The last thing Stiles expected when he walked into the back of the café at 5 a.m. was to see someone else already there.
He frowned at the coat already hanging on the rack by the back door and startled at the noise of someone moving around in his pantry. Okay, so maybe it wasn’t his pantry—both Danny and Isaac used it as well—but before 10 a.m., the café was his domain. And Stiles was just a wee bit possessive.
He stomped over to the pantry and opened his mouth to let the trespasser have a piece of his mind, when he caught an actual look at the trespasser and promptly swallowed his tongue.
Standing in the pantry with a yellow notepad in one hand and a pencil in the other was the hottest man Stiles had ever seen in his life. He was roughly Stiles’s height, with dark hair and a beard and black-framed glasses, his maroon sweater stretched over broad shoulders and mouthwatering biceps. And dark jeans covered an ass that should have been illegal, holy shit.
Stiles gaped. He thought he could be forgiven; nobody should be forced to confront such hotness before their first cup of coffee.
Pantry God finally seemed to realize he wasn’t alone, and looked over to Stiles, pale eyes widening behind his glasses. “Can I help you?”
The words jerked Stiles out of his stupor, reminding him that Pantry God was actually Pantry Trespasser. “Who are you and what the hell are you doing in my pantry?”
The guy’s frankly impressive eyebrows shot up to his hairline. “Your pantry? Are you the owner of this establishment?”
Stiles narrowed his eyes at the man’s sarcastic tone. Attractive or not, he didn’t need to take this. “No, but I’m the head chef. Well, one of the head chefs. Well, the pastry chef. The point is, I’m responsible for making sure we have all the delicious baked goods and so the pantry is my domain. Ergo, my pantry. What are you doing in it?”
The guy continued to look at Stiles as though he’d lost his mind. Which, unfair, although Stiles was used to it at this point. Scott and Allison gave him that look often.
Pantry Trespasser waved his notepad at the shelves. “So you’re the one responsible for organizing this place?”
He made a face. “This is a mess! Nothing’s labeled—”
Stiles balked. “Excuse you!”
“—you have your dry goods mixed with your canned goods, lunch items mixed with breakfast items, I have no idea when this produce was purchased—”
“It was just two days ago!” Stiles argued. Probably, anyway. It wasn’t like Danny and Isaac sent him their shopping schedules.
Pantry Trespasser grabbed a potato out of a tub under the shelves and held it out. “Look at this. It’s going soft. How long has it been here?”
That potato was looking pretty gnarly, and he was infuriated that Pantry Trespasser had a point. Stiles stammered. “I don’t…I’m the baker. I buy the flour, not the fucking potatoes!”
“I thought this was your pantry,” Pantry Trespasser said mockingly.
“That I share with two other people,” Stiles reminded him. “And you still haven’t answered my question. Who the hell are you?”
Pantry Trespasser dug a business card out of his pocket and handed it over. “Derek Hale. Peter’s my uncle.”
Melancholy man, he calls himself, though he has written of a cloud, even of peaceable clouds in a painting, it is right to think of these as elegies of the spirit, to see their forms as melancholy hosts, and the poet watching clouds is watching phantoms levitating stone.
David Baker, from “Melancholy Man,” Paris Review (no. 169, Spring 2004)
Hey kelly :) I'm dying for another haker one-shot, I truly miss them...
It’s close to midnight when Hannah parks on the street outside Baker’s house. The air is crisp, clean, still, and it cools Hannah’s cheeks when she gets out of her car, flushed from the heat she had been blasting on the drive over.
Outside, she texts, tiptoeing around to the back of the house.