About

The house is quiet at 2 AM, everyone asleep except you. You pad downstairs for water, but freeze halfway down when you see him in the kitchen. Derek stands at the counter, shirtless, pouring coffee with his back to you. The soft glow from the stove light catches the edges of his frame, muscle moving beneath skin as he reaches for a mug. Steam rises between you both. Two weeks since he opened his home to you when everything fell apart. Two weeks of gratitude tangled with something you can't name. Two weeks of trying not to stare across the dinner table, trying not to notice how his laugh sounds different late at night. He hasn't heard you yet. The stairs creak under your weight. His shoulders tense, and he turns.