Stiles is a Mikaelson(Rewritten)

Chapter 42

Previously on

Stiles is a Mikaelson

Damon's Pov

And as I lay there, holding the person I loved more than anything in the world, listening to the faint sound of our kids sleeping down the hall, I realized something. Stiles was right. They didn't need perfection. They didn't need superpowers. They just needed us.

And I would give them everything I had.

"Goodnight, Damon," Stiles whispered, his voice teasing but soft as he drifted off again.

I rolled my eyes, but I couldn't stop the smile tugging at my lips. "Goodnight, Stiles."

For the first time in a long time, I felt at peace.

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Damon's Pov

Mornings in our house were never quiet, but they were alive in the best ways—messy, chaotic, and full of love. Even as a vampire, I'd grown to appreciate the rush of sunlight streaming through the windows, the scent of coffee brewing in the kitchen, and the faint sound of laughter filtering through the house as the triplets started their day. For someone who used to thrive in darkness and solitude, the light of our mornings had become my lifeline.

I woke up to the sound of tiny footsteps padding down the hall, their eager little voices already chattering about something that sounded far too energetic for this early. I cracked open one eye to find Stiles still asleep beside me, his hair a disaster and his mouth slightly open. He looked peaceful, so human, and completely unbothered by the chaos beginning to stir outside our bedroom door.

I smirked, careful not to wake him as I slipped out of bed. Let him sleep a little longer. He deserved it after putting up with my teasing all night.

As soon as I opened the door, the triplets were on me like a pack of wolves—though considering their lineage, that comparison wasn't entirely off. Asher led the charge, grinning ear to ear. Henry and Cayley followed, their excitement palpable.

"Mommy!" Asher shouted, launching himself into my arms with a speed that could rival any vampire's. "We made breakfast!"

I raised an eyebrow, holding him steady as he wiggled like an excited puppy. "Breakfast? You mean the edible kind, or the 'we tried but burned everything' kind?"

Henry crossed his arms, looking affronted. "We didn't burn anything this time! Grandpa helped."

"Grandpa? You mean John's already up and dealing with you three before coffee? Brave man," I muttered, carrying Asher toward the kitchen. Cayley grabbed onto my leg, and Henry darted ahead to lead the way.

When I stepped into the kitchen, the sight that greeted me made me laugh out loud. John was standing by the stove, looking utterly unimpressed as he flipped pancakes onto a plate. His badge and gun were still on his belt, as if he was ready to arrest the chaos at a moment's notice. The counters were a mess—flour, milk, and eggs scattered like a crime scene.

"Good morning," I said, smirking as I set Asher down. "I see you've already had a productive start."

John turned, giving me his patented "I'm too old for this" look. "Your kids decided pancakes were a good idea at six in the morning."

"Brilliant idea," I said, crossing my arms and leaning against the counter. "And how'd that go?"

"They didn't burn anything," John admitted begrudgingly. "Though Cayley almost added salt instead of sugar."