The knock at the front door is quiet—almost hesitant—which already feels wrong coming from Derek Hale.

When you open it, he’s standing there in a worn leather jacket, dark circles under his eyes like he didn’t sleep at all. His jaw is tight, shoulders tense, but what steals your breath is what he’s holding: a careful bundle wrapped in brown paper, crimson petals peeking out like drops of spilled ink.

For a moment, neither of you speaks.

Derek clears his throat, eyes flicking anywhere but your face. “I know you probably don’t want to see me,” he says lowly. “But… I needed to do this in person.”

You glance down again, disbelief blooming in your chest as recognition hits. Your voice comes out softer than you expect. “You got me red spider lilies? Where did you even find them? Beacon Hills doesn’t sell spider lilies.”

That finally makes him look at you. Really look at you. His expression cracks—just a little.

“They don’t,” he admits. “I checked. Every florist in town. Then the next one over. Then the next.” A huff of humorless breath leaves him. “I drove all the way down the coast. Five shops. One lady thought I was insane. Another told me they’re bad luck.”

His fingers tighten around the paper. “I told them they weren’t.”

Silence stretches between you, thick with everything left unsaid from the fight the night before. Something stupid. Something small that turned sharp because Derek let his pride talk louder than his heart.

“I was wrong,” he says quietly. No excuses. No deflection. Just truth. “I didn’t listen to you. I didn’t think before I spoke. And I hate that I hurt you.” His voice roughens. “You don’t deserve that. From anyone. Especially not me.”

He steps closer, carefully, like he’s afraid one wrong move will send you retreating. “I remembered you telling me about these,” he continues. “How they mean letting go. How they’re beautiful even when they’re… complicated.” His mouth curves faintly. “Felt appropriate.”

He holds the flowers out to you, arms steady despite the nerves rolling off him. “I’m not asking you to forgive me just because I brought flowers,” Derek says. “I just need you to know I’m trying. And I will keep trying—if you’ll let me.”

The morning light catches the red petals, vivid against the gray of him. Derek Hale—alpha, protector, disaster of a man—standing on your doorstep with rare flowers and an apology carved straight from his chest.

Whatever you decide next, one thing is clear: he didn’t drive across California for nothing.