A Dash Of Sarcasm, A Sprinkle Of Chaos

Chapter Eleven

The Wolf at the Door

Stiles wasn't surprised when Peter Hale showed up at his apartment.

He should have been, because normal people didn't just casually anticipate visits from manipulative, smug werewolves with questionable morals. But Stiles had learned a long time ago that Peter wasn't like most people, and if there was one thing Peter Hale excelled at, it was turning up uninvited.

It was late, and Stiles had just managed to heat up a bowl of ramen and plop down on the couch when the knock came. It was sharp and deliberate, the kind of knock that said, I know you're in there, so don't even think about ignoring me.

Stiles sighed, shoving a bite of noodles into his mouth before getting up and trudging to the door. "I swear," he muttered, pulling it open, "if this is the landlord complaining about my TV volume again—"

But it wasn't his landlord.

Peter Hale stood in the hallway, looking every bit as smug and self-satisfied as ever. He was dressed in his usual tailored perfection, a dark suit that probably cost more than Stiles' rent, and his expression was a mix of amusement and something sharper.

"Hello, Stiles," Peter said, his voice smooth and just a little too pleased.

"Of course," Stiles muttered, leaning against the doorframe and glaring at him. "Of course it's you. Because who else would show up unannounced at eleven o'clock on a Tuesday?"

Peter smirked. "Come now, you can't tell me you're surprised."

"I'm not," Stiles admitted. "But that doesn't mean I'm happy about it. What do you want, Peter?"

Peter tilted his head, his blue eyes glittering in the dim hallway light. "Do I need a reason to visit my favorite human?"

"Yes," Stiles said flatly.

Peter chuckled, clearly enjoying himself. "Fair enough. May I come in?"

"No," Stiles said, narrowing his eyes.

Peter raised an eyebrow, and for a moment, there was a flicker of something almost genuine in his expression. "Stiles," he said, his tone softening, "if I wanted to force my way in, I would've done it already. I'm asking because I'd prefer to do this without any unnecessary dramatics."

"Dramatics?" Stiles repeated, crossing his arms. "You're talking to the guy who's been possessed by an evil fox spirit and almost died more times than I can count. You think this is dramatic?"

Peter's smirk returned, but it was gentler this time. "Point taken."

Stiles sighed, stepping back and gesturing for Peter to enter. "Fine. But if you touch anything or get blood on my carpet, I'm kicking you out."

"I wouldn't dream of it," Peter said, slipping past him and into the apartment like he owned the place.

Stiles shut the door and turned to find Peter casually inspecting the room, his sharp eyes taking in every detail. "Nice place," Peter said, though the faint smirk on his face suggested he wasn't entirely serious.

"It's an apartment, not the Ritz," Stiles said, plopping back onto the couch and grabbing his bowl of ramen. "Now spill. Why are you here?"

Peter didn't answer right away. Instead, he wandered over to the window, peering out at the city below. His posture was relaxed, but there was a tension in his shoulders that Stiles recognized all too well.

"Peter," Stiles said, his tone more serious now. "What's going on?"

Peter turned to face him, and for a moment, his smirk faltered. "I wanted to check on you," he said, his voice quieter than usual.

Stiles blinked, caught off guard by the honesty in his tone. "Check on me?" he repeated. "Why? Did Scott send you? Because if he did, you can tell him to shove it."

Peter's smirk returned, sharper this time. "Scott didn't send me. In fact, he doesn't even know I'm here."

"Figures," Stiles muttered, poking at his ramen.

Peter took a step closer, his eyes locking onto Stiles'. "I heard about what happened, Stiles. About the pack."

Stiles stiffened, his appetite disappearing in an instant. "I don't want to talk about it."

"I'm not here to make you talk," Peter said, his voice softer now. "I just wanted to make sure you're okay."

"Why?" Stiles asked, his voice sharper than he intended. "Why do you care?"

Peter's smirk faded entirely, replaced by something raw and unreadable. "Because I do," he said simply.

Stiles stared at him, his stomach twisting with a mix of emotions he didn't have the energy to unpack. He wanted to tell Peter to leave, to shove his concern where the sun didn't shine—but at the same time, he couldn't bring himself to do it.

Peter wasn't Scott, or Lydia, or anyone else from the pack. He didn't look at Stiles like he was broken or dangerous. He didn't pity him, and he didn't try to make him feel better.

He was just… there. And for some reason, that was enough.

"Fine," Stiles said after a long moment, setting his bowl down and leaning back against the couch. "You can stay. But don't make it weird."

Peter's smirk returned, and this time, it was softer. "When have I ever made things weird?"

"Do you want the short list or the long one?" Stiles shot back.

Peter chuckled, pulling up a chair and settling into it like he had no intention of leaving anytime soon. "You know, Stiles, you're far too good at deflecting. It's one of your more infuriating qualities."

"Yeah, well, it keeps me alive," Stiles said, shrugging. "So I'm not about to stop now."

Peter didn't respond, but the look he gave Stiles was warm enough to make him squirm.

"Okay, seriously, stop looking at me like that," Stiles said, pointing at him. "It's creepy."

Peter raised an eyebrow, but the smirk didn't leave his face. "I'm not looking at you like anything, Stiles. You're imagining things."

"Sure I am," Stiles muttered, dragging a hand down his face. "This is why I can't have nice things."

Peter laughed softly, leaning back in his chair. "You're impossible."

"And you're still here," Stiles said, raising an eyebrow.

"I wouldn't be anywhere else," Peter said, his voice so quiet that Stiles almost didn't hear it.

Stiles rolled his eyes, ignoring the way his stomach twisted at the words. "Great. Just don't touch my ramen."

"Wouldn't dream of it," Peter said, settling in like he planned to stay for a while.

And for some reason, Stiles didn't mind.

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