#sheriffsilverwolf

Noah didn’t even look up from the paper. “What kind of worm?”

Chris blinked. “I—what?”

Peter took another messy bite of the peach, juice trailing down his wrist. He gestured with the fruit. “You heard me. If I was a worm. Little squiggly thing. No arms. No legs. Just vibes. Would you still love me?”

Chris stared. “What kind of question is that?”

“The important kind,” Peter replied, dropping the pit into the sink. “You know, the kind that defines the depth of your devotion. The kind that answers: Do you love me for my sparkling personality or my dangerously tight ass?”

Noah raised his mug. “It’s the ass.”

“Thank you, Stilinski.”

Chris dragged a hand down his face. “Why are we talking about this?”

“Because,” Peter said, spinning to face them dramatically, “TikTok said that asking your partners if they’d still love you as a worm reveals the true soul of the relationship.”

Chris turned to Noah. “Is that a real thing?”

Noah didn’t even blink. “Sadly, yes.”

Peter smirked, pointing between them. “So. Would you?”

Chris opened his mouth. Closed it. Stared at his coffee like it might contain answers. “How would that even work?”

“Oh, God,” Peter moaned dramatically. “So it’s conditional love, then. That’s what I’m hearing.”

“I don’t—I just—would you even still have thoughts as a worm?” Chris demanded.

Peter gasped. “How dare you question my intellectual capacity in worm form!”

Noah finally looked up. “Peter, baby, we’d keep you in a very nice terrarium.”

Chris choked. “That’s enabling!”

“Oh, I see,” Peter said, hands on his hips. “So you’d keep me like some pet, while my Alpha dignity withers inside a plastic cage filled with moss and regret.”

Chris stood, clearly trying to hold onto his sanity. “You’re the one who brought up becoming a worm!”

Peter ignored him. “Noah would probably build me a whole custom habitat. With twinkly lights. And a heating pad. And tiny books I can’t read anymore because I don’t have thumbs.”

Noah nodded slowly. “That’s… honestly, yeah. That sounds accurate.”

Peter turned, fluttering his lashes. “See, this is why Noah is the favorite.”

Chris groaned, looking heavenward. “I trained to kill werewolves. I studied ancient bestiaries. I’ve hunted the supernatural for decades. And now I live with a man asking me if I’d love him as an earthworm.”

Peter shrugged. “I'd be a sexy dirt noodle. You’re welcome.”

Noah snorted hard into his coffee.

Chris turned to him, betrayed. “Don’t encourage him.”

Peter, undeterred, slid into Chris’s personal space. “What would you do with Worm Peter, hmm? Would you hold me gently in your calloused, hunter hands? Whisper sweet nothings? Carry me in your pocket like a forbidden secret?”

Chris looked one breath away from praying. “I’d put you on a hook and fish with you.”

Peter gasped, slapping his chest. “Murder! You’d murder me for sport?!”

Noah, voice dry, murmured, “It’d be the most useful you’ve ever been.”

Peter whirled. “Et tu, Stilinski?”

Chris pinched the bridge of his nose. “I am begging, so begging, for just one normal morning.”

Peter stepped back with exaggerated offense. “You know what? No. I withdraw the question. You both failed. I’ll find someone else to cherish me in my hypothetical annelid form.”

Noah raised a brow. “Like who?”

Peter narrowed his eyes. “Lydia. She’d cradle me in her palm and read me Oscar Wilde.”

Peter sighed dramatically and flopped into the armchair, limbs sprawled everywhere. “Honestly, the disrespect. I bring passion, danger, and an ass sculpted by gods, and this is the thanks I get?”

Noah finally set down his mug, stood, and walked over to Peter. He leaned down, kissed Peter’s forehead, and said solemnly, “We would love you. Worm or not.”

Peter blinked up at him.

Chris watched them both suspiciously.

Noah added, deadpan, “We’d feed you compost, keep your habitat clean, and name you Wiggles Hale.”

Peter lit up like Christmas morning. “That’s adorable. I love it.”

Chris muttered, “I think I’m having an aneurysm.”

Peter stretched like a smug cat. “You’re just mad because I’d still get laid as a worm.”

Chris stared. “How—how would that even—”

“I’m just saying,” Peter continued, completely ignoring him, “a sexy dirt noodle like me? Someone would find a way.”

Noah turned away, shoulders shaking.

Chris glared at both of them. “Why are we like this?”

Peter smirked. “Because you’re tragically in love with a chaos gremlin and a man who enables him.”

Noah saluted with his coffee. “Can confirm.”

Chris turned to the sink, muttering, “Should’ve stayed in France.”

Peter called after him, “But then you’d never meet Worm Peter, our future child-slash-pet-slash-erotic enigma!”

Chris slammed the cupboard shut. “You need a warning label.”

Peter’s voice floated back, syrupy sweet. “Would you still love me if I had a warning label?”

Chris didn’t answer.

Noah did. “We do. Every damn day.”

Peter stilled. For just a moment, one single moment. he looked genuinely moved. Then he smirked.

“Even when I’m wriggling?”

Chris groaned so hard it echoed.

Peter laughed like a man victorious.

When Peter drags Chris Argent and Noah Stilinski—his committed, handsome, and mildly reluctant throuple—to their first Pride together, it’s supposed to be casual. Lowkey. Maybe even a little sentimental.

Instead, it becomes a leather-clad, glitter-filled, Village People-themed spectacle of chaos, kissing, community, and unexpected joy. Chris questions reality, Noah thrives, Peter thrives harder, and somehow along the way, they all find exactly what Pride was meant to be: love, laughter, and being unapologetically seen.

But when shirtless breakfasts, lakeside temptation, and a bed big enough for three collide with years of emotional repression, things heat up—fast. Peter can’t stop teasing, Noah’s quietly orchestrating the chaos, and Chris finally, gloriously snaps.

In between filthy confessions, long-overdue declarations of love, and more innuendos than anyone asked for, this weekend getaway becomes something far more intimate than any of them expected.

Three men. One bed. All the feelings.

Because in this relationship?

“Your elbow is in the creamer,” Noah muttered, nudging Chris gently.

Chris shifted half an inch—stubborn, shirtless, and sleepy—with a grunt that was more wolf than hunter. “It’s your fault for not making a second pot.”

“I didn’t expect pack-sized caffeine needs in this house.”

Peter lifted his head from where it rested on his folded arms and smirked. His hair was still wild from sleep, though Noah suspected that was more calculated aesthetic than accident. “You live with a werewolf. An alpha, at that. Consider it a public service.”

Noah raised an eyebrow. “You’re not exactly public service material, Hale.”

“Oh,” Peter purred, stretching like a lazy predator, the muscles of his back flexing under his smooth skin, “I’m very good at servicing—”

Chris reached out and flicked him in the forehead before he could finish the sentence.

“Children live in this town,” Chris said, voice flat.

Peter grinned sadistically. “So do daddies.”

Chris groaned.

Noah just shook his head and finally poured his coffee, muttering something about regretting every life choice that led to this moment—except he didn’t. Not really. Not anymore.

The new bed, an Alberta King (Peter picked it out and paid for it), had been a practical upgrade that quickly became an emotional one. It was wide enough for all three of them, including the stray black cat Peter claimed wasn’t his but kept letting inside. They still had their own routines, still respected boundaries, but more often than not, they ended up tangled together like gravity had changed.

Chris had a drawer in the bedroom. Peter had two. Noah hadn’t said it out loud, but he liked coming home to signs of life. Boots by the door. A mug that wasn’t his. Peter’s coat tossed over the back of the couch like it owned the place. And yeah, they kissed now. Often. Shamelessly.

Peter was usually the instigator—touchy and smug and a little possessive in ways that Noah suspected came from years of loneliness. Chris kissed like a man who’d never been allowed to before. With focus. With reverence. With a slight tremble in his hands.

Noah didn’t say much about any of it. But he let them stay. He reached for them in sleep. He cooked dinner and grumbled when they did the dishes. He called them home in ways that didn’t require a word.

And on that particular morning, he let himself just enjoy it. The clatter of mugs. The scent of cedar and spice (Peter) mixed with old leather and gun oil (Chris) and something warm and familiar (coffee, always coffee).

It was chaos, sure. But it was theirs.

Peter had just started lazily sliding his toes up the inside of Noah’s leg when Chris set his mug down and said, “We should take a weekend. Somewhere out of town.”

Peter perked up. “A throuple retreat?”

Chris looked like he regretted speaking.

“I was thinking a cabin. Or maybe the coast.”

Noah sipped his coffee, calm and unreadable. “You want a romantic getaway with this one?”

Peter slid off the counter with a wicked grin. “He wants to ravish us both somewhere with better acoustics.”

Chris gave him the same flat look he reserved for rogue betas and badly filled-out mission reports. “I want you both rested. You’ve been twitchy, and Noah’s barely slept.”

“I’ve slept plenty,” Noah argued. “Some of us aren’t powered by moonlight and man pain.”

“Speak for yourself,” Peter muttered, wrapping an arm around Noah from behind, hands slipping under the hem of his t-shirt. “I’m fueled by chaos, and the sound Chris makes when he comes.”

Noah nearly snorted coffee through his nose.

Chris went red to the ears.

“You’re incorrigible,” Chris muttered.

“And you love it,” Peter whispered against Noah’s neck, pressing a kiss there. “Don’t you, Sheriff?”

Noah rolled his eyes but didn’t move away. “I swear to God, if this turns into breakfast sex again -”

Chris interrupted him with a kiss.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t explosive. It was slow and certain, like sealing something that had already been said without words. Chris’s hand slid up Noah’s neck, fingers anchoring in the hair at the base of his skull, and Peter just watched for a moment, quiet for once.

When Chris pulled back, Noah’s breath was uneven, and his shirt was rumpled from Peter’s wandering hands.

Peter leaned in and kissed him next, slower than usual, mouth soft and warm. When he pulled back, he didn’t say anything for a second. Then, with a faint, almost uncharacteristic rasp, he said:

“It just feels right.”

And somehow, that shut everyone up.

Because it did.

They weren’t perfect. There were still disagreements, still growing pains, still moments when Chris got quiet or Peter got defensive or Noah looked at the both of them like they were wild animals with tracking devices.

But they kissed like it was instinct. They reached for each other like it was normal.

Chris took a shaky breath and stepped back, eyes flicking between them. “Yeah. It does.”

Noah didn’t smile. Not exactly. But he reached for both of their hands and squeezed. “I didn’t know if this would work. But I’m glad it has.”

Peter leaned into him, wolfish and soft at once. “I always knew it would.”

Chris grunted, but the corner of his mouth twitched.

They didn’t say I love you. Not yet. But it was there. In the touch. In the warmth. In the quiet between chaos. In the new bed, the shared mornings, the mugs that didn’t match, and the scent of pack in every room.

In Peter humming to himself as he grabbed the last pancake.

In Chris running a thumb across Noah’s wrist as he passed him the butter.

In the way Noah let himself exhale, finally—settled, surrounded, safe.

No declarations. No dramatics. Just this: