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Stiles doesn’t even blink when Derek Venmos him for Roscoe’s new alternator before he can protest. Doesn’t think twice when a caramel macchiato appears in his hand halfway through a hellish night of finals, the receipt already crumpled in Derek’s back pocket.
He’s used to it by now - the soft sound of Derek’s car pulling up behind his in the driveway, the quiet clink of takeout containers on his porch when he’s too tired to cook, the ghost of a smile when Derek hands over coffee so sweet it could give someone else a cavity. For Stiles, it’s just…Tuesday.
At first, he tried to push back. Tried to insist he could pay Derek back later, tried to buy his own coffee, even tried to sneak cash into the glovebox of Derek’s Camaro once.
Derek gave it back in twenties, stuffed inside a fresh pack of coconut milk whipped cream cans.
“I like helping,” Derek had said, gruff and quiet, like it cost him something to admit. “Let me.”
So Stiles let him.
Now, it’s routine. Derek helps. Stiles pretends it’s not a big deal. He convinces himself it’s not charity, that it’s not weird to depend on someone like this. Because it’s Derek. And Derek’s been circling his orbit since sophomore year, when he showed up with those angry eyes and sad shoulders and Stiles couldn’t help but notice how careful he was with everything except himself.
They never defined it. Not the quiet check ins, the texts that say “You home?” and mean “Are you okay?”, not the way Derek’s eyes soften when Stiles talks about his dad, or how Stiles always saves Derek the last dumpling. Not the slow orbit they’ve been in for years.
It’s not dating.
But they’re all not dating anyone else either, never have.
And sometimes, like when Derek slides a coffee into Stiles’ hand without a word and stands there like he’s waiting for something, anything, Stiles thinks maybe he’s been the one holding it back. Because if this is something, it’s already everything. And if it isn't...he doesn't know what to do with the way his heart stutters every time Derek looks at him like he hung the moon.
~~~~
Derek never set out to get a business degree. He just wanted something to do in the quiet hours when the loft echoed too much and the memories got too loud. The online classes were supposed to be filler, something productive to keep his hands busy between pack drama and rebuilding the Hale name into something that didn’t feel like ash and blood.
But then came wealth management.
And Derek found himself hooked.
There was something about the clean logic of it. About strategy, and long term planning, and watching numbers grow with careful precision. The same instincts that made him a good Alpha - caution, foresight, the ability to see five steps ahead - translated well to spreadsheets and investment portfolios.
Peter noticed.
Of course Peter noticed.
And when Peter offered to team up and “make the Hale fortune worthy of its name again,” Derek agreed, on the condition that it would be done right. No blood money. No shady deals. Just intelligence, research, and ruthless efficiency.
They started small. A few smart stocks. Some strategic property buys. A side company or two, mostly silent partners in other people’s ideas.
By the time Derek realized they’d quadrupled the family wealth, he wasn’t surprised. Just…satisfied.
But the investment he cared about most?
Stiles.
Not in a way that could be tracked on a spreadsheet. Not with dividends or quarterly projections.
But in early morning coffees and brake pads. In covering rent shortfalls without comment. In making sure Stiles had access to every tool, every comfort, every inch of breathing room he’d ever denied himself out of guilt or pride or sheer, stubborn Stilinski willpower.
Derek had the money. He had the means. And if he wasn’t going to use it to care for the person he’d quietly chosen years ago, then what the hell was the point?
He didn’t say anything. Never explained it. He just…showed up. Slipped the money through in ways that didn’t embarrass or overwhelm. A new laptop when Stiles’ screen cracked. A “bonus” from the library Stiles worked at that mysteriously aligned with the exact cost of tuition for a night class Stiles was eyeing as he got ready for college. Coffee on the bad days. A heated blanket on the worse ones.
Peter teased him mercilessly for it.
“You know, most wolves would just mate their person instead of establishing a five year resource plan like some lovesick idiot,” he’d say, sipping scotch and raising a perfectly arched brow.
Derek ignored him.
Because this? This was love. Quiet, constant, built to last. He didn’t need fanfare. He didn’t even need thanks.
He just needed Stiles to be okay. To have enough. To feel safe. Provided for. Wanted - even if he didn’t know it yet.
Derek Hale was many things. A wolf. An investor. A survivor.
But above all else?
He was all in on Stiles Stilinski.
~~~~
Stiles stands in the middle of his kitchen, Berkeley orientation packet clutched in one hand, the other tangled in his hair like if he yanks hard enough, he’ll stop the panic spiraling through his chest.
He’s doing it. He got in. He fought to get in. He survived hell, trauma, supernatural nightmares, and bureaucratic headaches. He earned this.
But.
The dorms.
The noise, the strangers, the impossibility of privacy. Someone bumping into him while he’s asleep, someone leaving the door unlocked, someone asking about the scars or the nightmares or the way he goes statue still when a door slams too hard.
He knows it’s stupid. People live in dorms all the time. Normal people. People who didn’t grow up learning how to build makeshift mountain ash traps and stitch themselves up with shaking hands.
And then there’s Derek. Standing in the Stilinski kitchen with him, with two coffee cups in hand, like he just knew Stiles was spiraling. Like he felt it.
Of course he did.
Derek always does.
“Hey,” Derek says softly, sliding a cup across the table. Caramel macchiato, three shots of espresso, extra extra caramel, coconut milk whipped cream. Stiles takes it with trembling fingers.
He doesn’t say anything for a long time. Just breathes.
“I’m freaking out,” he finally admits, voice barely a whisper. “I can’t do the dorms, Der. I can’t. I know how that sounds, but-”
“It doesn’t sound like anything but the truth,” Derek says, firm. Sure. Solid like always.
Stiles looks at him, brows pulling together. “So what, I just... what, commute from Beacon Hills? Give up?”
“No,” Derek says. And then he sets something down on the table.
A folder.
Thick. Sleek. Heavy in a way that makes Stiles sit up straight.
“I wasn’t sure when I was going to do this,” Derek says, thumb running over the edge of the folder like it might bite him. “But now feels right.”
Stiles opens it. Slowly.
There’s a lease. A set of keys. A bank account summary that makes Stiles choke a little.
“Derek-”
“It’s an apartment. Fifteen minutes from campus. Two bedrooms. Quiet neighborhood. Private entrance. Covered parking. Security system.” Derek’s voice is even, but there’s tension in his jaw, in the way he’s bracing. “One of the buildings Hale Holdings owns, so the rent’s…let’s just say, extremely negotiable.”
Stiles blinks down at the paper. “You - what is this?”
“It’s yours. Ours. If you want it.”
Stiles looks up, eyes wide. “Are you asking me to move in with you?”
“I’m asking you,” Derek says, stepping closer, heart in his throat and soul in his hands, “to let me take care of you the way I’ve wanted to for years. I know you’re not ready to call it what it is. I know we’ve been slow. But Stiles, you’re mine. You always have been.”
Stiles opens his mouth. Closes it.
Derek swallows hard, barreling forward now because the fear is too big to stop. “You don’t have to be afraid. You don’t have to explain the nightmares or the locks or why you need space to breathe. I know. I get it. And if the only thing standing between you and a life you want is the idea of sharing a wall with a stranger who doesn’t understand what you’ve been through, then let me be your constant instead.”
He exhales slowly. “Let me be the thing that doesn’t change. Let me be home.”
Silence.
Stiles looks back down at the lease, at the numbers, at the meticulous care baked into every part of this plan.
“You’ve been planning this,” he says softly.
“I’ve been hoping for this,” Derek corrects, voice rough. “This is me going for broke, Stiles. All the chips. Every card. You’re the best investment I’ve ever made, and if you say yes, I swear to god-”
Stiles launches himself into Derek’s arms, paper fluttering to the floor.
“I’ll say yes a thousand times,” he says against Derek’s neck.
And for the first time in a long time, Derek lets himself believe that love can be both quiet and loud, that it can come with keys and security systems and coffee cups, and still feel like fireworks behind his ribs.
~~~~
The apartment smells like fresh paint and lemon cleaner, and the air conditioning hums gently over the sound of distant traffic. It's quiet, not Beacon Hills quiet, but quiet enough. Safe enough.
They move in slowly, cautiously, like they’re trying not to startle the moment.
Stiles sets his single duffel bag down by the couch and just…stands there for a second. Soaks it in. The pale oak floors, the tall windows with blackout curtains already hung. The shelves, empty and waiting. The soft gray sofa that Derek bought because Stiles falls asleep on couches, not beds. He always has. And Derek bought the most comfortable couch he could find.
Derek is there, solid and calm, unpacking kitchen things like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like they’ve always done this. Like it was inevitable.
And maybe it was.
Dinner is takeout eaten on the floor, still in the cartons. They eat in silence, knee to knee, Stiles taking his sweet time picking the mushrooms out of his noodles while Derek pretends not to watch every micro expression that flickers across his face.
“This feels fake,” Stiles says finally, nudging Derek’s knee. “Like dream fake. Like any second now I’m gonna wake up and Roscoe’s gonna be on fire again.”
“You’re not dreaming,” Derek says softly.
“I know,” Stiles replies. But his hand is shaking slightly around the chopsticks, and Derek can tell, he knows, that the fear is there, hiding just under the surface. That the ache of uncertainty hasn’t left, even if the location has.
They clean up in comfortable silence. Derek lets Stiles wander, open cabinets, test locks. Doesn’t say a word when Stiles checks every window latch, three times over.
The guest room stays empty.
Derek doesn’t offer the couch.
They both know that Stiles isn’t afraid of Derek. He’s afraid of the dark. Of the past. Of the kind of silence that echoes too loudly when he’s alone.
So when Stiles pads into Derek’s bedroom without a word and curls up on top of the comforter - fully clothed, shoes kicked off, hoodie still on - Derek just pulls the blanket over him and lies down beside him. Close, but not touching. Not yet.
The clock ticks softly.
Derek can hear Stiles’ breathing shift, catch, then even out again. He’s not asleep. Not even close.
“It’s okay,” Derek says in the dark. “You don’t have to pretend with me.”
There’s a pause. Then a whisper.
“I thought it would feel different. Being safe.”
“It does,” Derek says. “But not right away.”
Silence again. Long and heavy.
“I didn’t think I’d make it here,” Stiles admits, voice small. “There were so many times - after everything, after the Nogitsune, after Eichen - I thought... I wasn’t built for this kind of living. For college. For a future.”
Derek doesn’t say anything.
Just shifts, barely, and reaches out. Places one warm, solid hand on Stiles’ back, right between his shoulder blades.
“You are,” he says. “You are, and you’re here, and you have me.”
Stiles shudders.
He doesn’t cry. Not exactly. But his breathing trembles and he presses his face into the pillow and lets Derek keep that grounding hand where it is.
They fall asleep like that - slowly, unevenly, like two survivors finally lowering their weapons. No fireworks. No kisses. Just warmth. Just breath. Just the quiet truth of being seen and not being asked to be anything else.
In the morning, the sun streams through the curtains, and Stiles wakes up with his fingers curled into Derek’s shirt, like he’d been searching in his sleep and finally found what he was looking for.
~~~~
The apartment smells like coffee and rain.
It must’ve drizzled overnight - soft streaks of water trace down the windowpane, the sky outside heavy and gray. The kind of morning that should feel cozy, wrapped in blankets and safety.
But Stiles wakes with his heart pounding.
He’s curled on his side, one leg tangled with the edge of Derek’s blanket, his hoodie half off, hair a chaotic mess of sleep and stress. Derek’s not in bed anymore, his absence feels like a gap in the air. Like something missing he hadn't realized he'd come to rely on.
Stiles sits up slowly, blinking against the rising tide of anxiety.
It hits him like a freight train.
This is Derek’s apartment.
This is Derek’s money.
This is Derek’s life he just dropped himself into like a needy, over traumatized parasite with a duffel bag and a panic disorder.
He swings his legs over the side of the bed, cold seeping into his bones before his feet even hit the floor.
What am I doing here?
Why would Derek do this for me?
What the hell have I gotten myself into?
The apartment is too quiet. His chest feels too tight. Guilt churns low in his gut like a storm rolling in.
He finds Derek in the kitchen, barefoot, wearing sweatpants and a black hoodie with the sleeves shoved up to his elbows. There’s a pot of coffee already brewed, two mugs out.
Stiles stands there, half in the doorway, looking like a ghost of himself.
Derek turns, eyes softening the moment he sees him.
But Stiles lifts both hands, palms up like a white flag, words tumbling fast and brittle:
“I think I messed up.”
Derek frowns, sets his mug down carefully. “What do you mean?”
“I mean this. All of this.” Stiles gestures wildly around the apartment. “The lease, the apartment, the freaking heated towel rack. I mean - you bought a mattress that you researched so it wouldn’t trigger my back pain and a sound machine because you know I can't sleep when it’s too quiet, and Jesus Christ, Derek, you even stocked the fridge with that ridiculously expensive chocolate milk I like.”
He’s spiraling now, eyes wide, mouth dry. “And you’ve been doing this for years. Just…slipping in to help me. Fix things. Pay for things. Cover me. And I let you. I didn’t even realize how much you were doing, and now I’m here, living with you, and it feels like, like I took advantage of you. Of your kindness. Your money. Your - God, I don’t even know what this is.”
His voice cracks at the end, the shame flooding in sharp and fast. He can’t meet Derek’s eyes.
He expects silence. Or maybe a quiet nod. Or a kind, measured speech about boundaries.
But what he gets is Derek - solid and still and full of quiet fire - crossing the room in three strides and stopping him with just one word.
“No.”
Stiles freezes.
Derek steps closer, close enough to pull him in but doesn’t. He keeps his hands at his sides.
“There is no way you could have taken advantage of me,” Derek says, low and sure, like he’s reciting gospel. “You didn’t even know what I was doing half the time.”
Stiles swallows. “That’s the point-”
“No, it’s not.” Derek shakes his head once. “I was investing in you, Stiles. Because investing in you is investing in my future.”
His voice is steady, but his hands finally lift, one to hover just above Stiles’ cheek, not touching, just anchoring him in place.
“I didn’t help you because I expected something in return. I didn’t do it to trap you or manipulate you. I did it because I wanted to. Because I have the means, and the instinct, and the need to protect you. To provide for you. My wolf doesn’t rest unless you’re safe. Fed. Smiling.”
Stiles sucks in a shaky breath, lashes fluttering. “But…we’re not even together, Derek. That day in the kitchen, you said I didn’t want to label it and then we never spoke of it again.”
“I know.” Derek’s smile is soft and sad, but not regretful. “I decided a long time ago that I wanted to be with you. That I would be, if you'd ever have me. I made that choice when you were sixteen. It wasn’t a romantic thing back then - I didn’t think it was allowed to be. But my wolf still knew. Still settled. You’re it for me, Stiles. Whether we ever have a label or not.”
Stiles is trembling now, more from emotional overload than panic.
Derek’s voice dips lower, gentler. “You didn’t take advantage of me. You didn’t use me. You let me love you the only way I knew how. Quietly. Without pressure. Without expectation.”
There’s a long silence.
Then Stiles steps forward, rests his forehead against Derek’s shoulder. “You are so stupidly good.”
And Derek, with every fiber of his being aching with love, wraps an arm around him and says, “Only for you.”
~~~~
They quickly settle into the apartment like it’s always belonged to them.
The first few days are a blur of half unpacked boxes, mismatched mugs, and late night frozen pizza on the couch. Stiles claims a corner of the living room for his books and notebooks, chaos immediately blooming around his laptop. Derek doesn’t mind the mess. Not when it’s Stiles' mess. Not when the sound of his fingers clacking across the keyboard is now part of the soundtrack of home.
Derek’s favorite towels go in the bottom linen drawer. Stiles’ hoodies mysteriously multiply in the hallway closet. They argue good naturedly about fridge organization (“the milk doesn’t go on the door, Derek, that’s for condiments - do you want it to spoil?”), and every night ends with Stiles curled into Derek’s side on the couch, feet tucked under a throw blanket, safe and warm.
It's easy.
So easy, in fact, that Derek starts to wonder if this is it - if this is all it will ever be. Stiles with him, near him, laughing and ranting and sipping overly sweet coffee… but never quite his.
Derek doesn’t push.
He doesn’t ask for more.
Because having Stiles here, choosing to be here, is already more than he ever thought he’d have.
Until one night changes everything.
It’s late, nearly midnight, and the apartment is quiet except for the low hum of the dishwasher and the gentle patter of rain against the windows (Derek was getting really sick of this rain already). Derek’s in the kitchen, rinsing his mug when he hears the shuffle of feet behind him.
Stiles leans in the doorway, barefoot, wearing one of Derek’s old t shirts, his hair a wild storm of sleep and restlessness.
“You okay?” Derek asks without turning around.
There’s a long pause before Stiles speaks.
“Yeah. I just… I needed to say something. And I didn’t want to wait till morning.”
That makes Derek turn.
Stiles is watching him with wide, uncertain eyes. Vulnerable in a way Derek hasn’t seen since that night in the kitchen, when he first offered the apartment, the safety, the future.
Only this time, there’s something steadier in him. A kind of resolve, quiet but blazing.
“I’m ready,” Stiles says, stepping closer. “I’m not scared anymore. Or - I am, a little. But not of you. Not of this.”
Derek stills, hands dripping water onto the tile.
“I’ve spent years thinking I had to earn you. Like I needed to deserve you. Like I was too broken or too much or not enough for someone like you to ever really want me.”
His voice trembles.
“I didn’t date. Not because I wasn’t interested in dating in general, but because no one ever came close. No one ever felt like you do. And it always felt unfair - to them, to me, to pretend they could fill a space that was never meant for them.”
He swallows.
“And the truth is, I’ve been in love with you for so long that I don’t remember what it’s like not to be. And I’ve been holding it back because I didn’t want to lose what we had. But I’m done holding back, Derek. I’m yours. I’ve always been yours.”
Derek doesn’t say anything right away.
He just stares, like he’s afraid blinking will break the spell.
Then, slowly, like gravity’s pulling him forward, he crosses the space between them, lifts one hand to cradle Stiles’ cheek, and says softly “Baby, you’re more than good enough.”
The words hit like sunlight through a storm. Like a dam breaking in the most beautiful way.
And then Derek leans in and kisses him.
It’s not rough. It’s not desperate.
It’s breathtaking.
Soft lips, the brush of breath, the trembling press of a first kiss that’s been waiting for years. Stiles melts into it, hands curling in Derek’s shirt, anchoring himself as his whole world shifts around this one perfect point of contact.
When they finally part, their foreheads rest together, both of them breathing hard.
Derek whispers, “I’ve wanted this since the moment my wolf scented you as our mate. And I would’ve waited forever.”
Stiles just smiles, eyes shining, thumb stroking the edge of Derek’s jaw. “You already did.”
When they go to bed, the lights are off, but the room isn’t dark.
Moonlight filters through the curtains, casting silver shadows across the bed. The sheets are soft - Egyptian cotton, of course, because Derek wouldn’t let Stiles settle for anything less. Their bodies are tangled together, skin warm against skin, the kind of closeness that doesn’t feel overwhelming, just right. Like puzzle pieces that have finally found where they belong.
Stiles lies on his side, head tucked under Derek’s chin, one leg thrown lazily over Derek’s hips. Derek has a hand on the small of Stiles’ back, rubbing slow, absent minded circles.
They’ve kissed - again and again - soft, unhurried, like they’re tasting every missed moment they ever imagined. And now they’re just...lying there.
Breathing. Being.
Derek sighs, the sound heavy with peace, and presses a gentle kiss to the crown of Stiles’ head. His voice is barely a murmur when he speaks, but the word lands like velvet over skin. “Baby.”
Stiles shivers.
“Oh my god,” he breathes, hiding his grin against Derek’s chest. “Say that again.”
Derek huffs a soft laugh and kisses the top of his head again. “Baby.”
“Ugh,” Stiles groans dramatically, “that’s not fair, you can’t just - weaponize that voice, Hale.”
Derek smiles, full and unguarded, and says it again just to watch Stiles squirm. “Baby.”
Stiles groans. “Okay, well now I have to marry you.”
Derek goes still.
Not out of fear, but something softer. Tender. Like he doesn’t want to break the moment.
And then Stiles lifts his head and looks him straight in the eye, voice steady now, no teasing in sight.
“I love you.”
There’s a beat where Derek forgets to breathe.
The words hit with the weight of everything he’s ever hoped for - years of quiet yearning and unspoken devotion crystallized into three simple syllables.
He blinks fast. His throat is too tight.
“I love you too,” he finally manages, voice thick. “So much.”
Stiles smiles like the sun is rising inside him. He rests his hand on Derek’s chest, right over his heart, and says quietly, “You’re shaking.”
Derek exhales a shaky breath. “I just… can’t believe I get to have you.”
“You have me,” Stiles says. “Completely.”
Derek pulls him in tighter, pressing his lips to Stiles’ temple. “I could lose everything tomorrow,” he says quietly. “The companies, the investments, every cent I’ve got. And I’d still be the happiest man alive.”
Then his expression changes. His brow furrows like he just heard something unpleasant, and he flinches slightly.
Stiles, sharp eyed even half asleep, notices instantly.
“Hey. What’s wrong, hon?”
Derek opens his mouth, closes it, then sighs with a sheepish twist of his lips. “My wolf just…snarled. Loud. Louder than I’ve ever heard.”
Stiles props himself up on one elbow, eyes wide. “Wait, why?”
Derek looks a little embarrassed as he runs a hand down his face. “Because I said I could be happy without money. And my wolf apparently disagrees.”
Stiles blinks.
And then he starts to laugh.
A real one - sharp and sudden and delighted, cracking the quiet open like lightning across a night sky.
Derek raises an eyebrow. “It’s not that funny.”
Stiles can barely breathe, his laughter bubbling out in waves as he collapses against Derek’s chest, still shaking. “No, no, it is, because - you’re already richer than rich, you absolute lunatic. And it’s still not enough for your wolf? What does he want to do, buy me the moon?”
Derek smiles helplessly, one hand rubbing over Stiles’ back as he presses a kiss to his shoulder. “If he could, he would. He wants to give you everything. The world. More.”
Stiles finally quiets, nose buried in Derek’s neck, voice soft now. “You already gave me everything. You gave me you.”
And Derek pulls him in closer, heart full to bursting, as he whispers:
“Forever.”
And under the soft weight of that word, wrapped in moonlight and warm sheets and the promise of tomorrow, Stiles falls asleep with the surest sense of peace he’s ever known.