Slow burn Derek/OC. This is not 100% cannon because it's fanfic. Please read & review!

ONE

I had been back in my childhood home for less than 12 hours, and already I regretted leaving New Jersey. I should have never come back to Beacon Hills.

Okay, maybe that's a little dramatic. But seriously, all I wanted was a little bit of sleep and my damn baby brother couldn't even give me that! A loud bang sounded from across the hall just as I had finally started to doze off. I rolled over and shoved my face into the pillow to hide my scream.

My mind drifted back to earlier that morning.

"We need to go to the police." My mother was already grabbing her jacket and heading towards the door.

"No, mom. Please." I carefully sat myself down in a kitchen chair, being sure not to jostle my injuries.

"Chelsea." She came around the table to lay a hand on my shoulder and wait until I glanced up. "Look at you. Look at what he's done to you." I shifted my eyes to my lap, forcing back the tears.

"They won't help, mom." I cried softly. She took a deep breath, before crouching down to be eye level.

"Stalinski is different." she assured me. "He'll listen. He'll help." The confidence in her voice was appreciated, but not believed.

I had been to the police back in my small Jersey town countless times. Even after the protection order was granted, without proof, there was nothing they could do.

The phone calls from blocked numbers… can't prove it's him.

The random social media accounts messaging me 40 times a day… can't prove it's him.

The flowers that were constantly being left on my car after work… can't prove it's him.

The flowers that were left INSIDE my apartment… can't prove it was him.

TV shows and movies had led me to believe that it could have all been a simple matter of tracking an IP address, or dusting for fingerprints. But that's not the way the real world worked.

No. In the real world, the perpetrator had rights, they were protected under privacy laws and mountains of paperwork that police didn't want to file. The victims had nothing. After a year of fighting with police and attorneys, I gave up. I knew the law wouldn't be enough. So I moved… again. I changed my job… again. I changed my number… again.

And it had worked. For about 6 months, I'd lived a fairly normal life. No phone calls, no texts, no message on social media (I'd gotten rid of those accounts entirely). I hadn't received any "gifts" or flowers. It was over.

Who would have ever thought that a 5 month relationship could turn into complete and total Hell.

Five fucking months.

And here I was, almost two years later, still running from this man.

Last night (or was it two nights ago? The long drive had made time warp together), he had been waiting for me after work. It had been almost a full year, 9 whole months, since I had heard from him. But two weeks ago, the phone calls started again. At first it was nothing but silence on the other end, which I brushed off as robo calls. But then I heard my name. Then the calls didn't stop. One after another after another after another. 50 to 100 in just one day. So I threw my phone out of my car window in a fit of rage and panic.

I knew I'd have to leave that night. So I packed what little belongings I had into my car before work and planned to drive out of town after my shift. One last 12 stint inside the rundown slimy diner and I'd drive off to… wherever I could find the cheapest hotel. My heart had been aching for Beacon Hills, but the thought of facing my mother and brother was almost as unbearable as the stalking. And going back to dad's was out of the question. I hadn't spoken to him in well over a year, and I had no intentions to do so.

After pocketting my tips, clocking out and silently leaving my nametag on the manager's desk in the back office, I slipped out of the diner. It was just after midnight, but the street lamps that scattered the parking lot gave off enough light for me to spot my car from the door… and the man sitting on the curb. My fingers tightened around the key resting between them. I'd gotten into the habit of walking with the key stuck between my knuckles, giving a punch an extra edge if I needed to throw one. But the man didn't even seem to look at me as I started to cross the pavement.

Though the small town didn't have a huge homeless population, we were so close to the city that it wasn't necessarily uncommon. So I kept walking, my eyes scanning the area in front of me as they always did.

My mistake was not paying attention to the space behind me. The empty crevasse between the side of the diner and the old abandoned bank next door. That's where he was hiding. Lying in wait like a predator about to take down its prey.

I had convinced my mother to hold off on calling the police for at least a day. I just needed some sleep. I just need to heal. Well, my mind needed to heal. My body on the other hand, that would take a while.

Aside from the small cut on my forehead, which could easily be concealed by my hair, and the slight bruising on my jaw that I had hastily covered with some makeup, no other injuries were visible while I wore clothes. A fact I felt lucky to know while I had sat in front of my mother that morning. If she had seen the deep black and purple marks encasing my rib cage or the long cut adorning my shoulder blade. Or the small bruises near the base of my neck that were hidden by the collar and hood of my sweatshirt...

Would she have agreed to let me go to bed if she had seen those wounds? Would she have forced me to go to the hospital? Knowing my mother, the hospital would have come to us.

After she finally left for work, which took about 20 minutes of convincing in itself, I went upstairs to my old bedroom. Though I desperately needed sleep, it evaded me. I tossed and turned, praying to God that he'd grant me even just a few seconds of peaceful sleep. But as always, he ignored me.

Another hour dragged by before I heard the front door open and close downstairs. I listened to the pounding footsteps bound up the steps, and then suddenly come to a halt at the top of the staircase. It must have been Scott, and he must have remembered that I was here. Mom had said that she would call him to explain the "necessary details" before his lacrosse practice.

It had been over a year since I'd seen my mom and little brother. I wondered what he looked like now? Still the little punk kid with shaggy hair that always fell in his face? Still the kid with the slightly uneven jaw and puppy dog eyes that would get him out of any trouble? Still the good sibling? I smirked to myself at the thought. He would always be the "good" one. My track record was too extensive for him to change that title.

I was known for getting high under the bleachers during lacrosse games. From what I heard, he was known for kicking ass on the field. Two very different kids. Maybe it was for the best that I chose to live with dad after he and mom had split. My mother would have hated me by now. Dad, well he was too busy working to notice my decreasing grades, bad choice of friends and streak of toxic boyfriends.

At least Scott turned out alright. Mom had done well for him and herself. The realization made my heart swell a bit with pride.

However, when the loud crash jolted me from my near sleep an hour or so later, that pride was rapidly replaced with fury. I dragged myself out from under the covers and set my bare feet on the floor with a groan that turned into a growl towards the end.

"Scott!" I called, hoping he'd get the hint. But another clattering noise and a grunt had me on my feet and rushing to the door.

Was he hurt? That's what the grunt sounded like, someone having the wind knocked out of them. I was familiar with the sound, though I was used to being the one making it.

My ribs began to burn as the thought skimmed my mind.

"Scott." I called again while I swung my bedroom door open and hurried down the hall. I noted that not much about this long hallway had changed since the last time I'd been here for Christmas. Same chipping paint. Same dusty photos from our childhood on the walls. Hell, even the same broom leaned against the corner near the bathroom.

I hesitated for only a second with my hand on the knob. What if the grunting was… well, you know how teenage boys are. But my gut told me to go in. My gut told me that Scott needed help. And if there's anything the past two years of Hell had taught me, it's to trust my gut.

I pushed the door inward. I didn't do it slowly. I didn't try to peek in and announce myself first. I just let it fly open and bang against the wall. The confusion that rushed over me in the first moment was almost comical.

This couldn't be Scott. He was too tall. Could he have grown that much in a year? His hair was still dark, but it was cut close to his head. Not shaggy like the members of EVERY boy band ever. And his face… too square. Too hard. Too terrifying.

It was his eyes that forced me to take a step back. The look of pure rage, so close to the line that separated being in control and falling over the edge. It paralyzed me. Too often I had seen those eyes right before feeling pain.

"Chels?" a voice pulled my attention to the corner of the room.

THAT was Scott. That baby faced ball of dark hair was the Scott I remembered. He hadn't changed much at all and the thought that I had mistaken this intruder as him for even the slightest of seconds was ridiculous.

"Are you okay?" I finally found the words that were stuck in my throat. I spoke directly to Scott, putting all of my energy into ignoring the man to my left.

"Yeah, yeah." Scott said hurriedly and he came bounding towards me. "I'm sorry that we woke you up." he didn't stop like I thought he would. To my surprise he threw his arms around my neck and pulled me into a hug. I couldn't remember the last time I hugged my brother. I couldn't remember the last time I hugged anyone.

I returned his hug, doing my best to hide the pain that was shooting through my back as he squeezed against the cut there. He smelled like grass and sweat. If I hadn't been so overwhelmed by the sudden intimate contact, I would have been grossed out.

"I'm glad you're here." The sincerity in his voice broke a small piece of my heart. I should have been here more. I should have visited, or at least called more often than holidays. Fuck, I never even called on his birthday.

I didn't even know when it was.

My eyes closed tight, forcing back the onslaught of tears ready to spill down my cheeks. I had to keep it together. I had to keep the conversation short before he started to ask questions about my sudden and unannounced visit.

"Are you sure everything is okay?" I cast a hard glance towards the guy still standing by the door. His eyes bore into mine for a brief moment before I turned back to my brother. "It sounded like you were in a fight." I recalled the painful groan I'd heard moments ago.

"We're fine." Scott sent a pointed glane the stranger's way. "Everything is fine." I took an extra second to examine Scott's face. His doe brown eyes soft and full of concern. Baby cheeks full and rosy. Hair shaggy and in desperate need of a brushing and a good cut.

"Then keep it down." I joked with a small smile and light punch to his arm. "Some of us are trying to catch up on sleep."

His face lit up when he returned my smile and let out a short chuckle.

I remember that laugh.

Suddenly, a heat rushed over my body. I pulled at the collar of my sweatshirt to get some relief. Making sure my smile stayed in place, I turned to leave. The man was in the doorway, mossy eyes locked onto my every move. Maybe that's where the heat was coming from.

"Oh," Scott chimed when our staring contest stretched into awkwardness. "this is Derek. He's my, uh, friend."

Trying to bullshit a bullshitter, Scott? I thought sourly. I was observant enough to know when I was being lied to. This guy, Derek, was not a friend.

But I kept my thoughts to myself. Scott was my brother, but in so many ways he was still a stranger. How could I call him out on his lies on my first day back in town? It didn't feel right.

Besides, he was a teenager. Maybe Derek was more than a friend and they were being… rough. Honestly, at Scott's age, I was doing much more than having sex with an older guy in the house when mom and dad were out. And I was doing it with guys like Derek. Dark, scary, mysterious. Everything our parents would disapprove of.

Maybe my baby brother wasn't the golden child after all. Maybe we were both a little fucked up.