The loft smells like motor oil and rain—cold concrete, iron, the faint tang of ozone from a storm rolling in over Beacon Hills. Derek stands with his back to you, hands braced on the railing that overlooks the floor below, jaw tight like it’s carved from stone. He knew you were coming. He always knows.

“You can’t keep doing this,” you say, voice steady even though your chest feels like it’s caving in. “You don’t get to decide what risks I can handle.”

He doesn’t turn around. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“I’m Scott’s sister,” you snap. “I’m already here. I’ve always been here.”

That finally gets him to move. He turns, dark eyes flashing—not with anger, but fear. Real, raw fear. The kind he never lets anyone see. “Everyone I care about gets hurt,” he says quietly. “Or worse.”

You step closer anyway. One step. Then another. “You don’t get to push me away because you’re scared.”

His shoulders tense. “I’m trying to protect you.”

“No,” you say. “You’re trying to protect yourself from feeling anything.”

Silence stretches between you, thick and heavy. The storm outside cracks with thunder, rattling the windows. You’re right in front of him now, close enough to feel the heat he tries so hard to keep contained.

“I want you to look me in the eyes,” you say softly, but there’s steel beneath it, “and tell me you don’t love me. That you want me to leave.”

Derek’s breath stutters. He lifts his gaze to yours, and for a second the mask slips completely. All that grief. All that longing. All that restraint.

“I can’t.”

Your heart pounds. “You can’t what?”

His voice breaks, just barely. “I can’t tell you I don’t love you.”

That’s all it takes.

In a blur of motion, he grabs you—careful and desperate all at once—and pulls you into him. His mouth crashes against yours like he’s been starving, like he’s been holding his breath for years and finally lets himself breathe. The kiss is fierce, rough with need and restraint snapping clean in half, his hands fisting in your jacket like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.

You kiss him back without hesitation, fingers curling into his shirt, grounding him. When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, eyes closed, breath uneven.

“I can’t lose you,” he whispers.

“You don’t get to lose me,” you reply. “I’m not going anywhere. Not because of fear. Not because of destiny. Not because of you.”

His eyes open, searching yours like he’s memorizing your face. Slowly, carefully, he nods—still terrified, still haunted, but no longer alone.

And for the first time, Derek Hale stops running.