Pregnancy suited Stiles. At 29, he’d filled out and left behind the scrawny teenager he’d been when he met Derek.
Stiles’ husband, his mate, his home. His everything.
The father of his unborn child. The one that felt like it was trying to climb its way out of the womb at only five months.
The fall hadn’t been far. Stiles missed a step and landed flat on his back. It knocked the air out of him. But as he tried to say he was fine, everyone surrounded him. He was loaded onto as stretcher and given an oxygen mask.
Nobody would listen.
Finally, Melissa’s face swam up from the crowd of strangers. Stiles nearly cried in relief when she leaned down to hug him. He caught her attention and frantically signed the letters D-E-R-E-K.
My alpha, he breathed, patting his chest insistently.
Melissa nodded in understanding. “I’ll get him.”
What seemed like seconds later, Derek—Stiles’s Derek—was pushing his way through the people.
Desperate, Stiles held his hands up, and Derek took them.
“I’m here,” Derek murmured. He rubbed their joined hands against Stiles’ cheek, scenting him. “I’m here.”