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The aroma of sizzling bacon and fresh coffee was a siren song, dragged through the Stilinski home by the sheer, desperate will of one exhausted human.
Every Sunday, Stiles rose with the sun (or, more accurately, an hour before the first pre-dawn rumble of an empty wolf stomach) to orchestrate breakfast.
If he didn't, the pack, a crew of supernatural chaos and bottomless pits, would descend into a culinary abyss of cold Pop-Tarts, raw meat from Derek’s freezer, or, God forbid, experiments with the toaster oven that usually ended in smoke alarms and frantic shapeshifting.
He was the pack mom, whether he liked it or not. And on Sundays, he was the short-order cook, the barista, and the referee for arguments over the last waffle.
Peter Hale started showing up for it about three months ago.
At first, it was just a snarky apparition in the doorway, a low "Smells almost edible, Stiles" before he'd slink to the counter.
He never asked for anything, just helped himself to a mug and waited.
Then, one Sunday, Stiles, out of reflex or pity, asked, "Coffee? Black, right?" And Peter had simply given him that wolfish smirk and corrected, "Half a teaspoon of sugar, a splash of cream, exactly how you inexplicably remember I like it."
Stiles had grumbled but poured it. And Peter had returned, every Sunday, for that coffee.
The pack, surprisingly, didn't seem to notice the shift.
Derek glowered, Scott worried, Lydia rolled her eyes, Isaac just ate faster.
They were too busy elbowing each other for the last pancake or complaining about Stiles’ insistence on vegetables (he called it “nutritional balance,” they called it “salad desecration of perfectly good bacon”).
Then came the pie.
It was an ordinary Sunday, chaos reigning supreme.
Stiles was flipping eggs with one hand and swatting Scott with a spatula for trying to steal a sausage, when Peter walked in, not empty-handed.
In his long, elegant fingers, he held a perfectly crimped, golden-brown apple pie. Steam wafted from a small vent in the crust, carrying the intoxicating scent of cinnamon and baked apples.
"Thought the main course might need a little dessert," Peter purred, placing it carefully on the pristine counter Stiles had just cleared. "Freshly baked, of course."
The kitchen went silent. Even Isaac, halfway through a stack of French toast, paused, nose twitching. Derek actually stopped growling at Jackson.
Stiles stared at the pie. Then at Peter. "You… baked a pie?"
"Is that so surprising, Stiles?" Peter's eyes glittered with amusement. "I am a Hale. We have many hidden talents." He then proceeded to slice generous portions for everyone, serving Stiles first with a flourish that was entirely unnecessary and yet ridiculously charming.
The pack devoured the pie. It was phenomenal. Sweet, tart, perfectly spiced, with a flaky crust that melted in your mouth.
They complimented it, thanked Peter, and promptly forgot the strangeness of it.
But Stiles didn't forget the way Peter’s gaze lingered on him while he ate his slice, the slight curve of his lips, the almost possessive hum in his chest.
It took Lydia, a full week later, sipping her latte in the library and watching Stiles fuss over a bruised Scott like a mother hen, to connect the dots.
"You know," she said, without looking up from her textbook, "Peter is wooing you."
Stiles choked on his coffee. "What?! No! He's… he's just being Peter! And it was a pie!"
"Exactly," Lydia said, finally looking at him. "He brings you things. He knows how you like your coffee. He subtly compliments your domestic skills. And he's charming . Dangerously so. He's wooing our mom with baked goods and wolfish smiles."
Scott, who was nursing his arm, looked up with wide, horrified eyes. "Peter?! Our Peter? Wooing Stiles?!"
Derek, who had been brooding in a corner, bolted upright, the realization hitting him like a punch to the gut. His face went from grumpy to aghast. "No. Absolutely not."
Jackson, surprisingly, was the most pragmatic. "Well, that explains the pie. It was really good, though."
The pack officially went into protection mode.
The next Sunday, Peter arrived a few minutes late, likely on purpose.
The moment he stepped into the kitchen, Scott tried to block his access to Stiles, subtly placing himself between them, "accidentally" bumping into Peter’s arm. Peter smoothly sidestepped him.
Derek tried to claim the counter space right next to Stiles, usually Peter's preferred spot.
Peter simply leaned against the doorframe, a smirk playing on his lips, watching Stiles work. "Looking particularly fetching this morning, Stiles," he purred, loud enough for everyone to hear.
"I'm wearing mismatched socks and a grease-stained hoodie, Peter," Stiles muttered, trying to ignore the sudden, collective growl from the pack.
Jackson, in a rare display of pack solidarity, tried to divert Peter with questions about investments. Peter just hummed, his eyes never leaving Stiles as he stirred the scrambled eggs. "My portfolio is quite robust, Jackson. Unlike some people's ability to appreciate true domestic bliss."
It was a constant, low-level war.
The pack would physically maneuver themselves between Stiles and Peter. They'd subtly (or not-so-subtly) cough, clear their throats, or start loud, irrelevant conversations whenever Peter tried to engage Stiles. They'd hog Stiles’ attention, asking him to pass everything, to check their food, to just generally be there.
Peter found it immensely entertaining. He’d simply sidestep, glide past, or fix them with a look that promised unpleasant repercussions later, all while maintaining eye contact with Stiles, his smile never faltering. He seemed to relish the challenge.
Then, he unleashed the ultimate weapon.
One Sunday, Stiles was flipping pancakes when a truly magnificent aroma bloomed from the grill.
He turned to see Peter, tongs in hand, expertly turning a perfectly seared ribeye, still glistening from the pan. It was at least three inches thick, with a beautiful char on the outside and a promise of juicy, pink perfection within.
"Thought our resident growing boy might appreciate something a little more substantial than just carbs," Peter said, cutting a generous slice and placing it on a plate.
He walked past Scott, past Derek, past Jackson, who all watched, mesmerized by the steak. He held it out to Isaac.
Isaac, whose eyes had glazed over at the sight and smell of the meat, took it with trembling hands. He didn't even use a fork. He just took a bite. His eyes rolled back in his head.
"Oh. My. God," Isaac mumbled around the mouthful, tears welling in his eyes. "This is… this is the most beautiful thing I've ever tasted."
Peter gave him a slow, knowing smile. "Just for you, dear boy. Always happy to provide."
Isaac, completely won over, ignored the horrified yelps of "Treason!" from his packmates. He just pointed a greasy finger at Peter. "He's not so bad, guys. Look! Steak!"
Peter winked at Stiles, who just stood there, spatula frozen mid-air, watching his pack slowly unravel. He had created monsters, and now Peter Hale was bribing them with prime cuts of beef.
This was going to be a long courtship. And Stiles, for the life of him, couldn't decide if he was more annoyed or secretly, ridiculously flattered.