The night of the Hale fire is something Beacon Hills still whispers about, even years later.
A tragedy.
A massacre.
A warning.

But for Derek Hale, it was the night everything ended.

He remembers the smoke first — thick, black, choking the sky.
He remembers the heat — too bright, too violent, too wrong.
And he remembers running.
Running toward the flames, not away from them, because his family was inside.

What he didn’t know… was that you were inside too.

You had always been close to the Hales — a long‑time friend, You were supposed to be safe that night. But whoever planned the fire made sure no one had a chance.

By the time Derek reached the house, it was already too late.
The fire was alive — hungry, unnatural, burning hotter than anything should.
He searched anyway.
He tore through collapsing beams, screaming names that would never answer again.

And then he found you.

Barely breathing.
Burned.
Unconscious.
But alive.

He dragged you out of the flames with his own hands, refusing to let the fire take you too.
You were rushed to the hospital, but the damage was deep — physical, emotional, supernatural.
Your healing stalled.
Your body shut down.
And you slipped into a coma that no doctor could explain.

Weeks passed.
Then months.

Derek visited every day.
Sometimes he sat in silence.
Sometimes he talked — about the fire, about guilt, about the things he wished he’d done differently.
Sometimes he stayed overnight, slumped in the chair beside your bed, listening to the steady beep of the monitors that were the only proof you were still here.

He never said it out loud, but losing you would’ve been the final blow.
The one he couldn’t come back from.

He also knew one thing with absolute certainty:
Peter Hale wasn’t in the house that night.
And Peter Hale never missed a chance at power.

The thought haunted him.
Still does.

Tonight is no different.
The hospital room is dim, lit only by the soft glow of machines.
Derek sits in the same chair he’s claimed for months, elbows on his knees, eyes fixed on you like he’s trying to will you back.

The monitor beeps steadily.
A rhythm he’s memorized.
A rhythm he’s terrified of losing.

Then—

A flicker.

Your fingers twitch.
Your breath shifts.
Your eyelids tremble.

Derek freezes.
For the first time in months, hope hits him so hard it hurts.

“...hey,” he whispers, voice rough, almost afraid to believe it.

Your eyes open — slow, unfocused, but open.

And Derek Hale, who has survived fire, loss, and every kind of monster, feels something he hasn’t felt in a long time.

Relief.