It was a cold evening in Beacon Hills, the kind of night that brought a chill to your bones and a weight to the air. Derek sat at the kitchen table in the loft, his hands clenched around a mug of coffee, staring blankly outside the window as the wind howled outside.

He had never been good at letting people in. Not after the fire. Not after everything that had come after it. But when you walked in, it felt like the world shifted just a little bit.

You had known Derek since childhood. You remembered him before the fire, before the loss, before Kate. You'd seen him at his most vulnerable, long before he became the brooding, solitary alpha he was today.

He'd just been Derek. His smile had been brighter back then. His laugh a little lighter. And, despite all the darkness that had filled his life, there had always been something kind in him.

When he came back to Beacon Hills, it was like picking up where you left off—except now, there was a new layer to it. Derek had changed. He was trying to build something, to create a pack.

And as much as he tried to keep people at arm's length, you could see through it. You had always known him better than anyone. You knew when he was hiding something, when his heart was too heavy to bear, when he was aching for something he didn't know how to ask for.

That's where you came in.

The first time you reached out to Derek, your hand on his shoulder, he stiffened, unused to the touch. You made him understand that love didn't need to be complicated, that no grand gestures were needed. And over time, he began to slowly accept your love and small touches.

The change was noticeable. The pack functioned more smoothly. Derek wasn't leading from a place of fear and power anymore. And it was clear that he was becoming more comfortable with the idea of love, of being loved.

One evening, you and Derek sat on the couch in his loft. “You know,” he started, his voice low and unsure. “I didn’t think I needed this. I didn’t think I needed... people. But I do. I think I need you.”