Peter doesn't really expect it when Stiles shows up at his front door, carrying a plain white box with a red sketch of Italy on top and tied with red and white string. They had gotten in an argument the day before, mainly about Stiles always rushing headlong into trouble and how Peter wouldn't get off his back about it.

"I'm not some dumb kid, asshole! I don't need to be baby sat all the fucking time!"

"You're nineteen, you're still a kid even if you don't want to admit it! Magic or not!"

Stiles had thrown the empty Starbucks cup he was holding at Peter's face. Even if it had been full, the burns would have heeled quickly, but since it was one of those reusable ones it had still hurt when it bounced off his nose. "Go fuck yourself, Hale!" He's stormed out of the apartment, making sure to slam the door behind him and Peter was pretty sure he didn't need super hearing to hear the jeep pull out of the parking lot.

Age was always something sensitive between the two of them.

But still, here was Stiles – his mate and the pack's resident "spark" (because god forbid he use the word "warlock") – holding a box from their favorite Italian bakery and a slightly defeated look. "Can I come in?"

Peter stepped out of the way, crossing his arms over his chest. "You never had to ask before."

Stiles just shrugged, walking in and toeing his shoes off. He placed the box on the coffee table, "I was a real ass yesterday."

"Yes, you were."

He rolled his eyes, "Wow, thanks. I'm trying to start a dialog here, work with me, zombiewolf?"

"Don't call me that."

"As I was saying…I was a real ass yesterday." He walked into the kitchenette and rummaged through the drawers, "But so were you. Look, I get it. You're the 'older and wiser' one out of the two of this in whatever this thing we have is." He pulled out a pair of scissors, pointing them at Peter. "But! But…you can't just brush me off like that, okay? I've been at this for three years, I helped kick your ass without magic once before and I've helped all your furrybutts with more than that since then. You're the only one that still treats me like I'm made of fucking glass. Even Derek understands I can hold my own at this point. Why can't you? Go get some plates and forks." Stiles grabbed a couple of napkins before heading back to the coffee table.

Peter rolled his eyes, but still did as Stiles asked, "Has it ever occurred to you how I would feel if something did happen to you? Magic isn't flawless."

Stiles rolled his eyes as he snipped the string keeping the box closed, "Dude, you don't think I get that? I have more than a couple of scars to remind me of that." He pulled the string away, "But you're not always going to be around to protect me, you'll just get yourself hurt too, and how do you think that will make me feel." He sat down on the carpet. "I forgot a knife."

He pulled one out of the drawer and placed it on top of the two plates and forks before heading over to sit next to Stiles, "It seems we have reached an impasse."

Stiles took the knife from the pile and cut a slice of the cake, tiramisu – his favorite, his mate knew him all too well. "It appears so." He put the slice on one of the plates and handed it to Peter. "We might have to work something out."

"It appears so." Peter took a bite of his cake, eyes closing as he savored the taste. "Bless Mrs. Campanelli. You obviously bought this to make me weak."

"You know me all too well," Stiles took a bite himself. "Now, what are we going to do about this little situation?"

I haven't had tiramisu yet, someone revoke my "half-Italian" card.