Stiles had his last paycheck in his pocket and wascompletely prepared to spend every last penny on food and cheap, useless knickknacks to have at his disposal when he would undeniably invite Scott over thatnight to help cheer himself up. At first, Stiles was wandering, trying to findsomething that might help his cause. He weaved in and out of aisles, skimmingover product labels- and nutrition facts. As Stiles shuffled around, herealized he was in his torn Pride shirt, his pilling red sweatshirt, hislacrosse warm-up sweats, and sneakers that he thought at one point were white;Stiles was sure he looked great, butGod, he felt even better.

At last he found himself in the cracker aisle. Upon firstrecognition of the products, Stiles was about to turn around and go to the nextaisle; any and all saltine crackers remind him of being ill and was in no way a great idea for lifting hisspirits. But then, Stiles spotted a double box of Grahmn crackers, on sale, andcompletely his. He grabbed the boxand tucked it under his arm as he proceeded to march three aisles over toSpreads.

Scott was always a peanut butter kind of guy, and Stiles wastoo, but peanut butter didn’t have one important ingredient: chocolate. IfStiles wanted to force feed himself happiness, he was going to need chocolateand hazelnut.

As Stiles approached the section of shelf that was meant todisplay his desired therapy, and was disappointed to find only an empty portionin the long line of jars. There was no more Nutella anywhere on the shelf or onthe end caps. Only in the hand basket of a man crouching down and reading theback of a box of preserves twenty feet to Stiles’ left.

“Hey. You. With the leather jacket in July.” The man slowly turned his head and looked at Stiles, strollingtowards him with his awkward, rushed gait. “I am completely ready to fight you for that last jar of Nutella.”

The man placed the box back on the shelf before standing upstraight, his shoulders rolling back and practically casting a shadow overStiles. He looked down at his body, flexing his arms admiringly, beforescanning his eyes over Stiles’, noting the empty space in his sleeves whererippling biceps should have been, hadStiles actually worked out as much as he said he did. “You want to fight me?” Helooked down at himself again and shrugged. “Alright. Might as well.”

Stiles sputtered as he watched the man chuckle at Stiles’poor choice of threat. “Fine- I amcompletely ready to verbal fight you for that last jar of Nutella.”

“No. We’re done here.” The man said plainly, picking up hisbasket and starting to turn away from Stiles.

“Hey! Wait. Come on.” Stiles cried, jumping in front of him.“I’ve had the worst week of my life and I just really want to cry and enjoy thedelicious marriage between hazelnut and chocolate.”

The man’s expression did not change as he stopped, lookingdown at Stiles. “I’ve had the worst week of my life for the past six years.”

“What?” Stiles rebutted, squinting at him incredulously. Howcould one man be so calm but so fuckingrude. “That’s not possible.” The man knitted his eyebrows together in astate of annoyance, but also confusion at Stiles’ inability to stop trying to start a fight with him.He pushed past Stiles and kept walking out of the aisle, Stiles calling afterhim. “I am on the verge of a complete melodramatic breakdown over something asdumb as the day of a dinner date and you just walk away?” Stiles cried. The man continued to stare at Stiles witha confused expression, not even attempting to understand Stiles’ scrambledreasoning and cryptic emotions. “Do you not have a soul?” Stiles was a scrawny, pale, heart broken young boy, beggingfor something to brighten his mood, and a grown man had looked at him,thoroughly, and just refused to helphim.

“Nope. Sorry.” The man replied with a smirk. “I sold it forthis Nutella.” He winked at Stiles before disappearing around the corner.

Stiles stood, open mouthed, in the middle of the aisle. Hehad no words to shout angrily through the shelves at the man. He had no bittercomeback. He wasn’t even sure he had heard the man correctly- their entireconversation felt unreal:

Who the fuck refuses to give a sick looking kid a jar of Nutella?

Stiles angrily bought his Graham crackers as he conjured ananswer; he was sure that the man stomped on people’s flower beds, tracked mudon people’s floors, got angry atmeteorologists when the weatherdidn’t go as they had said, didn’t help other shoppers reach things that mightbe placed too high for them, and most definitelydidn’t get choked up at ASPCA commercials.

Bag and receipt in hand, he marched back to his car, stillmuttering ways in which that Nutella stealing man was in fact the worst humanbeing to ever walk the face of theEarth.

“Hey! Freckles!” Stiles jumped back as a pair of car lightsflashed on beside him. Stiles stepped to the side and allowed the dark, mysterioussilhouette to gain more definable features. And a familiar smug face.

“Not you again.” Stiles muttered, continuing to walk away.Not only was Stiles still angry with the man for refusing to give him a measlyjar of hazelnut spread, he was growing impatient with his refusal to stopcalling after him- and the sweet voice and cute nicknames he was coming up withto try and get Stiles to stop.

“Freckles, come on!” He shouted, flickering his lights again.“Hey! Come on! Casper!”Stiles pulled up his hood and kept walking. It was almost eight; his father’sdate would be starting soon. “Red- Hey, over here! Come on. I- Bisexual in the parking lot, look alive.”Derek shouted, leaning on his horn.

Stiles glared down at his shirt before turning on his heelsand approaching one of the six cars in the parking lot. The man had turned hislights back off and was climbing out of the driver’s side to meet Stiles. Hemotioned towards the curb. Stiles remained standing by the front of the car,watching the man sit down and pull out the jar of Nutella.

“Are you going to make me watch you eat that?” Stilescouldn’t fucking believe this guy.“Because I will run you the fuck over with my car-” The man silenced Stileswith the presentation of two plastic spoons.

“My name is Derek and I promise I have a soul.” Heoutstretched a spoon to Stiles and offered a weak smile.

“Are you sure?” Stiles deadpanned. “Because I’m pretty sureSatan himself wouldn’t have been that much of a cock to someone looking as fucking distraught and practically homeless as me.” He motioned back downto his disheveled appearance; he looked even worse in the dim parking lotlighting.

“True.” Derek admitted, looking guilty. “But Satan wouldn’thave apologized for being an asshole because the anniversary of his family’sdeath was today and he kind of didn’t think for a second that someone elsecould be having a shittier day.” He extended the spoon out further to Stiles.“Accepted?”

“My name is Stiles and I accept your weird apology where youcompared yourself to Satan as a first impression.” Stiles laughed and took thespoon from Derek and lowered himself onto the curb, outstretching his legs.“Nice to meet you.”

“Like wise.” Derek nodded, holding the jar out to him.“Sorry for your bad day. And I’m really sorry for adding to it.” Derek soundedsincere and not at all like the typeof person who secretly hates small animals of any kind.

“You’redeemed.” Stiles mumbled, sticking the spoon in hismouth and muffling his words. “Oh god,I’ve needed this. Oh fucking shit isthat good.”

“Do you need a minute with it?” Derek joked, taking the jarfrom him and dipping his spoon in it. “I can let you two be alone.”

“Shut up and give it back to me.” Stiles laughed. “I deservethis.” Stiles balanced the jar between his knees as he opened his box ofcrackers. Stiles sat in silence as he fed himself the happiness he had beensearching for. Derek didn’t even try to take the jar from him.

“Care to elaborate on your shitty day? I mean, you didalmost fight me for thirteen ouncesof Nutella. I kind of want to hear this story.” Derek laughed, waving the jarback towards Stiles as he tried to hand it to him.

“No… I’d rather not actually.” Stiles shook his head andhanded the jar over to Derek. All day, Stiles’ insides had been stirring aroundand twisting up at every thought ofhis father’s new date- someone his father wouldn’t reveal- but by sitting onthat curb and settling against a nearby lamp post, everything inside him beganto settle as well. And Stiles was sure it had less to do with the Nutella, andmore to do with his company. Sure, his problem wasn’t solved and his father wasstill dating other people, butsomehow sitting with a complete stranger outside of a local grocery store,distanced reality from him.