"Mom, you can't wear that to breakfast." Lydia sighed, stirring her coffee with a little too much force. The spoon clinked sharply against the ceramic. Stiles leaned against the marble countertop, her silk robe slipping dangerously open with the movement. She didn't adjust it.

"Why not?" Stiles smiled, plucking a grape from the fruit bowl. She rolled it between her fingers before popping it into her mouth, her pink lips lingering around the fruit for a beat too long. "Your father loves this robe."

"It's barely a robe," Lydia muttered, keeping her eyes fixed on her coffee. Behind her, Derek cleared his throat, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He'd been standing awkwardly near the fridge since he walked in, pretending to look for orange juice.

Stiles stretched, letting the robe's belt loosen further. The morning sun streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, catching the gold chain around her neck and the curve of her hip where the fabric had ridden up. "Derek, sweetheart, could you grab me a glass of water?" Her voice was syrup-thick, and she watched—without watching—as his throat worked when he swallowed.

Derek nodded stiffly, his knuckles going white around the fridge handle. The air in the kitchen was suddenly too warm, the scent of Stiles's jasmine perfume curling around them like a second skin.

Lydia stabbed at her omelet with a fork. "Mom. Please."

Stiles laughed, low and throaty, as she finally tied her robe shut—mostly. "Oh, relax, baby. It's just family." She swirled past Derek, her fingers brushing his forearm as she took the water glass from him. Her nails were painted the same deep red as the wine they'd had last night.

Derek's jaw tightened. He didn't pull away.

Down the hall, Scott's briefcase clicked shut. The sound of his polished shoes against the hardwood echoed as he approached the kitchen, humming some old jazz tune. He paused in the doorway, taking in the scene—his wife half-dressed, his daughter glaring into her plate, his son-in-law frozen like a statue.

"Morning," Scott said, grinning. He adjusted his cufflinks. "Everyone looks... lively."

Stiles twirled her hair around one finger, the robe slipping again to reveal the lace trim of her nightgown. "Darling, you're leaving so early," she pouted, stepping close enough for him to catch her scent—jasmine and something warmer underneath.

Scott chuckled, pressing a kiss to her temple. "Board meeting at nine. Try not to break the children while I'm gone." His gaze flickered briefly to Derek, who was now very interested in the tile pattern on the floor.

Lydia exhaled sharply through her nose. "Dad—"

"Save it, sweetheart," Scott murmured, squeezing Stiles's waist before letting go. "I know what I married." He grabbed his briefcase and winked at Derek. "Good luck, son."

The front door shut with a decisive click.

Silence pooled in the kitchen, thick and awkward. Stiles took a slow sip of water, her eyes tracking over the rim of the glass to where Derek stood, his broad shoulders tense under his shirt. His fingers flexed at his sides—once, twice—before curling into fists.

Lydia pushed her plate away with more force than necessary. "I have a meeting," she announced. The chair legs screeched against the floor as she stood. She snagged Derek's wrist, tugging him toward the hallway. "Come on."

But Stiles moved faster, her bare feet silent against the tiles. She intercepted them near the archway, her palm flat against Derek's chest. He stiffened, his pulse jumping under her touch. "So soon?" she murmured, tilting her face up. The gold chain around her neck dipped between her cleavage. "I wanted to ask Derek about those gym recommendations."

Derek's throat bobbed. "I—"

"Mom." Lydia's grip tightened around his wrist, her nails biting into his skin. "We're leaving."

Stiles didn't move her hand from Derek's chest. Instead, she pressed just a little harder, feeling the rapid thud of his heartbeat through his thin cotton shirt. The corner of her mouth twitched. "You're so tense, sweetheart," she said, her thumb brushing lightly over his collarbone. "You should really let me help you with that."

Derek's breath hitched. His eyes darted to Lydia, then back to Stiles's face—anywhere but the swell of her chest where her robe had fallen open again. "I—we have to—"

Lydia let go of his wrist abruptly. "Actually," she said, voice clipped, "I'll go ahead. Derek can catch up." Her heels clicked sharply as she strode past them, the front door slamming behind her hard enough to rattle the framed art on the walls.

The silence left in her wake was electric. Stiles exhaled slowly, her fingers curling into Derek's shirt. "Alone at last," she murmured, stepping closer. The heat of his body radiated through the space between them, mingling with the citrusy scent of his cologne. Up close, she could see the faint blush creeping up his neck.

Derek swallowed hard. "Mrs. McCall—"

"Stiles," she corrected, dragging her nails down his chest lightly. "Call me Stiles when it's just us." Her other hand reached up, tracing the line of his jaw. His stubble scratched pleasantly against her fingertips. "You're so... restrained," she observed, tilting her head. "Does Lydia like that? Or do you ever just... lose control?"

Derek backed up sharply, hitting the edge of the counter. The ceramic fruit bowl rattled. "This isn't—we can't—"

Stiles closed the distance between them in one fluid motion, her hips pressing against his. She felt the instant his body reacted, the way his breath stuttered. "Tell me to stop," she whispered against his lips, close enough that her breath mingled with his. "Say it, and I will."

Derek's hands hovered at his sides, trembling. He didn't push her away.

Down the hall, a door creaked open—the maid emerging with a stack of fresh towels. Stiles sighed, pulling back just enough to glance over her shoulder. "Later," she promised under her breath, smoothing Derek's crumpled shirt with one last lingering touch before sauntering toward the hallway, her robe fluttering open with every step.

Derek didn't move. His fists clenched at his sides, his chest rising and falling too fast. The maid glanced between them, then quickly averted her eyes.

Stiles paused at the staircase, glancing back over her shoulder with a slow, knowing smile. "Don't keep Lydia waiting too long, Derek."

The moment the maid disappeared into the laundry room, Derek finally exhaled—a ragged, uneven sound. He dragged a hand through his hair, fingers catching in the dark strands as if they could anchor him back to reality. The kitchen still smelled like her, like jasmine and something darker, something that clung to his throat even after the front door clicked shut behind Stiles.