Author's Note: Guess who hasn't updated in a while? Me. Guess who is here with a 5k update as a bribe? Also me.

Peter is tired.

Scratch that, Peter has long passed such mundane emotion and has delved into a new, previously unknown territory of exhaustion. He's done. He wants to drop this entire thing, go back to his apartment, and catch at least fifteen hours of uninterrupted sleep. It's what he needs, and Peter is ready to fight to get his way.

"Enough," he says, tilting his head and stretching his tight neck muscles. "Obviously, this isn't working. I'm not going to waste any more of my time with this."

Talia doesn't like his answer. Surprise, surprise. "We can't just allow it—"

"We?" Peter mocks, quirking a brow. "Oh no, dear sister. You can't allow it. I'm not the Alpha and none of this mess is mine, remember? I — the lowly Beta — will be going home to take a much-deserved nap and a fucking shower."

"Peter! We don't have time for your drama right now," Talia snaps, grinding her teeth. "You won't be going anywhere until we figure out where the Omega is heading."

"It is one Omega, Talia. Aren't you the one always preaching to high heavens that we are the biggest pack in North-America? Surely the creature is just going on its way."

"Going on its way? What nonsense is this? You're the one who says we can't allow threats to grow!"

"Yes," Peter agrees, drawing out the word lazily, hopefully telling Talia in no uncertain terms what are his thoughts on her IQ. "And what do you insist on doing? Fucking nothing. Which is exactly why I have lost the last forty-eight hours of my life running in these woods with you, searching for a single Omega as though it carries the answers of the universe. Either we do this my way, or I'm going home."

"Your way is cornering them and murdering the person in cold blood," Talia points out needlessly, as though Peter could've forgotten of his own damn suggestion.

"As you've said it, dear sister. Threats shouldn't be allowed to grow."

"We don't know why they are here, Peter. This isn't how we operate."

"No, Talia, this isn't how you operate!" Peter growls, losing his patience. God, he's dirty and tired and so fucking done with his sister's hypocritical speech. "And look where it got you? If your way is so fucking amazing, why aren't you here with any of your other Betas? Why me? Why drag me from my bed to run with you? Hun? Maybe — just fucking maybe — it's because you know that in the end, I'm the one who gets things done around here!"

Indecision flashes quickly in Talia' eyes, and for a second Peter almost believes that she'll listen to reason and realize how useless this whole thing is, but the moment passes, and blind determination takes its place, and Peter can do little else but sigh in disappointment.

"We're not killing a person without a good reason," she says, proclaims, as though she's imparting some great wisdom. "I don't care if it's an Omega or not."

Peter shakes his head, somehow still surprised by her inability to see the bigger picture. "Then deal with your bullshit on your own," he finally says, doing his best to rein in his temper. He meets her eyes, unblinkingly. "One day this will be your ruin, Talia. I hope you know that."

She looks down at her huge, distended belly, no doubts thinking about the rest of her brats, her family, her pack, and says nothing. It's what he expected. Talia knows he's right, understands that kindness and sweet words won't always be enough to protect a territory as large as theirs. Nevertheless, she won't say it — won't admit that if not her, someone will have to get their hands dirty to keep them alive.

They reach an impasse. It's an old one between them, and Peter doesn't expect a different outcome, although he still feels the same twinge of disappointment in his gut as always. Talia won't back down, and Peter won't show her how much he absolutely hates her for it.

Instead, he turns around and leaves. Leaves the preserve, their lands, the woods. Leaves and goes home, letting Talia make her own way back to her house. It's the best he can do — removing himself from the situation before he loses it, loses his reason and his veneer of civility.

As soon as he shoves his door open, Peter goes straight to his telephone and rips the cable from the wall. Fuck the world — Peter doesn't want to hear from anyone. Feeling the weight of it in his pocket, Peter fishes out his cellphone and takes great pleasure in turning it off, too. He doesn't bother checking the texts, the calls, the voice-messages, none of it — he just turns it off and throws the damn thing aside, not even bothering to look to see where it lands.

He closes the curtains and casts the whole apartment into darkness, breathing in relief at the lack of sunlight hitting his face. This is how it should be — this is what he needed.

If he could, Peter would dust wolfsbane in his windshields and his fucking door to keep them all away. He can't, though, so the phones will have to do, as far as petty acts of vengeance are concerned.

It doesn't matter. Peter is far too drained to give a shit about his place and his sister's — his — pack. For now, sleep is all he wants and needs.

It would be incredible to throw himself onto his customised mattress and silk sheets, but one look at his disgusting state quickly forces Peter to reconsider the wiseness of that idea. Instead, he settles for the couch, dropping his dead weight face-first on it, perhaps hoping to smoother himself on the cushion.

It takes him no longer than two minutes to drift off into a restless sleep.

No rest for the wicked, indeed.

When he wakes up, Peter's mouth tastes like a sewer, his leg hurts from the awkward position he slept in, and there's a killer headache quickly diminishing his will to live. He feels even nastier than he had before falling asleep, and that hadn't seemed possible at the time.

God, Peter really hopes Talia is feeling twice as bad, wherever she is. She certainly deserves it.

Slowly, as though he's seventy, Peter drags his useless body to the bathroom, rips the clothes clinging to his skin, turns on the shower as hot as it can go, and gets in, mentally thanking his past-self for buying a stall with a long stone bench. Never let it be said that it wasn't money greatly spent, he thinks as he sits under the spray and tilts his head back, opening his mouth to drink a big mouthful of water.

Fuck it, he's a werewolf. The dirty water from his fancy shower will hardly come near from being the most disgusting thing he's ever drunk. Going to the kitchen to fetch water seems far too much hard work when there's plenty falling in his face right here.

No, Peter is good exactly where he is. The pressure of the hot water is hitting right where it hurts and the scent of his body scrub is comforting and calming. It does wonders for the aches in his body, and he might've been tempted to linger there forever, but the headache continues to throb in his head, and it's strong enough to get him moving.

What he needs now are a whole bottle of painkillers and enough food to make it go down. That's all. So he shrugs on a robe and fetches the white bottle from his cabinet before moving to the kitchen.

The coffee machine is almost calling his name, so Peter turns it on and goes to open the fridge, blindly grabbing whatever his hands can touch, way past the point of caring about what he'll eat to satisfy his hunger. If it's food; it will do.

It's when Peter is settling everything on the counter that he looks down and sees his phone lying on the floor, the screen cracked in half. Christ, had he really thrown the thing across the room yesterday? Wait, was that even yesterday? Which day is it? How many hours did he sleep?

Fuck. Maybe he should check. At least see if he had lost something important — if Talia hadn't gone and gotten herself eaten by some random monster in the woods. Yes, that seems prudent, Peter thinks, bending to pick up his wreck of a phone. He'll be lucky if the fucking thing still works.

Surprisingly, it does. Sipping on his freshly brewed coffee, Peter waits for the phone to come alive. It takes forever to do so, and the bright lights hurt his eyes, so he distracts himself by leaning forward and tipping the entire bottle of painkiller over the table, picking two tablets and downing them with a mouthful of piping hot ambrosia.

Coffee must count as enough sustenance to serve as a medium for the drug, right?

Nodding to himself, Peter turns back to his phone and has to blink to check if he's not imagining things. There are thirty-one missed calls, all of them from Stiles' home number.

Peter's heart locks between one beat and the next. Three calls mean he was missed, thirty missed calls mean something has happened.

For the love of— If something happened to Stiles, Peter is going to burn this city to the ground.

With shaky fingers, he calls the number back, mentally going over all the shit that can happen to a fragile kid left unsupervised. On the sixth ring, someone picks up the phone.

"Hello?" It's the sheriff.

"Where's Stiles? What happened to him?" Peter demands, his nostrils flared.

"Hale," the sheriff breaths, voice changing completely. He sounds frustrated, nearly angry. "Where the hell are you? Do you have any idea what time is it?"

What? Time? "Time?" He asks, turning to check, but the curtains are closed and all he can tell is that the sun has already gone down.

"Are you drunk? It's that it?"

God, Peter doesn't have it in himself to play today. "No, I'm not drunk. Now, where's Stiles? Where is my goddamn mate?"

"Your goddamn— You have some nerve, son. As a matter of fact, your mate is in his room, passed out after he cried himself to sleep because you promised to take him to see that stupid movie. Remember that, Hale?"

Shit. Shit. Shit.

Peter couldn't have slept for that long, could he? For fuck's sake, he had left the house to see Talia on Wednesday and— he took his phone off his ear and checked the date. Sure enough, there it was. Saturday.

20:38. Fucking Saturday.

"Fuck," Peter curses, speaking back into the phone. "How is—"

"How do you think? He's upset," the man says, sharply. "I don't appreciate you playing with my son like that."

"Don't," Peter growls, and he realises he's shaking. "You know that's not— I would never. Stiles is— I had to help Talia with a problem in the preserve. I lost track of time — but I wouldn't have gone if it hadn't been important."

There's a pause. "Did something happen?" He asks, and this time is less 'angry, protective parent' and more 'suspicious sheriff'.

Peter considers his answer for a moment. On one hand, he wants to explain and assure the man that he hadn't just ditched his mate for no reason; on the other hand, however, Peter is reticent about going into an in-depth explanation about the supernatural world with him. Yeah, he had told John and Claudia as much as he dared in an effort to sway their opinions on having an adult man following their child around. This is different, though.

In the end, he chooses to go with an uncomplicated truth. "We don't know, actually," he says, pressing two fingers into his temple and trying to get his headache to abate. "Someone transpassed on our territory and we don't know if they are just passing by or looking for trouble. That sort of thing is a big deal for our kind — territory and invaders."

"Should I be worried?"

It's a valid concern. "No. If this person is looking for trouble, it will definitely be our kind of trouble."

The sheriff exhales deeply. "Well, son, I hope whatever this mess is, it was worth it because Stiles is not a forgiving child," he says, sounding less troubled now. "He gets that from Claudia side of the family."

Awesome.

"I'm aware," Peter grunts. Of course his mate is not the forgiving type. Peter knows that, and usually, he even appreciates Stiles stubbornness, but today he has a fucking hole being drilled into his brain and the last thing he wants is to have to deal with a tantrum. "He's asleep, you said?"

"Yeah. After many hours of screams, let me tell you," he says. "I'm surprised you couldn't hear it from wherever you are — that's how loud he was."

Awesome.

Fucking awesome.

Peter sighs. "Okay. Shit. I apologise for leaving you to deal with this mess, Sheriff. I just— I'll go…" He means to say that he'll go there tomorrow and fix everything, but now that he knows his mate is upset, the bond is tugging uncomfortably in his chest and the thought of waiting until the next day to do something about it feels incomprehensible. "Actually, do you think—"

He stops, bites the words. Shit, how will that sound to a human? To a parent?

Please, can I check on your sleeping child, maybe curl up with him?

"Spit it out, son."

"Do you mind if I stop by in, say, half-an-hour?"

"I don't think so," the sheriff barks. "What part of sleeping did you fail to understand?"

Ugh, that's why Peter dislikes humans. Always so inflexible, so unaware of everything that's happening around them to such a degree that it borders on stupidity. He doesn't need to inform, or ask, to see his mate — he could just show up, unannounced. Surely, the man could see that?

Do not entertain homicidal thoughts about the parents of your mate.

Peter tries again. "I wouldn't disturb him."

The sheriff huffs. "I'm sure." His voice is dry as a desert. "Maybe tomorrow you could—" He halts, and there's a noise in the background. "Wait a minute, Hale." He says. Muffled, as though the man is covering the phone with his hands, come the words. "What is it, Clau— I'm on the phone. Yes, it's Peter Hale. Ask him to come— Are you kidding me? No, I won't— Stiles is sleeping. What? When? Are you kidding me? No! Why—no. Fine! Fine, woman. I will!"

Peter grins, catching enough of the conversation to understand the gist of it.

Sure enough, the man returns to the phone, a defeated tone to his voice. "Come over," he orders. "Stiles is awake and asking for you. I swear to you, though, Hale, if you make my kid start to cry again, I'll shoot you out of this house. Understood?"

"Loud and clear, Sir," Peter agrees, even though a bullet would hardly deter him from staying with his mate. "I'll be there as fast as I can."

"Respect the speed limit," he grunts, then hangs up. Just like that.

Peter places the phone on the counter, drowns the rest of his coffee in one go alongside another two pills, rolls a piece of cold pizza and shoves the whole thing into his mouth, chews and swallows as quickly as he can. Then, he takes one deep breath. One satisfying breath.

It's all he allows himself before getting up and moving. He has some grovelling to do, and it wouldn't do to show up empty-handed. What Peter needs, it's a plan. Fast.

Luckily for him, improvisation has always been his strong suit.

Claudia is the one who opens the door for him, a fact for which Peter is grateful, as she, unlike the sheriff, actually likes him a great deal and will probably give him a few helpful tips on how to handle Stiles.

"Peter," she greets in a relieved puff of breath. Her clothes are wrinkled and from the look on her face and the birds' nest camouflaging as her hair, she was the one who took the brunt of Stiles little show.

For a weird, fleeting moment, Peter feels something that might be jealousy and it shocks him. It's fast, but it's unmistakably there. Yes, he does feel a tiny bit jealous that he missed the show of temper of his mate and Claudia was there to see it. Undoubtedly, Stiles must be a true sight when he's furious, and Peter wishes he had been there to witness it. To stand back and watch as his mate showed his other side. Were there tears — of frustration, of anger, of sadness, of betrayal? Was he prone to violence, to hiding away, to running, to screaming?

What were Stiles' darker urges, Peter wonders? If they are, indeed, alike, then it truly must have been quite something to see.

"Good evening," Peter says, showing nothing about this wandering thoughts. "I believe I must apologise for the situation I created. How is Stiles?"

She all but pulls him inside the house, closing the door softly behind him. "Don't you dare ever do this again, Peter Hale," she hisses lowly, although she doesn't sound very angry. Tired, perhaps. "John is upstairs with Stiles, trying to give him a bath. He asked for juice, then made a mess of himself. This day has not been funny."

Peter believes her. Honestly, his day hasn't been any better. His head is still aching and the last thing he needs is a dose of screaming right now.

"Trust me, this won't happen again," he promises, scratching his chest absentmindedly. The tugging just keeps getting worse with the proximity. "We can talk later — as much as you'd like. I really need to see him now."

Claudia nods, sighing. "Yeah, of course. Go. He's in his room," she says, running a hand through her messy hair and wincing. "Honestly, I'm just glad you're finally here. I didn't know the bond would affect him so much."

"I'm not sure it's a side effect of the bond," Peter murmurs under his breath. He's reasonably sure this is Stiles showing exactly how unhappy he is — it doesn't seem like a reaction to the bond.

It doesn't matter, though. He nods at Claudia and goes up the stairs, following the voice of his mate to his room. John has a towel thrown over his shoulder and the expression of someone who is about to snap.

Peter's eyes slide down, as if drawn, to check on his mate. His very upset mate, who is screaming about hating showers.

Which he doesn't — Stiles loves water.

"Did someone call for me?" Peter calls from the doorway, making both heads snap in his direction with the sound of his voice.

Let's just say it isn't a warm welcoming.

For someone who had been crying and begging for him, Stiles doesn't look very happy to see Peter. In fact, he looks downright pissed off that Peter had dared to show his face after so many hours.

The moment he sees him, he looks torn between coming closer to actually hit Peter or running away, stomping his feet to show Peter all of his displeasure. If the situation wasn't so dire and the displeasure wasn't rolling off of his mate in waves, maybe Peter would have found it to be very funny — the very adult frown on his tiny little mate who couldn't really manage to look scary if his life depended on it.

As it is, however, Peter is already treading on very thin ice, so he kneels on the floor and stares at Stiles, eye to eye. Watching, observing.

Peter doesn't smile, doesn't show any sign of happiness. They are both having a crappy day — it should be respected as such. "Hello, Stiles."

"Go away!" Stiles screams at him.

"I just got here," Peter points out, raising his arm, he shows the box in his hand. "Are you sure you want me to go? I got you something."

"I don't want it!" His mouth says no, but his eyes shift to the box and they stay there. It's clear that he's curious about what it is, even though he doesn't want to admit it.

The sheriff starts to ooze disapproval, but Peter ignores it for now.

Who said Peter was above blatant bribery, anyway? "You don't? Should I add — unnecessarily, I might say — that it's batman themed?" He says, but it's a wrong, wrong move. Stiles eyes narrow and he takes a step forward.

"Where were you?" He demands. A sharp order, falling from his lips with such ease that Peter has to blink, to wait for it to settle to believe it.

Suddenly, he wants to say it. Wants to snap back, to provoke.

"Why, thank you for asking," he drawls, placing the box on the floor. "A stranger entered my sister's land. She called me to help — she's due any day now, it's not like she's in a condition to deal with it on her own. Can you understand that?"

He can. Stiles understands it perfectly and he doesn't give a shit. "You said you'd come," he says, forehead creased. "You said we were going to see Cars. You promised me."

Oh, how Peter loathes that fucking Disney series. Whoever invented that goddamn awful talking car should rot in hell for the rest of eternity. The point stills stands, though — he had promised to take him.

"I did," he admits. An idea pops into his brain, and it's insane, but Peter is tired and his head hurts and he's willing to try anything if it vanishes the hard glint in Stiles' eyes. So, all so slowly, he lowers his eyes and tilts his head to the side, baring his neck in a discreet way. "You're right, kid. I'm sorry."

It's not complete submission, and Stiles is in no position to do many things about it, and yet...

Silence holds for a few breaths, and Peter starts to regret doing this. The sheriff draws a sharp breath, but Stiles isn't saying anything and it starts to get weird. There's no proof that the bond affects Stiles enough to get him to respond to the gesture of submission. It's a wolf thing — a huge wolf thing, but a wolf thing nevertheless.

Before he can lift his head and give up on the whole apology, his mate leaves his place and walks until he's standing right in front of Peter, inside his personal space, their faces nearly touching. There's a solemnity to the moment, and Peter's heart begins to pound inside his chest — from anticipation, from anxiety, from a deep need of something.

And then, somehow, unbelievably, Stiles leans closer and tilts his head until he's breathing against the skin on Peter's neck. Still, he says nothing, shows nothing. And Peter, who had never publicly submitted to anyone — not even to Talia, not even to his own mother — stays where he is, frozen in place by some weird instinct coursing through his veins.

It's not the anger, it's not the situation, it's not his headache, and it's not the apology. Something else keeps Peter in place, soft and pliable, baring his neck, waiting for a decision from his six-years-old mate, who's not even a werewolf. His hands start to tremble, and he wonders how long this will last, how long it had already lasted — if it's only him who feels as though it's been forever since he submitted.

As if hearing his thoughts, Stiles decides. He closes the infinite distance between them to place the barest of kisses right at the top of his neck. It's gentle, his lips warm against his pulse, and Peter's mouth goes dry.

This isn't how it's supposed to go. When a wolf submits, they are either rejected or they receive a bite, a claim. A kiss was never within the options — it's too affectionate, too sentimental, too mushy for wolves.

So why does it feel right?

Why is his heart threatening to burst out of his chest?

Stiles' mouth is still resting in its place, pressing against Peter's skin, and it feels more possessive than any sharp teeth — claims him more thoroughly than any bite ever could.

"Stiles?" Peter whispers shakily. Asking, waiting for directions on how to proceed from now on.

Apparently, the words are all the permission his mate had been waiting for, because as soon as they are uttered, Stiles sags in his arms and starts to cry. Not loudly and high-pitched, but nearly silent tears and a whole-body tremble. The smell of salty water hits Peter's nose, a mix of acid and bitter, and the world starts turning again, sliding back into place.

Without a pause, Peter scoops up his mate into his arms and stands up, letting Stiles shove his face into the crook of his neck and wrap his legs around his torso and cling to his shirt and breathe in his scent and cry his tears.

"Yo—you w—weren't here," his kid mumbles weakly.

Peter closes his eyes. "I know. I know, kiddo."

Stiles rubs his nose on Peter's neck. "Don't l—leave m—m—me," he begs, and it becomes clear what all the tears are — were ever — about. The scent of fear is so heavy on his mate that it's hard to even smell his own, natural scent underneath it.

"Gosh, kid. Don't do this. Please." Peter knows he sounds tortured, and he is. This is torture for him. "I should've been here, I know. You don't need to be afraid, though." He looks over Stiles' shoulder and sees the sheriff, who's looking at him with an unreadable face, eyebrows raised, still holding a towel. He gestures to it. "How does a shower sound, hun?"

Stiles clings harder. "Don't wanna. Don't— I—I won't—"

"I won't let go, Stiles. I'm here, 'kay?"

Mentioning to the bathroom with his head, Peter starts to move, confident that the man will follow him across the hall.

He walks in, turns on the lights. "Hey, kiddo. We're here."

"Will you…"

"I'll sit right here, how about that?" Peter points to the toilet and raises a brow, daring Stiles to say it's not close enough. Shit, it's a small bathroom — they'll be within touching distance if they stretch.

"Okay, but don't leave," he mumbles, but dutifully slides down from Peter's arms without a word of complaint.

As a reward, Peter sits on the toilet and watches as Stiles shrugs out of his dirty clothes and into the shower, closing the curtain only enough to keep the water from going everywhere, his eyes always nervously shifting back to Peter — to make sure he's still there, still watching. Which he is. Peter is doing nothing but that, at the moment.

Stiles is only skin and Peter's necklace hanging from his neck and nothing in the world would be able to take his attention. His mate demands all his focus, and Peter will give it gladly.

So he stares — aware that the sheriff is standing at the door, studying them, probably examining Peter's every move, ready to ship him to the furthest away prison at the first hint of inappropriateness, but past the point of caring about such thing. He does want Stiles, beyond words, in a way that has nothing to do with sex and everything to do with the bond pulsating between them, bright and hot and fierce and so overwhelming it distracts Peter from his headache, from it all.

The sheriff will believe what he wants; Peter is busy soaking in the presence of his other half.

"Peter?" Stiles calls when he ducks under the spray of water.

Peter's mouth curves upwards in a gentle, fond smile. "Still here, kid."

"Okay. Don't leave."

"I'm not leaving. I'm right here." He pauses. "Stiles, I'll always be right here. Remember the talk we had about the necklace?"

Stiles turns off the water and opens the curtain. "Yep," he says, touching the chain with his fingers. "It means you bel—"

"So I'll always be here," Peter cuts off, making a point. "A missed phone call and a day away shouldn't — can't — change that."

His mate pouts but nods in agreement. "Towel," he demands, opening his arms.

Peter turns to the sheriff, thinking the man would hand it to his son, only to be shocked when he drops the item in Peter's hand, giving him what seems to be a significant look before disappearing down the stairs, leaving him with Stiles. Alone.

Christ.

This day.

"Come here, baby," Peter calls, beckoning Stiles with his hand. Once the kid stops in front of him, Peter begins to pat him dry, ever so slow and carefully. It feels important, somehow, despite knowing that Stiles is perfectly capable of doing this on his own.

It gives him time to connect, to study and learn.

"Let's not do this again, alright?" Peter pleads once he's done. "Heart-to-hearts aren't my thing, kiddo, even if it's with you. I swear you're stuck with me until you are grey and old — nothing will change that."

Stiles nods. "But pick up my calls. Promise! Swear it!" He demands, oozing seriousness. He raises his pinky. "Pinky swear it!"

"Jeez, okay. Alright." Peter curls their pinkies together. "I'll get you a cellphone so you may call me in an emergency. It's probably for the best, anyway."

"A cool one! I want a cool phone."

"Sure. The store ought to have some weird kid version."

"Peter!"

"What? They'll have it. God forbid I buy you an actual stylish phone, or whatever. Much better to have a Superman, or Batman, or Cars, or Dora the Explorer one."

"I'm too old for Dora the Explorer! I'm six!"

Peter rolls his eyes, picking up Stiles after he finishes putting on his PJs. "Six? Oh, forgive me then. Far too old for Dora, of course."

"Thank you," Stiles agrees, yawning hugely after the words, the stress of the day hitting him at once.

"Bed for you, mister. It's way past your bedtime, I'm afraid."

"Stay with me?" His mate begs, already snuggling up and wrapping himself all over Peter.

It's not like Peter is about to deny him. "Anything you want, kiddo," he agrees, kicking his shoes off and turning off the lights of the room as he goes, stepping over the box he left on the floor, and sliding into Stiles' bed, lying on his back to feel his mate's welcoming weight on his chest. The cold onyx presses up against Peter's sternum and that's comforting, too.

"I'm sorry for crying earlier," Stiles whispers in the dark, sneaking his hand under Peter's shirt as he always does these days, keeping the skin-to-skin contact.

"You don't have to apologise for feeling things, baby. I just don't want there to be any misunderstandings between us. Are we good?"

"Peter?" Stiles whispers in lieu of an answer. The words are spoken right into Peter's ear. "I love you."

Goddammit.

Fuck.

Stiles' heart stays nice and steady as he says the words, relaxed and obvious to the mess happening inside Peter's brain as he registers the truth of Stiles' feelings. He does love Peter.

His mate — his perfect, tiny mate — loves him, Peter Hale.

It sounds too good to be real, and maybe he's still dreaming on his couch, at home, and his fucked-up mind is coming up with this to torment him, but still… Peter wants to say it back, to hear himself say it, to figure out if he feels it too, if he's not tricking himself, if he's capable of—

But he looks to the side, and Stiles is fast asleep.

The moment is gone. Passed.

Peter takes a deep breath, then another, then one more. Stiles deserves his sleep and Peter is pretty tired, as well. It wouldn't make sense to wake up the kid just to say that maybe he too—

No.

Tomorrow, he thinks. Tomorrow he'll do it.