The front door had barely finished creaking open before voices carried down the hallway.

“Dude, I’m serious,” Scott McCall said in a low but urgent voice. “You should probably come back another day.”

A beat of silence followed.

Then the deep, unimpressed voice of Derek Hale answered, “Why?”

Scott rubbed the back of his neck nervously while standing beside Stiles Stilinski in the living room. Both boys looked like they were preparing someone for a natural disaster.

Stiles pointed a dramatic finger toward the staircase. “Because she’s… cranky.”

Scott nodded quickly. “Very cranky.”

“Like,” Stiles continued, lowering his voice like he was sharing classified information, “if moods were supernatural, this would be the equivalent of a full moon.”

Derek’s eyebrow lifted slightly. “She’s your sister, not a werewolf.”

“Exactly,” Stiles said. “And yet somehow scarier right now.”

Upstairs, buried beneath a mountain of blankets, you groaned softly and rolled over for the hundredth time that day. Your comforter was practically cocooned around you, the room dim except for the faint light peeking through the curtains. A heating pad rested against your stomach, and several empty snack wrappers sat abandoned on your nightstand.

You had been miserable all day.

Cramping, exhausted, annoyed at literally everything.

And the worst part?

Your supernatural boyfriend had the nose of a wolf. Which meant there was absolutely no hiding the reason why you felt like a gremlin who hadn’t slept in three days.

Downstairs, Derek sighed.

“I’ll take my chances.”

Scott opened his mouth. “Derek—”

But Derek was already walking toward the stairs.

Stiles leaned closer to Scott as they watched him go. “Should we warn him about the pillow incident?”

Scott grimaced. “Too late.”

The house creaked quietly as Derek climbed the stairs. His footsteps were slow, cautious—not because he was afraid, but because he could already sense your discomfort from halfway up the hallway. Your scent was different today. Not bad, just… human. Raw. Tired.

He reached your door and knocked lightly.

No answer.

Another knock.

Still nothing.

Finally, Derek pushed the door open a few inches.

Your room was dim, quiet, and there was a very obvious blanket lump on the bed.

He stepped inside.

“…You alive under there?”

The blanket shifted slightly.

A muffled voice came out. “Barely.”

Derek’s expression softened almost immediately.

He moved closer to the bed, catching sight of a bit of your hair sticking out from the comforter. You were curled tightly on your side like you were trying to disappear into the mattress.

“Scott and Stiles warned me,” he said calmly.

From under the blanket came a tired groan.

“Oh my god, they told you, didn’t they?”

Derek sat carefully on the edge of the bed.

“They were very dramatic about it.”

A hand slowly emerged from the blanket, pointing weakly toward the door.

“Tell them I hate them.”

A faint smirk tugged at Derek’s mouth.

“I’ll consider it.”

You shifted slightly, pulling the blanket down just enough to glare at him with sleepy, annoyed eyes.

Your hair was a mess, your face half-buried in the pillow, and you looked like someone who had absolutely no patience for the world today.

Derek studied you for a moment.

Then he said simply, “You look miserable.”

You squinted at him.

“Wow. Thanks. That’s exactly what every girl wants to hear right now.”

From downstairs, Stiles’ voice suddenly yelled up the stairs.

“IS HE STILL ALIVE?”

Derek didn’t even raise his voice when he answered.

“Barely.”

You groaned again and dragged the comforter over your head.

“This is the worst day of my life.”

Derek huffed quietly in amusement before reaching over and gently tugging the blanket back down just enough to see your face again.

“Move over.”

You blinked at him.

“…Why?”

Without waiting for permission, Derek slid onto the bed beside you, carefully pulling part of the blanket over himself.

“To make sure you don’t murder your brother.”