Chris Argent has always carried the weight of his past, years of hunting, loss, and self-doubt leaving him questioning whether heâs truly worthy of love. Living in a throuple with Peter Hale and Sheriff Noah Stilinski brings warmth and intimacy heâs never fully allowed himself to accept⌠until a sudden panic attack forces him to confront his fears.
Guided by Peterâs teasing menace and Noahâs steady, grounding presence, Chris navigates fear, vulnerability, and emotional overload. Blindfolds, whispered reassurances, and tender touches help him rediscover trust, intimacy, and the certainty that he is deeply, unequivocally loved. Through moments of raw confession, playful innuendo, and intimate closeness, Chris learns that being seen and held is not only safe but desired.
In the end, the three of them find equilibrium: a perfect balance of teasing, tenderness, and unwavering devotion, solidifying their bond as a throuple built on trust, love, and acceptance.
It started, like many terrible things in their life, with Peter Hale.
Specifically, Peter Hale leaning against the kitchen counter in nothing but boxers (he stole from Noah), eating a peach like it had personally offended him. It was just before 8:00 AM. Chris had gotten three hours of sleep, Noah was still nursing his first cup of coffee, and Peter⌠well. Peter was already in rare form.
âWould you still love me if I was a worm?â
Noah didnât even look up from the paper. âWhat kind of worm?â
Chris blinked. âIâwhat?â
Peter took another messy bite of the peach, juice trailing down his wrist. He gestured with the fruit. âYou heard me. If I was a worm. Little squiggly thing. No arms. No legs. Just vibes. Would you still love me?â
Chris stared. âWhat kind of question is that?â
âThe important kind,â Peter replied, dropping the pit into the sink. âYou know, the kind that defines the depth of your devotion. The kind that answers: Do you love me for my sparkling personality or my dangerously tight ass?â
Noah raised his mug. âItâs the ass.â
âThank you, Stilinski.â
Chris dragged a hand down his face. âWhy are we talking about this?â
âBecause,â Peter said, spinning to face them dramatically, âTikTok said that asking your partners if theyâd still love you as a worm reveals the true soul of the relationship.â
Chris turned to Noah. âIs that a real thing?â
Noah didnât even blink. âSadly, yes.â
Peter smirked, pointing between them. âSo. Would you?â
Chris opened his mouth. Closed it. Stared at his coffee like it might contain answers. âHow would that even work?â
âOh, God,â Peter moaned dramatically. âSo itâs conditional love, then. Thatâs what Iâm hearing.â
âI donâtâI justâwould you even still have thoughts as a worm?â Chris demanded.
Peter gasped. âHow dare you question my intellectual capacity in worm form!â
Noah finally looked up. âPeter, baby, weâd keep you in a very nice terrarium.â
Chris choked. âThatâs enabling!â
âOh, I see,â Peter said, hands on his hips. âSo youâd keep me like some pet, while my Alpha dignity withers inside a plastic cage filled with moss and regret.â
Chris stood, clearly trying to hold onto his sanity. âYouâre the one who brought up becoming a worm!â
Peter ignored him. âNoah would probably build me a whole custom habitat. With twinkly lights. And a heating pad. And tiny books I canât read anymore because I donât have thumbs.â
Noah nodded slowly. âThatâs⌠honestly, yeah. That sounds accurate.â
Peter turned, fluttering his lashes. âSee, this is why Noah is the favorite.â
Chris groaned, looking heavenward. âI trained to kill werewolves. I studied ancient bestiaries. Iâve hunted the supernatural for decades. And now I live with a man asking me if Iâd love him as an earthworm.â
Peter shrugged. âI'd be a sexy dirt noodle. Youâre welcome.â
Noah snorted hard into his coffee.
Chris turned to him, betrayed. âDonât encourage him.â
Peter, undeterred, slid into Chrisâs personal space. âWhat would you do with Worm Peter, hmm? Would you hold me gently in your calloused, hunter hands? Whisper sweet nothings? Carry me in your pocket like a forbidden secret?â
Chris looked one breath away from praying. âIâd put you on a hook and fish with you.â
Peter gasped, slapping his chest. âMurder! Youâd murder me for sport?!â
Noah, voice dry, murmured, âItâd be the most useful youâve ever been.â
Peter whirled. âEt tu, Stilinski?â
Chris pinched the bridge of his nose. âI am begging, so begging, for just one normal morning.â
Peter stepped back with exaggerated offense. âYou know what? No. I withdraw the question. You both failed. Iâll find someone else to cherish me in my hypothetical annelid form.â
Noah raised a brow. âLike who?â
Peter narrowed his eyes. âLydia. Sheâd cradle me in her palm and read me Oscar Wilde.â
Peter sighed dramatically and flopped into the armchair, limbs sprawled everywhere. âHonestly, the disrespect. I bring passion, danger, and an ass sculpted by gods, and this is the thanks I get?â
Noah finally set down his mug, stood, and walked over to Peter. He leaned down, kissed Peterâs forehead, and said solemnly, âWe would love you. Worm or not.â
Peter blinked up at him.
Chris watched them both suspiciously.
Noah added, deadpan, âWeâd feed you compost, keep your habitat clean, and name you Wiggles Hale.â
Peter lit up like Christmas morning. âThatâs adorable. I love it.â
Chris muttered, âI think Iâm having an aneurysm.â
Peter stretched like a smug cat. âYouâre just mad because Iâd still get laid as a worm.â
Chris stared. âHowâhow would that evenââ
âIâm just saying,â Peter continued, completely ignoring him, âa sexy dirt noodle like me? Someone would find a way.â
Noah turned away, shoulders shaking.
Chris glared at both of them. âWhy are we like this?â
Peter smirked. âBecause youâre tragically in love with a chaos gremlin and a man who enables him.â
Noah saluted with his coffee. âCan confirm.â
Chris turned to the sink, muttering, âShouldâve stayed in France.â
Peter called after him, âBut then youâd never meet Worm Peter, our future child-slash-pet-slash-erotic enigma!â
Chris slammed the cupboard shut. âYou need a warning label.â
Peterâs voice floated back, syrupy sweet. âWould you still love me if I had a warning label?â
Chris didnât answer.
Noah did. âWe do. Every damn day.â
Peter stilled. For just a moment, one single moment. he looked genuinely moved. Then he smirked.
âEven when Iâm wriggling?â
Chris groaned so hard it echoed.
Peter laughed like a man victorious.
Noah just raised his mug and said softly, âTo our sexy dirt noodle.â
Or, in Peter Haleâs mind: Wolf, Silver Fox, and Twunk.
When Peter drags Chris Argent and Noah Stilinskiâhis committed, handsome, and mildly reluctant throupleâto their first Pride together, itâs supposed to be casual. Lowkey. Maybe even a little sentimental.
Instead, it becomes a leather-clad, glitter-filled, Village People-themed spectacle of chaos, kissing, community, and unexpected joy. Chris questions reality, Noah thrives, Peter thrives harder, and somehow along the way, they all find exactly what Pride was meant to be: love, laughter, and being unapologetically seen.
Read the story HERE. There's a bonus chapter in glorious Peter Hale POV.
Peter Hale thinks a romantic weekend retreat is the perfect excuse for sex, sarcasm, and scandalously little clothing. Noah Stilinski hopes itâll strengthen their bond. Chris Argent just wants to survive it with his dignity intact.
But when shirtless breakfasts, lakeside temptation, and a bed big enough for three collide with years of emotional repression, things heat upâfast. Peter canât stop teasing, Noahâs quietly orchestrating the chaos, and Chris finally, gloriously snaps.
In between filthy confessions, long-overdue declarations of love, and more innuendos than anyone asked for, this weekend getaway becomes something far more intimate than any of them expected.
Noah Stilinskiâs house had never felt small before.
Not until he found himself trying to reach the coffee pot past Chris Argentâs shoulder while Peter Hale was draped across the kitchen island like a smug housecat in heat.
âYour elbow is in the creamer,â Noah muttered, nudging Chris gently.
Chris shifted half an inchâstubborn, shirtless, and sleepyâwith a grunt that was more wolf than hunter. âItâs your fault for not making a second pot.â
âI didnât expect pack-sized caffeine needs in this house.â
Peter lifted his head from where it rested on his folded arms and smirked. His hair was still wild from sleep, though Noah suspected that was more calculated aesthetic than accident. âYou live with a werewolf. An alpha, at that. Consider it a public service.â
Noah raised an eyebrow. âYouâre not exactly public service material, Hale.â
âOh,â Peter purred, stretching like a lazy predator, the muscles of his back flexing under his smooth skin, âIâm very good at servicingââ
Chris reached out and flicked him in the forehead before he could finish the sentence.
âChildren live in this town,â Chris said, voice flat.
Peter grinned sadistically. âSo do daddies.â
Chris groaned.
Noah just shook his head and finally poured his coffee, muttering something about regretting every life choice that led to this momentâexcept he didnât. Not really. Not anymore.
The new bed, an Alberta King (Peter picked it out and paid for it), had been a practical upgrade that quickly became an emotional one. It was wide enough for all three of them, including the stray black cat Peter claimed wasnât his but kept letting inside. They still had their own routines, still respected boundaries, but more often than not, they ended up tangled together like gravity had changed.
Chris had a drawer in the bedroom. Peter had two. Noah hadnât said it out loud, but he liked coming home to signs of life. Boots by the door. A mug that wasnât his. Peterâs coat tossed over the back of the couch like it owned the place. And yeah, they kissed now. Often. Shamelessly.
Peter was usually the instigatorâtouchy and smug and a little possessive in ways that Noah suspected came from years of loneliness. Chris kissed like a man whoâd never been allowed to before. With focus. With reverence. With a slight tremble in his hands.
Noah didnât say much about any of it. But he let them stay. He reached for them in sleep. He cooked dinner and grumbled when they did the dishes. He called them home in ways that didnât require a word.
And on that particular morning, he let himself just enjoy it. The clatter of mugs. The scent of cedar and spice (Peter) mixed with old leather and gun oil (Chris) and something warm and familiar (coffee, always coffee).
It was chaos, sure. But it was theirs.
Peter had just started lazily sliding his toes up the inside of Noahâs leg when Chris set his mug down and said, âWe should take a weekend. Somewhere out of town.â
Peter perked up. âA throuple retreat?â
Chris looked like he regretted speaking.
âI was thinking a cabin. Or maybe the coast.â
Noah sipped his coffee, calm and unreadable. âYou want a romantic getaway with this one?â
Peter slid off the counter with a wicked grin. âHe wants to ravish us both somewhere with better acoustics.â
Chris gave him the same flat look he reserved for rogue betas and badly filled-out mission reports. âI want you both rested. Youâve been twitchy, and Noahâs barely slept.â
âIâve slept plenty,â Noah argued. âSome of us arenât powered by moonlight and man pain.â
âSpeak for yourself,â Peter muttered, wrapping an arm around Noah from behind, hands slipping under the hem of his t-shirt. âIâm fueled by chaos, and the sound Chris makes when he comes.â
Noah nearly snorted coffee through his nose.
Chris went red to the ears.
âYouâre incorrigible,â Chris muttered.
âAnd you love it,â Peter whispered against Noahâs neck, pressing a kiss there. âDonât you, Sheriff?â
Noah rolled his eyes but didnât move away. âI swear to God, if this turns into breakfast sex again -â
Chris interrupted him with a kiss.
It wasnât rushed. It wasnât explosive. It was slow and certain, like sealing something that had already been said without words. Chrisâs hand slid up Noahâs neck, fingers anchoring in the hair at the base of his skull, and Peter just watched for a moment, quiet for once.
When Chris pulled back, Noahâs breath was uneven, and his shirt was rumpled from Peterâs wandering hands.
Peter leaned in and kissed him next, slower than usual, mouth soft and warm. When he pulled back, he didnât say anything for a second. Then, with a faint, almost uncharacteristic rasp, he said:
âIt just feels right.â
And somehow, that shut everyone up.
Because it did.
They werenât perfect. There were still disagreements, still growing pains, still moments when Chris got quiet or Peter got defensive or Noah looked at the both of them like they were wild animals with tracking devices.
But they kissed like it was instinct. They reached for each other like it was normal.
Chris took a shaky breath and stepped back, eyes flicking between them. âYeah. It does.â
Noah didnât smile. Not exactly. But he reached for both of their hands and squeezed. âI didnât know if this would work. But Iâm glad it has.â
Peter leaned into him, wolfish and soft at once. âI always knew it would.â
Chris grunted, but the corner of his mouth twitched.
They didnât say I love you. Not yet. But it was there. In the touch. In the warmth. In the quiet between chaos. In the new bed, the shared mornings, the mugs that didnât match, and the scent of pack in every room.
In Peter humming to himself as he grabbed the last pancake.
In Chris running a thumb across Noahâs wrist as he passed him the butter.
In the way Noah let himself exhale, finallyâsettled, surrounded, safe.