Chapter Text
••••••
Stiles had been driving for hours, but the road stretched endlessly ahead, a blur of faded asphalt and desert heat. The monotony should have been soothing, mile after mile of nothing but open space, but instead, it left too much room for his mind to wander. He kept the radio off. Noise didn’t help anymore. Silence didn’t either, but at least it didn’t make him feel like he was suffocating.
Eight years. It didn’t sound like much when he said it out loud, but it felt like a lifetime. The FBI had swallowed him whole, taken whatever was left of the reckless, sharp tongued teenager he’d once been and reshaped him into something colder, quieter. He used to think he’d feel some kind of pride when he finally left the Bureau, like he’d earned the right to walk away. Instead, all he felt was emptiness.
This case was supposed to be the last. One final mission before he turned in his badge, walked out, and tried to figure out who he was outside of his job. Not that he had any real plans. He’d thought about it, of course; leaving Virginia., disappearing somewhere people wouldn’t know his name, wouldn’t ask about the scars under his sleeves or the shadows under his eyes. He was so goddamn tired of people asking if he was okay.
He wasn’t.
Not that he knew how to fix it.
The Bureau had been his purpose for so long that stepping away felt like stepping off the edge of a cliff. He wasn’t scared, not exactly. Just… uncertain. He didn’t have anything waiting for him outside of it. No lifelong friends. No relationships. No place that felt like home. His dad would want him to come back to Beacon Hills, but the thought made his chest ache in a way he didn’t want to analyze.
He tightened his grip on the steering wheel and exhaled slowly.
One last case. A potential serial killer operating in a small New Mexico town, the kind of place that wasn’t used to real monsters. Stiles had read the reports, studied the details, pieced together what he could before he even set foot in the state. He should have felt that old rush, that spark of determination that always came before chasing a lead, but there was nothing.
Nothing except the quiet hum of exhaustion in his bones and the ever-present weight pressing down on his chest.
~~~~
Stiles had been in this tiny New Mexico town for two days, and he already felt like he was unraveling at the edges. The motel smelled like stale cigarettes and cleaning chemicals that didn’t quite mask the lingering scent of something worse. The coffee at the only diner was an insult to caffeine, and the sheriff’s department was exactly what he expected; underfunded, overworked, and barely keeping up.
But at least the case wasn’t supernatural. That was a small mercy.
Just shitty humans doing shitty human things.
That shouldn’t have been a relief, but it was. It meant there were rules to follow, patterns to analyze, and no lurking horror waiting to twist reality into something worse. He’d spent too many years in Beacon Hills learning that real monsters didn’t always have claws and glowing eyes, but some definitely did.
This time, it was just a man; an opportunist preying on women who he believed wouldn’t be missed.
And now, thanks to a break in the case, Stiles had a lead.
He should have felt something…satisfaction, maybe, or the rush of adrenaline that came with finally getting a step ahead, but all he felt was tired. He rolled his stiff shoulders and glanced at the clock on the cheap motel nightstand. It was late, but he wasn’t going to sleep anyway, so he grabbed his jacket and his notes, then headed out into the warm desert night.
Maybe a drive would clear his head. Or at the very least, maybe it would remind him why he was still holding on.
~~~~
Stiles hadn’t meant to drive so far, but the open road was easier to face than the four suffocating walls of his motel room. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for…a distraction, maybe, or just an excuse to avoid thinking, but he ended up in the next town over before he even realized it.
Taos.
Quaint, quiet, and nestled against the mountains like a secret no one wanted to share. It was a hell of a lot nicer than where he was staying, with charming little shops lining the streets and the kind of stillness that felt peaceful instead of empty.
He nearly turned around, but then he saw it; a small café, still glowing with neon in the early hours of the morning. A 24-hour café. A miracle.
The second he stepped inside, he knew it was better than anything else he’d had since arriving in New Mexico. The air smelled rich with fresh coffee and something sweet baking in the back, and the atmosphere was warm without being overwhelming. A couple of night owls sat at the far end, absorbed in their laptops, and a guy near the window was sketching in a notebook, but otherwise, it was quiet.
Stiles went straight to the counter, scanning the menu for something strong enough to keep him upright. The girl working the late shift looked barely out of her teens, her dark hair pulled up in a messy bun, and she raised a brow as he studied the options.
“The coffee’s good, promise,” she said, smirking.
“Yeah, we’ll see about that,” Stiles muttered, pulling out his wallet. “I’ve been burned before.”
A few minutes later, he took his first sip and nearly groaned. It was perfect. Strong, smooth, and exactly what he needed after two days of diner sludge that barely passed as drinkable.
“Okay,” he admitted, leaning against the counter. “This is actually amazing. I think this might be the best coffee I’ve had in months. I’ll take another.”
The girl laughed, crossing her arms over her apron. “Well, we’d be a shit café if we had bad coffee.”
Stiles huffed a quiet laugh, feeling something loosen in his chest. Just a little. Just enough.
Maybe he’d found one good thing in this godforsaken place after all.
~~~~
Peter walked into his favorite café at exactly 5 a.m., like he did most mornings. The place was quiet, just the way he liked it. No crowds, no noise, just the comforting hum of a town still half asleep. He nodded at the barista behind the counter, already prepared to order his usual, but the second he stepped inside, something shifted.
A scent.
Familiar. Unexpected.
His head snapped around before he even registered what he was looking for, instincts honed by years of survival kicking in before reason could catch up.
And there he was.
Stiles Stilinski.
Sitting at a back table, a notebook spread out in front of him, a half finished cup of coffee by his elbow. He looked… older. Sharper around the edges, but not in the same way he had been at eighteen, all wild energy and reckless determination. No, this was something else. There was weight to him now, something settled but uncomfortablein the way he carried himself, in the tight set of his shoulders, in the way his fingers tapped absently against the page, like he was trying to ground himself without even realizing it.
Peter felt a rush of emotions he hadn’t been prepared for.
Amusement, because of course Stiles was here, of all places, like some cosmic joke designed to keep Peter on his toes.
Curiosity, because why was Stiles here?
And something deeper. Something he didn’t want to name.
He took a step forward, ready to say something; because he was Peter Hale, and he didn’t hesitate when it came to things he wanted, but then Stiles’ scent changed.
Melancholy.
Desperation.
It hit Peter like a punch to the chest, an ache curling under his ribs before he could shove it aside. He knew emotions could settle into a person’s scent, and had used that knowledge to his advantage more times than he could count, but this…this was different. This wasn’t just stress or frustration. This was something that had been building, something woven so deep into Stiles’ being that it clung to him like a second skin.
And Peter hated it.
For a brief, selfish moment, he considered turning around. Pretending he hadn’t seen him.
Walking out the door and letting whatever this was remain undisturbed.
But that wasn’t who he was.
So instead, he took another step forward and smirked.
“Well, well,” he drawled, sliding into the seat across from Stiles like he belonged there. “Look what the desert dragged in.”
Stiles barely reacted.
Peter had expected a glare, maybe an annoyed groan or some dry remark about how the universe clearly had it out for him. But instead, Stiles just blinked slowly, like it took him a second too long to register what was happening, before his gaze dragged up from his notebook and landed on Peter.
And that - that was the moment Peter knew something was truly wrong.
Because Stiles’ eyes used to be so alive. Always moving, always calculating, always feeling too much. But now, they looked tired. Hollow in a way that had nothing to do with the early hour or the dark circles beneath them.
"Peter," Stiles said finally, voice rough from disuse, like he hadn’t spoken in days. Maybe longer.
Peter raised a brow, drumming his fingers lightly against the table. "Peter?" he repeated, tilting his head. “That’s all I get? No snarky quip? No accusations of nefarious intent? I have to say, I’m disappointed.”
That, at least, earned him something. A twitch of Stiles’ lips, not quite a smile, but not nothing either. It was a reaction, and Peter took it as a victory.
“I’m too tired for your bullshit,” Stiles muttered, dropping his gaze back to his notebook. His pen tapped absently against the table, a restless rhythm Peter recognized as an attempt at self soothing.
Peter leaned back in his chair, studying him. “I don’t think that’s as comforting to me as you might be thinking.”
Silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken things, and Peter could still smell it - that ache wrapped around Stiles like a second skin. It unsettled something in him, something he didn’t like to acknowledge.
“So,” Peter said, keeping his tone light. “Are we going to pretend this is a coincidence, or am I allowed to be nosy?”
Stiles huffed out a breath, still not looking at him. “It’s a coincidence.”
Peter hummed. “Mm. And how are we feeling about that?”
That got him a reaction. Not a big one, but a slight flinch. Barely there, but Peter caught it.
Annoyance flickered across Stiles’ face, but it wasn’t real. It was the kind of annoyance people used when they didn’t want to talk about something. When they wanted to push it down and pretend it didn’t exist.
Peter didn’t like that.
“I’m working,” Stiles said finally, voice flat.
“Clearly,” Peter drawled, flicking a glance at the scattered pages across the table. Notes. Reports. Crime scene photos half-buried under Stiles’ hand.
Ah.
And there was another piece of the puzzle.
Stiles hadn’t just wandered into Peter’s town for the hell of it. He was here for a case.
And if the way his scent soured at the mention of work was any indication, it was not going well.
Peter considered that for a moment, then smirked, tapping his fingers against the tabletop. “You know,” he said, “if you wanted my help, you only had to ask. You didn’t have to stalk my favorite coffee establishment to get my attention.”
That, at least, earned him a half hearted glare.
"Fuck off, Peter," Stiles muttered.
But Peter just smiled. Because that? That almost sounded like the Stiles he remembered.
~~~~
Peter had been patient. Well, his version of patient, which meant he had spent the last ten minutes watching Stiles carefully, waiting for something, anything, to break through that dull, exhausted fog clinging to him.
It hadn’t.
Stiles had barely spoken, answering questions with the bare minimum or not at all, his focus drifting somewhere distant and unreachable. It set Peter’s teeth on edge in a way he didn’t like, so he did what any responsible uncle would do.
He texted Derek. Come to the café.
Derek’s response was almost immediate. No.
Peter rolled his eyes. You’ll regret it if you don’t.
A beat of silence and then Derek’s return message. What did you do?
Peter smirked to himself, if he tried hard enough he could hear his nephew’s sigh through the phone. Nothing. Just get here.
Derek didn’t reply, but Peter knew him well enough to know he’d be on his way.
Sure enough, within ten minutes, the familiar rumble of Derek’s car pulled up outside.
Stiles hadn’t noticed. He was still absently stirring the coffee he’d barely touched, eyes flickering across the open pages of his notebook without actually reading anything.
Peter didn’t say anything when Derek walked in. Just sat back and watched.
The second Stiles looked up, everything changed.
His entire body tensed, like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing, then his eyes went wide, and suddenly, he was moving.
Derek barely had time to react before Stiles was on him, arms wrapping around him with a force that made Derek stumble back a step.
“God damn, it’s good to see you, Sourwolf,” Stiles choked out, voice thick with emotion.
And then, to Peter’s absolute surprise, Stiles clung.
Tightly.
Like he was afraid to let go.
Derek stood frozen for a second, completely blindsided. Then, hesitantly at first, his arms wrapped around Stiles, holding him just as tight. Over Stiles’ shoulder, Derek shot Peter a look, pure confusion, demanding answers.
Peter just shrugged.
He had no idea what was happening either.
~~~~
Derek still wasn’t entirely sure what had just happened.
One minute, he was getting a text from Peter, vague and suspicious, as always, and the next, he was walking into the café only to be nearly tackled by Stiles. A Stiles who looked tired in a way Derek didn’t like, but who had still hugged him like he actually mattered.
And now, somehow, they were sitting at a table together, coffee in front of them, with Stiles firing off questions like no time had passed at all.
“So,” Stiles said, leaning forward, elbows on the table. “What the hell have you been up to for the last eight years, dude? I thought you were off being some kind of grumpy hermit in the woods.”
Derek huffed a quiet laugh. “I was; for a while. But I live here now.”
Stiles rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I got that part. But life, Derek. What’s been going on?”
Derek hesitated for a beat, then decided to just say it. “I got married a few years ago.”
Stiles’ eyebrows shot up, and for a second, Derek braced himself for a joke, maybe some kind of exaggerated gasp about Derek Hale married? But instead, Stiles grinned, wide and genuine.
“No way.” Stiles shook his head, still grinning. “That’s- Derek, that’s awesome! Congratulations, man.”
Derek felt a warmth settle in his chest. He hadn’t realized how much he needed that reaction.
“Thanks.”
Stiles tilted his head. “So? Who’s the lucky person?”
Derek smirked. “Her name’s Emily. She’s a teacher. And-” His smirk softened. “She’s pregnant.”
Stiles blinked, and for a moment, he just stared. Then, to Derek’s absolute shock, his eyes glossed over, and he let out a choked laugh.
“Holy shit,” Stiles breathed. “You’re gonna be a dad.”
Derek’s chest tightened. He wasn’t sure what he expected, but the sheer emotion in Stiles’ voice wasn’t it.
“I am,” Derek confirmed.
Stiles sniffed and grinned, pointing at him. “You’re gonna be so soft. Just wait. You think you’re all big and scary now? Just wait until that baby shows up.”
Derek shook his head, but there was no real annoyance behind it. Just quiet amusement.
Then Stiles turned, somewhat grudgingly, toward Peter. “Okay, fine. What about you, Hale Senior? What have you been up to?”
Peter smirked. “Oh, you know. Living. Thriving. Being devastatingly charming.”
Stiles groaned. “For fuck’s sake. Why do I even bother asking you anything?”
Peter just sipped his coffee, smug as ever.
Derek sighed, rubbing his temple. Some things never changed.
Derek leaned back in his chair, fingers wrapped around his coffee cup. “What about the others? Scott? Lydia? Malia?”
The shift in Stiles was immediate and extremely jarring.
Peter didn’t just see it; he felt it. The way his body tensed, the way his fingers curled tightly around his coffee mug. But more than that, Peter smelled it.
Anger. Quick and sharp, like a spark ready to catch fire.
Then sadness. Heavy and sinking.
And finally; pain.
Deep, suffocating, bone-deep pain that clung to Stiles like a second skin.
Peter set his cup down, watching closely.
Stiles exhaled through his nose, jaw tight. “I don’t have a pack,” he said, voice clipped. “I left them all behind when I went to Quantico.”
The words were spoken with finality.
But Peter knew how to listen. He knew how to hear the things people didn’t say.
And what Stiles had just said? It wasn’t the full truth.
He left them behind; but it sounded like it had been more than that. Like something had happened.
Derek frowned, clearly picking up on some of it, but not the whole picture. “You just - what? Cut contact?”
Stiles didn’t answer right away. He just stared into his coffee, like it held something only he could see. “Something like that,” he muttered finally.
Peter didn’t like that answer.
Didn’t like the weight behind it. The ache in his scent. But he filed it away for later.
Derek sighed, running a hand over his face. “Okay,” he said, clearly sensing that pushing wouldn’t get them anywhere. “How have you been?”
Stiles hesitated.
And that was telling.
Once upon a time, Stiles would have at least deflected. Or he would have launched into some long-winded, sarcastic answer, using humor as a shield.
But now?
Now he thought about it.
He considered his answer.
And when he finally spoke, his voice was carefully measured. “I’ve been fine.”
Peter almost laughed.
It was such an obvious lie.
Derek’s frown deepened. “Stiles-”
“I said I’m fine,” Stiles cut in, just a little too sharp.
Peter raised a brow, unimpressed.
Because that? That wasn’t Stiles trying to convince them.
That was Stiles trying to convince himself.
~~~~
Stiles hadn’t planned on sticking around.
He figured he’d finish this case, tie up the loose ends, and be done. Move on. That was how he worked these days. Never staying too long, never getting too comfortable.
But now, sitting across from Derek - married, soon to be a dad, actual functioning adult Derek - Stiles hesitated.
“I’m staying in the next town over,” he finally said, stretching his arms above his head, trying to shake off the lingering tension from their earlier conversation. “Working a case.”
Derek grimaced. “In one of those motels?”
Stiles huffed out a laugh. “Yeah. And let me tell you, I think something died in the walls of my room.”
Derek didn’t even hesitate. “You can stay with us.”
That caught Stiles off guard. He blinked. “What?”
Derek shrugged. “The motels there are awful. You’d be better off crashing at our place.”
Stiles’ first instinct was to say no. He’d been doing this alone for so long that accepting things like kindness, help, anything that felt too much like attachment wasn’t second nature anymore.
But then Derek mentioned her.
“My wife won’t mind,” Derek added. “She’d love to meet you.”
That… that was weirdly tempting.
Stiles had never imagined Derek Hale, the grumpy, brooding werewolf he used to butt heads with, settling down. Having a home. A wife. A baby on the way.
And Stiles? He wanted to see that.
He wanted to see his friend being domestic.
“…Yeah, okay,” he said, dragging a hand through his hair. “Yeah, that sounds - uh, that sounds nice, actually.”
Derek nodded, satisfied.
And then, because the universe hated him, Derek added, “Just so you know, Peter also lives there.”
Stiles groaned, slumping back in his chair. “Jesus, you guys are so fucking codependent.”
Peter, ever the smug bastard, just smirked over the rim of his coffee. “I prefer emotionally invested.”
Stiles snorted. “You would.”
~~~~
The ride back to the motel was quiet.
Not the comfortable kind of quiet. The kind he’d only ever experienced with exactly one person, and that person sure as hell wasn’t Peter Hale.
No, this quiet was thick, stretching between them like a heavy fog.
The Bureau issued SUV coasts along the road, headlights cutting through the early morning darkness, but Stiles could feel Peter watching him. Not directly, just little glances from the corner of his eye. Calculating. Picking him apart piece by piece.
Stiles gritted his teeth, trying to ignore it, trying to focus on the road ahead, but it was Peter. Of course, he didn’t stop.
Finally, the tension snapped.
“What?” Stiles bit out, grip tightening on the wheel.
Peter hummed, tapping a finger lazily against his knee. “Just cataloging.”
Stiles frowned. “Cataloging what?”
Peter turned slightly, watching him more openly now. “The differences. The things that have changed. The Stiles I knew and the Stiles sitting in front of me.”
Something cold curled in Stiles’ chest.
He swallowed against it, fingers flexing against the steering wheel. “Well, you’re wasting your time,” he muttered. “That version of me is dead.”
The words were out before he could stop them.
And the moment he said them, he felt it; like the air had been sucked out of the car.
Peter didn’t respond right away. He didn’t press, didn’t prod, didn’t demand answers the way Stiles half-expected him to.
Which, somehow, was worse.
Because it gave Stiles just enough space to realize what he’d said.
His pulse kicked up, a strange, hollow panic pressing against his ribs.
He clamped his jaw shut, fingers aching where they clenched the wheel, staring ahead like he could will the conversation away.
Peter, to his credit, didn’t push.
He just nodded, slow and thoughtful. “Interesting,” he murmured, voice unreadable.
And that was it.
No teasing. No sharp, knowing smirk.
Just that one word.
It should have been a relief.
It wasn’t.
~~~~
Peter leaned against the doorframe of Stiles’ motel room, arms crossed, watching. It was fascinating, in a way.
Stiles packed with efficiency. Not the frantic, chaotic energy Peter remembered from years ago; when Stiles had been all nervous hands and jittery limbs, always moving, always talking. No, this was something different. Controlled. Methodical. Like he was dismantling a crime scene instead of gathering his own belongings.
Peter’s gaze trailed over the room.
It was barely lived in. The blankets on the bed weren’t even rumpled. There was no clutter, no evidence that anyone had been staying here. Just a duffel bag neatly packed beside the door, a worn FBI issued go bag, and a single notebook resting on the cheap motel desk.
Stiles moved around the space like a ghost of himself. Quiet. Efficient. Too precise.
Too detached.
Peter cataloged the details. The tension in his shoulders. The way he folded his clothes in exact, practiced motions. The fact that there were no personal belongings scattered around, nothing sentimental, nothing that tethered him to this space at all.
That wasn’t the Stiles he knew.
That Stiles had been messy, alive, a constant hurricane of movement and emotion.
This Stiles was… empty.
And Peter hated it.
He didn’t say anything. Didn’t poke, didn’t prod.
Not yet.
Instead, he just watched.
The drive up the mountain was just as silent as the motel room had been.
Peter glanced at Stiles again.
His grip on the wheel was loose, but his posture was rigid. His eyes flicked toward the side mirror every few seconds, scanning the road behind them.
A habit.
Not a conscious one.
Peter recognized it instantly; the kind of awareness that came from training, from experience, from too many nights spent waiting for something to go wrong.
And that - that was another difference.
Stiles had always been paranoid, yes. But this? This was different. This was deep rooted, ingrained in muscle memory. The kind of thing that didn’t just go away.
Peter exhaled, turning his gaze back to the road ahead.
Derek would be happy to have Stiles around again.
Peter?
Peter just wanted to know who had buried the boy he used to know and left this version behind.
~~~~
The house was nestled against the mountain, tucked away in the trees, the kind of place that felt separate from the rest of the world. Isolated, maybe, but safe. Quiet.
It suited Derek.
The SUV rumbled to a stop in the gravel driveway, and before Stiles could even step out, the front door of the house opened.
Derek emerged first, but Stiles barely had time to register him before his attention caught on the woman beside him.
She was small. Shorter than Derek by nearly a foot, but somehow, she didn’t look dwarfed next to him. She had stark blonde hair, cut just above her shoulders, and a small but noticeable baby bump under her sweater. Her arms were crossed loosely, but her expression was open, warm.
Stiles didn’t need werewolf senses to tell she was good.
He saw it in the soft way she looked at Derek. In the way Derek, perpetual grump, stood just a little bit closer to her, like gravity kept pulling them together.
And when her eyes landed on Stiles, she beamed.
“So this is Stiles,” she said, already moving toward him.
Derek sighed, but there was no real exasperation behind it. “Emily, let him breathe.”
She ignored him completely.
Before Stiles could react, she wrapped him in a hug.
A warm hug.
Not the awkward, too tight kind people sometimes forced on him. Not the kind that felt like an obligation.
This was easy. Genuine.
And it startled him.
It had been so long since someone hugged him like that. Like they meant it. Like it wasn’t just a formality.
When she pulled back, she smiled at him. “It’s so nice to finally meet you,” she said. “I’ve heard so much about you.”
Stiles blinked, caught off guard. “You, uh, you have?”
He expected her to say Derek had mentioned him, maybe in passing. But instead-
“Oh yeah,” Emily grinned. “Peter talks about you all the time.”
What?
Stiles’ brain stalled.
His mouth actually fell open a little, his eyes snapping toward Peter, fully expecting to see some kind of smug expression.
But Peter just met his gaze evenly, like he wasn’t the most surprising part of this whole conversation.
“Peter,” Stiles repeated slowly, like he needed to say it out loud for it to make sense. “Talks about me.”
Emily nodded, completely unbothered. “Yep.”
Stiles turned to Peter again, eyes narrowed.
Peter just shrugged, looking bored. “You do tend to leave an impression.”
Stiles still couldn’t process it.
Peter Hale. Snarky, self-serving, emotionally unavailable Peter Hale had spent time talking about him.
He didn’t even know what to do with that information.
Stiles was never going to recover from this.
~~~~
The house was nice. Cozy, but open. Everything about it felt lived in, worn in furniture, warm lighting, the faint lingering scent of something sweet in the air. It was nothing like the cold, impersonal apartments Stiles had been living in for the past eight years.
Emily led him from room to room with easy enthusiasm, chatting as they went.
“You’ll be in here,” she said, nudging open a door near the end of the hall.
The room was simple but welcoming. A full sized bed, a dresser, a chair in the corner with a soft looking throw blanket draped over the back. A lamp on the nightstand casts a warm glow. It smelled like lavender and something vaguely like cinnamon and chocolate.
“I wasn’t sure what kind of bedding you liked, but I washed the sheets this morning,” Emily said, stepping aside to let him in.
Stiles cleared his throat, rubbing the back of his neck. “Uh, this is… really nice. Thanks.”
She smiled at him, bright and genuine. “Of course.”
The smell of chocolate grew stronger when they made their way back to the kitchen.
“I may have gone a little overboard when I found out you were coming,” Emily admitted sheepishly, motioning to the table.
Sitting right in the center were two trays; one stacked with brownies, the other holding a neatly frosted cake.
Stiles blinked. “You baked for me?”
“Of course,” Emily said, like it was obvious. “Derek mentioned you have a sweet tooth. Plus, I love baking, and I’ll take any excuse.”
Stiles shot a look at Derek, raising an eyebrow. “You told her I have a sweet tooth?”
Derek rolled his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest. “It’s not exactly a secret, Stiles.”
Peter smirked as he grabbed a brownie. “You used to inhale entire boxes of doughnuts like it was an Olympic sport.”
Stiles scoffed but took a brownie anyway.
They settled at the table, the conversation flowing easily, mostly because Emily steered it.
“So,” she started, cutting into the cake, “Derek says you’ve been with the FBI for a while now. What’s that like?”
Stiles swallowed a bite of brownie, leaning back in his chair. “It’s… a lot. Good, sometimes. Exhausting, mostly.”
Emily tilted her head, studying him. “You don’t sound like you love it.”
Stiles hesitated. He wasn’t sure how to answer that.
There had been a time when working for the FBI had felt like the goal. The endgame. Now? It felt like a lifespan. A stretch of years that had drained something out of him, piece by piece.
He shrugged. “It is what it is.”
Emily didn’t press, but her expression softened. “And your dad? How’s he doing?”
Stiles relaxed slightly. That was easier to talk about.
“He’s good. Better, actually,” Stiles said. “Retired last year. Finally let himself slow down a bit.”
Emily smiled. “I bet that was a tough adjustment.”
Stiles huffed a laugh. “You have no idea. Man was practically feral for the first few months. Drove me insane calling every day, like I somehow had the answers for what to do with his free time.”
Derek chuckled, shaking his head. “I can imagine.”
They kept talking, Stiles falling into an easy rhythm; about his dad, about old stories that still made him laugh. He could feel Peter watching him, cataloging, analyzing, but he ignored it.
And then, somehow, he let it slip.
“I mean, it won’t be my problem for much longer anyway,” he said without thinking, breaking off a piece of cake. “I’m leaving the Bureau after this case.”
The moment the words were out, he froze.
The room went quiet.
Derek blinked. Peter’s head tilted slightly. Emily set her fork down, watching him with quiet curiosity.
Stiles clenched his jaw, his stomach twisting.
Shit.
He hadn’t meant to say that. Hadn’t told anyone yet. It wasn’t official, wasn’t even real until he actually signed the damn resignation papers sitting in his bag.
Peter was the first to break the silence.
“Well,” he mused, sipping his coffee, “that’s interesting.”
Stiles grit his teeth. “Forget I said anything.”
“Oh no,” Peter said, smirking. “That’s definitely not happening.”
Emily reached over, placing a gentle hand on Stiles’ arm.
“Hey,” she said softly, cutting through Peter’s usual bullshit. “Are you okay?”
Stiles inhaled sharply, trying to shove down the feeling clawing its way up his throat.
“I don’t-” He shook his head. “I don’t know.”
And that was the truth. And about as honest as Stiles could be in that moment.
Stiles looked down at his hands, his fingers tapping the edge of his coffee cup nervously. He didn’t want to talk about this. Hell, he didn’t even want to admit it to himself, but the words were out now.
“I just… I’m done,” he said, his voice quieter now, like saying it out loud would make it feel real.
“I’ve been at the Bureau for eight years, and it’s not what I thought it would be. It’s just…” He trailed off, frustration tightening his chest. “It’s too much. Too many lives to save, too many pieces of shit to track down, and none of it feels like it matters anymore. Maybe it never mattered to begin with.”
Emily’s eyes softened with understanding, but she didn’t press. She just kept her hand on his arm, offering silent support.
Derek, ever the quiet one, gave a small nod. “Sometimes you just need a change, Stiles. I get it.”
Stiles looked up at him, meeting his eyes for the first time since his slip-up. Derek’s expression was unreadable, but there was something there, something that made Stiles feel just a little bit lighter. It was like Derek knew.
Stiles could feel it, the weight lifting off his chest, but it wasn’t quite enough. He wanted to be more than what he was right now, but the decision to leave the Bureau wasn’t just about career burnout. It was about something deeper. Something that gnawed at him every time he put on his badge or got behind the wheel of a car, chasing some other case across the country.
Peter sat back in his chair, eyes narrowed thoughtfully as he studied Stiles. “And what exactly are you going to do next? Just walk away from it all?”
Stiles’ gaze hardened. “What’s it to you, Peter?”
Peter didn’t flinch. Instead, he smirked, leaning in a little. “Just wondering if you have a plan or if you’re doing it on impulse like everything else in your life.”
Stiles felt his muscles tense, but he held back. Don’t engage, he reminded himself. Peter’s only trying to push buttons.
“Actually,” Emily interjected, a bright smile back on her face, “I think it’s a good thing that you’re stepping back. It seems you’ve been carrying so much for so long. You deserve a break, Stiles.”
It was a small thing, but it made Stiles feel something flutter in his chest, genuine concern. He didn’t know if he’d ever felt that from anyone other than his dad before.
“Yeah,” Stiles said, a small, awkward smile tugging at his lips. “Maybe I do.”
The conversation slowly shifted, and they spent the rest of the meal talking about everything and nothing. Emily didn’t ask him about the Bureau again, and Peter kept his questions to a minimum, but there was something about the way they listened that had Stiles opening up in ways he hadn’t expected.
By the time they finished dessert, Stiles felt like maybe he was in the right place for the first time in a long while. It wasn’t perfect. There was still a hole in his chest that couldn’t be filled with anything but time. But sitting at that table, surrounded by people who, despite their differences, cared, it felt… easier than he’d expected.
It wasn’t the old Stiles, the one who had laughed and joked and fought alongside his pack.
But it was a start.
~~~~
Emily excused herself, giving Stiles one last warm smile before disappearing down the hall.
The moment her footsteps faded, Derek turned to Stiles with a look of quiet determination.
“Okay,” he said, arms crossed. “What the hell happened in Beacon Hills?”
Stiles sighed, dragging a hand down his face. “Jesus, man. Can’t we just enjoy the nice domestic scene for five minutes before jumping into that mess?”
Peter hummed, sipping his coffee, eyes sharp and calculating. “No, I don’t think we can. Because whatever happened back then still reeks off of you.” He tilted his head. “So, what was it? Betrayal? A lover’s quarrel? Some dramatic teenage angst?”
Stiles rolled his eyes but didn’t answer immediately. He didn’t want to talk about it. The past was buried for a reason. But he knew Peter wouldn’t let it go, and Derek. Well, Derek deserved to know.
He exhaled, leaning back in his chair. “I never forgave Scott after the Donovan thing.”
Derek frowned. “Donovan?”
Peter’s expression didn’t shift, but Stiles could feel the tension spike in the air.
“Who the fuck is Donovan?” Peter asked, voice deceptively calm. “And what exactly did he do to you?”
Stiles’ fingers curled against the table. His heart pounded, memories clawing their way to the surface. He thought he was past this. Thought the pain had dulled, but no. It still sat in his chest, waiting for moments like these to sink its claws into him.
He swallowed hard. “Some douchebag named Theo came to town senior year. Said he wanted to join Scott’s pack. Turned out he was working with the Dread Doctors.” He let out a bitter laugh. “We should’ve seen it coming. The guy was textbook shady, but Scott…he wanted to see the best in him.”
Derek’s jaw clenched.
Stiles exhaled sharply and continued. “Theo sent Donovan after me. I don’t even know why. Probably just to fuck with me. But the guy was a Wendigo, and he cornered me in the library one night.” His voice wavered, but he pushed through. “It was a fight. I tried to get away, but he came at me, and then-” He swallowed. “He fell. He landed wrong. He died.”
Peter didn’t move, didn’t breathe.
Derek stared, brows furrowed. “That’s not your fault, Stiles.”
Stiles laughed, but there was no humor in it. “Yeah, well, Theo made sure Scott thought otherwise.” His grip on the table tightened. “Convinced him it was murder. That I wanted Donovan dead.” His voice dropped lower. “Scott didn’t trust me after that.”
Silence fell over the room.
Peter’s eyes burned, his fingers tapping against his mug, the only outward sign of his barely controlled fury. “Scott McCall, your so-called best friend, thought you were a murderer?” His voice was sharp, venomous. “After everything you did for him?”
Stiles looked away. “Yeah.”
Peter scoffed, shaking his head. “You’re joking.”
Stiles let out a hollow laugh. “Wish I was.”
Derek looked pained, like he was trying to piece together how the pack had let this happen.
“And you never reached out? Not to Peter? Not even to me?”
Stiles hesitated. “I didn’t know if it would be welcome.”
The quiet admission hit harder than any outburst could have.
Peter went rigid. His nostrils flared, something raw flickering behind his usual smug mask.
Derek looked genuinely hurt.
Stiles shrugged, trying to play it off. “I figured you guys were better off without me.”
Derek shook his head, voice low and rough. “We would’ve been there.”
Peter’s eyes darkened. “And you should’ve known that.”
Stiles opened his mouth, ready to argue, ready to deflect, but the truth was, he hadn’t known. Because he had been drowning in guilt and self doubt, and no one,not Scott, not Lydia, not anyone, had given him a reason to believe he still mattered to them.
And now, sitting at this table, faced with two people who were genuinely angry and hurt by his absence, Stiles felt something in his chest crack.
Maybe, just maybe, he had been wrong.
~~~~
Stiles lingered in the shower longer than he probably should have, letting the hot water pound against his skin like it could wash away the weight of the conversation. His fingers dug into his scalp, scrubbing away the tension, but it did nothing to ease the knot in his chest.
He had said it. Said the words he had buried for years. And now they were out there, sitting between him, Peter, and Derek, raw and exposed. He wasn’t sure if he regretted it yet.
After drying off, he dressed quickly, running a hand through his damp hair before stepping out into the hallway. Derek and Peter were still at the table, but their eyes followed him as he grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair.
“I’ve got work to do,” Stiles said, his voice steady, controlled. “I’ll be back later.”
Derek gave a slow nod, still watching him carefully, like he wanted to say something but wasn’t sure what.
Peter, on the other hand, simply smirked. “Try not to get murdered, darling.”
Stiles rolled his eyes but didn’t argue with the man. Instead, he offered a half-hearted wave before stepping outside, the crisp mountain air doing little to clear the heaviness in his chest.
As soon as the door shut behind him, Peter’s smirk vanished. His entire demeanor shifted; shoulders tensed, jaw clenched, hands curling into fists. His heartbeat, usually so steady and measured, thumped a little too fast, a little too angry.
Derek noticed immediately. “Peter,” he said, a warning in his tone.
Peter didn’t respond. Instead, he stood abruptly and strode toward his bedroom.
Derek followed, watching as Peter yanked open his closet and pulled out a worn duffel bag. His movements were precise, methodical; extra clothes, gloves, a hunting knife he didn’t need but liked to carry anyway.
Derek crossed his arms. “What are you doing?”
Peter didn’t look up. “Packing.”
“For what?”
Peter finally turned, his blue eyes glinting with something dangerous. “I’m going to correct a mistake.”
Derek exhaled sharply, already knowing where this was going. “Peter-”
“I’m going to find that rat-faced son of a bitch Theo and skin him alive,” Peter interrupted, his voice smooth but deadly. “And while I’m at it, I’ll rip Scott’s head from his shoulders for good measure.”
Derek stiffened. “You can’t do that.”
Peter gave him a flat look. “Oh, but I can.” He zipped the duffel bag shut with a sharp motion. “And I will.”
Derek moved in front of him, blocking the doorway. “Peter, you can’t just go on a murder spree because Stiles got hurt.”
Peter’s eyes flashed. “Because Stiles got hurt?” He let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “That man. That stupid, loyal, self-sacrificing man was the only good thing in that pathetic excuse for a pack. And what did they do? They threw him away.”
Derek clenched his jaw but didn’t move.
Peter’s voice dropped lower, filled with something cold and sharp. “Scott McCall, with all his holier than thou bullshit, turned his back on his best friend over a lie. And that little bastard Theo-” Peter exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head. “No. I don’t give a single fuck about what happens to them anymore.”
Derek studied him, his brows furrowed. “You still have feelings for him.”
Peter’s expression didn’t change. He didn’t deny it.
“Yes,” he said simply.
Derek frowned. “So this is about that?”
Peter’s eyes narrowed. “No. This is about setting things right.”
Derek didn’t move. “You think killing them fixes anything?”
Peter’s jaw ticked. “It would help.”
Derek exhaled through his nose, running a hand over his face. “Peter.”
Peter turned away, gripping the strap of his bag tightly, muscles coiled like a predator ready to tear something apart.
Derek softened just a little. “Stiles chose to leave them behind, Peter.”
Peter’s grip tightened. “He shouldn’t have had to!”
Silence stretched between them, thick and heavy.
Derek knew Peter. Knew how deeply he felt things, even when he pretended he didn’t. Peter could be cold, cruel, manipulative; but when it came to the people he actually cared about? He was ruthless.
And Peter cared about Stiles. Maybe too much. Maybe more than he wanted to admit.
Finally, Derek spoke. “And what happens when Stiles finds out?”
Peter’s throat worked, but he said nothing.
Because that was the one thing he hadn’t accounted for.
~~~~
The case had unraveled quicker than Stiles expected. It was a rare moment when all the pieces clicked into place with frustrating ease. Pattern recognition, victimology, and a few well-placed questions had led him straight to the suspect. The bastard had been right under their noses, hiding in plain sight, pretending to be just another nobody in a town full of them.
Stiles barely slept in those two days, running on caffeine and stubborn determination. He had tracked the suspect to an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of town, because of course it was a fucking warehouse, where things had gone from procedural to dangerous in record time.
The guy was unhinged, ranting about cleansing sins and ridding the world of filth. Stiles had his gun drawn, keeping his voice even, controlled, as he tried to talk the suspect down. It almost worked.
Almost.
Then the guy lunged.
Stiles’ gun went off first, a clean shot to the shoulder, but not before cold steel met flesh. A sharp, searing pain ripped through his bicep as the bastard’s knife slid into him before the suspect hit the ground, bleeding but alive.
The rest had been protocol. Backup arrived. The suspect was cuffed. Reports were written.
Stiles spent four hours at the hospital getting stitches and enduring a doctor’s unimpressed lecture about reckless behavior and FBI agents thinking they’re invincible.
Now, finally, he was back at the house, exhausted, drained, and trying to change his own damn bandage.
Peter had a habit of moving quietly when he wanted to, which was why Stiles barely heard him enter the kitchen. It wasn’t until a sharp inhale cut through the air that Stiles glanced up from his spot at the table, finding Peter staring at him, eyes burning with barely restrained fury.
Stiles sighed. “Don’t start.”
Peter ignored him, stalking forward, gaze locked on the blood-streaked bandage that Stiles had half-peeled from his bicep.
“What the fuck happened?” Peter’s voice was low, deadly.
Stiles gritted his teeth, trying to maneuver his arm enough to wrap fresh gauze around it. “Case is wrapped up. Suspect in custody. Just a scratch.”
Peter’s jaw ticked as he crouched in front of him, knocking Stiles’ hands away before he could protest. “A scratch,” Peter echoed, voice dripping with disbelief. His fingers were unnervingly gentle as he inspected the wound, carefully unwinding the soiled bandage.
Stiles sighed again, leaning back in his chair. “You should see the other guy.”
Peter didn’t laugh. Didn’t smirk. Didn’t even roll his eyes. Instead, he stayed focused, his hands warm and steady against Stiles’ skin.
For all his arrogance, all his dramatics, Peter was precise when he wanted to be. The anger still simmered beneath his surface, but his touch remained careful as he pressed a fresh piece of gauze over the stitched wound.
“This shouldn’t have happened,” Peter muttered, almost to himself.
Stiles scoffed. “That’s kind of the job.”
Peter’s eyes flicked up, something sharp and unreadable in them. “It shouldn’t have been your job.”
Stiles exhaled slowly, watching Peter work. He could argue, but he didn’t have the energy. Instead, he let the silence settle, let Peter finish wrapping his arm, his movements still infuriatingly gentle.
When Peter finally tied off the bandage, he lingered for a moment, his fingers resting lightly against Stiles’ forearm. His gaze darkened, something unreadable flickering behind his expression.
“Next time,” Peter murmured, voice softer now, dangerous in a different way, “don’t get stabbed.”
Stiles huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “Noted.”
Peter didn’t move, still watching him with something unreadable in his gaze.
Stiles swallowed. He should say something. Should make a joke. Should break whatever this was.
But for once, he didn’t.
~~~~
The dinner table was quiet, save for the clinking of utensils and the soft hum of conversation. Stiles picked at his plate, not because he wasn’t hungry but because the words he was about to speak felt heavier than anything he had said in a long time.
He had made his decision earlier that day. When the case was officially closed, when the adrenaline wore off, and when he realized he had no more reason to stay in New Mexico.
He set his fork down, his stomach twisting uncomfortably. The eyes of everyone at the table were on him, waiting for him to speak, but he didn’t look up at first.
Finally, he broke the silence. “The case is closed. I’m heading back to Virginia tomorrow.”
Peter’s hand stilled mid air, his glass of wine hanging just above the table. His throat tightened, and his stomach dropped, but he didn’t let any of that show on his face. He forced a neutral expression, though his voice was tighter than he intended when he responded. “You’re leaving already?”
Stiles gave a sharp nod, but his eyes didn’t meet Peter’s. “Yeah. I need to process my resignation. And then... I don’t know. I don’t want to stay in Virginia, but I’m not going back to Beacon Hills.” He exhaled deeply, feeling the weight of the words that still felt like they didn't quite belong to him. “Maybe I’ll just travel. I don’t know.”
Emily, who had been quietly listening, asked, “What will you do now, Stiles? I mean, what do you want to do?”
Stiles shrugged, a faint, tired smile tugging at his lips. “I’ve been running for so long, I’m not even sure anymore. I don’t even know where to start.”
There was a brief silence before Emily spoke up, her voice warm and understanding. “Well, you’re always welcome to stay here as long as you want. We’d love to have you.”
Stiles looked up at her, his heart warmed by the offer. She was kind, and he could tell she genuinely meant it. But there was still a part of him that hesitated, something deep inside that told him this wasn’t right.
He gave a soft chuckle, though it felt strained. “I appreciate that, I really do. But it doesn’t feel right. I’m... practically a stranger to you all. It’s been so long since I’ve seen Peter or Derek, and I don’t want to impose.”
Peter’s chest tightened at the mention of their distance. Stiles wasn’t wrong. He was a stranger to them now. There had been years - so many years - of nothing. Of silence. Peter didn’t know how to make this better, how to convince Stiles to stay, but the thought of him leaving again, vanishing back into the unknown, made something inside him burn in frustration.
Derek, too, seemed torn, his expression a mix of understanding and regret. He’d hoped, like Peter, that Stiles might reconsider staying, but he understood that the past was never so easily erased.
“I get it,” Derek said quietly, his gaze softening as he looked at Stiles. “But the offer still stands. Just... think about it.”
Stiles met Derek’s eyes briefly and nodded, though there was a heaviness in his chest that didn’t seem to go away. “Thanks. I’ll think about it.”
But they both knew that Stiles wasn’t going to stay.
Peter’s fingers gripped his wine glass harder than necessary, his mind racing with everything he wanted to say, everything he wished he could have done differently. But the words wouldn’t come. Instead, he stared at Stiles, his heart hammering in his chest, trying to figure out what this meant for them.
~~~~
Stiles had barely closed the door behind him when he heard the soft, familiar sound of footsteps following him into the hallway. His stomach tightened at the thought of facing Peter again, and yet, he couldn’t help but feel a strange sense of comfort in the older man’s presence, even after all these years.
The door creaked open just as he was pulling the shirt from his back, and there stood Peter; tall, dark aura, and unyielding. His eyes were intense, but there was something softer about them now, something Stiles wasn’t sure how to handle.
“Still no boundaries, huh?” Stiles muttered, though the words held no real bite. He kept his back to Peter as he pulled a new shirt over his head, trying to ignore the nagging feeling that this conversation was unavoidable.
Peter leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, studying him with a gaze that was both calculated and unreadable. “You really won’t come back once your resignation is processed?” he asked, his voice low and surprisingly gentle.
Stiles froze for a moment, fingers trembling ever so slightly as he finished buttoning his shirt. His mind flickered back to the conversation they’d had at dinner, the reality of it settling in. He hadn’t wanted to say it out loud, but the truth hung heavy between them.
“No,” Stiles answered quietly, but he didn’t turn around to face Peter. He was afraid if he did, he’d crack.
Peter didn’t let the silence linger for too long. “Why?”
Stiles felt a knot form in his throat. He could hear the weight behind Peter’s question, the unspoken emotion there, but he wasn’t ready to go there yet. He clenched his jaw and turned around to meet Peter’s gaze. “Why do you care, Peter? It’s been years.”
Peter didn’t flinch at the bitterness that tinged Stiles’ words. In fact, he took a step forward, his eyes never leaving Stiles’ face. His voice was steady when he spoke again, though there was an edge of something deeper lurking underneath. “I care because I’ve always cared, darling. I’ve always had a soft spot for you. That should be a surprise to no one, especially to you.”
Stiles stared at him, caught off guard by the words, and yet, not entirely surprised. He felt a twinge of something - longing, maybe, or something else he couldn’t name. He scoffed, trying to play it off. “A soft spot? Really?”
Peter’s gaze softened, but it wasn’t pity; it was something else, something raw. “You were always different. Smarter than most, loyal to a fault, but still cunning. And you were the bravest man I’ve ever met.” His words were measured, like he was carefully choosing each one, each syllable carefully placed to pierce through the walls Stiles had built.
Stiles’ breath hitched at the unexpected sincerity in Peter’s voice. He swallowed, trying to hide the fact that it was getting to him; that all the things he had shut away over the years were suddenly being laid bare by this man.
Peter stepped closer, his presence engulfing the room. “I hated what Scott and Theo did to you,” he continued, his voice darkening with every word. “What they did to you wasn’t just wrong; it was vile.” He clenched his jaw, his fists tightening as though just the thought of it was enough to set him off. “And instead of running off to kill them like I want to, I’m better off using my time to help you.”
Stiles swallowed, his heart racing in his chest. Help me? The thought almost felt foreign. He wasn’t sure he even knew how to be helped, not after everything he’d been through. But Peter’s words resonated in a way Stiles couldn’t ignore.
He glanced up at Peter then, eyes searching, searching for something he couldn’t quite grasp. “You really want to help me?”
Peter didn’t hesitate. “Yes, darling. I always have. And I always will.” His voice softened, just enough that Stiles could hear the vulnerability hidden beneath the sharp edges. “You’ve been through hell, and I don’t expect you to trust me overnight, but I will help you. I won’t let you fall through the cracks again.”
Stiles closed his eyes, the weight of his past settling heavily on his chest. He could feel the presence of Peter, the intensity of his words, and the sincerity behind them, but Stiles wasn’t sure if he was ready to let anyone in again.
Peter’s hand rested lightly on Stiles’ shoulder then, a touch that was surprisingly gentle, his thumb brushing over the fabric of Stiles’ shirt. “You’re not alone, darling,” he said softly, the words hanging between them, unspoken promises wrapped in the simplest of gestures.
Stiles exhaled slowly, nodding, but his heart was still a tangled mess of emotions. How could anyone promise him that? How could anyone possibly know how to fix what was so broken?
But Peter was still there, his eyes full of understanding, and despite all the distance between them, Stiles couldn’t help but wonder if, maybe, for once, he didn’t have to face everything alone.
~~~~
Stiles' goodbye the next morning was brief but heartfelt. His body felt heavy as he stood in the doorway, facing the quiet warmth of the Hale house. Emily, ever so kind, was the first to pull him into a tight hug. She smelled like fresh baked cookies and something floral, a comfort that made Stiles' chest tighten. "You’ll always have a place here, Stiles," she said, her voice soft but firm, as if her offer was something he could always count on.
Stiles felt the lump in his throat grow bigger, but he held it in, nodding. "Thanks, Emily. You... you’re good for them," he managed, glancing between her and Derek, who stood behind her, his expression a mix of quiet understanding and concern.
Derek stepped forward and clapped him on the shoulder. "Take care of yourself, Stiles," he said, his voice low and sincere.
Stiles managed a smile, a flicker of the old Stiles in the gesture. "I’ll be fine, Sourwolf. You’ve got your hands full with Emily anyway."
Peter lingered by the door, arms crossed, eyes narrowed as if weighing something important.
There was a heaviness in the air between them, the lingering tension of unspoken things. When Stiles finally turned to face him, there was no mistaking the rawness in Peter’s gaze, a silent plea Stiles wasn’t sure how to answer. "Take care of yourself, Stiles," Peter said simply, repeating Derek’s words, voice tinged with an emotion Stiles couldn’t quite place.
"Yeah," Stiles replied, swallowing hard. "See you around, Peter."
And with that, he was gone. The door clicked shut behind him, leaving an empty, quiet space in its wake.
The drive back to Virginia felt like the longest one he’d ever made. His hands gripped the steering wheel, knuckles white with tension. The open road stretched out before him, an endless ribbon of asphalt that felt both liberating and suffocating. He couldn't stop thinking about Emily’s offer, how it lingered in the back of his mind, like a gentle pull, urging him to reconsider. A place to stay. A home. It was tempting, but he knew better than to believe it could be that easy. People didn’t just take you in after so long. He wasn’t the same person he had been when he left Beacon Hills, and neither were they.
As he drove, the miles blurred into one long, indistinct stretch, and Stiles let his mind wander.
Emily’s kindness echoed in his thoughts. She was so genuine, so different from everyone else in his life, and that made her offer feel like a lifeline, one that might pull him back from the edge if he let it. But he couldn’t stay in New Mexico. That wasn’t his life. He was a stranger there, to himself as much as anyone else.
Then there was Peter. Peter Hale. The words rang in his mind, repeating like a chant. He couldn’t figure out what was more unsettling; the fact that Peter had always had a soft spot for him or that he still felt like that version of Stiles was someone worth caring about. Stiles clenched his jaw, pushing the thoughts aside. He had enough of his own problems to deal with without dredging up old feelings.
By the time he reached his apartment in Virginia, the weight of his decision felt like it had settled into his bones. He sat in his car for a long moment, staring at the building in front of him. It was a little too quiet, a little too sterile. It never felt like home, but he had to pack up. He had to close the door on this chapter once and for all.
Packing was a silent, methodical process. Stiles moved through the apartment in a haze, throwing things into boxes with practiced efficiency. His clothes. His books. The little things he had accumulated over the years. Stuff he didn’t need, but didn’t want to throw away. Every item seemed to remind him of something he was leaving behind, something that didn’t quite fit anymore. The small apartment felt even smaller as he stripped it down to bare walls and empty shelves.
His resignation letter was typed out and printed, sitting on the kitchen counter. He’d read it over and over, but the words didn’t change. I am resigning from my position with the FBI, effective immediately. The finality of it hit him every time he looked at it, like a punch to the gut. Stiles had put everything into that job. But the truth was, he didn’t want it anymore. Not when it felt like all it had done was hollow him out, piece by piece.
The apartment started to feel like a cage, a place where he had built his walls so high that he wasn’t sure how to take them down. He packed the last of his things with a steady hand, wiping away the thoughts of New Mexico, of the quiet house that had offered him something, something he couldn’t quite grasp but wanted desperately.
Finally, when everything was packed into the back of his car, Stiles took a deep breath, slammed the trunk shut, and turned around to face the life he’d built for himself, one that now felt like it belonged to a stranger.
Stiles didn’t know where he would go next, but for the first time in a long time, it felt like the road ahead was wide open.