Epilogue

Running a nervous hand down the front of his dress shirt, Stiles turned away from the Jeep towards the warehouse door. He hadn't been back in months, not since the fire, and he was relieved to see that—from the outside, at least—the building looked the same. He'd known it hadn't been completely destroyed, and he knew that Derek was paying a ridiculous amount of money to have the loft repaired, but knowing about it and seeing it were two different things.

Stiles was glad Derek had decided to stay. To rebuild, instead of running away. It said something, he thought, about the person Derek was now, compared to the person—the kid, really—he'd been when he'd lost everything the first time.

And that's what this was all about, wasn't it? The person Derek was. And the person Stiles was, too.

Stiles hadn't been back to the warehouse, but that didn't mean he hadn't seen Derek in the last few months at all. They'd crossed paths more than once when Stiles was back in Beacon Hills for Christmas, and the pack had all spent New Year's together (Scott had pressed a smacking, exuberant kiss to Stiles's lips at midnight). And they'd both been present at the last two pack meetings in Terrace Bay, too.

So he'd seen Derek. They'd talked, carefully, cautiously, about nothing in particular, making polite inquiries like 'How's school?' and 'Have you seen House of Cards?'. Safe topics. Nothing too personal.

After they'd woken up on the night after the fire, tangled together in Stiles's bed, Stiles had asked Derek to leave. He hadn't entirely wanted to, but he knew it was for the best. He needed space. He needed to take a step back, and Derek had respected that. He'd kissed Stiles goodbye, soft and slow, and then he'd vanished out the window.

Stiles's conversation with Scott hadn't been as easy. Scott hadn't seemed to understand why Stiles wasn't going to come back to the house in Terrace Bay with him. It wasn't that Scott didn't think Stiles had a right to be mad, he'd admitted that much, but he couldn't see why Stiles wanted to spend the rest of the semester living on campus with Danny.

It hadn't been for long, there were only a few weeks of the semester left anyway, but Stiles knew he couldn't just go back like nothing had happened. The weeks apart had been good. Stiles had been able to focus on his schoolwork for once, and had even made a few new friends in one of his classes. It had been nice to feel like a normal college kid for a while.

But he'd missed Scott, and so when they'd all returned to Beacon Hills after the semester ended, Stiles had sat Scott down and made him swear on everything the two of them ever held dear (the sandbox where they'd first met, Melissa, and their lucky X-Box controller) that Scott would never, ever, ever, ever lie to Stiles again. Ever. And then, because they were Scott and Stiles and their bro-love was the thing of epics, they'd fallen right back into their friendship. They'd spent Christmas together—Scott and Stiles camping out in Scott's room while the Sheriff stayed in Melissa's guest room (though Isaac groused about having to sleep on the couch even when the Sheriff hadn't actually spent the night in the guest room at all, much to the delight of both Scott and Stiles)—and when the second semester started Stiles moved back into the house.

It had taken longer with Derek.

Stiles hadn't been sure how much time he'd need, how long it would take to even feel like he could start to trust Derek again. It was different with Scott, as much as Stiles hated to admit it, because they'd been a part of each other's lives for so long and knew each other so well that Stiles knew when Scott swore to always tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, he would do it.

Derek had spent so long being 'the Alpha', feeling like everything was his sole responsibility, that Stiles wasn't sure he could say the same for him. He knew Derek meant well, knew he wouldn't lie out of malice or spite, but because Derek wasn't used to being able to rely on other people.

Stiles needed Derek to see him not just as another person to be responsible for, but as an equal, a partner. Stiles wouldn't settle for anything less, and that's what the last few months had been about.

So much of their initial relationship had been founded on an imbalance of power. It hadn't been a bad thing, necessarily. Stiles had wanted it, had chosen it for himself. But he'd still been a kid in high school and Derek had been an adult with a wolf pack he was responsible for. Even if it hadn't been a thing they were conscious of, Stiles couldn't deny that it had affected them.

As hard as it had been, he thought the time apart had done them both some good. It had let Derek see that Stiles was more than the human kid who was defenceless on his own. It had let them both come to terms with Stiles-the-grown-up who was majoring in journalism with a minor in the occult and who had learned how to hold his own against a werewolf if he had to. It had helped Stiles to find his centre, his strength, and his self-worth.

And it had given Stiles a chance to reconcile himself with the discovery that Derek wasn't as fearless or powerful as he'd once seemed, either. He hadn't been ready to lead a pack any more than Stiles had been to join one. They hadn't been ready for each other. But Derek was growing up, too. He was learning to trust his pack to make their own choices, to accept help, and to communicate, instead of going off half-cocked.

After the last pack meeting, when Stiles hadn't spent the hour guardedly keeping his distance from Derek but instead found himself staring at the splay of Derek's thighs where he sat on the couch and remembering the feeling of being pressed between them with Derek's hands hot and hard on his skin—well, Stiles figured he'd taken the time he needed.

He'd texted Derek later that night, a simple Dinner?, and had waited, suddenly anxious, until his phone vibrated with Derek's response: I'll cook.

And here Stiles was, a week later, on his way up to Derek's loft.

His fingers tightened around the long neck of the bottle he carried as the elevator slowed to a stop on Derek's floor. Swallowing, Stiles stepped out of the elevator and through the open door of the loft. He wasn't sure what to expect, considering the last time he'd been here it had been full of fire and blood and the dead body of the man Stiles had killed.

Gone were the rough brick walls and the scarred wooden floor, the mismatch of living room furniture, and the thick paned window. Instead, there were smooth, freshly painted walls in a pretty, cheerful shade of blue, a giant L-shaped couch with two matching arm chairs, and a brand new window through which Stiles could see the last rays of the setting sun casting a warm glow over the room. There were white bookshelves lined up against the far wall, a TV angled to face the couch, and a large kitchen table with more than enough chairs for the entire pack.

Derek hadn't just rebuilt his home, he'd made a space for all of them.

The tight ball of nerves in Stiles's stomach dissolved, replaced with a soft, anticipatory flutter. Closing the front door he made his way up the stairs to the second floor.

"I like what you've done with the place," he announced, stepping through the doorway.

Derek turned from where he'd been drying dishes. "I'm glad you approve." He looked calm and utterly at ease, but Stiles caught the slight tremor in his fingers when Derek slid the mixing bowl back onto the counter.

"I brought wine," Stiles offered, holding up the bottle. It was nothing special, a mid-range Australian Shiraz, but Derek smiled and it made his eyes crinkle and Stiles wished he'd brought a dozen bottles of wine so that he could watch Derek's face light up over and over again.

"I'll get us some glasses." Derek folded up his tea towel and crossed the kitchen, passing close enough to Stiles that Stiles could feel the heat of his body and he had to bite his lip to stop himself from reaching out. Setting the wine down on the island Stiles watched Derek come back with two glasses and a corkscrew.

Derek opened the wine and poured them both a glass, his fingers brushing Stiles's as he handed him the wine. Stiles felt heat pool in his belly and he stepped closer, Derek stilling as Stiles moved into his space.

"What's for dinner?" Stiles asked, innocently, his eyes drawn to Derek's parted lips.

"Pizza." Derek swallowed and Stiles licked his lips as he watched Derek's throat work. "The dough's just rising. I—is that good with you?"

"Yeah," Stiles's voice was hoarse as he set his untouched glass of wine back on the counter and slid his hands around Derek's waist until he was pressed flush against the front of Derek's body. Leaning in he slanted his lips over Derek's and kissed him, warm and gentle, until they were both breathless and Derek's fingers were buried in Stiles's hair.

Pulling back, Stiles grinned. "That's good with me."

AN: Thank you so much to everyone who has read and reviewed this fic! I've just been blown away by the response. It's hard to believe I'm actually done—I've been working on Lead Me Wild/The Finish Line for over a year, and the whole thing has been amazing.

While I'd love to tackle another giant fic again, I'm going to try and write a few that DON'T break the 60k mark (just to see if I can do it :P). I'm working on a couple different Sterek stories right now, so hopefully I'll have something new for you in a few months.

If you want to stay updated, or just want to hang out, you can find me on tumblr at .com

Cheers!

Chrissie