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The first time Derek Hale encountered The Fox, he was sleep deprived, caffeine poisoned, and halfway through a double shift that had already involved:
— one drunk tourist handcuffed to a parking meter
— Jackson Whittemore threatening legal action against a taco truck
— and Isaac Lahey accidentally setting a dumpster on fire trying to smoke weed discreetly.
So when dispatch crackled through his radio—
“Possible break-in at Hargrove Gallery. Silent alarm triggered.”
—Derek expected stupidity.
Instead, he found art theft.
Real art theft.
Professional.
Elegant.
Infuriating.
The gallery security system had been disabled in exactly ninety seconds. Motion sensors looped. Cameras frozen. Guards locked politely inside the staff bathroom with a handwritten apology taped to the door.
And in the center of the empty exhibition room, beneath a skylight—
A single playing card.
White.
Minimal.
A fox sketched in gold ink.
Deputy Erica Reyes picked it up carefully.
“Oh my god,” she whispered dramatically. “He’s hot.”
Derek looked at her.
“We don’t know what he looks like.”
“People who leave calling cards are always hot. That’s literally science.”
Laura Hale arrived ten minutes later in a leather jacket and homicide-level irritation. She was technically Derek’s superior now that she’d transferred from Sacramento.
She took one look at the crime scene.
“Oh, this guy’s annoying.”
Derek crouched near the display case.
“No fingerprints.”
“No DNA.”
“No witnesses,” Erica added. “One guard says he smelled expensive cologne and heard someone humming ABBA.”
Laura rubbed her forehead.
“I already hate him.”
Derek stared at the empty pedestal where the stolen necklace had been.
Something about the scene prickled under his skin.
Not chaos.
Precision.
The thief had moved through the building like he owned it.
Confident.
Controlled.
Arrogant enough to leave evidence on purpose.
The Fox.
Derek hated him instantly.
Three weeks later, Derek became the unofficial lead on every Fox-related case purely because no one else in Beacon Hills cared enough to build an evidence wall.
Derek absolutely did not have an evidence wall.
Laura called it that because she was cruel.
“It’s not an evidence wall,” Derek said.
Laura looked at the giant board covered in maps, timelines, photos, and colour-coded notes.
“You connected robberies using red string.”
“It’s organized.”
“You’re one step away from muttering conspiracy theories at pigeons.”
“He stole a seventeenth-century dagger from a locked vault.”
“You said that with admiration.”
Derek scowled.
He did not admire criminals.
He admired competence.
Entirely different.
From the couch in Laura’s office, Erica snorted loudly.
“Dude, you’re obsessed.”
“I’m working.”
“You worked a fourteen-hour shift and then spent your break enhancing security footage of someone’s ass.”
“It was for identification.”
“Mhmm.”
Derek ignored her.
Because unfortunately the footage had been useful.
Not the ass part.
The gait.
The Fox moved differently from most thieves Derek had chased before. Relaxed. Fluid. Almost playful.
Like he enjoyed being chased.
Like the danger itself amused him.
It irritated Derek more than he could explain.
Worse—
The Fox kept escalating.
Not violently.
Personally.
It started with notes.
After a jewelry theft downtown, Derek found one tucked beneath his windshield wiper.
You should really stop drinking gas station coffee. This feels self-destructive.
No fingerprints.
No cameras caught him leaving it.
Derek read the note six times.
Erica nearly passed out laughing.
“Oh my god,” she wheezed. “Your criminal boyfriend is worried about your digestion.”
“He is not—”
“He’s flirting.”
“He robbed three buildings.”
“And yet emotionally this feels like a romcom.”
Laura looked over Derek’s shoulder at the note.
Then very slowly:
“You know what’s concerning?”
“What?”
“He has nice handwriting.”
The first time Derek met Stiles Stilinski happened because someone attempted to rob a convenience store using a sword.
Not a gun.
A sword.
Beacon Hills was exhausting.
By the time Derek arrived, the suspect was already zip-tied on the floor screaming about medieval law.
And arguing with the cashier was—
“Oh my god,” the stranger said immediately upon seeing Derek.
Derek blinked.
The man behind the counter looked around twenty-four, maybe twenty-five. Pale skin. moles scattered across sharp cheekbones. Warm brown eyes.
And curls.
An absurd amount of curls.
He wore fingerless gloves, an old burgundy hoodie, and the expression of someone delighted by catastrophe.
“You’re the deputy from the station,” he said.
Derek frowned slightly. “Have we met?”
“No, but Erica posts pictures of you at work.”
There was silence.
Derek slowly turned toward Erica.
Erica looked unashamed.
“What? You brood aesthetically.”
“You post pictures of me?”
“You have great shoulders.”
The stranger held out a hand brightly.
“Stiles Stilinski. My dad’s the retired sheriff.”
Derek stared.
“This is the sheriff’s son?”
“Unfortunately,” Stiles said. “It’s very tragic for my personal criminal career.”
Derek snorted before he could stop himself.
Stiles immediately lit up.
“Oh wow,” he said softly. “Okay. You’re way hotter when you smile.”
Derek stopped smiling instantly.
Erica made a strangled noise behind him.
Stiles became a problem very quickly.
Not intentionally.
Actually, maybe intentionally.
Derek couldn’t tell.
He started appearing everywhere.
At crime scenes dropping off coffee for his father.
At the station stealing Erica’s fries.
At local diners at two in the morning when Derek finished shifts.
And somehow every interaction felt like being ambushed.
“You look tired,” Stiles told him one night, sliding into the booth across from him uninvited.
“I am tired.”
“You have little stress lines.”
Derek narrowed his eyes. “Are you insulting me?”
“I’m saying you’re beautiful but in a haunted Victorian ghost way.”
Derek stared.
Stiles stole one of his fries.
“You know,” Stiles continued casually, “if you slept more you’d probably be less scary.”
“I’m not scary.”
The waitress walking past barked out a laugh.
Derek looked betrayed.
Stiles grinned into his milkshake.
And that was the problem.
Stiles smiled like he’d known Derek forever.
Easy.
Warm.
Unfairly charming.
Derek found himself looking for him constantly.
At the station.
Downtown.
At crime scenes.
Which was ridiculous.
Because Derek was already occupied.
With The Fox.
“Okay,” Laura said one evening, “I need you to hear yourself.”
Derek didn’t look up from the files spread across the dining table.
“Hm.”
“You are talking about this thief like he’s Moriarty.”
“He’s smart.”
“You said yesterday—and I quote—‘No one understands his methods like I do.’”
Derek froze.
Erica pointed dramatically from the couch.
“THAT’S what Batman villains say before sexual tension.”
“There is no sexual tension.”
“The thief sends you notes.”
“He’s taunting me.”
Laura sipped wine thoughtfully.
“What did the last note say?”
Derek regretted speaking immediately.
“…He told me to moisturize.”
Erica collapsed sideways laughing.
Laura actually covered her face.
“Oh my god,” she groaned. “He’s grooming you like a feral cat.”
“He’s a criminal.”
“You sound defensive.”
Derek rubbed his forehead.
Because the truth was worse.
The truth was he thought about The Fox constantly.
How he moved.
How he planned.
How he always stayed three steps ahead.
Derek would replay security footage late at night trying to predict him.
Understand him.
Sometimes he caught himself imagining conversations.
Arguments.
What his voice sounded like.
What his face looked like beneath the masks.
And every time another note appeared—
Derek felt this sharp electric thing in his chest.
Anticipation.
The worst part was that Derek never managed to catch him.
The thief was clever.
Agile.
Annoyingly good at disappearing.
But somehow, despite Derek spending every waking hour hunting The Fox—
he kept ending up with Stiles.
Not intentionally.
At least not at first.
It just… happened.
Like gravity.
Or property damage in Beacon Hills.
The first incident occurred because Derek got stabbed.
Technically grazed.
But Erica was being dramatic about it.
“You were bleeding on government property,” she said, steering him toward the clinic. “That’s rude.”
“It’s a scratch.”
“It looked deeper earlier.”
“That’s because you screamed like someone shot me.”
“I was creating atmosphere.”
Derek was exhausted, annoyed, and actively regretting his career when the clinic door burst open.
“Oh my god.”
Derek looked up.
Stiles froze in the doorway carrying three coffees and a paper bag of donuts.
His eyes landed on the blood soaking Derek’s sleeve.
And all the humor vanished from his face instantly.
“What happened?”
“It’s fine,” Derek said automatically.
Stiles ignored him completely.
“Move,” he snapped at Erica.
Erica blinked.
Then immediately moved.
Which Derek found mildly traitorous.
Stiles crouched in front of Derek, hands surprisingly gentle as he pushed Derek’s sleeve upward.
The cut wasn’t serious.
But Stiles looked furious anyway.
“You went after armed suspects alone?”
“They were cornered.”
“So was a raccoon in my attic once and it still tried to murder me.”
Derek huffed out a reluctant laugh.
Stiles looked up at him sharply.
And there it was again—
That strange softness.
Like Derek laughing mattered.
Like Derek mattered.
The realization hit Derek unexpectedly hard.
Stiles carefully cleaned the wound while muttering under his breath.
“You’re impossible.”
“You barely know me.”
Stiles glanced up.
“I know enough.”
Something warm curled low in Derek’s chest.
Across the room, Erica made a tiny squealing noise into her coffee cup.
The second incident happened during trivia night.
Derek had not wanted to attend trivia night.
Unfortunately Laura believed “socialization” built character.
So now Derek sat in a crowded bar while Lydia Martin destroyed entire teams using frightening levels of historical knowledge.
Stiles arrived late.
Like a hurricane.
“Sorry!” he announced, sliding into the empty seat beside Derek. “I got banned from two parking lots and one PetSmart.”
Derek stared.
“…How do you get banned from a PetSmart?”
Stiles looked offended.
“I was defending a ferret.”
“From what?”
“The system.”
Erica nearly inhaled a mozzarella stick laughing.
And somehow by the end of the night, Derek found himself relaxed for the first time in weeks.
Stiles stole fries from his plate.
Talked with his hands.
Leaned too close when he laughed.
At one point Derek glanced over mid-conversation—
—and found Stiles already looking at him.
Not casually.
Not distractedly.
Openly.
Warm brown eyes soft with something Derek didn’t want to examine too closely.
Stiles smiled when he got caught.
Not embarrassed.
Just fond.
Derek forgot the trivia question entirely.
Later, as they walked toward the parking lot under dim streetlights, Stiles bumped his shoulder lightly against Derek’s.
“You know,” he said casually, “you’re less scary outside work.”
“I’m not scary.”
“You once glared at a vending machine until it stopped making noise.”
“It was malfunctioning.”
Stiles grinned.
Derek stared at the grin longer than necessary.
That night, Derek went home and spent three hours reviewing Fox evidence.
But every few minutes—
his mind wandered back to Stiles laughing beside him beneath neon bar lights.
The third incident was objectively the Fox’s fault.
Derek arrived home after a sixteen-hour shift to discover his apartment had been broken into again.
His lock hung open mockingly.
Derek closed his eyes briefly.
“Unbelievable.”
Inside, nothing appeared stolen.
Instead—
his kitchen had been reorganized.
Properly reorganized.
Coffee moved beside the machine.
Spices alphabetized.
His horrible bachelor collection of expired sauces thrown away.
And sitting on the counter—
a note.
You live like a recently divorced cryptid.
Derek should have been furious.
Instead he laughed.
Actually laughed.
Out loud.
Then immediately stopped because that felt psychologically concerning.
A knock sounded at his door.
Derek opened it to find Stiles holding takeout.
“Your neighbor said someone broke in and honestly my first thought was ‘oh cool the Fox finally murdered him.’”
Derek deadpanned. “Comforting.”
Stiles stepped inside before being invited.
Then stopped abruptly.
“Oh my god.”
“What?”
“The kitchen.”
Derek crossed his arms defensively.
“What about it?”
Stiles looked around slowly.
Then looked at Derek with unmistakable delight.
“He likes you.”
Derek scoffed immediately.
“He’s taunting me.”
“No, no.” Stiles pointed at the neatly arranged shelves. “This is care. Psychotic care, but still care.”
“He’s a criminal.”
“He’s a criminal with standards.”
Derek should not have asked the next question.
But he did.
“…You think he likes me?”
Stiles went oddly still.
Then smiled.
“Oh,” he said softly. “Yeah. Definitely.”
Something about the way he said it made Derek’s pulse trip strangely.
Like Stiles himself had meant it.
The fourth incident happened because Derek forgot his own birthday.
Laura remembered.
Unfortunately.
Which led to Derek being ambushed at home by Erica, Boyd, Isaac, and Stiles carrying cupcakes.
“You people are trespassing.”
“It’s a party,” Erica corrected.
“There are six people here.”
“Intimate atmosphere.”
Derek fully intended to endure exactly thirty minutes before escaping.
Instead—
somehow—
he ended up sitting on his kitchen floor at one in the morning laughing so hard his stomach hurt while Stiles dramatically reenacted Erica getting banned from laser tag.
“I maintain,” Erica announced, “that tactical aggression should be rewarded.”
“You tackled a child,” Boyd said.
“He was winning.”
Derek looked over at Stiles mid-laugh.
And got stuck there.
Stiles sat cross-legged beside him, curls falling into his eyes, face flushed warm from beer and laughter.
Beautiful.
The thought arrived suddenly.
Clearly.
Beautiful.
Derek’s chest tightened.
As if sensing it, Stiles looked over.
Their eyes locked.
And for one suspended second—
everything else disappeared.
The room.
The noise.
The others.
Just Stiles looking at him softly like Derek was something precious.
Then Erica loudly gagged.
“Jesus Christ, just kiss already.”
Derek nearly choked to death.
Stiles turned bright red.
Laura looked delighted.
The fifth incident happened after Derek’s worst shift in years.
A bad accident.
Two fatalities.
Too much blood.
By the time Derek stumbled out of the station near dawn, exhaustion sat heavy in his bones.
And there, leaning against Derek’s jeep holding two coffees—
was Stiles.
Derek blinked tiredly.
“What are you doing here?”
Stiles shrugged lightly.
“Your shift ended three hours late.”
“So?”
“So I figured it was probably bad.”
Derek stared at him.
Stiles held out coffee quietly.
No jokes this time.
No teasing.
Just warmth.
Understanding.
Derek took the cup slowly.
Their fingers brushed.
Tiny contact.
But Derek felt it everywhere.
“You didn’t have to wait.”
“I know.”
The parking lot sat quiet around them.
Cool pre-dawn air.
Soft gold streetlights.
Stiles studied Derek carefully.
“You okay?”
And God.
Nobody ever asked Derek that gently.
Something inside him cracked open a little.
Not enough to break.
Just enough to ache.
Derek looked away first.
“Rough night.”
Stiles nodded once like he understood completely.
Then—
very casually—
he leaned sideways against Derek’s shoulder.
Derek froze.
Stiles stayed there.
Warm.
Solid.
Trusting.
Neither of them spoke for a while.
Derek could hear Stiles breathing.
Feel the heat of him through their jackets.
And absurdly—
dangerously—
Derek realized he could stay like this forever.
Then Stiles yawned dramatically.
“Okay but if we’re emotionally bonding,” he mumbled sleepily against Derek’s shoulder, “you should know I’d absolutely help you hide a body.”
Derek snorted helplessly.
“There you are.”
“Can’t be vulnerable too long. It’s against my brand.”
The sixth incident was the one that truly ruined Derek.
It happened after another Fox heist.
Another chase.
Another escape.
Derek was furious.
The Fox had slipped through his fingers again after stealing encrypted files from a private security firm.
Derek stormed into the station radiating homicidal energy.
And found Stiles asleep in one of the waiting chairs.
Curled awkwardly in a hoodie.
One cheek smushed against crossed arms.
He’d apparently been waiting for his father.
Derek stopped walking.
Something in his chest softened instantly.
Stiles looked younger asleep.
Gentler somehow.
Not chaos.
Not sharp wit and restless movement.
Just…safe.
Without thinking, Derek stepped closer.
A blanket slid from the back of the chair.
Someone had tried covering him earlier.
It had fallen.
Derek picked it up automatically.
Carefully draped it over Stiles again.
Stiles stirred slightly.
Then, still half asleep, reached out blindly and caught Derek’s wrist.
Derek froze.
Stiles made a small sleepy sound.
And tightened his grip.
Like instinct.
Like comfort.
Derek stared down at him completely motionless.
Then Stiles opened one eye blearily.
“…Derek?”
“Go back to sleep.”
Stiles blinked slowly up at him.
And smiled.
Soft.
Sleep-warm.
Fond.
It hit Derek harder than any bullet ever could.
Because standing there in the quiet station light—
with The Fox consuming his thoughts like obsession—
Derek realized, with sudden horrifying clarity, that somewhere along the way, he had fallen completely in love with Stiles Stilinski.
—
Then came the museum gala.
Black tie.
High-profile donors.
Ancient artifacts on display.
And a leaked online threat from The Fox himself.
Attendance mandatory. Wear something nice.
The entire department went into lockdown mode.
Security everywhere.
Snipers on rooftops.
Metal detectors.
Derek spent three hours preparing.
Laura adjusted his tie while Erica wolf-whistled obnoxiously.
“You look rich,” Erica declared.
“I hate this suit.”
“You look emotionally unavailable in a sexy way.”
Laura fixed Derek’s collar.
“You know,” she said mildly, “you care more about impressing this thief than any actual date you’ve ever had.”
Derek frowned.
“That’s ridiculous.”
Then he spent ten minutes changing ties.
The gala glittered with old money and political corruption.
Derek hated everyone immediately.
Except—
“You clean up nice.”
Derek turned sharply.
Stiles stood beside him in a fitted black suit that looked borderline illegal.
His curls were pushed back.
No hoodie.
No sarcasm shield.
Just sharp cheekbones and amused golden-brown eyes.
Derek’s brain stalled completely.
Stiles smirked slowly.
“Oh wow,” he murmured. “There it is.”
“What?”
“That look.”
“What look?”
“The one where you’re mentally climbing me like a tree.”
Derek nearly choked on air.
Stiles laughed softly.
God.
His laugh was a disaster.
“You’re enjoying this,” Derek muttered.
“Immensely.”
Then the lights went out.
The entire ballroom gasped.
Emergency alarms screamed.
And somewhere overhead—
Glass shattered.
Derek moved instantly.
“Police! Stay where you are!”
He sprinted toward the upper exhibit halls while officers flooded the building.
A shadow moved ahead.
Fast.
Black-clad.
Agile.
The Fox.
Derek’s pulse slammed hard.
Finally.
He chased the figure through dark corridors, vaulting barriers, shoving through security doors.
The Fox glanced back once—
And grinned beneath the mask.
Derek stopped cold.
That grin.
Familiar.
No.
The Fox darted onto the rooftop.
Wind tore across the city skyline.
Helicopters thundered overhead.
Derek raised his gun.
“It’s over.”
The Fox tilted his head.
Then slowly removed the mask.
Stiles.
Derek’s entire world rearranged itself violently.
“You,” he said hoarsely.
Stiles looked almost apologetic.
“…Hi?”
Derek just stared.
Every note.
Every conversation.
Every impossible coincidence.
Stiles took a cautious step backward.
“So before you arrest me—”
“You’re The Fox.”
“Technically branding-wise yes—”
“You broke into my apartment.”
“You looked sad.”
“You stole my couch.”
“The old one had springs attacking innocent people.”
“You’ve been flirting with me for six months.”
Stiles blinked. “…You noticed?”
Derek stared at him across the rooftop, breathing hard.
Wind snapped through the city skyline, cold against sweat-damp skin. Below them, the gala had dissolved into chaos—sirens, shouting, security scrambling through corridors.
But all Derek could focus on was Stiles.
Stiles in black tactical gear.
Stiles with a fox mask hanging loose in one gloved hand.
Stiles, who looked infuriatingly beautiful standing under emergency floodlights while Derek’s entire understanding of reality collapsed in on itself.
“…You noticed?” Stiles repeated carefully.
Derek made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a threat.
“You broke into my apartment seventeen times.”
“Twelve,” Stiles corrected automatically.
Derek pointed at him furiously. “YOU COUNTED?”
“Obviously.”
“You left me skincare products.”
“You were using three-in-one body wash.”
“That’s not illegal!”
“It should be.”
Derek dragged both hands through his hair.
This explained everything.
The notes.
The impossible timing.
The way Stiles always seemed to know details from investigations before reports were public.
And somehow the realization should have made Derek furious.
Instead—
Instead his chest hurt.
Because the thing Derek had been obsessing over for months and the thing Derek had quietly started falling for were the same person.
Which felt cosmically unfair.
Stiles shifted awkwardly beneath Derek’s silence.
“So,” he said weakly. “Good news? I’m not cheating on you emotionally with myself.”
“We were not dating.”
Stiles squinted.
“You bought me soup when I had the flu.”
“You were sick.”
“You threatened a parking officer for trying to tow my jeep.”
“He was being aggressive.”
“You learned my coffee order.”
“It’s not hard.”
“You punched a guy for flirting with me.”
“He was touching you.”
Stiles spread his hands triumphantly.
“Your honor, that is boyfriend behavior.”
Derek opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Opened it again.
“You’re a felon.”
“Allegedly.”
“I have actively investigated you.”
“And honestly? Watching you get increasingly deranged about me has been super flattering.”
Derek groaned and turned away.
Behind him, Stiles went quieter.
“Hey.”
Derek looked back reluctantly.
Something vulnerable flickered beneath Stiles’ usual humor now.
Small.
Careful.
“I never lied about liking you,” Stiles said softly.
That landed harder than Derek expected.
Because God help him, Derek knew that.
Every ridiculous interaction suddenly rearranged itself with awful clarity.
The flirting hadn’t been fake.
The softness hadn’t been manipulation.
Stiles had looked at Derek like he hung the moon long before Derek knew who he really was.
And Derek—
Derek had spent months thinking about a criminal with golden fox cards and impossible eyes.
Laura was going to be unbearable about this.
A helicopter spotlight swept suddenly across the rooftop.
“THERE!” someone shouted below.
Stiles cursed under his breath.
Duty snapped back into place instantly.
Derek straightened.
“So that’s it?” he asked tightly. “You run?”
Stiles hesitated.
And for the first time since Derek met him—
He looked uncertain.
Not cocky.
Not playful.
Just…sad.
“You know I can’t stay.”
“You could surrender.”
Stiles barked out a startled laugh.
“To Beacon Hills PD? Derek, your department once lost a suspect because Greenberg handcuffed himself to a bike rack.”
“That happened one time.”
“It happened twice.”
Derek hated that he was right.
Footsteps thundered up the stairwell behind them.
More officers incoming.
Stiles backed toward the roof edge.
Derek’s stomach dropped instantly.
“You jump and I swear to god—”
“I have a plan.”
“You always have a plan.”
“Well,” Stiles said with faint affection, “someone around here has to.”
Then he pulled something from his belt and tossed it toward Derek.
Derek caught it automatically.
A flash drive.
“What is this?”
“Evidence.”
Stiles’ voice lost its teasing edge entirely.
“Councilman Gerard Argent, the Havershams, half the gala donors downstairs? They’re trafficking stolen antiquities through private auctions. Offshore accounts, bribes, shell companies—the whole thing.”
Derek stared at the drive.
“You stole evidence.”
“I liberated evidence.”
“You committed federal crimes.”
“Technically international crimes.”
“Stiles.”
Stiles smiled faintly.
“You’re really pretty when you say my name angry.”
The rooftop door burst open.
“FREEZE!”
Officers flooded the roof.
Guns raised.
Chaos exploded instantly.
And in the split second everyone’s attention shifted—
Stiles stepped backward off the building.
Derek’s heart stopped.
“STILES!”
He lunged forward violently, grabbing for him—
—and caught fabric.
For one horrifying second Derek saw empty air beneath them both.
Then a cable jerked taut.
Stiles swung downward laughing breathlessly, suspended from a harness line anchored somewhere below the roof.
“Oh my god,” Erica yelled from the doorway. “HE’S BATMAN.”
Stiles dangled three stories down, looking delighted.
“Bye, Derek!”
Derek was fully prepared to murder him.
“You cannot keep doing this!”
“Sure I can!”
“You are literally hanging off a building!”
Stiles grinned up at him upside down.
“Still coming over Thursday?”
Then he dropped smoke bombs onto the alley below.
The rooftop vanished into chaos.
By the time visibility returned—
The Fox was gone.
The next three weeks were the worst of Derek’s life.
Not because of the paperwork.
Though there was so much paperwork.
Not because Internal Affairs got involved.
Though that was deeply annoying.
Not even because Laura laughed so hard she cried after learning Derek’s mysterious criminal obsession and his actual crush were the same person.
No.
The worst part was—
Stiles disappeared completely.
No visits to the station.
No coffee shop sightings.
No sarcastic notes under Derek’s windshield wipers.
Nothing.
It drove Derek insane.
Alarmingly insane.
“You look terrible,” Laura informed him one morning.
Derek glared at his evidence board.
The Fox’s crimes stretched across it in neat organized lines.
But now there were photos of Stiles too.
Candids.
Security captures.
Screenshots from city cameras.
Erica walked in holding coffee and stopped dead.
“Oh my god.”
Derek looked up sharply.
“What?”
“You made the wall worse.”
“It’s organized.”
“There are heart-shaped sticky notes.”
Derek froze.
Slowly looked behind him.
There were indeed heart-shaped sticky notes.
Silence.
Laura lost composure immediately.
Erica collapsed against the doorway wheezing.
“I didn’t buy those,” Derek said defensively.
“Sure,” Erica gasped. “The love fairy did.”
Derek ripped the notes off violently.
He hated all of them.
Mostly himself.
Because they were right.
He missed Stiles.
Not the chase.
Not the mystery.
Stiles.
The way he filled rooms like sunlight.
The way he touched Derek casually like it was instinct.
The ridiculous humor.
The impossible softness hidden beneath chaos.
Derek had arrested murderers without blinking.
But one sarcastic thief with curls and pretty eyes had apparently ruined his entire emotional ecosystem.
Humiliating.
Absolutely humiliating.
Then Derek came home one night after another dead-end lead—
—and found his apartment window open.
He went completely still.
The room smelled faintly like cinnamon.
His pulse jumped instantly.
Slowly, Derek stepped inside.
The apartment lights were low.
Music drifted softly from the kitchen.
And there—
Standing at Derek’s stove wearing one of Derek’s flannels—
Was Stiles.
Cooking pasta.
Like this was normal.
Derek just stared.
Stiles glanced over his shoulder nervously.
“…Hey.”
Derek’s brain stopped functioning.
“You disappeared for three weeks.”
Stiles winced.
“Yeah.”
“You faked your death in Prague.”
“That was honestly a misunderstanding.”
“You hacked into FBI servers.”
“In fairness, their password security was embarrassing.”
Derek stepped closer slowly.
Stiles looked suddenly less like the legendary Fox and more like a man waiting for rejection.
“I figured,” Stiles said quietly, “you probably needed space.”
Derek looked at him standing barefoot in his kitchen.
At the familiar ridiculous curls.
At Derek’s flannel sleeves rolled over tattooed forearms.
At the nervousness Stiles was trying and failing to hide.
And something inside Derek finally snapped.
He crossed the room in three strides, grabbed Stiles by the waist, and kissed him hard enough to shut him up completely.
The wooden spoon clattered onto the floor.
Stiles made a startled noise against Derek’s mouth.
Then melted into him instantly.
Warm hands grabbing Derek’s shirt.
Derek kissed him harder, months of frustration and obsession and want crashing together all at once.
When they finally broke apart, both breathing hard, Stiles looked dazed.
“…Okay,” he whispered.
Derek rested his forehead against his.
“You are the most infuriating person I’ve ever met.”
Stiles smiled slowly.
“But I’m your favorite.”
Stiles smiled slowly.
“But I’m your favorite.”
Derek should have denied it.
He really should have.
Instead he stood there in his own kitchen with Stiles trapped between him and the counter, breathing the same air, hands still curled tight in the fabric of Derek’s shirt—
and said nothing.
Which was apparently answer enough.
Stiles’ expression softened immediately.
Not smug.
Not teasing.
Just warm in a way that made Derek’s chest feel too tight for his ribs.
“That’s kind of terrifying, actually,” Stiles admitted quietly.
Derek frowned slightly. “What is?”
“You.”
Before Derek could respond, Stiles reached up slowly and touched the crease between Derek’s brows.
“You get this wrinkle when you’re worried,” he murmured.
Derek’s pulse stuttered embarrassingly hard.
“How long,” he asked carefully, “have you been watching me?”
Stiles snorted softly.
“Oh, buddy.”
“That’s not reassuring.”
“You really want the honest answer?”
Derek narrowed his eyes.
Stiles leaned back against the counter, curls falling into his eyes again.
“The first time I saw you,” he said, “you were yelling at a parking meter because someone had duct taped traffic cones to it.”
Derek remembered that day instantly.
“Someone glued them down.”
“I know. It was hilarious.”
“You did that?”
“No. But I respected the craftsmanship.”
Derek huffed a reluctant laugh.
And there it was again—
that impossible thing Stiles did to him.
Like gravity shifted subtly whenever he smiled.
Stiles looked at him for a long moment.
Then quieter:
“You looked exhausted.”
Derek blinked.
“That’s what you remember?”
“You looked exhausted,” Stiles repeated. “And still nice to people.”
Something inside Derek twisted unexpectedly.
Because no one noticed things like that.
Not usually.
“You bought coffee for the woman whose car got hit,” Stiles continued softly. “Then spent twenty minutes helping a kid look for his backpack.”
Derek stared at him.
“I watched you and thought…” Stiles laughed lightly under his breath. “Well. That guy’s gonna ruin my life emotionally.”
Derek’s heart did something deeply inconvenient.
“So you started robbing museums?”
“I was already robbing museums.”
“That is not better.”
Stiles grinned.
Then his expression shifted slightly.
More careful.
“You know I never stole from people who needed it, right?”
Derek crossed his arms automatically. “Stiles—”
“No, seriously.” Stiles pushed upright. “Insurance-covered collections. Private buyers. Corrupt assholes with stolen artifacts in climate-controlled basements. Half the things I took were already illegally acquired.”
“That doesn’t make it legal.”
“I know.”
Derek studied him quietly.
The thing was—
he believed him.
Which was probably another sign Derek had lost his mind.
“You still drove me insane,” Derek muttered.
Stiles brightened immediately.
“Oh good, so you did notice I was flirting.”
“You sent me moisturizer anonymously.”
“You looked dry.”
“You hacked city traffic cameras to stop me getting parking tickets.”
“You’re welcome.”
“You stole my couch.”
“The old couch made me sad.”
Derek rubbed a hand over his face.
Across from him, Stiles watched with unconcealed fondness.
“So what happens now?” he asked eventually.
That question settled heavily between them.
Derek exhaled slowly.
“Officially?”
Stiles winced. “Ah. The cop voice.”
“You committed multiple felonies.”
“Allegedly.”
“You literally just admitted—”
“Hypothetically.”
Derek pointed at him.
“This is what I mean. You make every conversation feel like a hostage negotiation.”
“Flirting.”
“Criminal flirting.”
“The best kind.”
Derek shook his head helplessly.
And God.
That was the problem.
Nothing about this should have felt easy.
Derek should have arrested him.
Should have dragged him back to the station.
Should have cared more about protocol than the way Stiles looked at him like he was something worth crossing cities for.
Instead Derek found himself stepping closer again.
Stiles went still instantly.
Not fearful.
Just attentive.
Like all his restless energy narrowed entirely toward Derek.
“You disappeared,” Derek said quietly.
The humor faded from Stiles’ face.
“I know.”
“I thought—”
Derek stopped.
The words lodged somewhere painful in his throat.
For three weeks he’d checked every unfamiliar body report.
Every intercepted rumor.
Every international alert.
He’d barely slept.
Because some irrational horrible part of him had been terrified Stiles was dead.
Understanding flickered across Stiles’ expression slowly.
“Oh,” he whispered.
Derek looked away first.
“I needed to make sure the evidence reached the right people,” Stiles said quietly. “Argent has connections everywhere. If I stayed nearby…”
“You’d get caught.”
“Probably.”
Derek hated how calmly Stiles said it.
Like his own safety barely mattered.
“That doesn’t mean you vanish.”
Stiles’ eyes softened painfully.
“You missed me.”
Derek glared at him immediately on instinct.
“You’re incredibly annoying.”
“That’s not a no.”
“No,” Derek admitted finally, voice rough. “It’s not.”
Stiles looked genuinely startled for a second.
Then helplessly pleased.
Like Derek admitting that mattered more than it should.
The idiot.
“You know,” Stiles said softly, “I had this whole speech prepared.”
Derek blinked. “You did?”
“Yeah.” Stiles looked offended suddenly. “It was good too. Very emotionally devastating. There were metaphors.”
“What happened to it?”
“You kissed me and my brain short-circuited.”
Derek snorted.
Stiles smiled immediately at the sound.
Then, more hesitant this time:
“Can I ask you something?”
“What?”
“When did you know?”
Derek leaned back against the counter beside him.
Thought about it honestly.
There wasn’t one moment.
Not really.
It was gradual.
Accumulating.
Stiles laughing beside him in bars.
Stiles waiting with coffee after bad shifts.
Stiles asleep in the station chair holding Derek’s wrist like instinct.
And somehow tangled up in all of it—
The Fox.
The chase.
The notes.
The anticipation every time Derek found another gold fox card.
“I think,” Derek said slowly, “part of me knew before I wanted to admit it.”
Stiles tilted his head.
“How?”
Derek looked over at him.
“Because every time the Fox disappeared,” he admitted quietly, “I’d end up looking for you instead.”
Stiles went completely still.
For once—
actually speechless.
Derek found that strangely satisfying.
Then Stiles recovered enough to place a hand dramatically over his heart.
“Oh my god,” he whispered. “That was disgustingly romantic.”
“Don’t make it weird.”
“It’s too late. I’m already planning our wedding playlist.”
Derek groaned.
Stiles beamed.
Then the pasta on the stove started burning.
“Oh, shit—”
Stiles lunged for the pan.
Derek laughed again before he could stop himself.
Real laughter this time.
Warm.
Easy.
And standing there together in the golden kitchen light—
with burnt pasta smoke filling the apartment and Stiles arguing aggressively with a saucepan—
Derek realized something else.
For the first time in months,
he wasn’t thinking about chasing The Fox anymore.
Because somehow,
impossibly,
The Fox had already come home.