Stiles doesnât remember the first time he thought it.
That feels important, somehow - like if he could pinpoint the exact moment the question took root, he couldâve dug it out before it wrapped around his ribs and made a home there.
But itâs everywhere now.
He thinks it in the quiet moments, when Derekâs back is turned and his shoulders are relaxed in a way they never used to be. He thinks it when Derek smiles at someone else - rare, soft, and devastating. He thinks it when the pack jokes about Derek finally âmoving on,â finally âfinding someone,â as if Derek is a thing that was broken and repaired, as if love is a reward you get for surviving enough trauma.
Stiles laughs along. Of course he does.
Derek has always felt like gravity.
Not in the obvious way - heâs not loud, or flashy, or demanding. He justâŚis. Solid. Inevitable. The kind of presence that rearranges a room without trying. Stiles felt it the first time they met, back when everything was blood and secrets and desperation, when Derek looked at him like he was an unexpected variable in an equation he thought heâd already solved.
Back then, Stiles told himself it was curiosity. Interest. Annoyance.
He tells himself a lot of things.
Years later, and Derek is calmer. Older. Softer in places that matter. He carries his grief differently now, like a scar instead of an open wound. And StilesâŚStiles is still here. Still orbiting. Still the one Derek calls when the world tilts too far off its axis.
Just not the one Derek comes home to.
The pack knows Derekâs seeing someone. Not seriously, they say. Casual. Easy. Someone kind. Someone normal.
Stiles hates that word more than he hates wolfsbane.
Normal means uncomplicated. Normal means not haunted by Nogitsune memories and insomnia and the lingering fear that one wrong step will send everything crashing down again.
The question comes back strongest the night Derek shows up at his door, rain soaked and exhausted, smelling like wet asphalt and pine.
âI needed somewhere quiet,â Derek says, like that explains why heâs here instead of⌠wherever else he could be.
Stiles lets him in without comment. He always does.
They sit on the couch, knees brushing. The TV hums with something neither of them is watching. Derekâs hands are clasped together, knuckles white, jaw tight like heâs holding something back.
âYou okay?â Stiles asks, softer than usual.
Derek exhales. âI donât know.â
Something in his voice cracks - not breaking, exactly, but bending under the weight of honesty.
And God, Stiles wants to reach out. Wants to press his thumb into Derekâs pulse and feel the proof of him, steady and alive. Wants to be the one Derek leans into when heâs tired instead of the one he leans past.
The question burns behind his teeth.
Instead, he says, âYou donât have to know. You can just⌠exist here for a bit.â
Derek looks at him then. Really looks. Like heâs seeing something heâs been carefully avoiding.
âStiles,â he says, and thereâs something heavy in the way he says it. Something almost regretful.
Thatâs when Stiles knows.
Not for sureâŚbut enough.
He doesnât sleep that night.
He lies awake, staring at the ceiling, cataloging every reason this was always going to end like this. Derek needs peace. Stability. Someone without sharp edges. Someone who doesnât carry darkness in their chest like a second heart.
Stiles loves like a wildfire - bright, consuming, a little dangerous.
Why would Derek ever choose that?
By morning, heâs made a decision.
Heâs tired of orbiting. Tired of hoping in silence. Tired of swallowing the question until it tastes like regret.
If heâs going to lose Derek, really lose him, then at least it wonât be because he was too afraid to ask.
Derek finds him in the kitchen, nursing cold coffee and a headache.
âWe need to talk,â Stiles says immediately.
Derek stiffens. âOkay.â
Stiles swallows. His hands are shaking, but he keeps them wrapped around the mug like an anchor.
âI canât keep doing this,â he says. âBeingâŚthis. The person you come to when everythingâs heavy, but not the one you choose when things are good.â
Derekâs brow furrows. âStiles-â
âJust listen,â Stiles says, voice wavering. âI know youâre seeing someone. I know you deserve happiness. I just-â He laughs weakly. âI keep asking myself this really stupid question, and it wonât go away.â
Derek doesnât interrupt. Doesnât look away.
âWhy canât it be me?â
The silence that follows is terrifying.
Slow. Careful. Like heâs approaching something fragile.
âBecause,â Derek says quietly, âI thought wanting you would be selfish.â
Stiles blinks. âWhat?â
âI thought,â Derek continues, voice rough, âthat you deserved someone who could give you light. Someone without my past. My baggage. I thought if I kept you close but not too close, I could protect you from all of it.â
Stiles stares at him, heart pounding. âDerek, you donât get to decide what I can handle.â
A huff of breath escapes Derek - half laugh, half something broken. âI know. I just⌠I was scared.â
âSo was I,â Stiles says. âI am. But Iâd rather be scared with you than keep wondering what mightâve been.â
Derek looks at him like heâs standing on the edge of something vast and terrifying and beautiful.
Not to grab. Not to pull.
Just to touch. two fingers brushing Stilesâ wrist.
âCan it be you?â Derek asks.
Stiles smiles, shaky and real. âYeah,â he says. âIt can.â
Derek kisses him like an answer.
Not desperate. Not rushed.
Later, curled together on the couch, Derekâs arm warm and solid around him, Stiles thinks about the question that haunted him for so long.
And finally he has the answer.
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