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Stiles wakes up face down on his couch, cheek pressed into a cushion that smells vaguely of tequila and regret. His mouth feels like sandpaper, his eyes are glued shut with sleep, and his head is pounding to the beat of every bad decision he made the night before.
He groans and blindly pats around for his phone, fingers finally brushing the cool plastic where it’s wedged between the couch cushions.
He squints at the screen as it lights up - 7:43 AM. There’s a faint sticky ring of dried beer on the edge of the case. He vaguely remembers celebrating something last night. Maybe a friend’s birthday? Someone’s promotion? No, wait - he thinks it was just Wednesday.
Unlocking his phone, he opens his messages, intent on texting Jackson to bitch about how much his liver now hates him. But as soon as his contacts app loads, something horrifying happens.
They’re gone.
Everyone.
All call logs, all contacts and all text messages, wiped clean.
“What the hell,” Stiles mutters, sitting up so fast he immediately regrets it. The room spins, but he powers through it.
He scrolls furiously, heart rate spiking. “No no no no no.”
Then it hits him like a truck: Jackson. That smug bastard. Jackson had borrowed his phone last night to “check the weather” and had wandered off with it for ten suspicious minutes.
“Oh, you son of a Botoxed bitch,” Stiles mutters as he types out a message and uses the number from his brain he’s pretty sure is Jackson’s.
He types out a message with the kind of poetic wrath only a hungover, betrayed twenty something could manage:
I swear to God, Jackson, I will trap you in a room with nothing but an oxford comma debate and a dozen middle aged theater kids on red bull. I will personally ruin your algorithm. I will curse your future children with terrible WiFi. YOU DELETED ALL MY CONTACTS AND I’M GOING TO MURDER YOU IN A WAY THAT MAKES CSI BLUSH.
He hits send with the righteous fury of a man who’s lost not just his contacts, but his emotional stability.
He tosses the phone onto the coffee table with a huff and drapes an arm over his eyes, satisfied.
It takes all of thirty seconds before the phone buzzes.
He groans and peeks.
…I don’t know who Jackson is, but I’m both terrified for him and kind of impressed.
Stiles stares.
Then sits bolt upright.
“Shit.”
Stiles stares at the message like it might self-destruct, which - given the state of his life - feels entirely plausible. His thumb hovers over the screen as his brain tries to boot up through the fog of hangover and humiliation.
He types, then deletes.
Types again. Deletes again.
Eventually, he sends something halfway coherent.
Stiles: oh my god i’m so sorry. that was not for you. you’re clearly not jackson. unless you are jackson and this is some kind of gaslighty long con, in which case i will still kill you, just with slightly less flair.
There’s a pause. His phone buzzes again.
Unknown number: Definitely not Jackson. But now I need to know - what did this Jackson guy do to inspire a murder plot so creative it deserves a Netflix deal?
Stiles exhales, tipping his head back against the couch cushions. His hand covers his face for a second before he lets it fall away, fingers tapping out his reply.
Stiles: Took me out last night. Got me absolutely plastered. Told me I was a ‘lightweight disappointment to vodka everywhere,’ and then - THEN - while I was in the bathroom trying to make peace with the floor tiles, the absolute gremlin deleted all my contacts. My call history. My texts. Everything.
He hesitates and adds So now I’m flying blind. I don’t know anyone’s number. I have no backup. No lifeline. I woke up in the hangover apocalypse and it’s too early and I’m too fragile and I thought I was texting him, not… you. Again, sorry.
A moment passes before his phone pings again.
Unknown Number: That is… heinous. Genuinely diabolical. I’m impressed and offended on your behalf.
Stiles can’t help it - he lets out a small, croaky laugh.
Stiles: Right?! Who deletes someone’s entire phone? I trusted him with my life and my Spotify playlists.
Unknown Number: Sounds like Jackson is a menace. If you don’t murder him, I might.
Stiles: If you do, I’ll alibi you. No questions asked.
He’s not sure where the strange comfort is coming from, texting a total stranger, but the back and forth feels… grounding. Like a tether. Like something normal in the middle of a hangover war zone.
Unknown Number: I’m not saying this was the best mistaken text I’ve ever gotten, but I am saying I haven’t smiled this much before 8am in a very long time.
Stiles smiles down at the screen, a little surprised by how warm that makes him feel. His head is still pounding, but somehow the day doesn’t seem quite so bad anymore.
Stiles: Well then, glad I threatened murder in such a charming way. That’s me. Sunshine and felony.
By early afternoon, the hangover has dulled to a manageable throb, still present, still mildly punishing, but now more of a background buzz than a full body betrayal. Stiles showers, shoves a granola bar in his mouth, and spends an hour trying to recover the few contacts he remembers by heart. Lydia’s number, thankfully, is engraved into his soul. Scott’s? Not so much. He ends up texting his dad, asking for Scott’s number, and gets back a confused “What did Jackson do now?” in response.
By the time the sun is overhead, Stiles has already vented to Lydia via voice note and glared at Jackson’s Instagram stories like they personally insulted his ancestors.
But none of that soothes the itch crawling beneath his skin. Jackson deserves something. Not something dangerous, necessarily - just something poetic. Fitting. Justice served cold and preferably mildly humiliating.
Which is why, while standing in line at a café and aggressively pretending not to be browsing vengeance TikToks, Stiles opens his messages and taps the conversation with Unknown Number.
Hypothetically speaking… what’s your stance on petty revenge?”
The reply comes before he even pockets his phone.
Unknown Number: Strongly in favor. Vengeance is best when it’s small, satisfying, and slightly chaotic. Why? You plotting, Sunshine?
Stiles grins at the screen and types as he steps up to order.
Stiles: Thinking about it. Nothing wild. Just… y’know. Poetic justice. I want him to suffer a little. Emotionally. Spiritually. Possibly gastrointestinally.
Unknown Number: Spicy. You want creative or classic? Because there’s always the old “glitter in the air vents” trick. Or you could mess with his shampoo - make his hair smell like sardines for a week.
Stiles: Tempting. But whatever it is is nothing that could land me in jail or the ER. I can’t get kicked out of Stanford because I thought it’d be funny to lace his protein powder with ghost pepper.
Unknown Number: …Stanford? As in actual Stanford?
Stiles furrows his brow at the response, sliding into a booth with his coffee.
Stiles: Yeah? Like, the one with the trees and the weird fountains. Why?
Unknown Number: Just - wasn’t expecting that. You text like a hobgoblin with a grudge and a caffeine addiction. I figured community college at best.
Stiles snorts, nearly spilling his drink.
Stiles: Rude. Accurate, but rude. I am a hobgoblin with a grudge and a caffeine addiction. I’m just a smart hobgoblin.
Unknown Number: My apologies. That changes everything. Now we need Stanford level revenge. Something subtle. Elite. Possibly involving Latin.
Stiles: I did take two semesters of Latin. I could find a way to hex him. Lightly. Emotionally.
Unknown Number: See? That’s the energy I’m here for. Academic vengeance with a touch of chaos. I’m proud of you already, Sunshine.
Stiles can’t stop the stupid smile that creeps onto his face. It's ridiculous - this ongoing conversation with a complete stranger, someone whose face he hasn’t seen, whose name he doesn’t even know. And yet, it’s become the best part of his day.
Stiles: You’re dangerous. I like it.
Unknown Number:You started this with a murder threat. I’m just playing catch up.
Stiles leans back in his seat, grinning at his phone, and types.
Stiles: God help Jackson. He has no idea I have help now.
~~~~
It becomes a ritual. Every day or two, when the mood strikes or Jackson does something particularly obnoxious, Stiles shoots off a message to the unnamed number. At first, it’s mostly revenge brainstorming and snark, but it gradually shifts - anecdotes about weird professors, rants about overpriced campus coffee, complaints about his roommates leaving dishes in the sink like they’re trying to summon fruit flies on purpose.
And always, always, the responses come laced with dry humor, perfectly timed sarcasm, and that now familiar nickname that makes Stiles flush like an idiot every time he reads it.
Unknown Number: Easy, Sunshine. You’ll give yourself an ulcer and I’ll lose my partner in crime.
Stiles had caved about two weeks in and finally added the number to his contacts. After about ten full minutes of deliberation, he saved it under:
Stranger Danger
It’s dumb, and maybe a little childish, but every time the name pops up on his lock screen, he grins. It feels like a secret, like something just his, tucked safely away from the rest of the chaos in his life.
He never asks for a name. Part of him doesn’t want to. This whole thing works because it’s anonymous and weirdly low pressure. No expectations. No complications. Just a faceless person with a criminally good sense of humor and the ability to make Stiles feel like he isn’t spiraling, even when he absolutely is.
But one Tuesday afternoon, Stiles is lying on his bed with a stats book open beside him, not absorbing a single word, when something strikes him. A small, rational voice in his brain, one that sounds suspiciously like his dad, clears its throat and says: Hey, maybe don’t pull a minor into your unhinged misadventures, yeah?
So he picks up his phone and types carefully.
Stiles: Okay, I’m not trying to ruin this weird little thing we’ve got going, and I don’t want to know anything too personal - no real names, no LinkedIn profiles - but I do need to know… you’re not, like… a teenager, right? I just need to make sure I’m not dragging a minor into my dumbassery.
There’s a pause. A longer one than usual. Just long enough for anxiety to trickle in.
Stranger Danger: …Sunshine. No. Not a teenager. Not even close.
I promise I’m waaay closer to 30 than I am to 20. Like… depressingly so. My knees make sounds when I stand up.
Stiles snorts and exhales, tension loosening in his chest.
Stiles: Okay, good. Just checking. I didn’t want to find out I’ve been accidentally corrupting some poor high school sophomore into becoming a delinquent.
Stranger Danger: I appreciate the concern, but you’re safe. No teen gremlins here. Just one very tired adult who doesn’t get carded anymore and resents that fact deeply.
Relatable. I’m 23. Senior year at Stanford. Which sounds more impressive than it feels. I mostly just cry over group projects and eat bagels I can’t afford.”
Stranger Danger: Smart and unhinged. What a combo.
I should’ve known. Only a seasoned Stanford student would threaten murder with proper punctuation.
Stiles bites his lip to hide a smile, like anyone’s around to see it. His heart does that fluttery thing again, annoying and warm, and he tosses his phone onto the bed beside him, just to get a break from how fond he feels over a guy he doesn’t even know.
He lasts about thirty seconds before grabbing it again.
Stiles: Tell your knees I said hi.
Stranger Danger: They groaned in response.
Also: proud of you, Sunshine. Senior year’s no joke
And Stiles can’t explain why that simple text means so much, but he tucks his phone to his chest, grinning up at the ceiling, and thinks maybe he’ll keep this stranger around for a while longer.
~~~~
It’s a quiet Thursday afternoon when the message comes in, right between Stiles finishing an online ethics lecture and psyching himself up to write the first paragraph of a research paper that’s been haunting him for days.
His phone buzzes where it’s charging on the corner of his desk, and the now familiar name lights up the screen.
Stranger Danger: Hey, Sunshine. You’ve been saving my sanity with stories about your glitter war on Jackson and your coffee addiction, but I just realized… I never asked. But I am extremely curious.
What are you going to school for?
Stiles stares at the screen, chewing his thumbnail. It’s not like he’s been hiding it - there just hadn’t been a reason to bring it up. And now that Stranger Danger is asking… well. It suddenly feels a little bigger than expected. Still, he types back honestly.
Stiles: I’m doing a dual bachelor’s in psychology and computer science. Basically, I’m training to be equal parts nerd and emotionally intuitive badass.
He pauses, thumb hovering, then keeps going.
Stiles: Also… I just found out I got accepted into a graduate program at John Jay for forensic psychology. So next year I’m packing up my life and heading from sunny ass California to New York. I’m kind of freaking out about it, not gonna lie.
Stranger Danger: Wait, John Jay? Like, THE John Jay?
You want to work in law enforcement?
Stiles chuckles softly, tucking one leg under himself and leaning back in his chair.
Stiles: Yeah. My dad’s a sheriff. It’s kinda in my blood, you know? I grew up in the station, listening to the scanner like it was bedtime music. It was either this or... I don’t know. Become a conspiracy blogger. This felt slightly more stable.
Stranger Danger: No shit?
I’m a deputy. Just transferred out west recently, actually.
I used to work for the NYPD for a few years after graduating from NYU. Big city, big pressure, good experience, but it wasn’t where I saw myself long term.
Too loud, too fast. I needed somewhere quieter.
Stiles blinks, the words sinking in slow. His mouth curves into a soft, surprised smile as he rereads the message.
Stiles: Wow. That’s… kind of incredible. Small world, huh? What are the odds my murder text landed in the inbox of an actual law enforcement officer?
Stranger Danger: In my defense, it was an impressive murder threat.
and in yours, I didn’t report it.
We’ll call it even.
Stiles laughs, warmth blooming in his chest. He taps the phone against his knee for a second, then continues.
Stiles: Once I’m done at John Jay, I’m hoping to land a job with the state of California. Ideally in threat assessment or behavioral analysis. Something where I can use my obsession with reading people and preventing disasters before they happen.
Stranger Danger: Holy shit, Sunshine.
You’re out here texting me about revenge glitter and ramen hacks while secretly being a future criminal profiler?
That’s honestly… kind of amazing.
Stiles flushes, biting back a grin as his heart skips a little in that irritating, excited way it always does when Stranger Danger says something unexpectedly kind. He presses his thumb to the screen, hesitant, then types.
Stiles: It’s not a done deal yet. There’s still so much I have to do. But yeah. That’s the dream.
Stranger Danger: For what it’s worth, I think you’re gonna crush it.
Stanford. John Jay. Dual majors. A plan that actually makes sense.
You’re terrifyingly smart and somehow still endearingly chaotic.
I don’t know how you do it, but damn, consider me impressed.
He doesn’t know who this guy is, not really. But that doesn’t stop him from smiling like an idiot as he types back:
Stiles: Yeah, well. You’re not so bad yourself, Deputy Stranger Danger.
~~~~
It’s just after 9 PM when Stiles’ phone buzzes, interrupting his third rewatch of a documentary about digital forensics that he insists is “for school,” even though he’s quoting half of it like a fanboy. He’s sprawled across his bed, laptop open, hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows, surrounded by highlighters and empty Red Bull cans like a college student crime scene.
He reaches for his phone and smiles the second he sees the name light up the screen:
Stranger Danger: Just got off shift. Long day but not a bad one.
I think I’m starting to really like this place.
My boss is a good man. Solid moral compass. Dry as sandpaper, though - has enough sarcasm to age me a decade every shift.
Stiles chuckles, thumb already flying over the keyboard.
Stiles: Sounds like you found a good fit. Sarcasm is a sign of intelligence, I’ll have you know. Your boss is doing you a favor by keeping your brain sharp.
Stranger Danger: Funny you say that - he told me the reason he’s like this is because he has to keep up with his kid.
Says the guy never slows down.
‘Keeps me on my damn toes just by existing.’ That’s a direct quote.
Stiles: Yeah, that sounds… familiar.
Honestly, I think that’s exactly how my dad felt when I was growing up.
I was that kid. Never stopped talking. Never stopped moving. He says I came into the world screaming and didn’t shut up until college.
But he’s proud of me now. Like, really proud. Which is wild. Sometimes I forget to eat, and he still brags about me like I invented oxygen.
There’s a pause, long enough that Stiles flips his phone over and lets it sit face down beside him. He’s not anxious, not really, just thoughtful. Soft, in that way he gets when the conversation turns to his dad. It’s been a long time since they lived in the same house, but his father’s presence still threads through every part of his life like muscle memory.
The phone buzzes again, and he flips it back.
Stranger Danger: Sounds like he should be proud.
Raising a kid like you… he probably earned a medal.
Do you get to see him much?
Stiles chews the inside of his cheek before replying.
Stiles: Not really. I only make it home a few times a year with school and research and interviews. But when I do go home, it’s total chaos.
And my dad just kind of stands there, coffee in one hand, looking like he’s questioning every life choice that led him to whatever moment we find ourselves in.
But he smiles. A lot. It’s messy and loud and weird, and I wouldn’t trade it for anything.
He rereads the message before hitting send, then exhales and sinks deeper into his pillow.
A minute passes. Then two.
Stranger Danger: That sounds… incredible.
I don’t know what I pictured when you first texted me, but it definitely wasn’t a guy with a chaotic pack of friends and a sheriff dad and a career path that’s going to change lives.
You’re kind of ridiculous, Sunshine. In the best possible way.
Stiles rolls onto his back and covers his face with his hand, a helpless, crooked smile stretching across his cheeks. This wasn’t supposed to be anything. Just a wrong number. A stupid mistake that became a daily ritual.
And yet here he is, grinning into the darkness, heart skipping in time with the quiet buzz of his phone.
Stiles: Right back at you, Deputy Danger.
~~~~
It’s just after 6 p.m. when Stiles quietly unlocks the front door of his childhood home, suitcase wheels thudding softly against the hardwood as he steps into the familiar entryway. The air smells like old coffee, lemon wood polish, and the faintest trace of his dad’s aftershave - comfort, chaos, and home, all in one breath.
He doesn’t announce himself like a normal person. Of course not.
Instead, with a grin already tugging at his face, he drops his bag just inside the door, cups his hands around his mouth, and yells, "Sheriff!" like he’s filing a noise complaint against the man who raised him.
The bang that follows sounds like someone dropped a wrench, or maybe a body, and then there’s the heavy thud of boots moving fast down the hall.
A familiar voice, startled and half laughing, yells back, "Jesus, Stiles!"
But before Stiles can take a step farther into the kitchen, something slams into him like a freight train made of flesh and regret. One moment he’s upright, the next he’s flat on his back on the tile floor, wind knocked out of him, vision blurry with ceiling lights and muscle.
"What the fuck?" Stiles groans, blinking up at the square jaw and furrowed brow of a man who looks like he eats barbell plates for breakfast. The guy's pinning him to the ground like Stiles is a live grenade.
A deep, alarmed voice above him says, "Oh god - Derek, no. That’s my son!"
There’s a beat of stunned silence. Then the man on top of him, Derek, jerks back like he’s been electrocuted.
"Sir, you made it sound like your son was… well… a child,” the man says quickly, clearly mortified as he scrambles to his feet and hauls Stiles up with one surprisingly gentle hand. "Not… this. Not… you."
"I mean, he is my child," Noah Stilinski replies with a wide grin, not even trying to hide his amusement. "Not my fault you didn’t ask for specifics."
Stiles, winded, disheveled, and now standing in his own kitchen like a confused hostage, glares between the two of them while rubbing his shoulder. "Jesus Christ, Dad," he wheezes. "Who the hell is your friend here? Reflexes like a goddamn cat, but the build of a whole ass mountain.”
The man looks sheepish but doesn’t smile. His eyes are a sharp, pale green, and his black Henley sleeves are pushed up his forearms, revealing muscular arms and a faint smear of grease across his wrist. He looks like he was in the middle of fixing something. Or disassembling it with brute force.
"This is Deputy Hale," Noah says proudly, patting the guy’s shoulder like a proud dad introducing his new dog to his chaotic son. "Newest guy on the roster. Moved here about eight months ago. He was here helping me install that new dishwasher you’ve been promising me since 2022."
He smirks, then adds, "And now he’s had the full ‘Stiles experience.’ Knocked down, mildly insulted, and vaguely terrified.”
Derek clears his throat. "In my defense," he mutters, "you said ‘kid.’ I was expecting someone shorter. Maybe a teenager. Not a grown man yelling like an emergency alert system.”
Stiles just stares for a second, then lets out a sharp laugh, part disbelief, part embarrassment.
"Cool. Great. Love this for me," he says, waving a hand between them. "Nothing like being tackled in your own kitchen by a man who looks like he could deadlift my car."
Derek scratches the back of his neck, still looking like he wishes the floor would open and swallow him whole.
"Sorry," he mutters, finally making eye contact. "Reflex. Training. Thought you were breaking in or something.”
Stiles grins, rubbing his bruised ribs. "Well, Deputy Hale… that’s one hell of a welcome home."
His dad just snorts and heads back to the open cabinet under the sink, where tools are scattered and wires hang half finished.
"You boys bond," Noah says, over his shoulder. "I’m going to pretend I didn’t just witness a felony in my own kitchen."
And Stiles stands there, still trying to catch his breath, as Derek Hale gives him the tiniest nod of acknowledgement. It's awkward and polite.
The tension that follows is thick enough to butter toast with. Stiles, still rubbing his shoulder and trying to regain some semblance of dignity, leans against the kitchen counter while Derek shifts his weight awkwardly on the balls of his feet. It’s quiet, aside from Noah muttering under the sink about water pressure and cursing at a wrench like it personally offended him.
Stiles steals a glance.
And then another.
And then - okay, maybe a third. But it’s warranted. Because now that he’s not being tackled like a linebacker at the Super Bowl, he can really look at Deputy Hale.
And holy shit.
The man is gorgeous. Like, movie casting call for “brooding detective with a tragic past” gorgeous. He’s maybe in his late twenties, early thirties if Stiles squints, but there’s already a dusting of gray at his temples and peppering through the short, neatly trimmed beard framing his sharp jawline. The gray doesn’t make him look old - it makes him look distinguished. Hot in that reluctant silver fox who reads poetry and probably has a tragic backstory kind of way.
His eyes are a piercing green, intense even as he glances toward the floor, clearly still embarrassed. But his lips twitch slightly at the corners, like he’s holding something back.
And then, suddenly, he says it. Deadpan, but with the faintest lift of one brow.
"So... should I expect to get tackled on your next visit, or is that a one time hazing thing you won't follow up on?"
Stiles blinks. Then snorts. Loudly. "I mean, depends. Are you gonna sneak up on me like a ninja again, or do you expect me to knock first like a normal person?"
Derek lifts his hands in surrender. "I didn’t sneak. You came in like a war siren."
There’s a beat.
And then both of them laugh, a little too loud and a little too long, just enough to make Noah glance out from under the sink with a look that reads am I gonna need to separate you two?
Stiles grins, finally relaxing, and watches as Derek leans against the opposite counter. The smile that spreads across the deputy’s face is devastating. It’s crooked, boyish, almost shy, but his eyes? They’re flirty. A spark there, unmistakable. Like he knows exactly how good he looks and just how to wield that smile like a weapon.
Stiles swallows.
Hard.
Because suddenly, it hits him. Like a freight train of glitter and hormones.
Derek is hot.
Like… unfairly, cosmically, absolutely stupid hot.
And that smile? That flirty, soft smile that’s being directed at him? Yeah. That’s illegal. That should be illegal.
Derek catches him staring - full-on, unapologetic - and doesn’t look away. He just tilts his head slightly, like he’s trying to figure Stiles out, and smiles wider. A little smug. A little curious. A little interested.
Stiles clears his throat and shoves his hands in his hoodie pockets before he does something humiliating, like drool or propose.
“Anyway,” he says, voice a touch higher than normal, “thanks for the impromptu wrestling match. Next time I’ll bring my mouthguard.”
Derek huffs a laugh, then reaches for the wrench Noah abandoned on the counter. "Noted. I’ll bring the mats."
Stiles grins like an idiot.
And yeah, maybe his ribs still hurt a little and his pride’s a bit bruised, but at that exact moment, as Deputy Derek Hale crouches by the dishwasher and throws another soft glance over his shoulder…
Stiles is very glad he came home for spring break.
Derek’s back is to Stiles, helping Noah put the last few things away in the kitchen, when he speaks. His voice is low but sure, like he’d been working up to it, like maybe he’s not entirely convinced it’s a good idea, but he wants to ask anyway.
“Hey, uh-” Derek pauses, scrubbing a hand through his hair, causing some of it to stick up in messy tufts. “I’m having a little cookout tomorrow. Just some of the other deputies, a few friends from the station. Nothing big.”
He turns then, eyes landing on Stiles, mouth twitching up just a little at the corners. “I try to do it once a month. Gets me out of my own head, keeps me from turning into the local cryptid.”
Stiles snorts. “The Beacon Hills Sasquatch strikes again. Known for long silences and intense eyebrow communication.”
Derek chuckles, deep and soft. “Exactly.”
Noah straightens up from under the sink with a grunt, wiping his hands on a towel. “I’ll be swinging by after my shift tomorrow, kid,” he says casually, like he’s not orchestrating this like the subtle matchmaking mastermind he is. “If you don’t have any plans, you should go help Derek set up. He’s always doing it alone, and I know for a fact you’ve got zero hand eye coordination but excellent taste in chips.”
Stiles squints at his dad, suspicious. “Wow. Such confidence in your only child. Very heartwarming.”
Noah just shrugs, grinning. “You gonna help or not?”
Stiles rolls his eyes but turns back to Derek. “Yeah, I mean - sure. I’d love to.” And the moment he says it, he realizes he means it. There’s something about Derek - quiet, gruff, and maybe a little awkward - but he makes Stiles feel comfortable in a way few people ever have.
Derek’s smile warms a bit at the edges. “I’m out at the old farmhouse on the edge of the preserve. You can’t miss it.”
Stiles’ brows shoot up. “That place? The Honour place?”
Derek nods.
Stiles whistles low, mock serious. “Man, I used to swear that place was haunted when I was a kid. Like, ‘floaty widow in the window and creaking floors when no one’s home’ haunted.”
That gets a real laugh out of Derek. It’s quiet and rich, like it doesn’t get let out often, but when it does, it’s genuine. His eyes crinkle slightly at the corners when he smiles like that.
“You’re not wrong,” he says, a little sheepish. “I’m still not totally convinced it isn’t haunted. Sometimes it sounds like footsteps when I’m in bed. A window I know I locked will be open. One of the upstairs doors swings shut on its own if you don’t wedge it.”
Stiles shudders, mock theatrical. “Nope. Nope, I would’ve burned the place down by now.”
Derek smirks. “It’s home,” he says simply, almost shy again. “Creepy doors and ghost cats included. I love it.”
And something about the way he says it - quiet but firm, like he fought hard to claim that word, home, makes Stiles pause.
Then he smiles, softer this time. “Well. I’ll bring the chips.”
“And I’ll make sure the ghost cat stays out of your snacks,” Derek says, deadpan.
Their eyes meet again, that little spark flickering just beneath the surface. The moment stretches - almost shy, almost hopeful - until Noah loudly clears his throat and mutters something about being “too old to witness this much tension before lunch.”
Stiles chokes on a laugh. Derek hides his smile behind one hand.
~~~~
Stiles: Okay, this is probably weird and like... not what this texting thing is for? But I didn’t know who else to tell.
Stranger Danger: Go on.
Stiles: I met someone. Today.
Like, met-met.
And it was…
Instant. Electric. Like my brain short circuited.
I’ve never had that. Not really.
Stranger Danger: Not weird. I get it.
...Actually, I really get it.
Stiles: Wait, seriously?
Stranger Danger: Yeah.
I’ve never believed in fate or soulmates or any of that Hallmark bullshit.
But then I met this person recently and it felt like...
Like I’d known them for years.
Like we just clicked and the universe tilted a little to make room.
Stiles: YES. That. Exactly that.
It’s like something finally lined up, and now everything else feels louder because of it.
Stranger Danger: Like you can’t stop thinking about them even if nothing really happened yet.
Like one conversation rerouted your entire day.
Stiles: Yes. And now I feel insane. But also alive? Is that dramatic?
Stranger Danger: Maybe. But I’m right there with you.
Welcome to the “oh no I might be catching feelings for a stranger” club.
Stiles: I’ve only got one other member to talk to, but you’re doing a great job at making it feel less insane.
Stranger Danger: Good.
Because if this is a breakdown, at least we’re having it together.
Stiles: That’s weirdly comforting.
Thanks, Deputy Danger.
Stranger Danger: You’re welcome, Sunshine.
~~~~
Stiles is halfway through a bowl of cereal the next morning when he pauses, spoon hovering mid air, and frowns. He chews slowly, thoughtfully, then lifts his head toward the living room, where his dad’s still tugging on his duty belt and muttering about paperwork.
“Hey, uh… what time is the barbecue today?” Stiles calls out, brows furrowed. “Derek invited me, but he didn’t really say. Just said I could come by ‘anytime,’ which is a horrible invitation for someone like me. You know that, right?”
The Sheriff snorts and walks into view, adjusting his badge. “Yeah, well, that’s Derek for you. People usually start showing up around five. He likes to get everything done way early so no one sees how neurotic he is about food prep.”
Stiles blinks. “Wow. So he’s the ‘clean the counters three times and hand label the condiments’ kind of guy?”
“Exactly.”
Stiles nods solemnly and shovels in the last of his cereal. “Alright. Guess I’ll go early. Offer to help him prep or chase off the ghost cat or whatever.”
“Good idea,” Noah says, grabbing his thermos. “Maybe keep your neurosis under wrap. Don’t scare the deputies.”
“Rude,” Stiles says through a mouthful of milk. “I’m very cute.”
But around two o’clock, with the sun unexpectedly bright and the air pushing into that liminal not-quite-spring-but-not-winter zone, Stiles climbs into the Jeep and starts the familiar drive out to the preserve. The roads narrow, winding into the quiet tree lined distance until the old farmhouse finally comes into view, weathered wood, wraparound porch, charm clinging to it like ivy.
And Derek.
Derek is on the porch, crouched low, one hand gripping a rusted railing post while the other drills something into place. His jeans are low on his hips, smudged with sawdust and dirt, and he’s not wearing a shirt. His skin is sun kissed and golden, muscles flexing with every movement, the sunlight catching in the faint silver at his temples and the short beard shadowing his jaw.
Stiles actually fumbles the keys turning off the ignition.
He climbs out a little too fast, slamming the door with more force than necessary like maybe the loud noise will snap his brain out of its sudden, very thirsty spiral.
“Okay,” Stiles says, raising a hand and walking toward the porch, “so I know it’s, like, technically seventy degrees out right now, but it’s still March, and I checked the calendar, it’s still winter. Where the hell is your shirt, Derek?”
Derek turns, wiping his forehead with the back of his wrist, and - oh god, laughs. It’s low and warm, caught somewhere between amused and smug.
“It’s warm for me,” he says, straightening to his full height. “I grew up on the East Coast. It’d be like ten degrees right now if I were still in New York. This feels like a beach day.”
Stiles squints up at him, one hand shading his eyes against the sun, and against the very distracting sight of Derek Hale shirtless and casually being a competent homeowner.
“Right,” he says, blinking. “Beach day. Sure. That explains the whole lumberjack-meets-Men’s-Health cover shoot vibe.”
Derek grins at that, then rubs his neck a little sheepishly, the motion somehow making him even more stupidly attractive. “Sorry. I didn’t think you’d be here this early.”
“Well,” Stiles says, hoisting up a grocery bag from the Jeep’s passenger seat, “I figured if you’re gonna feed me later, I could at least be useful. You want help with that haunted porch of yours?”
Derek gestures toward the steps. “Only if you’re not afraid of ghosts.”
Stiles grins. “Please. I’m immune. Grew up in Beacon Hills.”
Derek laughs again - laughs, like a full body, bright sound - and for a moment, Stiles just watches him, a little breathless.
God help him, he really is glad he came home this spring break.
Stiles drops the grocery bag just inside the door like he belongs there, because that’s how Derek waves him in - like he’s not a guest, like this is normal. It makes something soft and curious flutter in Stiles’ chest, but he tries not to think about it too hard as he walks back outside to where Derek is crouched again at the porch railing.
The wood is rough and splintering in spots, but Derek’s clearly already sanded it down in most places. There’s a tool belt beside him and a new plank balanced against the edge, ready to be bolted in.
“I’ve already pre drilled the holes,” Derek says, voice low and casual as he gestures to the beam. “Just need someone to hold the post in place while I fasten it.”
Stiles nods and drops into place, bracing the wood with both hands. Their fingers brush, just barely, and Derek doesn’t pull away. Neither does Stiles.
They fall into a rhythm quickly, Stiles holding, Derek securing, sawdust floating lazily in the air like pollen. The quiet between them is nice, easy. Eventually, though, Stiles clears his throat.
“So,” he says, squinting at the next post, “I tried to do something like this once. Shelf installation. My ex and I had this shitty little apartment junior year and the walls were so old they crumbled if you sneezed too hard. But I was determined to put up a spice rack. Like a domestic adult.”
Derek glances at him sideways, curious. “And?”
“I sliced my palm open with the screwdriver some fucking how.” Stiles holds up his left hand, and sure enough, there’s a faint scar just below his thumb. “Had to get stitches. Lydia, my ex, she was pre med. Stitched me up right at the kitchen table. All while yelling at me for using a flathead instead of a power drill.”
Derek chuckles. “You let your girlfriend stitch you up?”
“Yeah,” Stiles says, brushing sawdust off his jeans. “She was always good under pressure. And surprisingly gentle for someone who wore stilettos like they were combat boots.”
Derek’s hands still for a second, eyes flicking over Stiles’ face, thoughtful and… a little surprised. “Girlfriend,” he echoes softly.
Stiles lifts an eyebrow. “Yeah? Why do you sound weird about it?”
Derek glances down at the drill in his hand, fingers tightening slightly around it. “I guess… I don’t know. I thought…” He hesitates, then meets Stiles’ eyes with something hesitant but honest. “I thought you might be attracted to me.”
For a heartbeat, the world goes very still.
Stiles stares, wide eyed. “I am.”
Derek blinks. “You are?”
“Very much,” Stiles says, no hesitation this time, voice soft but steady. “Figured out I was bi sometime sophomore year. Kind of hard not to when you’re having vivid dirty thoughts about both your math tutor and the quarterback.”
Derek’s expression shifts slowly - like surprise melting into warmth, relief chased by something hopeful. His mouth tips into the ghost of a smile.
“Oh,” he says.
“Yeah,” Stiles breathes, pulse skipping. “Oh.”
They both laugh, a little awkward, a little giddy, and Stiles has to look away for a second before he combusts from the sheer force of Derek Hale looking at him like that.
“Well,” Stiles says after a moment, nudging the next post into place. “Guess we’re both building more than just a porch today.”
Derek huffs a laugh and shakes his head, but he doesn’t stop smiling. And when their hands brush again, he lets the contact linger.
~~~~
The kitchen is warm from the afternoon sun and the residual heat of the oven, but it’s not just that making Stiles feel flushed. It’s Derek. Still bare chested, still casually gorgeous in a way that should be illegal, moving confidently around the kitchen like he doesn’t know he’s the star of every daydream Stiles has had since yesterday.
They’re shoulder to shoulder at the counter, preparing salads and slicing vegetables for the side dishes. Stiles is trying to focus on the cucumbers, honestly he is, but every time Derek reaches for something, the muscles in his back shift like a sculpture in motion - strong and smooth and dusted with freckles and scars and-
He can’t take it anymore.
Without thinking, like something inside him breaks and spills over, Stiles sets down the knife and slides his hands over Derek’s back. Slow, reverent, fingers dragging lightly across the ridges of muscle and the gentle dip of Derek’s spine. His thumbs graze the base of Derek’s neck, and he feels Derek’s entire body react.
Derek sucks in a sharp breath and drops his head forward, hands bracing hard against the counter. His shoulders rise with the inhale, but he doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t flinch. If anything, he leans into the touch like he’s been waiting for it.
“Jesus,” Derek murmurs, voice rough and low. His eyes slip closed, and he’s quiet for a moment, so still under Stiles’ hands it makes the younger man feel like he’s holding something sacred. Like he’s lit a match to something that’s been aching to burn.
“Sorry,” Stiles says, voice hoarse, fingers twitching as if he means to pull back. “I just… couldn’t not. You’re-”
Derek turns.
So fast and so sure, he pivots and faces Stiles in one fluid movement. His hands come up, one to Stiles’ jaw, the other curling lightly around his hip, grounding them both.
And then he kisses him.
It’s not a question. It’s not even tentative. It’s a claim, firm and heady and full of all the things neither of them has said aloud yet. Derek’s lips are soft, but the kiss is deep, like it’s been building for weeks instead of hours. Like he’s been waiting for permission and Stiles just gave it.
Stiles makes a sound against his mouth, something desperate and aching, and immediately threads his hands into Derek’s hair. He kisses back like he’s starving, like he might never get this again and refuses to waste a second.
The kitchen smells like basil and garlic, like lemon zest and something sweet cooling on the counter, but all Stiles can taste is Derek, warm and real and just a little wild.
When they finally part, barely an inch between them, both of them breathing hard, Stiles grins a little breathlessly and says, “Okay. So. You kiss like you mean it.”
Derek’s chest rises and falls with a quiet laugh, fingers still cupping Stiles’ jaw like he doesn’t want to let go.
“I do,” he murmurs, eyes dark and serious. “I really, really do.”
They pull apart slowly, reluctantly, and Stiles watches Derek’s lips hover like a promise. A whispered “later” in the air between them. But then a distant car horn blares, and the real world floods back in like a tidal wave.
Derek mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like “Damn timing,” and turns to face the counter again, rolling his shoulders out and running a hand through his hair like he needs the grounding.
They get back to work prepping the last of the food, but Stiles is struggling. His hands keep brushing Derek’s, “accidentally” bumping hips as they move around the kitchen. He makes some excuse to stand behind Derek while reaching for the silverware drawer, dragging a hand along the small of his back on the way by, which earns him a soft hum and a very heated look over the shoulder.
Derek’s ears are pink. Pink. Stiles grins and tries not to let it turn smug.
“You keep doing that,” Derek mutters low, leaning closer as he slices tomatoes with ridiculous precision, “and I swear I’m canceling the whole damn thing.”
Stiles holds up both hands like he’s innocent. “I’m just being helpful. Deputy.”
Derek rolls his eyes, but his mouth twitches like he’s fighting a smile. “I’m going to go take the fastest shower in human history before I forget how to function.”
Stiles watches him jog up the stairs two at a time, and just - wow. That man is shirtless, barefoot, and criminally gorgeous, and Stiles is amazed he’s lasted this long without combusting.
He’s still fanning himself with a paper plate when he hears the crunch of tires on gravel.
The first car pulls in and Stiles spots Deputy Parrish climbing out, sunglasses perched on his nose, button down rolled to the elbows like he’s trying to look casual and failing adorably.
“Parrish!” Stiles waves him over. “You’re early.”
“I come bearing chips and beer,” Parrish grins. “And I heard rumors there’d be potato salad. I have my priorities.”
They exchange a quick one armed bro hug and start unloading food, chatting easily as they work.
“How’s Lydia doing these days?” Parrish asks as he pops open a cooler and starts arranging drinks on the outdoor table.
Stiles smirks. “She’s in Boston, finishing her last semester of pre med. Still terrifying.”
Parrish hums and gives a nostalgic little sigh. “Yeah, that tracks.” Then, with a sheepish chuckle, he asks, “You still dating her?”
Stiles snorts. “God, no. That ship sailed a long time ago. Why, you crushing on her now?”
Parrish throws up a hand. “Can you blame me? She’s smart and terrifying and way out of my league. That just…does it for me, man.”
Stiles barks a laugh and claps him on the shoulder. “You’ve got a type, and apparently it’s ‘brilliant women who might also stab you with a scalpel if you mess up the tablescape.’ I support it.”
Parrish grins, amused and a little flushed.
Just then, the screen door creaks open behind them, and Derek reappears, damp hair clinging to his forehead, wearing a soft black t shirt that fits like it was made for sin, and gray jeans that should be illegal.
Stiles nearly chokes on air.
Parrish, oblivious, nods at Derek and offers a hand. “Hey, Hale. Thanks for hosting.”
Derek shakes his hand with a polite nod, but his eyes flick immediately to Stiles, warm and lingering like they’ve been waiting to meet again since the moment he walked upstairs.
Stiles bites his lip and quickly turns back to the table, pretending the potato salad suddenly needs very intense rearranging.
Because holy hell.
If this is how spring break is starting, he might never go back to Stanford.
They were almost ready. The grill was going, drinks were chilling, people were trickling in with sides and desserts and easy jokes, and it smelled like spring and charcoal and happiness in the backyard. Parrish was enthusiastically manning the speaker playlist, and someone had brought lawn games.
Everything was going perfectly… until Derek opened the cooler and frowned.
“Out of ice,” he muttered.
Stiles looked over. “Seriously?”
Derek gave him a flat, yet amused look. “Did I stutter?”
“Well that’s a party foul,” Stiles said, already brushing crumbs off his hoodie and grabbing his keys. “I’ll run and get more.”
“Are you sure?” Derek asked. “I can-”
“You’re hosting,” Stiles interrupted, already heading for the gate. “Stay here and keep being hot and responsible. I’ve got this.”
Derek huffed a soft laugh. “Text me if you think of anything else to grab.”
Stiles gave him a two-finger salute and jogged off to his car, the spring breeze cool and fresh as it tugged at the ends of his hoodie.
The grocery store was unusually busy, buzzing with families and barbecue warriors in the soda aisle, but Stiles made a beeline for the ice chest near the checkout. Just as he was reaching for two giant bags, he paused and pulled out his phone.
He thumbed open a text to his dad.
stiles: hey do you have derek’s number? just wanna check if we need anything else while I'm at the store but I didn't get his number.
dad: Derek Hale Contact Card. Tell him I'll be by soon.
Grinning, Stiles copied the number and went to save it as a new contact. But as soon as he pasted it, a pop up flashed across the screen.
This number already belongs to an existing contact: Deputy Stranger Danger.
Stiles froze.
Blinking, heart suddenly hammering in his chest, he tapped into the contact. No. Way.
There it was. The name he'd given the mystery deputy months ago. The one who texted him by accident after some idiot (Jackson) nuked his contacts, and who had ended up becoming his favorite late night conversationalist. The same man he’d told about finals stress, about his cursed knack for getting coffee spilled on him, about how spring in Beacon Hills always smelled like lilacs and nostalgia and second chances.
Derek.
Deputy Stranger Danger was Derek.
The same Derek who made him swoon so hard he couldn’t breathe. The same Derek he’d fallen for at first glance. The same Derek who was waiting back at the house with his stupidly pretty eyes and quiet smirks and-
Stiles left the ice behind.
He parked half crooked in the driveway, heart slamming so loud he could barely hear anything over it. The breeze was sharp against his flushed face as he crossed the lawn. He pushed through the side gate without a word and found Derek by the grill, joking with Parrish and flipping burgers.
Derek turned, brows drawing down when he saw the empty hands.
“No ice?”
Stiles didn’t answer. He walked straight up, gripped Derek gently but firmly by the arm.
“Can we talk inside for a sec?”
That got everyone’s attention, but Stiles didn’t care. Derek gave him a concerned look but nodded, setting the spatula aside and following.
They stepped through the back door, and Stiles didn’t even wait, he found the first room with a door, pushed Derek inside, and shut it with a quiet but decisive click behind them.
“What’s-”
Stiles kissed him.
Rough. Breathless. Fingers curled in Derek’s shirt like he was holding onto gravity itself. He barely managed to get the words out between kisses.
“I can’t believe - fuck - I can’t believe my luck. The universe, Derek, the universe did me the best favor ever.”
Derek barely caught him by the waist, bracing himself against the sudden onslaught of affection and energy and kissing. He kissed back, of course, because how could he not - but when they finally pulled apart, breathing hard and wild eyed, Derek blinked at him, stunned.
“What…what got into you?”
Stiles reached into his pocket, still breathless, and pulled out his phone.
“Do you have your phone on you?”
Derek, still confused and flustered, nodded and fished his out of his back pocket. “Yeah. Why?”
Stiles didn’t answer. He just hit call.
Derek’s phone lit up in his hand. A name popped up across the screen in bold white letters.
Sunshine is calling.
Derek stared.
Stiles couldn’t stop smiling, nerves and wonder battling for dominance in his chest.
Derek looked from his phone to Stiles.
“You’re Sunshine?”
Stiles nodded, beaming, eyes glassy with disbelief. “And you’re Deputy Stranger Danger. Holy shit, Derek.”
Derek’s phone slipped a little in his grip. He was staring like he’d just watched someone part the sky.
“I… texted you for months.”
“You made me laugh every single day,” Stiles whispered. “And then I met you and didn’t even know.”
Derek huffed a stunned, breathy sound that might’ve been a laugh. Or maybe a prayer. And then he was kissing Stiles again, slowly this time, like it meant something.
Because it did.
Derek just stares at Stiles like the ground has shifted under him. Like maybe it never existed to begin with and he’s only now realizing he’s been floating the whole damn time.
“I can’t believe I didn’t put it together,” he says finally, voice rough with disbelief and something bordering on awe. “You told me your dad was a sheriff. Which okay, isn't much to go on considering we never really talked specifics.”
“And you told me your boss was a good guy who made shitty coffee but kept the station stocked with Twizzlers,” Stiles counters, eyes wide. “How did I not ask where you lived? I had your number. It’s a 310 area code. That’s Beacon Hills or close enough!”
“Exactly,” Derek mutters, running a hand through his hair. “I just figured if you knew, you’d say something. And when you didn’t-” He shrugs helplessly. “I didn’t want to risk ruining it.”
Stiles exhales sharply, like the enormity of it is just now settling on his chest. “Jesus Christ. You were right there. This whole time.”
Derek smiles, soft and a little incredulous. “So were you.”
Before either of them can say anything else, there’s a firm knock at the door, followed by the Sheriff’s voice, a mix of concern and parental exasperation. “Everything alright in there?”
Stiles spins, throwing the door open so fast it ricochets off the wall behind it. “Dad - Dad, he’s Deputy Stranger Danger!”
The sheriff blinks at him. “What?”
“You remember all those texts I showed you? The guy I was messaging during winter break, the one with the weird snacks and the deadpan sarcasm and the dry ass humor? That’s him!”
Noah squints past Stiles at Derek, whose ears are rapidly turning red. He turned back towards Stiles. “You’re Sunshine?”
Derek makes a noise of protest and turns pink all the way to his neck. “I didn’t know it was him-”
The sheriff starts laughing. Loud, full bellied laughter that echoes down the hallway. “Oh my God.” He claps Derek on the shoulder like this is the funniest thing he’s seen all his life. “You’ve been texting my kid this whole time. About books and case law and pancakes and… what was it? That raccoon with the croissant?”
Stiles is practically vibrating. “Wait, you knew?! He told you about me?”
“He told me about someone he’d been texting,” the sheriff says, still grinning. “Said you were smart and weird and that you made him laugh. He didn’t have a name. Just Sunshine.” He turns to Derek with a faux-stern look. “You couldn’t connect the dots either, Deputy Hale?”
Derek groans and covers his face with one hand. “I’m never living this down.”
“Absolutely not,” Stiles says, grinning like he just won the lottery.
The sheriff pats Derek’s arm and steps back toward the hallway. “Well, congratulations, boys. I’m gonna go check on the grill before Parrish starts setting things on fire. Again.”
Stiles watches his dad disappear, then turns back to Derek, who’s still hiding his face like he wants to melt into the drywall.
“Sunshine, huh?” he teases gently.
Derek drops his hand, eyes warm and a little shy. “It fit. You lit things up when I needed it.”
Stiles' smile softens. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Yeah,” Derek says, finally grinning. “But I found you.”
And Stiles, cheeks pink, takes his hand and squeezes. “Yeah. You really did.”