done it a thousand times and she didn't teach Derek to do that at all. He just disarmed her. He just disarmed her completely.

She doesn't recognize the noise she makes in her throat. Wet and constricting, like she can't breathe, can't swallow, can't talk. It's miserable sounding. Zaps her strength and she thinks she might fall down.

She's openly crying when Derek's arms come around her. He's the only thing holding her up and it's not fair. What gives him the right to give her what she wants, what she needs without her say so? How dare he make her feel things she doesn't want to feel. She's gone her whole life—her whole goddamn life without experiencing anything like this. Other women, other people. Never her. She was smarter than that. Smarter than to get involved with somebody that could learn all about her, what makes her strong and what makes her weak then use it to destroy her. That love business wasn't going to destroy her like it destroyed everybody else.

And then he happened.

Derek fucking Hale.

Derek fucking Hale who carried her to the hospital and sat with her all night. Derek fucking Hale who brought her to his home to recover. Derek fucking Hale who pays attention to the things she does, who reads her like any one of his enormous books. Derek fucking Hale who chased after her across five states and still, even now with his hands on her tear-streaked face, looks at her like she's a fucking miracle.

“ Now I want you to trust me. ” He says softly, like she deserves anything soft. Who says she wants anything soft? Who says she needs him to wipe the tears off her face? “ When I came back that morning and you were gone, I didn't—I didn't know what to do with myself. I looked everywhere for you. I didn't know if someone had taken you, or something else had happened. Then I noticed all your things were gone. That was the only thing that changed. If anyone had tried to take you anywhere you didn't want to go, there would have been a much bigger mess. Your scent was so strong when you left. You were terrified. You're still terrified. But you don't have to be.”

That never once occurred to her when she left. She didn't think about covering her scent up. She didn't think about what she might have smelled like. All she was thinking about at the time was getting out. Running scared because he was getting close, and she was letting him. She was happy to let him and that could only come back to bite her in the ass.

Her eyes squeeze shut because she can't handle the intensity of his gaze or the raw honesty in his words. When he bumps their foreheads together, it's both familiar and comforting and it damn well might be the end of her.

“ If you want to keep running, you can. But don't do it because you think you have to. Whoever, or whatever made you feel like you're unlovable is wrong. You deserve to be happy, Braeden. I deserve to be happy. You make me happy. And I'd like to think I've made you happy too. Usually when I let you put your cold feet on me in the middle of the night.”

That deserves a derisive snort. Then she smacks his arm for trying to make her laugh. “ Fuck off, Hale.”

“ Have you ever been tested for anemia? I'm pretty sure you're not supposed to be that cold.”

“ I'm gonna fucking punch you in the fucking face.” She feels gross and exhausted, sniffling and wiping at her eyes. “ I hate crying. It's always ugly looking and gives me a headache afterward.”

“ I think you look beautiful.” He couldn't be beaming anymore if he fucking tried. He has yet to loosen his arms from around her. She can't believe how much she missed his goddamn bunny smile and how much better it makes her feel to see it.

Listen to this motherfucker though. Calling her beautiful when she was sobbing into his shoulder—which is seriously wet now, that shit is not cute—not five minutes ago. “ Putting your uncle in submission holds? Chasing after me for five fucking states? Calling this shit going on with my face beautiful? You've got it fucking bad, Hale.”

“ Everybody's always telling me to get out of Beacon Hills every once and a while anyway.” Derek just shrugs. He's not the least bit ashamed of himself. “ You don't scare easily, Brae. It takes something powerful to make you move like that. I'm kind of flattered that it was just me.”

“ Easy, Hale, this is a single room. There isn't enough room for us and your ego to expand.” It's a shit single room at that. She couldn't afford to pick the luxury suites she used to lounge in. That'd be the first place to look for her. She had been operating under the assumption that it would be harder to track her scent with all the gross shit in motels. Yet another perk of Derek finding her. She didn't have to live like this anymore. “ It wasn't just you. It was you and other things. You're the easy part, but I don't know what to do about the other things. I don't know how to be a girlfriend. Everybody had that teenage phase but me.”

It shouldn't be so damn calming to have him burrowing into her neck like he does. Scenting her and rubbing his scent on her in kind. It feels strange to be free of all the tension she's been carrying around.

“ I don't know,” his voice is a little muffled, and his scruff kind of tickles when he rubs against her. “ I thought it was pretty cute the way you pulled a gun on me.”

“ Oh my God. Can we just never mention that ever again in our lives?” Now she wants to hide her face.

“ It's okay, Brae.” How can he possibly look so goddamn understanding over something like that? He who used to hate guns. Who legitimately had a thing about guns. She pulled one of them—a gun—on him. And he's somehow totally okay with it? “ I was asking for it. I cornered you, and I pushed you. If you were a wolf, you would have tried to bite me or claw my face off. And maybe that wasn't the best way to go about it, but I wanted you to see there wasn't anything you could do to make me abandon you. I followed you for five states, and I'd follow you for five more, and five more after that. Whatever it took. I won't just leave you, Brae, because it's difficult, or you are the way you are. I like the way you are. I like you being in my life. Despite that, though, if you meant it any of those times you told me to leave, I would have. But your heart was practically screaming at me to stay where I was. So I did. 'Sides, I knew you weren't going to shoot me anyway.”

How the hell could he possibly—“ I didn't!”

“ Are you serious? With the way you hate wasting bullets? You were too upset, you couldn't see. You don't shoot when you can't see straight.” For some reason this is hilarious to him. He deserves the punch in the arm he gets. “ Ow, God. . . See? And you thought you didn't know how to be a girlfriend.”