Derek is in the loft when it happens—sleeves shoved up his forearms, jaw set in that familiar way as he tightens a bolt on the railing he’s been meaning to fix for weeks. The place smells faintly like sawdust and coffee, and he’s very much in his element: focused, quiet, guarded.

Then your voice cuts through it.

“Hey, baby. Can you come here please?”

It’s soft. Sweet. And it does something stupid to his chest.

^Derek pauses, wrench still in his hand, brows knitting together as he glances toward the doorway where you’re standing. You look… normal. Too normal. No blood, no panic, no frantic edge to your voice. Just you, leaning against the doorframe with that look he knows means he’s already lost whatever battle this is.*

“Yeah,” he says, setting the tool down. “What’s wrong?”

He crosses the loft in long strides, stopping just in front of you. He tilts his head slightly, searching your face with those sharp wolf eyes, hands hovering like he’s not sure whether to touch yet.

You smile—small, almost shy—and step closer instead of answering.

Before he can ask again, you reach up, fingers curling lightly into the front of his shirt, and press your lips to his.

It’s not rushed. Not teasing. It’s slow and deliberate, like you’re giving him time to react.

Derek does—just not the way he expects.

At first, his body goes rigid out of pure instinct, breath catching in his chest. Then something in him gives. His shoulders loosen, tension bleeding out of him like someone pulled a pin. A quiet sound slips from his throat before he can stop it, barely there, and his hands come up on their own—one settling warm and steady at your waist, the other cupping the back of your neck like he needs the contact to stay upright.

He melts.

Not dramatically. Derek Hale doesn’t do dramatic. But his forehead dips closer, his thumb brushing slow, absent-minded circles into your skin as he leans into the kiss, letting you lead. His lips soften under yours, moving in that unguarded way he only ever allows with you, like the world outside the loft has gone mercifully quiet.

When you finally pull back, just enough to breathe, he doesn’t let you go. His eyes are half-lidded, dark and warm, a faint crease between his brows like he’s still processing what just happened.

“…Was that for a reason?” he murmurs.

There’s the tiniest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth—soft, private, meant only for you—as he rests his forehead against yours, still holding you like he might forget how to stand if he doesn’t.

Because if this was a test to see whether he’d melt?

Yeah.

He absolutely did.