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1
The Rookie with the Shitty Mustache
The new guy’s name is Kevin, he’s fresh from academy, and he has a mustache that looks like it was drawn on with a Sharpie in a moving car. And yet—yet—Stiles is laughing at his jokes.
Derek watches from the break room, arms folded across his chest, trying not to scowl like someone stole his lunch. Again.
“He’s twenty-three,” Derek mutters to Laura, who’s making coffee with the patience of a saint.
Laura doesn’t look up. “And?”
“He looks twelve.”
“He’s legal. Calm down, caveman.”
“He’s not even funny.”
Laura finally glances up, amused. “That why you’ve been hovering near the sugar packets for ten minutes? Want me to text Stiles and tell him you miss him?”
Derek makes a noise of disgust and leaves—but not before bumping Kevin’s shoulder on the way out. Completely by accident. Probably.
2
The One With the Bartender
Stiles doesn’t even notice her flirting, and that makes it worse somehow.
They’re off-duty, at a bar with a few others from the department. Derek had offered him a ride home. That was the plan.
But then Stiles is leaning on the counter, all crooked smiles and clever sarcasm, and the bartender—a woman with a sleeve of tattoos and a wicked grin—laughs a little too hard at something he says.
Derek watches her hand linger near Stiles’ when she passes his beer.
He grips his glass tighter.
Mendoza leans over. “You gonna do something or just stare until your brain melts?”
“Shut up,” Derek mutters.
“I’m just saying. If looks could kill, she’d be arrested for trying to flirt.”
When the bartender asks for Stiles’ number and he gives it—cheerfully, cluelessly—Derek downs the rest of his drink in one gulp.
He leaves without saying goodbye.
Stiles texts him later:
hey u good? you left kinda fast
did i do something?
is this about the bartender??
Derek stares at his phone and doesn’t answer. The next day, Stiles brings him coffee. No explanation. Just hands it over, gives him a crooked smile, and says, “Don’t be a weirdo.”
Derek accepts it like a truce.
3
When the Guy from Vice Wouldn’t Shut Up
Detective Harper from Vice is all swagger and polished boots, and he’s been hanging around Stiles for the better part of the week. Derek’s seen it—Stiles laughing too loud, leaning a little too close. He’s seen Harper’s hand on Stiles’ shoulder. Twice.
Once, Harper made a crack about Stiles having “a face that could sell anything, even his awful reports.”
Stiles laughed.
Derek nearly crushed his pen in half.
“Jesus, man,” Mendoza says again, because apparently he lives to narrate Derek’s slow descent into madness. “That’s your third pen this week.”
Derek glares. “Budget cuts. They’re flimsy.”
Harper walks by with Stiles, still mid-conversation. Stiles tosses a look over his shoulder at Derek—brief, unreadable.
That night, Derek goes to the gym and hits the punching bag until his knuckles ache.
The next morning, Harper finds a parking ticket on his windshield.
He doesn’t know it was Derek. Stiles might.
4
The Station Holiday Party
The precinct Christmas party is loud, overlit, and full of cheap wine. Derek hates it. He’s only here because Laura threatened bodily harm.
Then Stiles walks in wearing the most ridiculous sweater Derek has ever seen—black, flashing lights, and a cartoon Santa riding a T-Rex. It should be horrible. It is horrible. Derek’s still staring.
Unfortunately, so is everyone else.
Stiles gets swallowed up into conversation after conversation. People keep laughing like he’s doing stand-up. Someone hands him a drink. Someone else drags him to the dance floor. Derek loses sight of him twice and pretends that doesn’t matter.
He finds the darkest corner he can, plants himself there with a lukewarm cider, and scowls at the glittering hellscape of fake cheer and twinkle lights.
Laura passes by at one point and mutters, “You look like the ghost of Christmas rage.”
Derek ignores her.
Eventually, Stiles breaks away from the crowd and finds him.
“Wow,” Stiles says, raising an eyebrow. “This your festive mode?”
Derek shrugs.
Stiles smirks. “You’re sulking.”
“No.”
“You’re literally standing in a corner like a time-out toddler.”
Derek says nothing.
Then Stiles leans in, low enough for only Derek to hear. “You could’ve just asked to dance, you know.”
He’s already walking away when Derek finally looks up, cider forgotten and heart pounding like a drum.
5
The Ride-Along
Technically, it’s part of the precinct’s shiny new PR initiative: curated ride-alongs, candid footage, human interest angles. Stiles thinks it’s bullshit, but he’s also got a decent smile and the kind of voice that makes people lean in. So they paired him with Derek. For balance, apparently.
They haven’t even pulled out of the lot when the PR crew rolls up in a hybrid SUV, tinted windows and matching jackets. The art director, a guy named Lane, leans against the door and grins up at Stiles through the open window.
“You mind if we mic you? You’re great on camera.”
Stiles blinks. “I—uh, sure. Mic away.”
Derek says nothing from the driver’s seat. Not a glance. Not a twitch.
Lane reaches in with careful fingers, brushes Stiles’ collar back to clip the mic on, and flashes him another smile. “Let me know if you ever want to do solo segments. You’ve got a good look for this kind of thing.”
Stiles laughs, a little awkward. “Yeah, I’ll keep that in mind.”
They drive off. The SUV trails behind them. The mic sits cold against Stiles’ neck.
Derek’s silence sharpens. It’s not unfamiliar—he’s quiet by default—but this is different. Tighter. Brooding in a way that buzzes low under the skin.
Stiles shifts in his seat. “You good?”
“Fine.”
“Because you’re clenching the steering wheel like it owes you money.”
Derek doesn’t answer.
Stiles hums. “You know, for someone who hates being on camera, you sure agreed to this fast.”
“Didn’t agree,” Derek mutters. “Laura volunteered me.”
“Right,” Stiles says. “Just coincidence they paired us.”
Derek shrugs.
They pull up to a red light. Stiles glances over. Derek’s jaw is tight, his eyes locked on the horizon, like if he doesn’t look at Stiles, he won’t have to acknowledge anything at all.
“Lane thinks I have a good look,” Stiles says casually, testing.
“I heard.”
“That bother you?”
No response.
Stiles lets the silence stretch between them, then grins slowly and turns to face forward again.
“Thought so.”
Derek just drives.
But later—when the coffee run happens—it’s Derek who pays.
And the next morning, when the edited ride-along video goes up on the precinct’s socials, the comments are full of “who’s the brooding guy?” and “hope we see more of them.”
Derek doesn’t say anything.
But he likes the post.
Accidentally, of course.
Totally accidentally.
+1
The Time Stiles Was Jealous—and No, He’s Not Mad, Why Do You Ask
“So, you and Braeden, huh?” Stiles asks as he drops into the chair across from Derek’s desk, legs sprawled like he owns the place. He’s already bouncing one knee, clearly wired, clearly on something other than caffeine.
Derek doesn’t look up. Just turns a page in the file in front of him. Calm. Quiet.
Stiles leans in. “She dropped off a file, sure. But there was smiling. Flirting. The whole ‘let me tilt my head and pretend I care about the case’ thing.”
Derek says nothing.
“She totally tilted her head. That’s, like, page one in the Flirt Manual.”
A pause.
“She lingered, too. Don’t act like you didn’t notice.”
Derek’s pen moves across the page. Deliberate. Unbothered.
Stiles sits back, arms crossed. “You did notice.”
Finally, Derek glances up. Just one look. Flat. Impatient.
“What?” Stiles says, blinking. “I’m just... making conversation.”
Another look.
“Fine,” Stiles mutters. “Aggressively making conversation.”
Nothing. Derek goes back to his notes.
“You’re really not gonna say anything?” Stiles demands. “She touched your arm.”
That gets a faint lift of an eyebrow. Barely.
“She did the casual, flirty graze,” Stiles explains, waving his hand vaguely. “Like—oops, did I just brush your bicep? How embarrassing.”
Still silence. Derek’s mouth twitches like he’s fighting a smile.
“You think this is funny,” Stiles accuses.
Derek shrugs.
Stiles narrows his eyes. “You’re not denying it.”
“You’re jealous,” Derek says—low, simple, and without looking up.
Stiles barks a laugh. “What? No. Come on. Me? Jealous? That’s—” He stops, grimaces. “Okay, maybe. Slightly. Like, five percent.”
Derek doesn’t respond. Just writes something down.
“She’s hot,” Stiles goes on, rambling now. “And she’s cool. And her folders are glossy. Where does she get those? We all use the same printer. Makes you think.”
That earns him a look again. Amused this time.
“I’m serious. She’s got matching furniture, probably. I bet her throw pillows coordinate.”
Derek leans back in his chair. Watches him.
Stiles gestures at him with a pen. “Meanwhile, I’m over here with mismatched mugs and impulse control issues.”
“You bring me coffee,” Derek says finally.
Stiles blinks. “That’s not the same.”
“Doodles,” Derek adds.
Stiles pauses. “You like the doodles?”
Derek shrugs.
Stiles eyes him, suspicious. “You only say actual words when you’re messing with me.”
Silence.
Derek opens his desk drawer, pulls out a paper bag, and places it on the edge of the desk. A peace offering. Or bait.
Stiles stares at it. “What’s this?”
Derek just raises an eyebrow.
Stiles peeks inside. Donut. Sprinkles. His favorite.
“You bribing me?”
Derek’s expression doesn’t change. “You picking me up Friday?”
Stiles chokes. “Wait, that’s—what? A date?”
Derek nods. One, short, certain movement.
Stiles is still staring when Laura walks by, coffee in hand, and yells, “It’s about damn time!”
Derek opens his planner and writes something down like it’s just another case note.
Stiles mutters, “I hate you.”
Derek’s mouth twitches again. “No, you don’t.”