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Stiles knew the game. A dimly lit bar, Alpha’s prowling, searching for a sweet little Omega to charm into their lap, and Stiles—chubby, sharp-tongued, and utterly unimpressed—rejecting them all with a smirk.
They tried the usual lines. Compliments about how soft he looked, how perfect he’d be curled against their chests, how he was just made to be doted on. But Stiles had heard it all before, and none of them—cocky, posturing, predictable—ever made it past his dismissive wave.
The bar was packed, the hum of low conversations blending with the bass-heavy music thrumming through the floorboards. The scent of alcohol, clashing colognes, and the faint musk of tension hung in the air.
Stiles leaned against the counter, nursing a fruity drink he wasn’t actually drinking. A few feet away, yet another Alpha had sauntered up, offering his best smirk.
“You’re something else, aren’t you?” The Alpha’s voice dripped confidence, his gaze flicking down Stiles’ frame like he was sizing up prey. “Soft. Round. Bet you taste—”
“Like regret,” Stiles cut in, lifting his drink in mock celebration. “Like all the bad decisions you made before walking over here.”
The Alpha faltered, his smirk twisting.
Stiles had learned that the appeal was part of the problem. His build—full-bodied, plush, undeniably Omega—was like honey in a bar full of hungry wolves. Alphas circled him like he was some prize to be claimed, their interest rooted in instinct rather than actual connection.
And, really, Stiles wasn’t interested in being someone’s biological weakness.
He waved the Alpha off with a flick of his wrist, catching movement near the far end of the bar.
The Hale Alpha was settled in the corner, fingers wrapped loosely around a glass of something dark. Unlike the others, he hadn’t approached. Hadn’t thrown out compliments or sized Stiles up like a conquest. He was just...there. Watching, waiting, carrying the kind of presence that made people adjust their footing without realizing.
When he finally moved, it wasn’t with the entitled swagger of someone looking for a trophy. He approached slowly, deliberately, pausing just far enough that Stiles had room to choose.
“Can I buy you a drink?” Derek asked, voice low enough that it sent a shiver up Stiles’ spine.
Stiles snorted, lips twitching. “And why should I say yes to you?”
Derek shrugged; eyes never left his. “Because I asked.”
Stiles tilted his head, considering Derek like he was a particularly tricky riddle. He’d shot down five Alphas tonight—six, if he counted the one who had tried to "accidentally" brush against his hip like it was some grand seduction move.
So why did Derek feel different?
Maybe it was the lack of bravado. The steady way he held himself, like he didn’t need Stiles’ approval but still wanted it all the same. Maybe it was the quiet confidence of an Alpha who didn’t have to prove anything to anyone.
Or maybe it was just that Derek was stupidly, annoyingly hot.
Stiles narrowed his eyes. “What if I say no?”
Derek didn’t flinch. “Then I’ll walk away.”
No argument. No bargaining. Just acceptance.
Stiles exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. “God, you’re really making it hard to keep up my unapproachable Omega act.”
Derek smirked, but didn’t push. “I wouldn’t want to ruin your reputation.”
“Wouldn’t you?” Stiles threw back, crossing his arms over his chest. “Isn’t that the whole Alpha game? Wear down the Omega, push just enough that I feel wanted but not enough that it’s weird, get me melting in your hands? I mean, that’s what the last five were doing.”
Derek’s expression didn’t shift, but there was something in his gaze—amused, knowing. “If that worked on you, you wouldn’t still be standing here.”
Stiles opened his mouth, then shut it.
Okay, fair point.
Derek shifted slightly, giving him space—actual space, not just the illusion of it. No subtle crowding, no trapping, no towering over him like some Alpha asserting dominance. Just patience.
Stiles hated that he shivered.
Stiles really should have just said yes already.
The problem was, the moment stretched too long. That stupid, weighted silence. He could feel the air shift around them, as if the whole damn bar was waiting to see whether Derek Hale—enigmatic, infuriatingly attractive, not_like_the_others—would actually land him.
And because the universe loved messing with him, someone watching clearly did not appreciate the idea.
“I thought you weren’t into Alphas,” a voice cut in, sharp and edged with something territorial.
Stiles turned just in time to see Jackson—the persistent Alpha who had tried (and failed) earlier—lean against the bar, drink sloshing slightly in his grip. He wasn’t smiling anymore.
Stiles blinked. “I am into Alphas. Just not disrespecting ones.”
Derek made a quiet noise that sounded suspiciously like a chuckle.
Jackson’s jaw ticked. “So what makes him different?” He gestured toward Derek, eyes narrowing. “He didn’t even try. You turned me down, what, three times? And now he gets a free pass? Must be nice.”
Oh, great. Now it was a whole thing.
Stiles didn’t answer immediately—because, well...yeah. That was kind of what happened. But it was different. He could feel it in his bones. Something about Derek didn't set off his irritation alarms.
Maybe it was the steady presence, the quiet weight of consideration rather than entitlement.
Or maybe it was just the stupid way his voice made Stiles shiver. Who could say?
Jackson scoffed, shaking his head like this was some grand injustice. “Figures. Everyone wants the broody ones.”
Derek didn’t even acknowledge him. Just lifted his drink, taking a slow sip, gaze still locked on Stiles like the interruption was barely worth noting.
Stiles wasn’t proud of the way his stomach flipped.
He sighed dramatically, tossing Jackson an exaggerated shrug. “What can I say? I like a challenge.”
Derek hummed. “You like being challenged.”
Jackson was fuming.
Stiles could see it in the rigid set of his shoulders, the tight grip on his drink, the barely concealed resentment simmering behind his eyes.
"You think you're better than me?" Jackson sneered, eyes cutting to Derek like he expected the Alpha to engage in some posturing contest.
Derek—predictably, unfairly—did not rise to the bait. He simply sighed, like he had seen this before, like he was already tired of the conversation that hadn’t even started.
"Go home, Jackson," Derek said, voice calm.
Jackson scoffed, stepping closer to Stiles as if proximity alone could win him something. "No. I think you should go home, Hale. Let the Omega make his own decisions."
That was funny, considering Stiles had already made his decision.
It took exactly three seconds for things to escalate.
Jackson lunged—whether to shove, grab, or mark territory, Stiles wasn’t sure. But he barely had time to process it before Derek moved.
One punch. Clean. Sharp. Efficient.
Jackson hit the floor hard, groaning like he couldn’t quite believe what had just happened.
Derek barely spared him a glance.
Instead, he turned to Stiles, adjusting the sleeve of his jacket with the ease of a man who had done this before. His expression was utterly unaffected, as if knocking out rival Alphas was just another part of his weekend routine.
“You alright?” Derek asked, his tone absurdly casual.
Stiles blinked. “You—I—He—What the hell, dude?!”
Derek shrugged, unbothered. “He was touching my mate.”
"Yeah, but one punch? That was kind of—" Stiles gestured wildly, like that would somehow explain his thoughts. "You didn’t even let him struggle. That was embarrassing for him!"
Derek’s lips twitched. “Would you have preferred a drawn-out fight?”
“No! Obviously not!” Stiles huffed, scrubbing a hand down his face. “God, you are such an Alpha cliché sometimes—”
And then Derek smirked.
"You know why?" Derek asked, stepping closer—just enough to make Stiles suck in a sharp breath.
The whole damn bar felt like it had gone silent.
"Because," Derek said, voice dropping just enough to send a shiver up Stiles' spine, "he was trying to touch what’s mine."
Oh.
Oh, that was dangerously effective.
And that was also entirely the point.
Because Stiles wasn’t actually offended.
No, this was all part of the game. The constant push-and-pull, the exaggerated resistance, the dramatic Alpha posturing. It was fun, even if the rest of the world probably thought they were serious about it.
Stiles sighed, lips twitching despite himself. “You really had to pull the 'my mate' card, huh?”
Derek’s smirk didn’t fade. “It works every time.”
And, well. Yeah.
It did.
“Let’s go home.” Stiles said slipping off his stool and then stepping over the unconscious Alpha.