Stiles stayed overnight. It wasn't unusual; he and Erica had engaged in many "sleepovers" in the past. He woke up to her kisses that lingered on his skin like little brands.

"Morning, sleepyhead," she said. She climbed on top of him, straddling his hips as she ran her fingers down his chest. Stiles captured her wrists and dragged her hands up to his face. He kissed each of her fingers before pulling himself up into a sitting position. Erica's wrists slid out of his grip easily. She twined her arms around his neck, drawing him into for a deep kiss.

"I'm not sure if I'm ready to give this up," Stiles said against her lips. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her closer. Their bodies were slotted together in that perfect formation that he could only do with her.

"You don't have to," she said gently, running her fingers through his hair. Stiles sighed, and rested his forehead against her shoulder.

Their relationship had been going on for five years now and for some reason they weren't sick of seeing each other. Stiles felt at ease in her presence, and she took in all of his fears, thoughts, ideas and urges. He did the same for her. If he were an idealistic person, he would say that he was in love with her.

But he had learned long ago that he and Erica could never develop that type of romantic intimacy with one another, even though it seemed so easy and effortless. Stiles had watched Scott and Allison every step of the way in their own happily-ever-after, and wanted to cry about how natural it seemed to them. It looked so simple, especially when they said, "I love you."

Stiles remembered when he was nineteen; it had been a year since he and Erica started having regular sex with each other. His chest felt tight and he could barely breathe. He knew Erica didn't want anything concrete. She was a singing bird that refused to have her wings clipped for anything, and he respected that about her. It's what made her so amazing in the first place. He wasn't sure what he wanted to confess to her that night, but Erica seemed to understand as he stood there at her front door, soaking wet from the thunderstorm outside. She had led him in and dried him off, giving him his spare clothes that he kept in her bottom drawer. She kissed his tears away and they lay in her bed all night, under the covers and fully dressed for once. Stiles had cried his heart out into her chest as she petted his hair.

"Stiles?" Erica said, breaking into his thoughts. Stiles looked up at her; his eyes were stinging.

"I love you," he sobbed. Tears streaked down his face and rolled off his chin.

Erica cupped his face, brushing them away with her thumbs. She gave him a sad smile. "I know," she replied softly. She kissed him deeply as she slowly pushed him down into the pillows.

That morning was quiet compared to the rest. Their voices were robbed of their usual, frantic moans and the air of the sound of their thrashing bodies. Stiles kissed Erica desperately, the sobs building up in his throat until he couldn't breathe and they turned into crying hiccups. Erica guided him with soft touches and angelic patience, sighing with content as he entered her. Her eyes were glistening as she stared up at him, digging her fingers into his hair.

"Come on," she whispered, gasping into his ear. "Give them a good squeeze."

Stiles did; he wasn't that awkward teenage virgin anymore. Erica's breasts were soft and warm, just like the heart she carefully tucked away when she needed to be fiercer and playful.

They'd always fucked like horny animals. It had always been their way. It was easier giving in to their physical wants rather than their emotional needs.

This was the first time that they made love.

Being torn in half would hurt less than leaving Erica's apartment. Stiles stood at the open doo, smelling of sex and her lingering perfume. He hesitated; his legs refused to move. Erica was wearing her robe. Her hair was tousled in that frenzied way that only his fingers could achieve.

"Erica—" he began, but she stifled his words with a single finger to his lips.

"Go," she said, smiling sadly. "Go find your man. You don't need…" She ducked her head. She dragged her finger off of his bottom lip before looking up at him again. "Well, if you still need me, I'll be—"

Stiles surged forward, crushing his mouth against hers. Her arms twined around his neck, pulling him close. He held her hips, tightening his grip when her tongue breached his mouth. He wanted her to wrap her legs around his waist and then press her against the wall. He wanted to touch her in every way imaginable. Stiles wanted to taste her come and fuck her until she screamed with pleasure.

Instead, they kissed. They stayed like that for five minutes before Stiles finally drew away from her and out her door.

"Hey," Scott said when Stiles walked through their front door later that morning. Scott was sitting on the couch, rechecking his upcoming fall schedule for the university. His smile faltered when he saw the look on Stiles' face. He jumped out of his seat, nearly tripping over himself to reach his friend. "What's wrong, what happened?"

Stiles took in a deep, shuddering breath. It was hard getting the air to stay in his lungs long enough to sound coherent. "Erica and I," he finally choked out, "we… We broke up."

Scott gave him a confused look, his brow crinkling in worry as Stiles' face crumpled into silent sobs. Scott stepped forward and drew him into a hug.

"I ruined it," Stiles confessed miserably. "I said those words and I ruined it."

Scott didn't need reminding on what words Stiles was talking about. He held him tighter and only let go once Stiles had calmed down somewhat.

It took another two weeks before Stiles could stand to return to Vernon's. He felt like he was cheapening whatever it was he had with Erica by even daring to seek out the man that caused his emotions so much whiplash. But there he was, ordering the cheapest beer that the place had to offer.

"It's been a while," Vernon said, sliding the bottle over to Stiles. It was his third one that evening. At least, he thinks it was. "I was worried that you found another hang-out."

"None of them appealed to me," Stiles replied, staring at his drink. He picked it up and retreated to the back corner of the bar, settling himself into an empty booth. He pulled out his phone and scrawled through his contacts. Erica's number was under the C's. Sighing, he placed the phone down on the table, covering the screen with his palm.

"You look troubled."

Stiles looked up and felt his face grow hot. Peter was sitting across from him, giving him a faint smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

"Shit, you scared me," Stiles muttered. He noticed Peter eyeing his hand. He tried to pull his phone out of eyesight, but Peter was too quick for him. He grabbed Stiles' wrist, lifting his arm off the table before grabbing the phone with his free hand.

"Hey—" Stiles protested weakly. Peter looked at the screen and rolled his eyes. He tapped in something and then handed it back to Stiles.

"Catwoman, really?" Peter said, huffing out a short laugh. "Judging by that nickname, he or she must be quite feisty."

"None of your fucking business," Stiles growled out.

Peter raised an eyebrow. He looked more amused than insulted. "You're touchier than I remember," he said. "Did I catch you at a bad time?"

"It's all your fault," Stiles slurred. "I had to abandon my favourite drink—drink-serving place for six weeks because of you."

"How did I do that?" Peter said calmly. One of the waitresses had come over, smiling at the older man as she jotted down his order. Stiles watched him, the irrational anger building up in his chest. Once the girl had left, Stiles continued.

"Your stupid V-neck, for one," he told him. "And your hair. Nobody's hair should look that great at your stupid old age."

Peter cocked his head. His eyes were scanning Stiles' face. "Oh? How old am I that my hair is unacceptable to society's standards?"

"Fifty," Stiles spat out. "Because you're a liar."

"Ah," Peter sighed, "We've returned to that particular discussion."

"You also said you liked me, and then you never called."

"How was I supposed to contact you without your number? You left so suddenly that you didn't give me the chance to request it."

Stiles placed his elbows on the table and held his head in his hands. He glared at Peter, as if it was his fault that Stiles had forgotten to give him his digits. Peter was giving him that same hungry look from their first encounter and it made Stiles' insides squirm. "Well, it's still your fault," Stiles accused. "You're getting up there in your old man age and you forgot to ask."

Peter laughed softly. "Yes, it must be my age that's caused all of this. I'll be suffering from all of the elderly diseases by the time I'm forty. The lifespan of humanity seems to have decreased dramatically since the last time we spoke."

The waitress had returned with Peter's wine, and sweetly asked Stiles if he needed anything. She looked shocked when Stiles told her, "Some Viagra for this pervert here."

"He's joking," Peter reassured her, slipping her a twenty. "Keep that; it's an apology on his behalf." The waitress walked away in a hurry.

"So you're bribing the staff now?" Stiles said. "Are you going to pay them all off to look the other way while you have your way with me?"

Peter gives him a concerned look. "Stiles, how much have you had to drink?"

"I haven't been cut off yet, which is a good sign," Stiles said grouchily. He felt his eyelids sagging. He placed his head in his arms on the table, suddenly feeling tired. He felt Peter's hand touching his head.

"Let me take you home."

"I need to pay my tab."

"I'll take care of it."

"Of course you will."

Peter drove them to the convenience store close by, and told Stiles to wait in the car before he went in. He returned five minutes later, handing Stiles a bottle of water and aspirin. Stiles stared at the items. He looked over at Peter, who sat in the driver's seat. He was tapping the steering wheel, watching Stiles with a piercing stare.

"Why are you doing this?" Stiles asked.

Peter sighed heavily. "You're wasted, Stiles. Water will help dilute the alcohol in your system, and you're going to have a terrible headache once your hangover kicks in in the morning."

Stiles' fingers trembled when he tried screwing the top off of the water. Peter gently took it from his hands and did it for him. Even as something as mundane as opening a bottle made the guy look fucking flawless. Stiles took it back from him and chugged down half of the liquid inside.

"Slow down," Peter ordered. Stiles did the opposite out of the weird spite that he was feeling. (Nobody's actions while they were drunk never made sense.) He finished off the water, slowly opened the door, and got out. He walked about ten feet before falling to his knees and emptying the contents of his stomach.

He felt Peter's hand on his back rubbing soothing circles. "I told you to slow down."

"Whatever, jerk-face," Stiles said between his dry heaving. His throat felt raw and burning once he was finished vomiting all over the ground.

Peter stayed silent, his hand steady and firm on Stiles. "Got everything out of you? Good," he added when Stiles nodded weakly. "We wouldn't want you getting sick in the car."

"Are you afraid that I'll ruin your precious exterior or something?"

Peter laughed softly. "That's a small part of it, but I'm mostly worried about you."

"Why do you care?" Stiles asked wearily. His voice was robbed of its earlier venom. He felt exhausted and he wanted to get the taste of regurgitated alcohol out of his mouth. "We barely know each other."

"Don't we all start out as strangers?" Peter said. He held out his hand. Stiles stared at it suspiciously, but then finally took it. Peter lifted him to his feet. "All it takes is a spark of conversation for two strangers to become acquaintances and then, hopefully, friends."

"Ooh, someone's all fucking philosophical tonight."

"I'm not sure how that qualifies as being 'philosophical'."

Stiles rolled his eyes. He was still holding Peter's hand. He blushed, and pulled away from him. "Whatever. I'm too tired to tolerate your dickery tonight."

"You're being ridiculous."

"Your face is ridiculous."

Peter rolled his eyes. "Get back in the car." Stiles didn't bother arguing at this point. All he wanted was to sleep.

Stiles may have been drunk, but not all of his wits had abandoned him. He refused to tell Peter his address but rather gave him a street that was five blocks away from the Stilinski-Argent-McCall apartment. Peter raised an eyebrow when Stiles told him to stop in front of the Wal-Mart. He merely shrugged and drove into the empty parking lot. It was now close to two in the morning.

"This doesn't look like a house," Peter said as Stiles struggled to get the seatbelt unclipped.

"Who said I lived in a house?" Stiles countered. He managed to free himself from his restraints and was about to barrel out the door when Peter's hand shot out and grabbed his wrist.

"Stiles," he said calmly, "Where do you live?"

"Not here, obviously," Stiles gritted out. "I can't just give out my address to everyone, you know?"

Peter frowned. He continued to grip Stiles' wrist and Stiles was suddenly aware of his thumb brushing against his pulse. He made his heart pound like a jackhammer inside of his chest.

"Are you homeless?" Peter asked suddenly.

Well, that came out of nowhere. Stiles blinked, alarmed and flustered at the bizarre question. "What, no! Of course not! And can you let go of me?" he added, trying to jerk out of Peter's grip. The older man refused to give an inch. He continued to stare at Stiles with that calm intensity in his eyes.

"You refuse to let me drive you to the place you're staying at," Peter continued, as if Stiles had never spoken. "Whenever I see you you're alone at the bar."

"That doesn't prove that I'm homeless!" Stiles protested.

"Are you trying to avoid a bad situation at home then?" Peter asked. "Are you ashamed of where you live?"

"What are you, a social worker?! Why do you fucking care?!"

"Stiles—"

"I just don't like bringing people back to our place, alright?!" Stiles finally blurted out. "It's not just my place; it's Scotty and Ally's place too!" He felt the tears coming, so he used his free hand to wipe at his eyes. "I don't want my dirty sex life ruining our haven so no; I'm not giving you my fucking address!"

He couldn't believe that he had confessed that out loud.

Only Erica—it still hurt to think about her, fuck—had ever visited, but only after Stiles explicitly told her that no, he wasn't ashamed of her or anything, but he wanted to respect Scott and Allison in the only way he knew how. It was a complicated fear, but she had somehow understood where he was coming from.

He felt Peter slowly pulling away, his fingers trailing off his arm in a way that made Stiles shiver. "You know, we haven't had sex, so technically you wouldn't be breaking your own rule."

"We haven't had sex yet," Stiles corrected bitterly. He slapped a hand over his mouth. He couldn't believe that he had just blurted it out. Oh fuck, what had he done? He shouldn't have said anything; he should've gotten out of the car—

Peter huffed out a small, short laugh. "Just tell me where you live before I have to swindle it out of you. I promise that I'll just drop you off at the front door. I'll even stay in the car."

Stiles was silent as he thought this over. He didn't want to give any leeway; his drunken defensiveness made it difficult to lower his barriers. But the proposal that Peter was offering would allow Stiles to get home quickly and safely without breaking his own personal rule.

"You promise that you'll stay in the car?"

"It's a bit late to invite someone in for coffee."

Stiles sighed, defeated. "Fine," he said. "But if you make one move to get out and I'll never speak to you again."

"My, my, how childish," Peter chuckled. Stiles rattled off the street address, which Peter punched into his GPS. It was installed into the actual vehicle, and Stiles vaguely wondered about where Peter worked to afford such a luxury. He did give that waitress a crisp twenty like it was nickels and dimes to him.

It didn't take long for Peter to roll up in front of the apartment building that the trio lived in. It was an acceptable living space for poor students like themselves, but it wasn't like it was in a destitute, condemned area either. Allison's mother insisted that her daughter lived in a safe, family-friendly neighbourhood. It was the only way for her to shut up about Allison living with a pair of penises. Stiles had once jokingly said that he was "half-gay", but Mrs. Argent didn't seemed amused.

"Charming little area," Peter mused. Stiles wasn't sure if he was being sarcastic or not. He was too tired to care or come up with a witty retort.

"I'm going to regret everything that I've said tonight," Stiles said. "My head's a mess, and I still blame you for it."

Peter sighed. "Of course you will. That's what makes you so amusing."

"Well don't get used to it," Stiles muttered. "You'll never see me again, even if you wanted to."

"But I do," Peter replied. He reached over, tracing two fingers down Stiles' cheek. "I don't want to give this up quite yet."

Stiles stared at him. "You must be insane. I treated you like shit—"

"I'm sure you had a reason for lashing out at me tonight," Peter interrupted. His hand cupped the side of Stiles' face and slowly turned it to face him. Peter's eyes were that piercing, violent blue, the same intensity that had caught Stiles' intrigue in the first place. Well, there was also that evil V-neck, but his eyes were a close second.

"Yeah, a little," Stiles confessed.

Peter smiled, and Stiles couldn't believe how gentle it looked. "What was her name?"

"What?" Stiles breathed out.

"What was her name?" Peter repeated. "I could tell that heartbreak had a factor in on your actions tonight. Was it your Catwoman?"

"I don't know what you're—"

"You don't have to lie to me, Stiles," Peter said softly. "We've all been there. Before I sat down at your table I saw that lost look in your eyes, like you couldn't believe that it was over. It must've been long-term. It was clear that you cared about her; you rejected that little cretin and left so suddenly the first time we met."

"It was complicated," Stiles said, "and I don't want to explain it to you. We're over, and that's that." He finally pulled away from Peter's touch, opened the door and stumbled out.

He was about to close the door shut just as Peter asked, "Did you break up because of me?"

"Don't flatter yourself," Stiles hissed, but he felt the guilt burning in his chest all the same. "Goodnight, and thanks for the ride." He slammed the door shut.

Peter didn't pull away until Stiles was inside and buzzing himself in. He felt numb as he took the elevator up to his floor, where Allison and Scott were.

He was screwing up everything and he wanted to cry.