Chapter Text
14th May 2024
Derek left thirty minutes ago. Leaving Stiles naked in bed, staring at the ceiling, the weight of exhaustion pressing him into the mattress. The air in his apartment is stale, thick with sweat, sex, and something heavier, something he doesn’t have the energy to name. The sheets are twisted around his legs, clinging like guilt, and the only proof that Derek was ever here is the money on the bedside table.
A stack of crisp bills.
He turns his head to look at the money, stomach twisting as he fights the urge to knock the stacks to the floor. The worst part isn’t taking the money. It’s that Derek never hesitates to leave it behind, as if nothing has changed between them. As if Stiles is just another expense, something to be paid for and then left behind in the dark. He lets himself sink into it, the pit of despair and anguish, until the hours blur together, until the first pale slivers of sunlight creep through the blinds.
His body aches from exhaustion, the kind that seeps into his bones, that makes his limbs feel heavy and his mind slow. He wishes he could just close his eyes and disappear into sleep, but his thoughts won’t quiet. Guilt clings to him like smoke, thick and inescapable. Guilt for the money he takes, for the family he has a hand tearing apart, for the way Derek makes him feel something real in the most unreal of circumstances.
Derek Hale is everything Stiles Stilinski shouldn’t want, married, a father, tangled in secrets. But when desperation meets desire, lines blur, and Stiles finds himself caught in an affair that feels as intoxicating as it does damning.
Somewhere across the country, his father would call this self-destruction. Stiles can still hear his voice, gruff and edged with frustration.
You can’t tell me this is what you want for yourself.
The last time they spoke, it had ended in shouting. Stiles pictured his father, pacing back and forth in their tiny kitchen back in Beacon Hills, hands clenched into fists like he was barely holding himself together. He’s a married man, Stiles. He’s throwing money at you like- He’d cut himself off then, sighing. Noah Stilinski couldn't even begin to imagine how close he was to the truth. You deserve more than this, son.
Stiles had hung up.
If they were speaking, his father might tell him to get his head out of his ass, to stop chasing someone who was never his. But they haven’t spoken in weeks. His dad doesn’t know the full truth, doesn’t know about the money, about the things Stiles has done just to get by. But he knows enough. Enough to be ashamed. And Stiles can still hear the disappointment in his voice.
Seventeen months. Seventeen months of stolen moments, whispered names, a bed that always feels too cold when Derek leaves. Seventeen months of wanting something that will never come, that he can never have. Stiles has had enough. He’s heartbroken, guilty, exhausted, and more than anything, vengeful.
The rage starts to set in. Because why is he the only one hurting? Why is he the only one who has lost anything? Stiles feels like setting fire to the world and watching it burn.
He forces himself out of bed, shoving his legs into a pair of sweatpants plucked from the laundry hamper, pulling a clean t-shirt over his head. At his desk, he hesitates. An email feels insufficient. Too impersonal. Too small for something that has consumed him whole. Instead, he pulls open a desk drawer, fingers brushing against smooth, heavy card stock, a gift from Lydia he never thought he’d have use for. He picks up a fountain pen Derek had left lying around, turns it over in his hands, and then presses the nib to paper.
His hand shakes, but the words come easily and in the dim glow of his New York apartment, Stiles Stilinski begins to write, spilling his soul onto paper.
Dear Mrs. Hale