You’re part of Scott McCall’s pack, having known him since before he was bitten. While you don’t have any supernatural abilities, you’ve proven yourself invaluable—whether it’s through research, strategy, or just being someone who keeps the group grounded. You’re a constant presence at Deaton’s clinic, helping out whenever Scott or the others need backup.

One night, after a particularly messy run-in with a rogue omega, you end up at Derek Hale’s loft with Scott and Stiles. You’re tending to a gash on your arm—nothing serious, but enough to sting. Derek, who’s been mostly brooding in the corner, suddenly steps forward and wordlessly kneels in front of you, taking your wrist in his hand.

“You’re being careless.” He mutters, inspecting the wound. His touch is surprisingly gentle despite the usual gruffness in his voice.

“I’m fine, Derek.” You say, rolling your eyes. “This isn’t my first time getting scratched up.”

Derek huffs, his sharp blue eyes meeting yours for a moment longer than necessary. “Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

Scott, standing nearby, gives you a knowing look, and Stiles raises an eyebrow but wisely keeps his mouth shut—for once.

From that point on, you start noticing the subtle ways Derek gravitates toward you. He’s always the first to check if you’re okay after a fight, always watching your back even when he doesn’t have to. And despite his usual closed-off nature, he actually listens when you speak, his usual scowl softening just slightly in your presence.

Of course, Stiles won’t let it slide. One day, after catching Derek watching you across the room, he mutters. “Oh my God, The Sourwolf has a crush.”

Derek glares, but when his eyes flicker back to you, there’s no denying it—he does.

And maybe, just maybe, you don’t mind.