Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

A couple days later, Stiles had officially decided Beacon Hills Elite Boarding School wasn't so bad.

While it was still full of students who somehow looked effortlessly put together at eight in the morning, like sleep deprivation simply did not apply to them, the place was no longer actively terrifying. Which honestly felt like progress.

Stiles had settled into something dangerously close to routine over the last few days. Classes had become manageable, the dining hall had stopped feeling like a public trial and, perhaps most alarmingly, Scott had become his closest ever friend and genuine brother with horrifying speed. Like— Concerning speed.
The kind of friendship where suddenly someone just started existing beside you all the time.
Which, honestly? Stiles could not be more thankful for, especially considering Scott came attached with a package of people who, despite varying levels of emotional dysfunction, were weirdly easy to like.
Even Jackson. Sort of. Eventually.

“Are you listening to me?”
Stiles looked up from where he had been failing to balance his book on his knee.
“No,” he admitted honestly.
Jackson looked deeply offended.
“I hate you.”
“You say that,” Stiles replied casually, shifting slightly against the grass, “yet here you are spending time with me voluntarily.”
“That implies choice,” Jackson muttered.
Scott snorted from beside him.
“You guys argue like an old married couple.”
“Don’t insult me like that,” Jackson said immediately.
"Okay. That hurt. You could only dream be so lucky.”
“You'll survive.”

Nearby, Malia sat cross-legged on the grass, occasionally tossing pieces of bread she had somehow acquired toward birds with terrifying accuracy.
“Jackson is dramatic,” she announced.
Jackson blinked.
“I am not dramatic.”
Malia looked at him blankly.
“You complained for 3 days last year because the cafeteria changed orange juice brands.”
“That was justified.”
“No,” Scott said.
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
Stiles watched the exchange with growing delight.
“You know,” he said eventually, “this is quite healing for me.”
Scott looked confused.
“What?”
“I missed having people to argue with.”
Jackson frowned.
“You had friends before us?”
“Wow,” Stiles deadpanned. “You don't have to keep sounding surprised people tolerate me.”
“I’m still evaluating your weirdness Stilinski.”
“Rude.”
Malia nodded thoughtfully.
“I think you’re weird.”
Stiles brightened immediately.
“Oh thank you!”
“…That was a compliment,” Malia clarified.
“I know,” Stiles said sincerely.
Scott laughed, shaking his head slightly.
“You’re fitting in pretty well.”
The warmth of that settled somewhere unexpectedly soft inside Stiles’ chest.
Because maybe Beacon wasn’t impossible.
Maybe terrifying rich boarding school life did not automatically equal loneliness.

“You should come to the match later tonight, Jackson and I are playing,” Scott said suddenly. Stiles blinked.
“Your match?”
“Lacrosse,” Scott clarified.
“Oh right,” Stiles said slowly. “That sport where people sprint aggressively while carrying weaponised sticks.”
Scott looked deeply unimpressed.
“That is not lacrosse.”
“That’s exactly what it looks like.”
Jackson sighed dramatically.
“You’re insufferable.”
“And yet memorable.”
Scott rolled his eyes affectionately.
“Come anyway.”

Stiles hesitated for approximately half a second.
Because honestly? Watching Scott sounded fun. And maybe he was also vaguely curious about lacrosse now. Entirely because of the power of friendship of course! Definitely not thanks to a certain infuriatingly broad-shouldered captain. Obviously.
“Oh, absolutely,” Stiles said. “I’ll support you both so aggressively, you'll almost regret inviting me.”
Scott grinned.
“Perfect.”

Stiles paused, actually thinking.
“Wait,” he said slowly. “Why weren’t you at that practice then the other day, when you gave me the tour?”
Scott immediately started laughing, the kind that suggested prior embarrassment.
“Oh my God,” Scott said, rubbing a hand over his face. “Okay, don’t laugh.”
“That sentence makes me want to laugh immediately.”
“They took me out of training for it”
Stiles frowned.
“…Why?”
Scott sighed dramatically.
“They said I was an exemplary role model.”
Silence.
Stiles stared.
Then—
“Oh my God.”
Jackson barked out a laugh.
Malia blinked.
“What’s funny?”
Stiles turned slowly toward Scott.
“You?”
Scott pointed accusingly.
“Hurtful.”
“You’re telling me,” Stiles continued, visibly delighted now, “that somebody looked at you and thought yes. This teenager definitely has his life together.”
“I do!”
“You accidentally set your microwave on fire last week because you were distracted texting Allison.”
“That happened one time!”
Jackson looked disgustingly entertained.
“You almost cried.”
“I was stressed!”
Stiles wiped dramatically at fake tears.
Scott shoved his shoulder.
“You coming to the match or not?”
“I absolutely am,” Stiles grinned.
“Good.”

A little while Scott eventually stood.
“We have to go to training.” Jackson groaned and joined him as the two walked away towards the field for what was sure to be a tiring final session before tonight's match.
Malia stood too.
“Kira wants to hang out.”
Stiles blinked.
“Oh?”
Malia nodded simply.
“My girlfriend.”
Stiles wonders to himself how he didn't see it before, while waving her away excitedly.
“Cute!” Stiles said warmly, “now go be adorable somewhere else.”
Malia narrowed her eyes slightly.
“…I think that was teasing.”
“It was affectionate teasing.”
“Okay.”
Then, just like that, everyone had disappeared, leaving Stiles unexpectedly alone on the field. Which was probably for the best if Stiles was ever planning to finish reading the book in his hands. The afternoon sun remained warm, the yard pleasantly quiet and for the first time all week, he had approximately forty-five minutes without assignments actively threatening him.

Naturally, he moved beneath one of the large trees near the edge of the lawn, settled against the trunk and pulled out his book. Peace and quiet at last— or at least, the illusion of it, because around ten minutes later Stiles was startled from his concentration by a voice speaking near him.

“Well.”
Stiles looked up.
And immediately blinked.
Standing in front of him were two very attractive people looking entirely too entertained.
Two of Derek's friends from dinner—
Erica and Isaac, if he remembered right.
Isaac tilted his head slightly.
“So,” he said.
“So?” Stiles repeated cautiously.
Erica crossed her arms.
“We wanted to see what had Derek acting weird.”
Silence.
Stiles blinked.
“…Excuse me?”
“You heard her,” Isaac said.
“He’s been weird,” Erica clarified.
“Extra weird,” Isaac added.
“Emotionally constipated weird,” Erica finished.
Stiles stared.
“…Okay, deeply concerning phrasing.”
Erica grinned.
“You’re funny.”
Stiles raised one concerned eyebrow.
“Oh don't give yourself wrinkles with the dramatic eyebrow, we mean it affectionately.”
Isaac crouched slightly beside him.
Stiles narrowed his eyes.

“…Why do I feel interrogated?”
“Because you are.”
“We wanted to know,” Erica said lightly, “what exactly has Derek staring into middle distance like somebody flashed him or something.”
Stiles opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Opened it again.
“Okay,” he said carefully, “first of all, he stares at everyone like he’s planning emotional warfare.”
Isaac exchanged a look with Erica.
“He noticed,” Isaac whispered.
“Weirdly observant,” Erica agreed.
“I can hear you.”
Erica smiled.
“Good.”

Then she leaned casually against the tree.
“You know Derek likes you, right?”
Stiles choked slightly. There was no way Derek tolerated Stiles. And no way that the 'like' in that statement could be anything more than platonic.
“What?”
Isaac looked genuinely confused.
“…Wait, you didn’t know?”
“No! I thought he hated me!"
Erica blinked.
“Oh.”
“Oh?” Stiles repeated.
Isaac frowned thoughtfully.
“Huh.”
“Huh?”
“That explains a lot,” Erica said.
Stiles stared at them like betrayal had become physical and frowned.
“You guys are terrifying.”
“You’re cute,” Erica said immediately.
Stiles blinked.
“…I’m sorry?”
Isaac smiled slightly.
“She means objectively.”
“No,” Erica said casually. “I mean personally too. Just look at the way your nose scrunched up.”
Stiles looked between them.
Slowly.
Carefully.
Then pointed.
“Oh my God. Are you guys hitting on me?”
Isaac shrugged.
“A little.”
“Mostly for fun,” Erica added.
“Unless?”
Stiles snorted immediately.
“Wow. Bold.”
“You’re not saying no,” Erica teased.
“Oh no,” Stiles said quickly. “It's because I know a joke when I hear one.”
Something unreadable flickered across both their expressions.
Then Isaac smiled.
“…Right.”

Erica recovered first.
“Anyway,” she said brightly. “You pass.”
“…Pass?”
“Our approval.”
“Congratulations,” Isaac added dryly. “Derek’s future emotional disaster.”
Stiles gasped dramatically.
“Nobody told me there would be exams.”
Erica laughed.
Honestly laughed.
“You’re good,” she said eventually.
“Yeah,” Isaac agreed. “We get it.”
“Get what?”
Erica exchanged another look with Isaac.
“…Nothing.”
That answer felt deeply suspicious.

For the next half hour, even though the two strangely stuck by his side, the time passed surprisingly easily.
Mostly jokes, mostly teasing.
Largely Erica deciding Stiles was apparently fun to annoy while Isaac quietly encouraged it.
By the time they finally left, Stiles found himself weirdly fond of them.
Which felt slightly dangerous because apparently Derek Hale’s entire friend group had been handcrafted by the universe to be inconveniently attractive and emotionally on his level.
Fantastic.
Absolutely fantastic.

____

A couple hours later Stiles was sat beside Allison in the lacrosse stands, prepared to scream like crazy for Beacon Hills. He was prepped. He was hyped. He was also currently very confused about the rules.

“So,” Allison asked beside him. “You actually came.”
“Excuse you,” Stiles said. “There was no doubt.”
“You also asked me earlier if lacrosse was just emotionally aggressive jogging.”
“That remains a valid question.”
Allison laughed softly.
The field below buzzed with movement, players warming up while crowds slowly settled around them.
Stiles spotted Scott immediately.
Then, unfortunately Derek, which felt rude, honestly. Somehow sports gear made the whole broad-shoulders problem significantly worse.

“Hey,” Allison said suddenly.
“Hm?”
“You’re staring.”
Stiles looked away immediately.
“I reject this accusation.”
But before Allison could respond something cold splashed directly over him and Stiles jolted violently.
“What the?!”
He looked down to find his entire shirt soaked in some cold drink. Great.

“Oh my God, Stiles, I’m so sorry!”
He looked up and Erica stood there looking horrified and deeply apologetic.
Almost suspiciously apologetic.
“Erica?”
“I tripped,” she said immediately.
Isaac appeared behind her.
“Woah.. what a catastrophic accident.”
“…You’re both terrible liars.”
“Come on,” Erica said quickly, already grabbing his wrist. “We’ll get you a new shirt.”
“What?”
“You can’t sit like that.”
A reasonable point, yet Stiles remained deeply suspicious.
Very suspicious.
Before he could argue, he was being dragged toward the changing rooms with what seemed like superhuman force.
Which somehow felt like a terrible idea.
However, Stiles had officially reached the point in life where he had simply stopped questioning things. Now, this certainly wasn't because he lacked curiosity. He had plenty of curiosity. Too much curiosity, arguably. Enough curiosity to have once accidentally convinced himself his middle school vice principal was running an underground crime ring, based entirely on suspiciously timed lunch breaks.
(While there was no crime ring, his Dad still ended up having to give Stiles ten bucks since the vice-principal was actually found guilty of tax fraud the next month and the two of them had placed a bet.)

Still, when Erica and Isaac dragged him across campus with deeply suspicious enthusiasm while refusing to elaborate? Stiles mostly just accepted that this was apparently his life now.
“You’re walking weirdly fast,” he pointed out.
“We’re efficient,” Erica replied.
“You’re evasive.”
Isaac looked thoughtful.
“She’s evasive.”
“Traitor,” Erica muttered.
Stiles narrowed his eyes.
“You know, in every horror movie, this is exactly the moment where the audience starts screaming at the first victim to run.”
“We’re not murdering you,” Erica said.
“That somehow feels like alarmingly low bar comfort.”
Isaac opened the changing room door.
“Congratulations,” he said dryly. “You survived.”

Inside, the room was mostly empty and quiet. It smelled vaguely like deodorant, expensive detergent and aggressively athletic people. Which felt unfair, because why did lacrosse players somehow smell expensive?
Stiles' public school sports experience smelled like sweat and disappointment.

“You can borrow a shirt,” Erica announced and Isaac immediately disappeared toward one of the lockers.
Suspicious. Especially because both of them looked like they were trying very hard not to smile.
“You guys are acting weird.”
“We’re always weird,” Erica replied.
“True,” Stiles admitted.
Isaac reappeared holding a folded jersey; It was dark, containing the Beacon colours.
“Here.”
Stiles blinked.
“Oh.”
Okay. That was actually really nice of them.
“You sure?”
“Yeah,” Isaac said casually.
“Totally.”
Erica nodded aggressively.
“Absolutely.”
The energy felt very wrong. They definitely appeared too eager, like children pretending they had not done something illegal. Or stolen from the pantry.
Stiles narrowed his eyes.
“…Why do I feel like I’m being made do to something I'll regret?”
“You’re paranoid,” Erica said instantly.
“Very paranoid,” Isaac agreed.
“Okay, wow. That synchronised answer has swayed all my doubts. No guilty person would ever rehearse gaslighting. I'm sold.”

Still, his current shirt was wet and sticky and deeply unpleasant. So honestly? Whatever.
He pulled the jersey over his head.
And wow it was comfortable. Annoyingly comfortable. It was soft in that expensive fabric way Beacon somehow seemed physically incapable of avoiding.
Also— Large.
Like, noticeably larger than necessary. The sleeves fell slightly lower, fabric hanging loose around him in a way that felt oddly warm. Comforting, even.
Stiles felt like he borrowing somebody’s hoodie accidentally, sportswear version. In retrospect, Stiles should have reflected on this instinct earlier.

“Huh,” Stiles muttered.
Erica visibly froze and Isaac looked briefly emotional.
“…What?” Stiles asked slowly.
“You look good,” Erica said immediately.
“Really good,” Isaac added.
Stiles blinked.
“Oh.”
Heat climbed faintly into his face. He'd never done well with compliments, even fake ones.
“Well,” he said awkwardly, tugging lightly at the hem, “thank you for rescuing me from my tragic beverage incident.”
“Anytime,” Erica said brightly.
“Oh,” Isaac added casually, “you should keep it.”
Stiles frowned.
“What?”
“Till after the match,” Erica corrected quickly.
“Yeah,” Isaac nodded. “No point changing again.”
That—
Actually made sense.
Suspiciously.
But still. Fine.
“Okay,” Stiles said slowly. “You guys are weirdly invested in my shirt situation.”
Isaac shrugged.
“We care.”
“That sounded fake.”
“It was.”
“Rude.”
Erica grinned.
“Come on. Let’s get back.”

A few minutes later, Stiles found himself sitting back beside Allison. As he sat back down, now in the jersey, Allison glanced over, then paused. She slowly looked again.
“…Interesting.”
Stiles frowned.
“What?”
“…Nothing.”
“That sounded like something.”
“Nope.”
She looked back toward the field suspiciously fast.
Which— Rude. Very rude. This was beginning to feel like his catchphrase.
Stiles looked down at himself.
What? It was just a jersey. A very comfortable jersey. A suspiciously nice-smelling jersey. Wait, seriously, this thing actually smelt amazing. Like really good? It was somehow both woodsy and warm, a smell which was weirdly comforting for Stiles
Huh.
Okay.
Maybe expensive boarding school detergent was just superior. That had to be it. Obviously.

Down on the field, the team finally entered and cheers rose instantly around the stands. Scott jogged out first and Stiles waved dramatically at his entrance.
“Scott!”
Scott looked up immediately and brightened, waving back at Stiles and Allison.
Supportive friendship achieved.
Then Derek entered and today the universe, apparently, had chosen violence, because sports gear should not legally look like that on somebody.
It simply should not.

Derek moved with the deeply irritating confidence of someone fully aware they looked devastating and choosing to not engage anyway. Stiles immediately looked away out of self-preservation.

____

Mid-step, Derek stopped moving entirely.
Because, emanating from the crowd, was something familiar, warm and impossible— His scent.
Derek’s head turned sharply, scanning and searching for the source until his eyes landed on Stiles.
And—
Oh.
Oh.
Derek actually stopped functioning for approximately half a second, because sitting in the stands— smiling absently beside Allison Argent— was Stiles wearing Derek’s jersey. His jersey. Not just Beacon colours. Not team gear. His. It had an oversized fit and the sleeves were too long and Derek could tell it was his from the scents which had already began to tangle together deliciously.
Derek nearly short-circuited.

Within the crowd, and out of sight, Boyd and Cora smirked, looking deeply satisfied, Isaac visibly failed to hide his grin and Erica looked unbearably smug.

Derek blinked once.
Slowly.
Then again.
Still there.
Still wearing it.
Warmth spread immediately through his chest. Stiles looked— Good. Way too good.
Like something Derek absolutely should not think about during a lacrosse match.
“Derek.”
No response.
“Derek.”
Still staring.
“Derek!”
Derek blinked.
Scott looked disgustingly entertained.
“You’re preening.”
“I am not.”
“You absolutely are,” he said.
Jackson nodded once.
“Little bit.”
Derek immediately looked offended.
“I’m not preening.”
“Your posture changed,” Scott offered helpfully.
“You look happy,” Scott added.
“You never look happy.”
Derek glared.
Mostly because— unfortunately— they were right. Something warm and embarrassingly possessive curled quietly beneath his ribs. Stiles was wearing his jersey. His.
Which— Absolutely not. These were dangerous thoughts, territorial thoughts. Definitely not what Derek needed to he thinking about right now as captain of this team.

____

Across the field— Stiles glanced up, catching Derek staring for what felt like the ninth time. And wow. His expression tonight felt— different. Like somebody had accidentally unplugged his emotional control.
“…Huh,” Stiles muttered.
Allison looked suspiciously innocent beside him.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
Derek looked away too fast.
Then—
Thirty seconds later—
Looked back.
“Oh my God,” Stiles whispered. “He’s doing the weird eye contact thing again.”
Allison smiled into her drink.
“Yeah.”
“That sounded loaded.”
“Nope.”
“You people are suspicious.”
She only laughed.
And somehow— throughout the entire match— Derek kept looking.
Little glances, yet longer than necessary.
Like maybe Stiles had suddenly become distracting. Stiles had to admit to himself that whatever this was felt weirdly nice.

Beacon Hills ended up winning the match and Stiles and Allison, alongside Scott, looked practically ready to combust with excitement and pride.

____

A few hours later, after the crowd had slowly dispersed and students had spilled across campus back to their rooms in time for evening, Stiles found himself hovering outside Derek’s dorm room. But this wasn't for any untoward reasons. No, Stiles reasoned, it was honestly just a normal, polite formality to congratulate someone after winning a match.

Knocking on the room of the intimidating lacrosse captain you maybe sort of had a tiny crush on?…Less normal.
Still.
Fine.
Totally fine.
Stiles knocked and immediately regretted everything.
“Oh my God,” he muttered quietly. “This is weird. This is socially bizarre. I should leave.”
The door opened.

____

Derek froze.
Because standing there— looking inexplicably pleased with himself and still wearing Derek’s jersey— was Stiles.
“Oh,” Stiles said brightly. “Hey.”
Derek genuinely forgot how conversations worked. His brain was entirely preoccupied with the fact Stiles was still wearing his jersey. Hours later. Now not only did he smell like Derek, but he was inside Derek's room. Looking comfortable in something that belonged to Derek. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew his pack must be behind this somehow, but for now, all thoughts were concentrated on Stiles.

“You played really well,” Stiles said quickly. “Like— wow. Seriously. You guys were good. I might be a little biased, since I'm friends with Scott and Jackson though.”
Derek blinked.
“…Thanks.”
Pause.
Stiles smiled awkwardly.
“I thought it would be uh polite to congratulate my hallway acquaintance.”
Derek stared for approximately one second too long.
Then—
“…Come in?”
The words escaped before he could stop them. Stiles blinked.
“Oh.”
Pause.
“…Really?”
Derek immediately regretted sounding uncertain.
“Yes.”
Stiles smiled, easy and bright, and stepped inside, which immediately made Derek’s room feel smaller, warmer and dangerously occupied.

____

The thing about Derek Hale’s room, Stiles decided almost immediately, was that it somehow felt exactly like Derek.
Because despite the fact Stiles had technically only known Derek for a handful of days and approximately seventy percent of their interactions had involved prolonged eye contact that bordered on Twilight levels, there had already become something distinctly Derek-shaped about the way Stiles understood him.

Not a brutish jock, but quiet, controlled and the sort of person who looked permanently on the verge of carrying too much without ever actually admitting it.
And somehow—
The room reflected that almost perfectly. Derek’s room felt lived in. Not messy by any means, because Derek Hale very clearly seemed like the sort of person who folded clothes with unnecessary precision, yet undeniably inhabited.
Books lined part of the shelves beside the desk, stacked unevenly in places as though they had actually been read rather than arranged for appearance. A dark blanket sat half-folded over the edge of the bed, slightly rumpled in a way that suggested Derek had left earlier in a hurry, and near the desk sat lacrosse equipment abandoned with enough casual familiarity to suggest routine.

The room smelled warm too.
Woodsy. Comforting. Like cedar and laundry detergent and something faintly earthy Stiles could not quite place.
Which— Wait. Hold on.
Stiles paused halfway inside.
Then looked down slowly at the jersey still hanging loose around him.
Then back toward Derek.
Then— Oh. Oh. No.
No, absolutely not.
Because that smell was the smell.
The very specific deeply unfair smell he had already vaguely noticed earlier.
That had not been detergent.
That had apparently just been—
Derek.

Stiles immediately chose not to think about that.
Because there were some thoughts people simply did not need to unpack while standing inside the room of their increasingly inconvenient crush. Because Stiles could not even deny anymore that this is what Derek was now: a crush.

Especially not while wearing said crush’s suspiciously nice-smelling clothing.

“Uh,” Stiles said finally, because silence had begun stretching long enough to become socially dangerous. “Wow.”
Derek, who had remained standing near the doorway like he had momentarily forgotten how hosting worked, blinked once.
“…Wow good?”
“Oh!” Stiles looked up quickly. “No, yeah. Good wow. Definitely good wow.”
A pause.
Then—
“You seem organised.”
The second the words left his mouth, Stiles regretted them.
Because— really? That was the contribution? You’re organised?
Brilliant.
Smooth.
Flawless conversational instincts Stilinski.
Derek, however, merely looked faintly confused.
“…Thanks?”
“Sorry,” Stiles said immediately, already wincing at himself. “That sounded weird. I just meant— I don’t know, your room feels very…”
He gestured vaguely.
“Derek.”
Silence.
Derek stared at him for a moment.
Then, something subtle shifted around his mouth.
Not quite a smile, but close.
“You’ve known me four days.”
“Okay,” Stiles pointed immediately, “in my defence, you are weirdly memorable.”

That was apparently the wrong thing to say because Derek went strangely still. Again. And Stiles, who was becoming increasingly familiar with Derek Hale’s deeply inconvenient inability to react normally to things, watched something unreadable flicker briefly across his expression.
Like maybe that had landed somewhere unexpected.

“Oh my God,” Stiles said suddenly. “Was that weird? That sounded weird. I meant memorable in, like, a normal way.”
Derek blinked.
“…Normal?”
“Well,” Stiles hesitated. “Maybe not normal normal.”
Somehow—
That made Derek look vaguely amused. And that was doing dangerous things to Stiles' heart because he had already established that Derek smiling was unfair. But seeing it up close?
Worse. So much worse.
Like fate had asked 'What if intimidating mystery man occasionally looked soft enough to emotionally destabilise you?'
Cruel. Cruel, honestly.
“You can sit,” Derek said after a moment, voice quieter than before.

“Oh.”
Right.
Sitting. Normal social behaviour.
Stiles nodded quickly and glanced around before settling cautiously onto the edge of Derek’s desk chair, because the bed felt weirdly intimate and honestly Stiles preferred surviving tonight without accidentally passing out from embarrassment.

Derek lingered standing for another second before finally sitting on the edge of his own bed across from him.
The silence that settled afterwards was not awkward exactly.
Just— strange and uncertain, like neither of them quite knew what this was yet.
And maybe that made sense. Because technically speaking, Stiles had shown up to congratulate the guy he maybe sort of absolutely had a crush on while unknowingly stealing his jersey.
Which.
Actually.
On that train of thought.
“The jersey,” Stiles said suddenly.
Derek visibly tensed.
“I should probably give this back.”
Immediately, something unexpectedly disappointed flickered across Derek’s face.
Gone quickly, too quickly, but unmistakably there.
“…You can keep it for tonight,” Derek said eventually.
Stiles blinked.
“…Are you sure?”
Derek nodded once.
“It’s fine.”
Something about Derek trusting him with something personal settled somewhere warm beneath Stiles’ ribs before he could stop it.
“Oh,” he said quietly. “Thanks.”
The room seemed to softened slightly after that, like something had quietly shifted.
Outside, evening settled fully against the windows, campus noise fading into distant quiet while the warm lamp near Derek’s desk softened the edges of everything.
For a moment neither of them spoke.

“You played really well,” Stiles said again, more quietly this time. “Seriously.”
Derek looked briefly uncomfortable.
Not embarrassed exactly.
Just as if he were also unused to praise.
“You watched?”
The question came strangely careful, as though maybe Derek had not entirely expected the answer to matter.
“Yeah,” Stiles said easily. “I mean— Scott invited me.”
Then, after a beat—
“But I watched you too.”
Silence.
Immediate silence.
Stiles froze internally. Abort. Abort mission. Terrible phrasing. Horrifying phrasing. What he meant— what he obviously meant— Was... Uh..
“Not in a weird way,” he said quickly.
Derek’s eyebrow lifted slightly.
“…There are weird ways?”
“Yes,” Stiles said immediately. “Probably. I mean my Dad is a Sherrif, he would definitely know.”
A pause.
Then— to Stiles’ horror—
Derek laughed warmly.
Okay.
That might actually be the hottest thing Stiles had ever experienced. Which felt unfair considering Derek Hale already had enough advantages.

“I just mean,” Stiles continued quickly, trying very hard to recover socially, “you’re really good.”
Derek looked away briefly.
“It’s the one thing I’m allowed to enjoy.”
Something about that landed strangely. Unexpectedly heavy.
Stiles frowned slightly.
“…Allowed?”
Derek hesitated.
Then exhaled softly.
“My mom.”

Ah.
Right. Principal Hale. Terrifying boarding school dictator. Emotionally terrifying woman.
“She’s strict?” Stiles guessed gently.
Derek gave one short laugh that lacked humour.
“That’s one word for it.”
Something softened immediately in Stiles, because he understood pressure. The weight of expectations. The exhausting feeling of trying to become whatever somebody else needed you to be.
“That sounds…” Stiles paused carefully. “Like a lot.”
Derek shrugged automatically, too quickly as if they had long ago stopped expecting sympathy.
“You get used to it.”
Something about that answer made Stiles unexpectedly sad. Because no teenager should sound that resigned. Not Derek. When he stopped trying so hard to seem intimidating, he somehow looked bot tired and young.
“My dad’s kinda the opposite,” Stiles said after a moment.
Derek looked up again.
“The Sheriff?”
Stiles blinked.
"Yeah."
A beat.
“…Peter mentioned it.”
“Oh my God,” Stiles groaned immediately. “He’s gossiping already?”
Something suspiciously close to fond amusement crossed Derek’s face.
“Peter talks.”
“That man practically declared psychological warfare on me the other day!”
“He likes you.”
Stiles narrowed his eyes.
“That somehow feels threatening.”
“It usually is.”
That made them both laugh.
The laughter settled between them easier than either of them seemed prepared for.

Despite the fact they had technically spent most of the last few days orbiting around strange eye contact and mildly confusing interactions, conversation had slipped into something softer without either of them quite noticing.
For a moment afterwards, the room felt quieter, but not in the awkward sense, just warm in that strange late-evening way where the rest of the world seemed to dim.

Outside Derek’s window, campus lights had begun glowing faintly against the darkening grounds, distant movement crossing occasionally between pathways while somewhere far enough away not to matter, voices drifted through the evening air.
Yet inside the room, things felt oddly still.
Across from him, Derek had gone suspiciously quiet again. Not withdrawn exactly. Just— Watching.
Unfortunately, Derek Hale watching Stiles was becoming distressingly familiar.
Except this felt different from before: less intense in a frightening way.
The staring was still focused, because apparently Derek physically could not stop looking at people like eye contact personally mattered, but softer somehow.
Curious.
Like he had not entirely figured Stiles out yet and maybe did not mind taking his time trying.

“So,” Stiles said eventually, because silence had begun feeling too noticeable and because his brain physically rejected letting conversations die, “how long have you been playing lacrosse?”
Derek blinked once, attention refocusing slightly.
“…Since I was ten.”
“Oh wow.”
Stiles leaned back slightly.
“That’s, like, aggressively committed. Seems perfect for the sport then.”
A tiny shift crossed Derek’s expression, fonder.

“It started because of Laura.”
Stiles tilted his head.
“Your sister?”
Derek nodded once.
“She played first.”
The softness in his voice when he said it arrived unexpectedly.
Small enough most people probably would not have noticed, but Stiles did, because Derek only ever seemed visibly softer talking about things he cared for.

“She made me join,” Derek continued after a moment. “Said I spent too much time reading.”
Stiles blinked.
“…You can read?”
Derek’s expression flattened immediately.
“Yes.”
“Wow.”
Derek narrowed his eyes.
“What does that mean?”
“…You seem like someone who intimidates books.”
Silence. Derek stared at him.
Then, very slowly, one dark eyebrow lifted.
“…Intimidates books?”
“You know,” Stiles said vaguely, committing now because there was no recovering from this anyway, “like if books could feel emotions, they’d probably try harder to get their cover judged by you.”
For one horrifying second, Stiles genuinely worried he had finally crossed into too weird territory.
Then—
Derek looked away.
And— Was he hiding a smile?

“Oh my God,” Stiles said immediately, pouting. “You’re laughing at me.”
“I’m not.”
“You absolutely are.”
Derek shook his head once, though something undeniably amused lingered faintly around his mouth.
“You say strange things.”
“That’s not a denial.”
“You’re weird.”
Stiles gasped dramatically.
“Wow.”
A pause.
Then—
“…Rude.”

Something shifted again.
Because instead of looking apologetic, Derek looked comfortable. Like weird was not the criticism Stiles had learnt it to be.
Like maybe, somehow, he already expected strange things from Stiles.
And maybe—
Maybe liked them a little.
“Well,” Stiles said eventually, crossing his arms with deeply performative offence, “for the record, I think you have weirder hobbies than you would like to admit.”

Derek looked mildly confused.
“…Lacrosse?”
“No.”
Stiles gestured vaguely around the room.
“You strike me as someone who silently judges people for not making their bed in the morning.”
Derek hesitated.
Just long enough.
Stiles stared, then gasped pointedly.
“Oh my God. You do.”
“I just think some people lack organisation.”
“You alphabetise things, don’t you?”
A pause.
“…Sometimes.”
“Derek!”
“What? You think I got this oh so very reknowed, very prestigious RA gig by luck?”
“We both know you just wanted the bigger room and were the only applicant. And we're skipping past your deeply concerning behaviour!”
“Well, you colour-code your notes.”
Stiles froze.
“…How do you know that?”
Derek paused and looked faintly uncomfortable.
“I noticed.”
Well that felt rather intimate, and judging by the way Derek suddenly looked like maybe he regretted saying it aloud—
Yeah.
Apparently they were both aware that had sounded slightly loaded.

Somewhere between accidental jersey theft and awkward congratulations, their dynamic shifting back to occassional stares seemed almost impossible.
Neither of them seemed entirely sure what to do with that. So naturally, Stiles panicked, only slightly (visibly so), and changed the subject.
“So,” he said quickly, glancing around again, “any other hobbies besides sports and silent judgement?”
Derek looked relieved by the conversational rescue.
“Hiking.”
“You hike?” Another nod. Stiles considered this development.
“Honestly, yeah. That feels very you.”
Derek tilted his head slightly.
“What does that mean?”

“You seem…” Stiles paused, trying to find words. “Quiet.”
Then immediately winced.
“Wow. That sounded accidentally rude.”
Derek frowned slightly.
“…Quiet?”
“No, not in a bad way,” Stiles rushed to explain. “Just— okay, this is gonna sound weird.”
“You’ve already committed to weird.”
Fair.
Very fair.
“You seem like somebody who likes being away from people for a bit,” Stiles said more carefully. “Like somewhere calm.”
Derek looked at him for a second too long.
Something unreadable flickering briefly across his expression.
Not guarded exactly, just surprised.
“…Yeah,” Derek said eventually, quieter than before.
Stiles softened instinctively.
“My mom liked nature too,” he said after a moment.
The words slipped out more naturally than expected. Usually talking about his mom still caught strangely in his chest.

“She used to drag me hiking sometimes,” he continued quietly, smiling faintly at the memory. “Which, honestly, I complained about at the time because bugs exist and nature seems to like me suffering.”
Derek’s mouth twitched faintly.
“But…”
Stiles looked briefly toward the window.
“She liked it when things got quiet.”
The pause that followed felt gentler somehow and neither of them rushed to fill it.
“She passed a few years ago.”
There it was, that one inevitable moment where people usually became awkward.
Too careful.
Too sympathetic.
Like grief suddenly made someone fragile. Stiles braced automatically for that familiar discomfort. Instead, Derek simply looked at him.

“I’m sorry,” Derek said softly. Honestly, not in faux-sympathy.
Stiles shrugged lightly after a moment.
“She was really smart,” he said quietly. “Like terrifyingly smart. Loved science documentaries.”
A small laugh escaped him.
“She absolutely would’ve loved Beacon.”
Then—
“Actually no,” Stiles corrected immediately. “She would’ve hated the rich people.”
Something unexpectedly amused flickered across Derek’s face again.
“She sounds great.”
The answer came easier than expected.
“She was.”
A pause.

“My dad’s been…” Stiles hesitated briefly. “Trying really hard since.”
Derek nodded once.
“Sheriff Stilinski seems good from what I've heard.”
Again, Stiles blinked.
“…You know more stuff about my dad?”
Derek immediately looked like maybe he regretted speaking.
“…Peter talks.”
“Oh my God,” Stiles groaned. “That man is ruining my life.”
Derek smiled again.
And wow.
Still unfair.
Still deeply, deeply unfair.
Because somehow every time Derek softened, Stiles’ stupid heart immediately reacted like this was normal behaviour.

Eventually, the conversation slowed not because either of them particularly wanted it to, but because time had quietly crept up around them unnoticed.
At some point, the nervousness had settled.
Not disappeared entirely, because Stiles still felt vaguely like he had wandered into some alternate reality where Derek Hale voluntarily spoke in complete sentences to him, but softened around the edges enough to become something unexpectedly easy.
Comfortable, almost.

Which— Honestly? Felt mildly alarming.
Because Stiles had originally come here to say congratulations.
Briefly.
Politely.
Normal-person briefly.
Instead, he had somehow ended up curled slightly into Derek’s desk chair while Derek leaned against the edge of his desk nearby, broad arms crossed loosely over his chest as they talked about absolutely everything and absolutely nothing.

It had started simple enough.
School.
Classes.
Lacrosse.
Then somehow become other things, smaller things. The kinds of things people probably only shared when conversation stopped feeling performative.
Derek had admitted he hated most school events unless they involved actual competition. Apparently student council meetings ranked somewhere between “deeply irritating” and “active punishment.”

Stiles had laughed hard enough at Derek’s expression while describing them that he nearly slipped off the chair.
“You should see your face right now,” Stiles grinned.
Derek frowned slightly.
“What’s wrong with my face?”
“Oh my God,” Stiles said immediately. “See, that. You somehow look personally betrayed by responsibility.”
Something suspiciously close to a smile pulled briefly at Derek’s mouth.
“You talk too much.”
“Yeah, well, somebody here has to.”

It felt like that without people around, Derek stopped trying so hard to hold himself together, and Stiles found himself wanting to see if there were parts of him nobody really got to see.

Which felt dangerous, especially because Derek kept doing weird things like listening.
Actually listening. Not waiting for his turn to speak, or tolerating his long, often winding rants (thanks ADHD!), but actually listening like everything Stiles said mattered.
And Stiles was embarrassingly susceptible to the attention. Particularly when the attention was delivered by broad-shouldered lacrosse captains with soft eyes and dangerous voices.

At some point, though, Stiles glanced toward the window and blinked.
“Oh.”
Derek followed his gaze.
“What?”
“…It’s dark.”
A pause.
Then Derek looked toward the clock.
“…Oh.”
The mutual surprise somehow felt weirdly embarrassing; clearly neither of them had realised quite how long this had gone on.
Stiles shifted slightly in his seat.
“Okay, wow,” he said quietly. “I definitely did not mean to accidentally invade your personal space for, like…” he checked his phone, eyes widening slightly. “Jesus. Almost four hours?”
Derek looked strangely unconcerned.
“You weren’t invading.”

And—
Okay.
That did something deeply unfortunate to Stiles’ nervous system. Because the idea of Stiles being here had not bothered Derek even a little.
Like maybe—
No. Stiles had to remain realistic. If his time at his old school taught him one thing, it was that Stiles could not expect romance or he would get hurt. Especially considering Derek was so out of his league. What was he even doing here, in Derek's room?

“Well,” Stiles said, standing slightly too quickly, “I should probably go before your RA instincts kick in and you cite me for suspicious lingering.”
Derek huffed softly through his nose.
“Pretty sure that’s not a rule.”
“Feels like it should be.”

He did not actually want to leave yet, which felt concerning considering this had originally been a very normal, very polite congratulations visit. Instead, he had somehow spent hours talking to Derek Hale while wearing his apparently very comfortable jersey.

Speaking of—
Stiles looked down, then froze.
“…Oh my God.”
Derek blinked once.
“What?”
“This is your jersey.”
Stiles had forgotten. Completely forgotten.
He looked down at the oversized fabric again, fingers briefly catching against the hem.
Then slowly looked back up.
“Oh my God,” he repeated, horrified now. “I have been sitting in your room for hours wearing your jersey.”
Derek went suspiciously still. Very still.
“…Yeah.”
Stiles stared.
“You knew?”
Derek looked away briefly.
“Yes.”
“Oh my God!”
His voice echoed louder than intended.
“Does this mean you think of me as a friend now?"
Derek frowned slightly and his expression did something complicated.

“Well you wearing it doesn’t bother me,” Derek said quietly, as though that was an answer to Stiles' rhetorical question.

That one needed unpacking later, but preferably never, because if Stiles thought about the fact Derek Hale apparently did not mind him wearing his clothes, he would probably combust.
Immediately.
On the spot.
“Well,” Stiles said quickly, because survival instincts, “still. Thank you for letting me unknowingly commit social crimes.”
“You can keep it.”
The words landed so casually that Stiles almost missed them.
“…What?”
Derek shifted slightly.
“The jersey.”
Stiles blinked.
“No— no, I should definitely give it back.”
“You like it.”
That— was embarrassingly true. Mostly because it was soft. And warm. And smelled annoyingly good.
Which Stiles had absolutely not noticed.
Obviously.
“You’re weirdly okay with this,” Stiles narrowed his eyes.
Derek looked faintly uncomfortable now.
“…Maybe.”

“Well,” he said softly, adjusting the sleeve slightly while smiling, “thank you.”
Something quiet settled briefly between them. Not uncomfortable, just heavy in a way Stiles did not entirely understand yet.
Like something had shifted.

Eventually, Stiles moved toward the door.
“Okay,” he said, pausing awkwardly beside it. “I’m leaving now.”
Derek nodded once.
“…Goodnight, Stiles.”
And there it was again.
His name.
That stupid, unfair thing Derek somehow did where saying it sounded more personal than it should.
Stiles smiled despite himself.
“Goodnight, Derek.”
Then— because apparently embarrassment no longer controlled his life—
“You played really well tonight.”
Derek blinked once.
Something softer crossed his face again.
“…Thanks.”
Stiles hesitated, then left, the hallway feeling strangely colder and quieter afterward, like somehow Derek’s room had existed in its own separate atmosphere.

He made it halfway down the corridor before stopping briefly. He looked down again at the jersey and smiled.
Small.
Private.
Completely ridiculous.
“Cool,” Stiles muttered quietly to himself while continuing toward his room. “So now we’re stealing clothes.”
Fantastic.
Totally normal behaviour.
Nothing emotionally compromising happening whatsoever.

____

Back inside his room, Derek stood motionless for longer than necessary.
The silence settled slowly.
Different now, because Stiles had filled it brightly and completely and now the silence seemed to echo louder than before.

The room still smelled faintly like him; something warm and familiar lingered stubbornly in the air. Something distinctly, overwhelmingly Stiles.
Derek looked toward the chair Stiles had been sitting in.
Then toward the door.
Then— against his better judgement, smiled.
Because Stiles had left wearing his jersey.
His jersey.
Derek exhaled slowly.
Deeply, deeply screwed.
Probably.