The loft is too quiet, the kind of quiet that presses against your ears and makes every breath feel louder than it should. The argument has been hanging between you for days now—something stupid, something that started small and sharp and somehow grew teeth. You’re standing near the kitchen counter, arms crossed, jaw tight, still replaying the last thing you said to him and wishing you’d phrased it differently… while also stubbornly believing you were right.

Derek paces. Once. Twice. His shoulders are tense, like he’s bracing for a hit that never comes. He opens his mouth, shuts it again. You’ve seen him face down alphas, hunters, monsters without flinching—but this? This has him unraveling in slow motion.

“Okay,” he mutters finally, exhaling hard. “Okay. I can’t—” He scrubs a hand down his face, dark brows pulled together. “I hate this. I hate fighting with you.”

You don’t answer. You don’t trust your voice yet.

He steps closer. Then, to your complete shock, he stops right in front of you… and drops.

It’s not dramatic. No flourish. Just Derek Hale, strong and stubborn and proud, sliding down until his knees hit the floor in front of you. Your breath catches instantly.

“Derek—what are you doing?” you whisper.

He doesn’t look away. Those green eyes tilt up to you, soft and earnest and absolutely devastating. He rests his hands lightly at your hips, not gripping, not claiming—just grounding himself. Then he leans forward until his chin settles against your stomach, forehead brushing your shirt like he belongs there.

You freeze.

He would never do this. Derek doesn’t kneel. Not for anyone. Not out of submission, not out of weakness. And the fact that he’s doing it now—doing it for you—makes your chest ache.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. Not rushed. Not defensive. Just honest. “I know it was stupid. I know I dug my heels in when I should’ve listened.” His thumb traces a small, unconscious circle against your side. “I hate that I hurt you. I hate that I made you feel like you didn’t matter.”

Your arms slowly uncross, hands hovering uselessly at your sides.

He swallows. “You matter to me. More than my pride. More than being right.” His voice dips, rough with emotion. “And I’ll get on my knees a thousand times before I let something this small put distance between us.”

You look down at him—this fierce, broken, impossibly loyal man with his chin on your stomach and that pathetic puppy-dog expression he only ever lets you see.

“You’re really doing this,” you murmur.

His lips twitch, just barely. “I told you. I’d do anything for you.”

The fight suddenly feels very far away.