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The roof tiles clicked softly under the wolf’s feet. The window opened with a whisper of wood against wood, quietly so as not to wake the people in the house, and most importantly, the boy on the bed.
The moonlight embalmed Derek’s body, focusing on him like a projector at the scene of the crime. Derek scowled at the moon. His gaze shifted down the empty street, across the blackened windows of the neighbors’ houses. There were no witnesses. There never were.
The window closed with a soft thud.
With his heart thudding, Derek straightened and looked over his shoulder.
Tousled hair. Rucked up shirt. Hand on the stomach. Soft, deep breaths coming out of half-open lips. Eyelashes fluttering upon the cheeks. Forehead, tense even in sleep.
Derek’s throat clicked as he stared. Slowly, oh so very slowly, his fists unclenched.
The scent of him filled his lungs. It permeated every inch of the room, ran across the book spines on the shelves, marinated in the dirty laundry basket in the corner, spread over the table with pens, notes, books, photos, stickers, and clippings scattered across it. Sometimes, it seemed that this room was the only place where Derek could fully breathe.
With silent steps, Derek crossed over to the occupied bed, breathing deeply. The strings creaked as he lowered on it, but Stiles did not wake. No, he was too deep in sleep to do so. Derek learned the pattern of it well over the years.
For a few minutes, Derek simply watched him. His gaze traced over the boy’s features, picking apart every wrinkle, every scar, and birthmark with unabashed hunger.
He stilled as Stiles murmured gibberish under his breath, smacked his lips, and turned his head to the side, unconsciously baring his neck to the wolf.
Derek’s lips twitched in a barely-existent smirk. His eyes slid down onto the merrily beating vein right under Stiles’ ear.
The wolf’s mouth filled with saliva. Torturously slowly, he leaned over Stiles until his nose was inches from the warm, sleep-soaked skin of his neck. Derek’s eyes closed by themselves as the scent hit him. His mouth opened as he gulped one greedy breath after another.
It would have been so easy to fold and rest right now. To lie on top of Stiles, bury his face in the boy’s neck, and fall asleep. That was all he needed, all he dreamed about these days.
Stiles’ neck moistened from his breath. Now, his scent lay upon the boy’s skin as if it belonged there, though it had no right to do so.
Stiles had an entire life ahead of him. Things to learn, places to explore, people to love. Derek’s teeth grit from a stinging flare of jealousy before he pushed it down. He had no right. No claim. It was Stiles who had him, all of him — his torn heart and weathered, soot-covered soul — in his hands without even knowing.
Derek simply could not let him know. This love, it was Derek’s burden. Too heavy for a human, too all-consuming and eternal for someone as young and thirsty as Stiles. How could the wolf tell him that he was the only thing keeping him rooted and alive on this earth? What would happen if he confessed to stalking Stiles day and night, just so his stomach would stop clenching? What would happen to Derek were Stiles to wake up right now and learn that Derek had been watching him sleep for years just to be able to breathe?
Derek’s opened lips scraped against Stiles’ neck. His whole body stiffened with restraint.
There would be a time when Derek would have to let someone have him. He would have to step aside and pretend to be happy to see Stiles’ hands around someone. It would be a miracle if he survives it without succumbing to ferity. He most probably wouldn’t.
Stiles was going to be the life and death of him.
Derek would stay in this tiny, messy room until the first dew droplets at dawn. He would press his palm to the nape of Stiles’ neck in goodbye as he always did and tell himself that it was enough.
It never sounded convincing.
*
It wasn’t hard, loving him.
Some would argue, scoff, and purse their noses at the thought of dealing with everything that was Stiles Stilinski, with his incessant talking, loud gestures, and his overwhelming presence. His friends go tired of him sometimes, though no one apart from Jackson could say it to his face; it was the easiest thing in the world for Scott to ditch Stiles for his girlfriends; and even the way Sheriff’s gaze flickered toward the picture of his late wife as he sat down to talk to his son made it clear that he wished for someone else to be here to deal with Stiles.
Give him to me, Derek thought in those moments. Let me have him instead.
*
It happened so fast.
Only a second ago, Stiles, hollering in rage, chucked the flaming Molotov at the giant slime-covered monster, and then, everything went to hell. The Molotov lodged deep into the jelly-like body, and the pack watched in horror as, within moments, it crystallized with its last dying roar of despair.
“Stiles!” screamed Lydia somewhere to the right.
He stood too close, and everyone realized it just a bit too late. They did not know nearly enough about this monster, and certainly not about what a violent explosive would do to it. Not until this moment, when it dawned on the rapidly paling Stiles who took a step back, knowing full well that nothing would save him.
Derek didn’t think. He simply knew he couldn’t let it happen. Not to Stiles.
In the last second, the wolf leaped, grabbed Stiles tight, and covered him with his body.
A gasp somewhere close. Stiles’ curved back against his chest.
Then, everything exploded.
The strength of it knocked both men off their feet. In an instant, jagged shards of glass littered Derek’s back along with the poison from the Molotov’s bottle and waves of flame, never-ending and scorching. He roared. His claws unsheathed all by themselves and pierced the tender flesh of Stiles’ arms where he held them.
He’s alive, thought Derek as Stiles yelped, and breathed out. That was all he needed.
Stiles caught him as he crumbled.
“Derek?” His voice shook. “Oh, god, what did you… Lydia!”
The world faded in and out. Someone ran over to them, hissing over the glass scattered everywhere, someone argued and shouted, and everything smelled of blood and panic. Someone’s neck vibrated from the desperate voice right under his cheek. Derek knew that scent. He knew it very well.
“Fucking careful!” yelled Stiles, his trembling hands holding Derek’s sides. “You’ll lodge it even more!”
“Don’t scream at me!”
“Then don’t injure him more!”
“It’s not my fault he decided to jump in the way!”
Stiles’ throat clicked, and Derek heard it even in his half-conscious state.
“S’fine,” he muttered, barely able to move his lips. The distress coming from Stiles’ scent sobered him like nothing ever would, so acrid it was. It put all his instincts on edge, pushing at him to move, to jump, to do something to alleviate it.
“Shut up!” quipped Stiles in a strangely thick voice. “Just shut up, you big dumbass, you self-sacrificing moron, you—” His voice broke. “You had no fucking business being in the way, but you just had to do it, didn’t you—”
“He did it to save you,” grumbled Lydia, puttering over them.
“Shut up!”
“Don’t you fucking tell my girlfriend to shut up, Stilinski!”
“Fuck you, too!”
“Stiles, you need to calm down,” bit out Lydia, forcing Stiles to snap his mouth shut. “You’re only distressing him with your panic.”
“His back is a tic tac toe fucking sheet, I think that is a tad more distressing for him right now!”
“You’re not helping!”
Derek didn’t have the strength to tell any of them that Stiles actually helped a lot. His frantic heartbeat drummed on Derek’s ears, distressed, yes, but so beautifully, wonderfully alive. He didn’t care what happened to him as long as Stiles got to live.
What did he have? A burned-down graveyard of a house, ashes of memories, and his dead sister’s car. He was the alpha of this pack, but not by choice. Did any of them even want him as their leader? Did they need him at all?
At least, this way, Stiles was safe.
If he had any strength at all, he would have muttered something soothing. He didn’t know how to do it, but he would try, for Stiles. He wanted to nuzzle into him and rumble, lick Stiles’ face until he calmed down and smelled of no one but his alpha. His hands itched to rub Stiles’ thighs, his arms, his sides, to spread his scent and calm.
He knew when they lifted him on a makeshift stretcher and loaded him into the backseat of Stiles’ jeep. He scrunched his nose as he realized that he now lay in Lydia’s lap and it was her hand caressing his hair, and not Stiles’. No, the boy was in the front, gunning it to Deaton’s. His heartbeat was so blessedly loud that Derek couldn’t help but relax through the pain.
Somewhere above him, Lydia sighed.
*
He came around once during the night. It was dark, quiet. It smelled sharply of fur, bleach, and medicine.
Derek lay on his front across the metal gurney with Stiles’ hoodie under his head, acting as a pillow. There was no one in Deaton’s lab, apart from the wolf and the boy sleeping in the chair beside the gurney.
His head lay on his crossed arms. His face, pale and tired, was inches from Derek’s.
The alpha blinked at him once, twice, watching the boy breathe for as long as he could before the unconsciousness swept him under.
*
“You’re being a baby.”
“I said, I’ll do it myself.”
Lydia rolled her eyes so hard that it had to hurt her. “You don’t have to be a martyr all the time! You are only going to tear the sutures with all the twisting if you do it yourself.”
“I’m going to be fine.”
Lydia glared up at him, grinding her teeth to dust. Derek stood with his arms crossed on his bare chest and met her gaze readily until the girl huffed.
“You know, I am as much of a packmate as he is,” she said bitterly and smirked at his sudden stillness. “What kind of pack are we, if you only trust one of us?”
The very thought of any of them touching his back made his hackles rise. Until this point, he only allowed Stiles to approach him. He was the only one Derek didn’t feel the need to maul.
“You can leave, if you want,” said Derek. Lydia opened her mouth, but Derek wasn’t finished. “Stiles told me about Harvard. You should go.”
Lydia’s lips thinned. “I knew he’d snitch to you.”
Derek smirked.
Glaring at him, the girl picked up her phone, thumbed at the contact, and pressed it to her ear. “He’s going to chew me out, you know that, right?”
Derek went to grab the phone, but Lydia evaded him. He scowled. “He’s in enough trouble with his father as it is. I told you, I’m fine.”
“Shush, you,” Lydia cut him off. “I saw your sheets, they’re all bloody since you don’t know how to wash them properly and— Hey, Stiles!” She twirled out of Derek’s reach once more. “I’ve just remembered I have a manicure appointment at nine— No, I am not kidding. Why don’t you care for our alpha? I don’t have time for this. Come to the loft if you don’t want him to bleed out.” She hung up and gave Derek a poisonous smile. “Your loverboy is going to be here in ten minutes.”
“Lydia.”
“You could have him, you know.”
Derek’s heart pounded against his ribs. The girl seemed immune to his glares and scowls; she dropped the bandages and the anti-inflammatory cream onto the dinner table, then strutted to the coat hanger to pick up her jacket. The pity in her eyes made his insides boil.
“He thinks you are out of his league,” she said without preamble, perfectly aware of Derek’s flashing red eyes. “Thus, he would never make a move on you. He’s waiting until college to heal his wounded heart, you know?”
“I didn’t wound—”
“If you want others to have him before you do, be my guest.” She smiled acidly. “I doubt they would care to make it nice, though. He’s gonna have his first time drunk in the dirty alleyway with someone who doesn’t give a shit.”
Derek’s breathing went hard and shallow. He flexed his hands into fists, feeling the claws dig into his palms.
“Or,” continued Lydia in a softer tone, “he could have it with you — the guy he’s been in love with since he was sixteen.”
“He’s not in love with me,” rasped Derek, reeling from the girl’s every word.
The pity turned to disdain. “Years of sponsoring Ben & Jerry’s down the drain,” muttered Lydia, rolling her eyes, then went out, slamming the door shut.
Wincing from pain, Derek cursed and tugged at his hair in frustration. He fell onto the chair at the dining table, burying his face in his hands, and tried to breathe, yet nothing helped. He needed his scent. Needed him.
Stiles could not be in love with him. It was just lust, wasn’t it? Stupid, teenage—
Derek growled, clenching his eyes shut.
Lust wouldn’t survive years. Not even with someone as stubborn and hyperfixated as Stiles. So what if he was in love?
The very thought of it sparked elation inside Derek’s chest. He stifled it in an instant. His throat closed up, his chest burned. His back ached; droplets of blood slid down Derek’s skin and soaked into his pants.
Even if Stiles was in love… he would never need Derek the way Derek needed him.
Derek’s love was a scary, monstrous thing. It loomed over him, a beast of its own mind, heavy and thick. He couldn’t let it hit Stiles. It would flatten that human into nothing.
He’s gonna have his first time drunk in the dirty alleyway with someone who doesn’t give a shit.
Derek’s lip curled.
He would fucking skin anyone who dared to touch—
“Holy shit, she really left.”
Derek stiffened. Clenching his jaw, he lifted his head and met Stiles’ gaze.
The boy was panting, his cheeks red as if he had run there with all his might. His eyes blazed with anger and concern, his scent whirling around the loft and settling on every piece of furniture.
Derek swallowed thickly, failing to rein in his red eyes. “I’m fine,” he muttered.
Stiles pursed his lips. Dropping the sports bag near the coat hanger, he marched toward Derek and came up behind him. His gaze sizzled across Derek’s wounded, ugly skin.
Did he know what it meant for the wolf to turn their back toward someone like that?
“Let’s go to the bathroom,” grunted Stiles. “There’s better lighting. I need to stitch you up.”
“It will heal.”
“That’s my poison all across your back!” snapped Stiles. Derek’s gaze followed his shaking hands as they grabbed the bandages and a cream from the table, then flickered toward Stiles’ beautifully flushed face. The boy looked upset. “Just let me put stitches into you, man.” He motioned toward the bathroom.
“It’s not your fault,” said Derek softly.
“Into. The. Bathroom.”
Derek obeyed with a sigh.
Under the bright light, Stiles’ wrinkled forehead looked even worse. Derek stared at his reflection in the mirror, his gaze sweeping over his concentrated face, his tightened lips, and the persistent frown. Stiles’ hands remained steady thanks to the years of practice during all the bullshit that happened to them and to Beacon Hills. His long fingers fluttered over Derek’s back, stitching and applying cream, then sticking butterfly bandages all over the place. The wolf fought the shivers every time Stiles’ breath caressed his back.
“I can feel you looking at me,” Stiles mumbled absently.
Derek did not lower his gaze. “Does it bother you?”
A tug on his skin. A snip of scissors.
Stiles glanced over Derek’s shoulder, meeting his gaze in the mirror.
“No.”
They stared at one another.
When Derek spoke, his voice was quiet. “I heard it’s supposed to be unsettling. For humans.”
“Oh, I’m unsettled, all right,” Stiles lifted an eyebrow and nodded at his back. “You are healing at the snail’s pace.”
“It was worth it.”
“Don’t say that.”
“I would do it all over again if it means that you stay alive.”
Stiles’ lips opened then snapped shut. The boy swallowed harshly, breaking the gaze. His scent filled with something tender and achingly raw.
“You’re…” Stiles cleared his throat, fidgeting with the bandages. His cheeks went ruddy. “You are a good alpha, Derek.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you—”
Derek stood up, breaking out of Stiles’ hold, and turned to face him. “I wouldn’t have done it for Jackson. Or Scott.”
“You can’t mean that.”
Derek scoffed. “I barely feel their bonds. They cannot wait for the summer to end to get the hell out of here. Tell me why I should bother to fight for any of them when they dream of leaving the pack?”
He yearned to pace, to circle his land, and run. His lungs constricted in agitation, aching for a howl.
Stiles looked at him from down up with those impossible eyes of his, two pools of burnt amber. The questions sizzled inside them, hissing like water on hot coals.
The thrumming of his heart was the loveliest thing Derek had ever heard.
“Why do you stay?” Stiles asked quietly, not getting up.
Because you are the only thing keeping me alive.
Derek took the bandage wrappers out of Stiles’ bloodied hands, crumpled them in his fist, and threw them in the trash. In this tiny space between them, their scents mixed heavenly together, making Derek’s head spin.
He needed to get out of here before he did something irredeemable with their lives.
“Someone has to keep monsters off your back,” he said in the end. He was about to storm out, his heart in his throat, when the chair scraped loudly behind him, stopping him in his tracks.
“What about New York?” Stiles’ voice had an edge to it.
Derek’s claws dug into the bathroom doorframe. He tilted his head, not looking over his shoulder fully. “What about it?”
“Isn’t it, like…” Stiles’ voice clicked. “A supernatural communal city? That’s where everybody goes to study.”
Derek frowned and finally turned, pinning Stiles down with his gaze. “You’re going to New York?”
“That depends.”
“On what?”
Stiles licked his lips. His hands clenched and unclenched. He met Derek’s gaze, his eyes sparkling with bravery, desperation, and just a little bit of hope.
“On whether my alpha goes with me to keep the monsters off my back.”
Derek’s eyes burned red, but Stiles did not flinch at the sight. He stepped closer.
“You want me to go with you?” asked Derek under his breath.
Stiles shrugged. “I mean… I’m no werewolf, but I am pack, right? My bond has to mean something. Maybe, not in the same way and not that strong, but—”
Derek did not let him finish. He could not bear to watch him standing here, alone out of the entire pack, despite the strain it put on his relationship with his father, with Derek’s blood on his hands after he sutured him up, and…
The sight of him, the smell, his voice, and his words, those insane things he was saying—
Derek cupped Stiles’ neck and kissed him.
He couldn’t believe he lasted this long without tasting him.
When dreaming about their kiss, Derek wanted it to be gentle, soft, careful. He wanted to let Stiles guide them the way he wanted, to make him feel comfortable and welcome. He figured they’d go slow and calm, in a proper, human way.
Stiles grasped Derek’s wrists as the claws pinched at his jaw. He opened his lips with a soft gasp, and Derek dove right in, licking, tasting, lapping at him. He held Stiles in place like a wolf holds its prey right before biting deeply. He was a fool, believing he could keep it casual. How could one have Stiles in their arms and even think about letting go?
Derek’s hand slid onto Stiles’ waist, under his shirt, and up his back. He caught every gasp, every warm breath that fell from Stiles’ lips, hungry for everything that the human could give. A single kiss would not be enough. Even a night wouldn’t be. No, Derek wanted Stiles’ life, his future. Till death do them part.
Stiles came out of a stupor exceptionally fast, and once he did, he gave it all back tenfold. His hand slid up Derek’s bicep and around his shoulders, allowing the boy to cling to him, to hold onto him. His lips parted, letting Derek in, his tongue giving him kitten licks as he tried to figure out how Derek liked it.
Derek knew right then, while kissing him, that he wanted to be the one kissing Stiles for the rest of his life.
“Stay,” he pleaded, breathing harshly into Stiles’ mouth before capturing those lips once more, unable to part for long. “Please, tell me you’ll stay…”
Tonight, tomorrow, and forever.
Stiles nodded. His pupils were blown wide, his face flushed. “Can we do it again?” he murmured, his voice thick and deep.
Derek let out a laugh. “Come here.”
*
At night, right before dawn, Derek lay awake. His heart pumped quickly, filling his ears with noise. His arm was curled around Stiles, who slept deeply, curled at his side with his cheek on Derek’s chest and his hand on the wolf’s stomach.
They spent that entire evening kissing until Stiles’ lips went numb. Derek put an end to it when Stiles’ stomach growled, and all but jumped to make him dinner.
“Such an alpha,” teased Stiles, rubbing his cheek on Derek’s shoulder like a cat. Derek didn’t have the heart to correct him.
A dinner, a movie, more kissing. Torn stitches, Stiles’ grumbling, and another joint trip to the bathroom.
They kissed until late in the night, unable to keep their hands off each other.
By morning, Derek had thought of every way Stiles could be taken from him and every way Derek could keep him close.
Frowning, he picked up his phone and began scrolling through the nearest jewelry stores.
*
“Do you like it?”
Stiles did not answer for a long time, unaware of Derek’s violently beating heart or his entire body poised for a run.
“My dad is going to kill you.”
“I’m not courting your dad.”
“Ew.”
Derek looked down at the deer lying between them, then back at Stiles, who shivered at the night wind. The blood rushed in his ears. He could hear Stiles’ heart muscles contracting.
“Is it…” Derek worked his jaw as his gums itched to unsheathe the fangs. The metallic taste of blood coated his mouth. “Is it too much?”
Stiles could not leave. Not over this. He knew, didn’t he, whom he was kissing? He had to have known what lying next to a wolf at night would lead to.
It would hurt if Stiles rejects this. It would probably break a piece of Derek’s soul if he were honest. But he’d understand. If Stiles freaks out, if his lip curls in disgust, Derek would never shift again. He’d do anything but let him go.
Stiles cleared his throat and glanced at the wolf. “No, I… I love it.”
“You don’t have to lie.”
Stiles threw him a hard glance. “I said I love it.” He crouched and reached out to stroke hesitantly under the deer’s dead, open eyes, then folded his arms on his lap and sighed. “I’m just trying to figure out how to explain this to my dad without him shooting at you.”
“I’ll tell him how it is,” frowned Derek.
“Not gonna work, bud.”
“Do you like it?”
Stiles looked up, tensing at his tone. He carefully sidestepped the carcass and the blood pooling on the Stilinski’s back yard, walked up to Derek, took his face in his hands, and kissed him, fangs and all. When they parted, Stiles’ lips were tinged with blood. There was no way he couldn’t taste it on Derek’s tongue.
“I love it,” Stiles said with unusual seriousness to his voice and his expression. Derek breathed out a bit as relief flooded his tense body; he leaned into Stiles’ palm and closed his eyes, inhaling. “I just didn’t… I didn’t know you wanted this much with… me.”
Derek’s eyes opened and pinned Stiles to the spot. The wolf lifted his hand and pressed it to Stiles’ neck. Marking, claiming the same spot, which he tucked his face into in the mornings. He had learned the way it smells and tastes. It was burned into his tongue.
Derek wanted a lot — perhaps even too much from Stiles. Marriage, kids, their house, pack, and forest. He needed to own Stiles' heart the way Stiles owned his. Derek would not survive without it.
“So?” he rasped. “Do you accept it?”
Stiles failed to suppress a grin. “Yeah.”
*
Derek didn’t know that Stiles wouldn’t cheat. He just desperately hoped he wouldn’t, even with the mating bite embedded deep into Stiles’ shoulder. Not that Stiles had ever given him a reason to suspect anything. No, as Lydia said, they both had each other around their fingers like a weird version of thumb war.
In New York, the exact thing that Derek was worried about happened. Stiles became popular. Here, people saw and appreciated his sharp mind, dry humor, and his wickedly attractive smile. Professors loved him; everybody wanted his opinion, advice, and friendship. They wanted more. Derek could smell it all over them.
It was his luck that Stiles remained oblivious to most of their flirting attempts.
Derek rented them a place not far from the campus. Every morning, he drove Stiles to the university, then lied about having things to do, and let him go. Leaving the car further down the block, Derek returned to the small park outside of the campus and roamed there, searching for Stiles’ voice and heartbeat among the thousands of others.
It soothed him to hear how often Stiles mentioned him. It was always ‘we’, and ‘us’, and ‘our’.
After the lectures, Stiles proudly skipped over to Derek, who was diligently waiting for him in the car once more, much to the chagrin of those who wanted his attention. Only then did Derek’s heart slow its beat. His stomach unclenched as he placed his hand on Stiles’ knee and felt Stiles place his hand over it as he talked about his day.
Perhaps, with time, Derek would settle.
If not, Stiles did not need to know about it.
*
They planned to marry after the university. Derek crumbled at the end of the first year.
There were very few who understood the rush. Lydia, Peter, John. Scott skirted around the topic, still uncomfortable with them after all these years. Jackson did not care enough. Neither did Cora.
Derek could not help the grin that overtook his lips each time Stiles thrusted his left hand into the face of anyone willing to listen. There was a time when he insisted on walking into the campus with a coffee cup clutched in his left hand just to make people notice.
His theatrics were for Derek’s peace rather than Stiles’ vanity, and Stiles was convinced he hid it well. Derek did not tell him that he knew. It soothed him either way.
*
The bed creaked under Derek’s weight. Slowly, he settled under the sheets, letting the scent of them, of Stiles and their pup, waft around the room and settle in his lungs. He lay on his side and placed his hand on top of Stiles’ one, which rested on Eli’s stomach.
Both were sleeping, puffing deep breaths, tired from the late evening bubble bath. Stiles had read horror stories about babies being scared of water, and, in his determination to make bath time as fun as possible, he inadvertently turned it into the most epic adventure time for their one-year-old. It had its consequences.
Derek looked down at their joined hands. His thumb rubbed Stiles’ wedding ring — a simple golden band. His gaze snapped up as Eli squirmed in his sleep, turned his head, and settled once again with a satisfied sigh.
Derek watched him for a long time. His eyelashes fanning across his cheeks, his small, pudgy hands, relaxed and soft. His chest, rising and falling.
Inevitably, his eyes slid onto Stiles.
His heart thudded at the sight of him. It developed into a habit over the years.
Careful not to wake the pup, Derek leaned over and pushed his nose into the crook of Stiles’ neck, where the scent was strongest. For a minute, he simply breathed, then placed a kiss on the beating vein and lay back.
Stiles’ eyes fluttered open. He blinked with effort, trying to orient himself in complete darkness.
Derek palmed his neck, rubbing his thumb over Stiles’ cheek. “Shh,” he rumbled. “It’s just me.”
“Mm.” Stiles’ hand bumped into Derek’s wrist, latching onto it weakly. It wasn’t even a full minute before he fell asleep.
Slowly, his stomach unclenched. Derek watched him, watched both of them until at last their combined scents forced his eyes shut.