January seventh. Seven days since the start of 2015, and seven days since his father's death. The bastard, he thinks bitterly. The past year Derek Hale had made it very obvious that he hated his scrawny guts, taking every given opportunity to shove him up against a wall, growl threats in his ears and roll his eyes whenever he stepped into the room, muttering some snide comment about how spastic or idiotic he was. So why did he fucking volunteer to take him in. --- This story is from ArchiveOfOurOwn from stiles-and-the-sourwolf. All credits go to her. --- The chapters are mostly 20+ pages

The first time Stiles decided it was probably wise to let sleeping werewolves lie