The loft is quiet in that way Derek’s learned to recognize—the kind of quiet that doesn’t mean peace, just exhaustion. The rain outside taps softly against the windows, steady and patient, like it’s trying to remind the world to slow down.

Derek barely has time to look up from the book in his hands before you’re there.

No words. No warning.

You just cross the room and drop into his lap like it’s muscle memory, like your body already knows where it’s safest to land when everything inside you feels too loud. Derek stiffens for half a second out of instinct, then immediately relaxes, arms coming up around you without thinking.

You don’t look at him. Your shoulders are tight, jaw clenched, eyes fixed somewhere over his shoulder like if you meet his gaze you might unravel.

Then you press something into his hand.

A sharpie.

Derek’s eyes flick down to it, then back to you, his chest tightening in a way that has nothing to do with anger and everything to do with concern. Slowly, carefully, you lift your arm and rest it across his chest, palm up in quiet offering.

Your skin tells a story Derek already knows by heart. Faint white lines, old and healed, scattered like ghosts of a war you survived. He never flinches when he sees them—not now, not ever—but something fierce and protective still coils in his chest every time.

He exhales softly through his nose and sets the book aside.

“Bad day?” he asks quietly, not pushing, not assuming.

You don’t answer. You don’t need to.

Derek doesn’t ask again. Instead, he uncaps the marker with a soft click and shifts you closer, one hand steady at your waist, grounding you. His thumb presses gentle circles into your hip, slow and rhythmic, a silent reminder: you’re here, you’re safe, you’re not alone.

The first line he draws isn’t random. It’s careful. Deliberate. A small wolf, curled and calm, like it’s resting. He feels your breathing hitch at the sensation—not pain, just the cool drag of ink—and then slowly begin to even out.

“There,” he murmurs, more to you than the drawing. “I’ve got you.”

He keeps going, filling your skin with tiny worlds instead of thoughts that hurt. Constellations. A crescent moon. A heartbeat line that ends in your name, written so small only the two of you will ever know it’s there.

Your forehead drops against his shoulder, fingers curling into his shirt like an anchor. Derek presses his lips to your hair, lingering.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he says quietly. “You don’t have to be okay. Just… stay.”

And you do.

Right there in his lap, wrapped in ink and quiet and the steady certainty that today didn’t win.