#okayjhannah

[okay-j-hannah]

Part 1: Her Broken Heart

Teen Wolf : Multishot

Stiles Stilinski x Reader

Word Count: 10.1k

Warnings: series rewrite, start of season 1 {aka 2011}, slow burn, strangers to friends, friends to lovers, eventual pining, eventual NSFW, usual teen wolf levels of violence and gore, heart conditions, health problems, lightheadedness, fainting

Request: This just came from my own head 😊

A/N: Just a note that the reader will be in the dark for a while, meaning that lots of episodes/scenes will be skipped. Also, the heart conditions/problems the reader has comes solely from extensive research and isn't meant to be completely accurate - I did my best.

Part 1: Her Broken Heart {You Are Here}

Part 2: A Lacrosse Boyfriend

Part 3: Blue Handprints

Part 4: Ollie's Catnip

Part 5: Mieczyslaw

Part 6: Orange Cream and Peachy Sugar

Part 7: The Summer Filter

Part 8: The Favor

You walk purposefully to your last class of the day, holding onto the straps of your backpack like your life depended on it. New school. Old town.

It was just so noisy.

The squeak of your sneakers was drowned by the bustle of the dozens of highschoolers weaving through the hallways. Side conversations rose in volume, laughter was piercing, lockers slammed metallically, and the morning bell rang with a sharp noise.

You avoid rubbing shoulders with your peers, but inevitably a lacrosse player rams into your side while chasing a ball. You put a hand protectively to your chest, a glimmer of pain dancing across your ribs.

Breathe, you remind yourself. Just breathe.

Walking into English, you eye the rapidly filling seats. You recognize most faces even if they don’t recognize yours. A few skittish steps forward and you spot the dark silhouette of Scott McCall.

The uneven beating of your heart seems to lessen at someone you could at least talk to amicably. He appears to feel the same as he finds your gaze and smiles crookedly.

“Hey, (Y/N),” he whispers encouragingly. “It’s nice to see you finally at school.”

You smile back, “Thanks, it’s good to be out and about.” You pick the desk beside him, closest to the window. “There’s a lot of people here.”

Scott laughs, “What did you expect?”

“Less than this,” you say, thumbing the syllabus in front of you. “I thought Beacon Hills was a small city.”

You hear a cough directly behind you, fingers drumming against the metal desk surface. You flit your gaze to Scott, but he merely rolls his eyes.

“(Y/N), this is Stiles. Stiles… meet (Y/N).”

You turn in your seat to see a closely shaved head, wrinkled hoodie, and widening brown eyes.

“Uh… hi,” he says.

You swallow hard, “Hello.” Your brow furrows, “You’re Scott’s best friend.”

Stiles nods, playing with his fingers, “Yeah, for years. And you are…?”

“Another friend,” Scott interjects, “Friend of the family.”

You feel warmth as Stiles leans forward in his seat, “A friend that I’ve never heard about?”

That made your stomach clench. Of course you didn’t have many close friends, more acquaintances than anything else, but it still scared you to think you’d be judged on that fact.

“We don’t talk much,” you say quietly, turning back around.

Scott had what you hoped wasn’t a pitying look in his eye when he got distracted by neighbors ruffling through papers; then to a pencil dropping; then to a charm bracelet clanking against a desk. With each new noise his head was whipping about.

You tried to read the first page of your syllabus when a gentle tap on your shoulder startles you. You contained the jump in your heart as you turned towards Stiles.

He spoke with a soft but urgent voice, “Are you new to the town?”

“No,” you answer shortly.

“Then how come I’ve never seen you at school before?”

“I was homeschooled until this year.” The anxious fist in your stomach continues to clench further. “I’ve lived here almost all my life.”

He continues to lean forward as the teacher rose to address the class. “How do you know Scott?”

“Our parents are friends.”

“How come he’s never mentioned you before?”

You give a breathy laugh, “Do you always interrogate newcomers or is this just your usual charm?”

He finally leans back in his seat, “I like a good mystery.”

Your smiling reply makes the corner of Stiles’ mouth quirk upward, just as the teacher declares:

“Stiles, are we really going to end the day with a detention?”

Stiles looks up, frowning, “No, sir – just welcoming a new face.”

“Yes, Miss. Westbrook. I’d suggest surrounding yourself with different company. We don’t want a tainted reputation now, would we?”

Scott put a hand to his mouth, stifling a laugh as Stiles lifted his arms in silent outrage. You are stunned but feel a giggle rise in your chest.

The teacher continues, “As you all know, there indeed was a body found in the woods last night.”

The laughter in your chest dies in a cough as you replay the teachers unfeeling words in your mind.

“And I am sure your eager little minds are coming up with various macabre scenarios as to what happened. But I am here to tell you that the police have a suspect in custody, which means you can give your undivided attention to the syllabus which is on your desk outlining this semester.”

There was a collective groan, but you had already started dating the semesters projects in your academic calendar. The different books you’d be reading were some of your favorite classics: The Scarlet Pimpernel, Jane Eyre, The Count of Monte Cristo, and Sense and Sensibility.

You could already see the outline for your midterm paper on the differences between loving with sense and loving with sensibility.

Then the classroom door opened, and a pretty girl walked in with someone from the office.

“Class, this is our new student Allison Argent.”

You silently thanked the heavens that you weren’t introduced like that to the entire sophomore class. But the introduction intrigued you. Perhaps you could befriend this new student as you were somewhat new yourself.

You met her quickly by her locker after class.

“Hello,” you say in your gentle voice, “I’m (Y/N). I’m new to the school too.”

“Oh, thank god,” Allison says, “Just when I thought I’d never survive the first day.”

You grin, “New kids on the block need to stick together. How are you feeling about the move?”

“I’m used to it,” she says, leaning against the wall of lockers, “What about you?”

“Oh, I’m not new to the city, just the school. I was homeschooled before this. Jumping into the school year in January isn’t preferable, but it’s better than listening to your mom lecture about the Pythagorean theorem while doing the dishes.”

Allison laughs just as another girl walks over to introduce herself and her boyfriend. This new face, Lydia Martin, was clearly a commanding personality. And you quickly quiet yourself as she speaks to Allison.

“So, this weekend, there’s a party.”

“A party?” Allison says, taking a step closer to you.

The boyfriend, Jackson, adds, “Yeah, Friday night. You should come.”

Allison clearly didn’t want to go, judging by how she closed herself off and turned towards you. She fumbles for something to say as you note how the two popular kids never acknowledged your presence.

“Actually, we’ve already made plans for Friday night,” you say quickly, the beating of your heart increasing as Lydia made eye contact with you. “I’m helping her finish setting up her room.”

“Who are you?” Lydia asks, surveying you with her wide eyes.

Allison interjects, “This is (Y/N), she’s new to the school too.”

Lydia seems satisfied in her findings, “Pretty.” She pulls on both of your sleeves, “Let’s go to lacrosse practice.”

You panic, “Oh, no – I actually need to head to the library. The first day came with a lot of homework.” You curse the lines of judgment creasing Lydia’s brow. “I’m sorry, I need to catch up.”

“You need to pick, sweetheart. Beauty or brains. You can’t have both in this school.”

You believe that to be blatantly untrue, but you apologize again as Allison gets dragged off. You sigh, steadying your heartbeats. Your mother will be coming soon to pick you up anyway.

~~~

It was another long evening shift at the hospital working in the clinic. You assisted with logging patients in, taking their medical histories, noting their blood pressure, and administering medications.

You were currently disposing of some items in the sharps container when Nurse McCall came around with a dirty gown and gloves.

“(Y/N)!” she says cheerfully, “How are you?”

You smile, washing your hands in the nearby sink, “Tired, but that’s not unusual.”

She gave you a motherly look, eyeing you like the nurse she was. “How’s your breathing? Have you gotten lightheaded tonight?”

“Nope.” That was a lie. “I’ve been doing great. I worked through the line waiting in the clinic. Now I’ve just got to clean up before heading home.”

She raises her eyebrows, impressed. “I wish your work ethic came in a bottle. I’d give a dose to my son.”

“Oh, you should give Scott more credit. He’s working hard on the lacrosse team, I hear.”

“Have you two… has he been…”

You give a soft smile, “He’s been talking to me in class, yes. He’s been very kind to me.”

“Good,” that seems to relieve her. “I know you’re not the closest of friends but starting school in the middle of the year can’t be easy.”

“No,” you say with a sigh, “But I think I’ve made a few friends. Scott and Lydia and Allison…”

“So are you going to the party tomorrow night?”

You give a weak laugh, “I don’t think I’m made for parties, Melissa.”

“I mean,” she laughs too, “Scott is taking Allison to that party – I figured if you’re all friends now then…”

“Oh,” you compose yourself, “No, I’m not going.”

“Shame,” Melissa folds her arms, “I would’ve liked a trusted pair of eyes on my son. I tell you he’s gotten all squirrely since coming back from winter break.”

You shrug your shoulders, “I’ll check up on Allison to make sure she’s alright.”

Melissa leans over and rubs your arm, “You’ve been working like a madman since the summer. We’re all very impressed with you, (Y/N). But you have a habit of doing too much and telling us too little. You have to promise me you’ll be honest about how you’re feeling.”

You brush her off, “How many times have we had this conversation?” You take a step back, “I feel fine. The summer tuned me up. I feel I can do anything now.”

“I like the confidence,” Melissa says warmly, but she still held worry in her eyes. “I’m just looking out for you. I promised your mom.”

You grimace, “Has she been bombarding you much?”

“Nothing I can’t handle.”

The pair of you share a laugh, “I wish she’d stop worrying.”

“We all worry,” Melissa sighs, grabbing a new box of gloves for the nurses station. “That’s what happens when you have people that care about you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” you walk around her, “I gotta go before my dad waits in the urgent care drop off too long.”

“Hey, about that…” Melissa calls after your retreating form. “I was thinking about your carpool situation and maybe you and Scott could drive together. You know – so you don’t have to rely on your parents as much.”

Anything to get more independence from your parents. “I didn’t think Scott had a car.”

“No, he doesn’t. He gets rides from his friend Stiles. Maybe you could join them?” She watches your expression grow anxious, “Or you could ask your new girl friends?”

“Yeah, right,” you snort, “Lydia and Allison live on the other side of town in those big important houses with the four-car garages.”

Melissa shrugs, “Then ask the boys. Stiles is a little… odd. But he’s a good kid.”

“Thanks, Melissa,” you give her a tired smile, “I’ll see you over the weekend.” You pull out your phone as you head to clock out.

Your connected watch reports to you the steady heartbeat you’ve had during the day – just two rapid spikes. Swiping away the health report, you text Allison and wait for her replies as you head towards your father’s car.

“So you’re actually going to the party?”

“What can I say… Scott asked me.”

You smirk, “I saw that coming a million miles away.”

“Sorry about our hangout though, I was going to tell you at school tomorrow.”

“It’s alright. I’ll just get started on the chemistry homework for next week.”

“You don’t want to come with us?”

You scoff, “And be a third wheel? No thank you.”

Your dad continues a conversation about your workday as he drove out of the hospital parking lot. “Any big cases come in?”

“No, nothing particularly stressful. Maybe one guy who was nervous around needles.”

“Good,” your dad says. “I’m proud of you sweetheart. And not a single fainting in five weeks.”

You lean your head against the window, suddenly glum, “Let’s hope it continues.”

~~~

Friday comes and you’re on the couch enjoying another read of Harry Potter. You were just getting to the confession scene in the Shrieking Shack when your mother came in with a cup of herbal tea.

“You seem a little quiet today,” she says, nestling into the opposite end of the couch.

“No more than usual,” you say, sipping the honey and herb concoction. “I usually spend Friday nights reading, mom.”

She nods, stirring her tea in thought, “Yes, usually. But in the last few months you’ve been branching out. Going to public school, getting a job at the hospital, making some new friends.”

“And while that’s all terribly exciting, I still enjoy a quiet evening with my books.”

“Of course,” your mother replies, “How have you been feeling?”

“Mom,” you groan, “I feel fine!”

She sat straighter, “You have had two dizzy spells this past week. It’s not a crime to ask how you’re doing.”

You bite the inside of your cheek, “I started school this week, I’m bound to be a little stressed about that, aren’t I? When I started my job at the hospital there were a few dizzy spells in the beginning, remember?”

“Yes, but you don’t tell us about them anymore. I have to pull up your watch readings to find out.”

“What’s the point? I can’t control them all. Sometimes they happen out of the blue.”

“Precisely,” she says louder, “Which is why it’s important to monitor them for your doctor’s appointments.”

You open your book in a huff, “Can we not talk about this anymore? It always puts the house in a mood.”

Your phone buzzes with a text from Allison. Your mother peers over your shoulder to see if it was a notification from your health app.

“Allison is getting a ride home from the party,” you whisper, texting a reply, “I wonder what happened with Scott.”

“Weren’t they on a date?” your mother asks, relaxed now that she knew the cause of your phone lighting up.

You shrug, “I thought so. I’m going to check on her. I’m sure she’ll want to vent.” You get up with your book and find your sneakers. “Could I have a sleepover?”

Your mother battled the rebuttal of keeping you at home – to coddle you with her security. “As long as you have your medication I don’t see why not.”

“I can drop her off on my way to the firehouse,” your father says, adorning his firefighter t-shirt and cargo pants. It would appear he had another overnight shift.

Fifteen minutes later you were outside the Argent residence, Allison waiting by the front door to welcome you with her frustrations.  

The home was tall with big, open rooms full of chandelier light. It was rich with mahogany browns and beamed ceilings. Allison was guiding you up the stairs after a quick introduction to her mother in the living room.

“I just don’t understand why he left me there,” she says with an edge, “I thought he liked me.”

“I think he does like you,” you say as you enter a beautifully decorated bedroom. “We have to remember he is a high school boy.”

Allison quirks a faint smile, “But to leave me at a strangers house… he has to know I’m new to the town. I don’t know anybody well enough to get some help! And I was not about to call my parents for a ride. That would’ve been reputation suicide.”

You clear your throat, recalling every instance your parents have carted you around, refusing to let you drive yourself. “Who gave you a ride anyway?”

“Someone named Derek Hale. He said he was a friend of Scott’s.”

You feel your uneven heartbeats pick up, “Derek Hale? He’s back in town?”

“Do you know him?”

“No, it’s just…” your mind wanders to old police reports your mother talked about and past newspapers on the dinner table. “There was a fire that burned up the Hale House years ago. Most of his family died in that fire. He hasn’t been seen for years.”

Allison crosses her arms, suddenly giving herself a kind of protective hug. “You mean, he isn’t a friend of Scott’s?”

“Not that I know of, but I’m as much of a new friend here as you are.”

“But Scott said you’re a friend of the family.”

“Yes, I do work with his mom at the hospital,” you fight to keep the Hale memories at the forefront of your mind. “But that doesn’t mean that I’ve hanged out with Scott much.”

Allison nods, still gripping her arms as creases of worry etch her face. “Why would Derek lie about being friends with Scott?”

“He didn’t try anything in the car, did he?”

“No!” she says quickly, “He was really kind, even held the door open for me. He just asked about my relationship with Scott.”

You could feel the beats in your chest stutter. They were loud in your ears, “What did you tell him?”

“Just that I met him this week. I got help from him at the veterinary clinic – I accidentally hit a dog – and he asked me to this party.”

You sit on her bed, afraid that your heart rate was increasing more, “Did Derek seem interested in just Scott?”

Allison thought about it for a few seconds before sitting in her desk chair, “Yeah, it was the only thing we talked about.”

“Which would make sense if that was the only thing you guys had in common.” You put a hand to your chest, hoping to steady yourself with some pressure. “But I still don’t think him and Scott have ever been close friends.”

“That’s slightly concerning,” she says with a shaky laugh.

You return it, trying to take a deep breath without making it too noticeable. “Other than the abrupt departure and unfortunate ride home… how are you and Scott?”

A genuine smile returns to Allison’s face, “He’s so sweet. You can just tell how nervous he is and it’s so cute. After being jumped by Lydia and her friends it was nice to meet someone more sincere.”

“Lydia can be a little overbearing,” you agree, checking your watch to see your heart rate drop to a more acceptable number. “And Scott really is a sweetheart. He can be a bit of a worrier, but I find those are the ones who care the most.”

Allison likes the calming reassurance until the sound of her mother’s voice pierced the air.

“Allison! It’s for you.”

The loudness prompts the two girls to their feet. Up on the walkway towards the staircase, the pair of you had a perfect view of the door… and the boy standing out in the cold.

“Stiles?” you say confusedly.

Allison’s mother left the door open as she returned to her spot in the living room. Stiles stood awkwardly under the porch light, “Uh… yeah, hi.”

“What’s going on?” you ask, leading the way down the stairs, “Is everything okay?”

“Is Scott okay?” Allison asks quickly, following you to the doorway.

Stiles rambled, hands on his hips, “Yeah! Yeah, Scott is fine.” His eyes lingered on you as he paused. You had an instant suspicion that he was lying. “He asked that I check up on Allison since he had to run out.”

“Well, I got home all right, no thanks to him,” she replied with a huff. “But he seemed off, like he was sick all of the sudden.”

Stiles took hold of the sudden excuse, “Yes! That’s what happened. Scott just got really sick out of nowhere, like really sick – like find me a bathroom right now kind of sick.”

You wrinkled your nose at his lack of a filter, “But you said he’s fine.”

“I mean, yeah now he’s fine,” Stiles said loudly, as if that would cover up his little slip. “He met with his mom at the hospital and she gave him some… treatment.”

Your pulse was picking up again at his obvious covering up, “You know what… I told Melissa I would stop by the hospital late tonight to get my new schedule. You just reminded me,” you smile easily, putting a hand to Allison’s arm. “Raincheck on that sleepover, I don’t want to keep Melissa up all night, especially if Scott isn’t feeling well.”

“Yeah, of course,” Allison said instantly, “And would you text me if you see Scott there?”

“Sure,” you smile, “Stiles?”

He looked to you with wide eyes, “Hm?”

“Could I get a ride?”

~~~

Stiles’ jeep was old and clanky, but in an endearing sort of way. You sat with your back more against the door than the seat, arms wrapped around yourself. Your heart hadn’t stopped beating rapidly. Any faster and you were worried about another attack.

“I’m sorry the heater doesn’t work,” Stiles said with a hint of embarrassment. He smacked the dashboard, “You look cold.”

“It’s alright,” you say quietly. You try to focus on the beats of your heart, willing them to calm down before you started to get lightheaded.

“You know what…” Stiles started to flail his arms around the wheel, trying to remove his suit jacket. He banged his head against the door before straightening out, “Here.”

You look at the outstretched jacket with endearment before quietly taking it, “Thank you.” You were much more graceful putting the jacket on, smiling at how Stiles mistook your concentration on your heart rate for being cold and uncomfortable.

“Now you need to tell me where Scott really is,” you say in your gentle tone.

Stiles suddenly gripped the steering wheel, “What do you mean?”

“I mean, Scott isn’t really at the hospital. And I know something is going on with Derek Hale because he lied to Allison. And I have a funny suspicion that you know more than you were telling us.”

There was a twitch in his fingers as Stiles thought about how much to reveal, “You’re right. Something’s wrong with Scott. I don’t know exactly what, but I think he ran off and got lost in the woods.”

“He didn’t give you any hint as to why he would do that?”

“He’s just been acting weird the last few days,” Stiles continued, driving slowly. “When I saw him leave tonight and Allison get picked up… I went after him. But he ran away.”

You wrap the suit jacket closely around you, giggling at how the wide shoulders stuck out on your own frame. It smelled wonderful.

“This calls for a search party.”

Stiles looked worried and frantic again, perhaps still hiding parts of the truth from you. “You don’t mind wandering the roads by the woods? I could still take you…”

“No, I want to help,” you say against your better judgement. Your heart rate still hadn’t gone down. “Let’s start on the north side closest to where the party was at.”

It was already past midnight by the time you started scouting the woods. You kept your eyes out the window, tightly bound in Stiles’ jacket. Your heart rate remained high, the lack of proper oxygen to your brain was starting to make you feel woozy.

Your mother was not going to be happy when she checked your watch monitor.

“Hey, you alright?” Stiles asked, “You need to sleep?”

You shook your head, wincing at the slow motion feeling it produced. “No, I can stay awake.”

“It’s not a problem, really. I can drop you off at home.”

“That’ll waste time when we could be searching.” You sit up straighter in an attempt to expand your lungs. “I just need to take a breath.”

Stiles kept looking towards you just as much as he was looking in the surrounding forests. “How close are you and Scott?”

“Not very,” you say, “I’ve met him a couple times with his mom. Our parents are closer than we are.”

“And you’ve lived here most of your life and yet I’ve never met you before.”

You smile, trying to anchor yourself in your surroundings. It was another attempt to control your heart rate.

The smell of Stiles’ jacket. The rough road beneath the tires. The stale, cold air of the jeep. The sound of Stiles’ investigative voice.

“I don’t get out much.”

He laughed, “Then why the sudden change?”

“I felt like it.”

“Woman of many words,” he smirked, “You said you knew Derek Hale lied to Allison. What do you know about the guy?”

You sigh, “Just a little about his past with the house fire. My mom was a part of the dispatch call that handled the case.”

“Wait, did you just say a dispatch call?” Stiles jumped in his seat, “As in, your mom is a police officer?”

“No,” you laugh at his quick movements, “She works at the front desk helping transfer calls between civilians and officers. She hasn’t been on the active force in many years.”

Stiles had a comical scrunch on his face as he thought for a few seconds, “Your mom is Angela Westbrook? Front desk Westbrook?”

You nod, a strange furrow in your brow, “And you know her because?”

“Because my dad is the town sheriff!”

“You’re a Stilinski?”

Stiles had a shock of energy zip through him, “Yes, a Stilinski! I can’t believe our parents work together.”

“Your dad has been to my house a few times,” you say, amazed at the connections. “I wonder why he never mentioned me.”

“I guess I knew Mrs. Westbrook had a daughter, I just didn’t realize we were the same age.”

The hours ticked by as the pair of you searched the woods by the road. You both thought you’d seen some flashlights and decided to avoid them. Stiles came up with the idea to search by foot away from the woods for a mile or so.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“Yeah, I’ve got a spare flashlight in the back,” he unbuckled his seatbelt.

You sit straighter, “I mean, wasn’t there a dead body found out there earlier this week?”

“The police are handling it.” He steps out of the car to grab his flashlight.

You stay where you are, uncomfortable with the idea of standing up when your heart rate was so close to an attack. You were lightheaded enough that the rush of standing would not bode well.

Stiles came around the other side with an exaggerated expression on his face as he opened your car door. “Forgotten how to use the handle?”

“No, I’m just…” you tug on the jacket sleeves. “I’m a little lightheaded to be honest.”

“What do you mean?” his face fell into concern immediately, “Is something wrong?”

You smile shakily, “Not at all,” you lie through your teeth. “Just be prepared to catch me if I fall.”

Stiles seemed to take that with the most seriousness as he backed up and held out a hand, “I got you.”

You struggle to breathe as you clamber out of the vehicle. You hold tightly to Stiles’ outstretched hand and wait for the inevitable feeling of the blood rushing to your legs. Your head felt empty, and stars started to twinkle in front of your eyes.

Stiles held onto your hand and put an arm around your shoulders as you swayed, “Woah, you weren’t kidding. You alright?”

After a few seconds leaning into him, squeezing his fingers with light pressure, your breaths started to come easier. Your head became clearer.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Thanks.” You let go of him, checking your watch to see that your heart rate decreased to an acceptable amount.

Stiles backed away quickly, rubbing his hands awkwardly down his pants. He was hesitant to look at you when he replied, “No problem. Does that happen a lot?”

“Oh, you know…” you start venturing towards the tree line, “People get head rushes when they sit too long all the time.”

“Right,” Stiles said faintly, jogging to catch up to you. He clicked on the flashlight and aimed it towards the trees. It was dark and misty and cold. The pair of you kept hearing rustlings between the tree roots and bumping into each other.

You could have sworn you heard howls and growls, but it must’ve been the wind.

“Can I ask why you weren’t at the party?”

“You can, but the answer is boring.” You cross your arms, the too long sleeves engulfing your hands. “I don’t go to parties.”

“Because?”

“Because they make me lightheaded,” you say with a smile.

Stiles tried to pick that apart, but smiled, nonetheless. “You know the more I try to get to know you, the more confusing you become.”

“I thought you liked a good mystery.”

“I do,” Stiles confirmed, shining his flashlight up through tree branches, “I don’t like not knowing things.”

“Sorry, I’m a pretty tightly sealed book,” you shrug, “I can be very evasive.”

“And I can be very persuasive,” Stiles mocked, using a silly voice.

You bump into him again, sort of on purpose and less because you tumbled on a stray twig. “You already know plenty about me.”

“Let’s check the list, shall we?” he chuckled, “You were homeschooled. Your mom works at the station. You suffer from frequent lightheadedness. You don’t get out of the house much. And you’re already a part of the pretty girls club.”

“Excuse me?” you laugh, “The pretty girls club?”

Stiles kicked at the leaves, “Yeah, you know Lydia, Allison… you.”

“Stiles Stilinski, did you just call me pretty?”

He comically puffed out his chest, “In a roundabout way, yes I did.”

You chortle, “See you know a lot about me already. We’ve only known each other three days.”

“You’ll find I can be very determined, (Y/N),” Stiles sighed, “I’ll figure you out soon enough.”

They continued their way through the woods until they came back to the car. It did not go unnoticed that Stiles went to help you open the door and climb into the tall vehicle.

The morning light was starting to peek over the horizon by the time they got back to the roads. The pair of them were starting to grow more worried by the minute. It wasn’t a friendly search party anymore.

“I hope he’s okay,” you say quietly.

Stiles looked your way before resting his hand against the stick shift between you. “We’ll find him. Or he’ll text me as soon as he gets to a phone.”

You lean towards the dashboard, “I guess we’ll find him first.”

Walking along the side of the road, pants covered in dirt and his shirt missing, was Scott. He looked ruffled.

“What happened to him?” Stiles murmured as he pulled over.

“What happened to his shirt?” you say just as quietly. Stiles shot you a look as you strip yourself of his suit jacket.

Scott came to the door and looked shocked to see you handing over the coat. “(Y/N)?”

“Scott,” you say with a smile, “Get in.”

You scoot over to be in the middle. Stiles immediately yanked his arm away as your thigh got in the way of how he was resting his hand on the stick shift. You rubbed shoulders again as Scott got comfortable.

“Long night?” you ask.

Scott rubs at his eyes, banging his head against the window, “You have no idea.” He suddenly turns to you, pressing into your side, “How is Allison?”

“She’s fine,” you say, “I’m a little more worried about you.”

“You know what actually worries me the most?” he grumbles.

Stiles licks his lips, “If you say Allison, I’m gonna punch you in the head.”

“She probably hates me now,” Scott frowns, turning to you with regretful eyes.

You take pity on him, rubbing his shoulder, “She’s upset with you, but she doesn’t hate you.”

“But you might want to come up with a pretty amazing apology,” Stiles says candidly.

Scott groans, leaning against the headrest. You sit scrunched between them, almost scared to lean into either one. “I hear you were really sick last night. Though I don’t see how that explains your lack of clothing.”

“Night sweats,” Scott mumbles, “When I couldn’t sleep through it at home I decided to take a walk through the woods.”

“That’s a long walk,” you say, “Don’t worry, I’ll put a good word in for you with Allison.”

“Would you?” Scott says, looking at you like you were the answer to all of his prayers. “Could you make sure she knows how sorry I am?”

You pull out your phone to send that update text you promised her. “As long as you apologize in person too, I don’t see why not.”

“You’re an angel, (Y/N), thank you.” He bows his shaggy head to your shoulder before pouting against the headrest again.

“Could you drop me off a few blocks from my house? My parents think I’m sleeping over at Allison’s.”

Stiles nods, “Protective parents?”

“A little,” you smile.

“I’ll add that to the list,” he smirks. “I’ll have to open a full case file on you now.”

“That’ll be a dead end.”

Scott opens his eyes to peer at the pair of you, “Sounds like you two had as long of a night as I have.”

You yawn, “Stilinski here is trying to play high school detective. He’s on a role trying to figure out my criminal past.”

“Criminal you say,” Stiles drums his fingers against the steering wheel. “That’ll mean I need a corkboard and some red thread too.”

“What have you found out so far?” Scott muses, somewhat enjoying the change of subject.

“Not much.” Then Stiles points a finger at his best friend, “But you’ve known her longer than me – fess up. What do you know?”

Scott holds back a smile, “Did you figure out her mom works at your dads station?” After a swift nod he continues, “And that her dad is a firefighter?”

“Really?” Stiles says dramatically, “Any siblings?”

“Only child,” Scott continues, rubbing the tired from his eyes, “And she loves to read. Every time I saw her, she was always reading something.”

Stiles had a look of triumph on his face, as if it were a breakthrough in the case, “What book you reading right now?”

“Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban.” You point the directions to your street, “I’m at the end when Lupin turns into a werewolf.”

“A what?” Scott says, shooting forward.

The friendly banter between you and Stiles suddenly shifts into surprise, “A werewolf. Haven’t you seen the movies?”

“Right,” he swallows hard, “It’s been a while.”

Stiles licks his lips again, “It’s ironic because last night was the full moon.”

“Oh, was it?” you hum, “That’s funny.”

~~~

You sleep off most of the weekend, having a lecture from your parents about the heart rate spike on Friday. You told them a night of rom coms and silly boy stories with Allison got you excited – that it was all fun and games.

You didn’t tell them you almost fainted because of it.

The next week was more enjoyable than the last. You excelled in your classes and spent your lunch periods reading in the library – you were already halfway through Sense and Sensibility for your midterm report.

Chemistry, History, and English were your favorite, most likely because your new friends were in those classes. Scott had become infatuated with Allison, especially after she had given him a second chance. Lydia was scheming something over her boyfriend being the captain of the lacrosse team. And Stiles was quickly becoming your highlight of each day.

He’d sit beside you during class and ask a personal question. “At least one a day,” he wagered, “I can ask at least one a day and get an answer.”

“As long as I reserve rights to refuse to answer any question.”

“I’m going to add those refusals to your case file.”

You’d roll your eyes, “Whatever you say, Stilinski.”

You were proud of the fact you hadn’t had another heart rate scare since the week before, meaning your body was adapting to the new stressful environment at school. That didn’t stop Stiles from insinuating you were going to have a lightheaded moment whenever you rose from your seat.

You never noticed how he prepared himself to grab you whenever you’d been sitting too long.

Chemistry had come around later in the week, you having arrived early to prepare the days experiment. Goggles adorning your face, you lit the Bunsen burner and tightened a flask of a chemical liquid above it.

Stiles skid over, sliding on his sneakers, “Hey, partner.” He threw his bag down and took the goggles you hand to him. He snaps them onto his face with a sharp, “ow.”

“I’ve started filling out the notes,” you say, observing how the liquid was starting to bubble with heat. “Why are you late?”

“I’m not late, you’re just early.” He sits on the stool beside you, resting his crossed arms on the tabletop. “Where were you at lunch today?”

You put a thermometer in the liquid, waiting for the right temperature, “In the library.”

“Is that where you always eat lunch?”

“You can’t eat food in the library, Stilinski.”

Stiles rubs at his nose fidgetily, “Scott and I were looking for you today.”

You pause, warmth filling your chest as you pour granules into the bubbling vial. “Sorry, I was reading for my book report.”

“(Y/N), book reports aren’t due for weeks.”

“Might as well get it done so we don’t have to worry about it,” you hum, writing down observations about the chemical reaction.

Stiles slumps a little, “Well, we missed you.”

“Scott just wants to gossip about what Allison thinks of him.”

“And what’s my excuse?”

You turn off the burner and remove the vial with tongs, “You’re trying to question me to continue your investigation.”

He sighs out a smile, “You’re right, of course. I haven’t asked you my question of the day yet.”

“I suppose I have no choice but to answer one,” you sigh with a smile on your face. “What do you have for me today?”

He was playing with his fingers when he asks, “Why do you spend lunch in the library rather than in the lunchroom with everyone else?”

You think about your answer carefully as you put away your supplies and let the vial cool down. “I don’t like being around a lot of people.”

“Why?” he presses.

You grab his goggles and snap them against his face, “Because it makes me lightheaded.”

He yelps and sways on his stool, “I’m beginning to think ‘lightheaded’ is code for something else.” He yanks the goggles from his face, and you snort at the deep lines they left around his eyes.

“Hey, there’s a science project that we need partners for,” you say as a way to change the subject. “Do you want to do it together?”

“(Y/N), we don’t have to do that project until the end of the semester.” He smiles at your antics of avoiding his questioning.

You shrug, “I like getting things done.”

He takes a deep breath, “Alright, at least I know I won’t fail the class if you’re helping me with the final project.”

After class the pair of you separate for final period, you heading to a different floor and running into someone at the bottom of the staircase. Someone tall and dark with light eyes.

That someone you recognize as Derek Hale.

You freeze on the last few steps, holding onto your backpack and feeling your heart beat unevenly again.

“You’re Derek.”

His face was cool and solemn, “What do you know about Scott McCall?”

“Why should I tell you?” Your arms erupt in goosebumps.

He steps closer, “Because I’m trying to help him. He needs to get it through his skull that I am not the enemy here. I need your influence in this.”

You hold back a scoff, fear overtaking that, “What business do you have with helping Scott?”

“Do you not know?” his eyes suddenly darken, “I thought you were one of his friends.”

“I am his friend,” you reply, “And I know people are suspicious of you.” A seed of doubt creeps up your spine, “I don’t like that a shady adult is creeping around the halls of a high school looking to make connections with students.”

He growls, actually growls much to your surprise. “I need you to tell Scott that I am here to help. I am innocent in whatever he thinks I’ve done.”

“What does he think you’ve done?” you ask quickly as Derek backs off.

“I can hear your uneven heart,” he says, turning around, “You should calm yourself.”

You put a hand to your chest, mouth agape at his retreating form. How the hell can he hear your heartbeat? A thrum of fear ripples through you as you run for your last class. You check the monitor on your watch until your heart rate was controlled before entering.

You didn’t see any of your friends until the next day. You were reading in the library over lunch again, finishing Sense and Sensibility and planning your report. You keep getting distracted by the whole situation with Derek and Scott.

What had the adult meant by befriending Scott? Why were you approached? What secret does Scott have that you didn’t know about?

You squeal as someone launches themselves over the library couch and sits beside you. Your cushion bounces as your heart leapt.

“Stiles!” you cry, “Don’t startle me like that!”

He nudges your shoulder, “Sorry, we were looking for you.”

Scott came around and sat on the arm of the couch, “It’s lunch.”

“Yes,” you say, “And I’m working on stuff in the library like I do every day.”

“No,” Stiles says, closing your book and stealing your pencil, “You’re going to join us for lunch today.”

You fight to get the pencil back, “I think I’ll just finish my report here.”

“(Y/N), there aren’t that many people in the lunchroom,” Scott says quietly, “And you’ll have us there.”

You stare Stiles down, “Did you tell Scott about my thing with lots of people?”

He shrugs sheepishly, “Come on, let’s go.” He waits as you stand, picking up your backpack for you. Scott led the way, nervous by how he wrung his hands.

“Has Allison talked about me lately?”

You shove his arm, “Scott, I can’t tell you everything we say during girl talk.”

“Girl talk?” Scott says in a panic, “I didn’t know about girl talk.”

“Yes, it’s where we drop all our juiciest secrets,” you snicker, “Including our thoughts on certain cute boys.” Scott points at himself, eyebrows raised, making you laugh. “Yes, Allison has been saying good things about you.”

Stiles matches your stride, “What about me?”

You look at him with a wide smile before leaning into Scott with another laugh.

“What? I’m a cute boy,” Stiles says, flabbergasted. “Aren’t I?”

They walk into the lunchroom that was still full of students. You spot Allison and Lydia sitting at the popular lacrosse table. Stiles, your backpack still on his shoulder, nudges you to one of the front tables.

Sitting down, Scott kept peering over at the back of Allison’s head. “See it’s not so bad in here, (Y/N).”

The patter of your heart would say differently, but you sit next to Stiles, nonetheless, pulling out your book report.

“I did mean to come talk to you guys about something that happened yesterday.” The boys lean in, eager for any strange story. “Derek Hale came to talk to me.”

Stiles slips out of his chair and crashes to the ground; Scott was stunned, “Derek Hale? Where?”

“On my way to my last class yesterday. He was waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs.”

Stiles crawls back onto his chair, winded, “He was inside the school? What did he want?”

You shrug, twiddling your pencil, “He wanted me to convince Scott that he was a friend. He said he was innocent, whatever that means.”

The boys share a look. You start outlining your report, “And I don’t know why but I think I believe him.”

“No, (Y/N), listen…” Stiles pulls on your shoulder so you would face him. “You cannot trust that guy. Whatever you do, do not be alone with him again, got it?”

“I don’t get it, why?”

Stiles licks his lips, urgent in the way he looks at you, “You need to trust me on this. If he tries to talk to you again, call me.”

“I would if I had your number,” you laugh. The boys pull out their phones immediately to exchange numbers. You snort at their seriousness, “If you wanted my number that bad you could’ve just asked instead of coming up with this elaborate Derek Hale story.”

“We’re not making it up,” Scott says, “That guy is dangerous.”

~~~

At the end of the week you were busy with your shift at the hospital. You had just finished checking on Jackson Whittemore who had a dislocated shoulder, and you were logging notes into the computer at the nurses station.

You were just updating a patient file when a hand slams onto the counter. You jump, clutching your chest.

“Jesus Christ, Stiles!”

Stiles was shocked at seeing you there, “Do you work here?”

“Yes, and for the love of god please announce your presence like every other normal human being and stop scaring the ever living daylights out of me!” It was a good thing they were in a hospital because your heart was about to give out.

“Sorry, sorry,” he says with wide eyes. He rubs at his face, hiding a smile, “This is how you know Scott’s mom so well.”

“Yeah, add it to my case file,” you wave a hand, fixing your scrub top, “Why are you here?”

His eyes linger at something on your chest, making him stutter, “Um… Scott and I were uh… coming to check up on Jackson.”

“That’s right, you’re all on the lacrosse team. I heard it was Scott that knocked Jackson’s shoulder out of place.”

“That would be correct,” Stiles laughs nervously, scratching at the back of his head. “Is he alright?”

You smirk, nodding towards the end of the hallway, “See for yourself.”

Lydia had come to pick Jackson up, and the pair of them were currently making out in the middle of the hall. You turn away, slightly nauseous, but Stiles keeps observing like he’s never seen a kiss before.

“She’s never been subtle,” you grimace.

His mind seemingly elsewhere, Stiles fumbles for something to occupy himself with as he waits. He picks up a pamphlet on the menstrual cycle.

“Where is Scott?”

Stiles was stuck on a diagram of the uterus, “Hm?”

“Scott,” you say again, staring at the pamphlet cover, “I thought you said you were both looking for Jackson.”

“He went to find his mom first.”

You squint your eyes, “Melissa’s shift ended two hours ago.”

“Could you explain to me the function of the fallopian tubes?”

You snatch the pamphlet away from him, “What are you two hiding?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Stiles says nervously, “Don’t you have other patients to see or something?”

“First Derek Hale is telling me that Scott is keeping a secret and then you’re here covering for Scott while he snoops…”

“Who said anything about snooping?”

You stand from your chair, leaning towards the counter and Stiles, “Listen, I’m glad we’re finally friends. I like you guys. But I won’t be lied to forever. I deserve better than that.”

Stiles feels his chest collapse a little, sinking in on himself. “I could say the same thing about you. You’re always keeping things to yourself and giving vague answers to my questions. What do you have to hide, hm?”

A pang of hurt hit your chest, “Stiles, I’ve never lied to you about anything. If I don’t want to answer a question outright because it’s too personal, I tell you so. I’ve never hid something from you deliberately by lying to you.”

Stiles bit his tongue, folding his arms defensively.

You let the hurt show on your face, “I think you and Scott have been lying to me for a long time. About the party that Scott ran out on. About why you checked up on Allison last week. About your trust issues with Derek Hale. About what you and Scott are doing in the hospital right now…”

The will to argue was gone in Stiles, he just looks defeated as he watches the hurt fill your face. “It’s been for your own protection.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” you whisper angrily.

Scott suddenly appears by the counter, out of breath. “Hey…” he saw your face, “Oh, hey what’s up?”

“Find what you were looking for?” you ask sourly before returning to your keyboard.

Scott shares a look with Stiles before muttering, “Yeah, uh… Jackson’s alright.”

“He left a few minutes ago.”

Stiles turns around to see that Lydia and Jackson really had left. He tugs on Scott’s arm and gave an imploring look towards you.

“I promise we’ll explain everything eventually.”

You keep looking at your computer screen, ignoring the words. Stiles flickers his eyes to what he noticed on your chest, just along the edge of your scrubs. Scott knits his brow as he listens to what was unmistakably the uneven pounding of your rising heart rate.

Stiles led the way to the elevators, cursing himself and smashing the downward button.

“What was that about?” Scott whispers.

“(Y/N)’s mad at me,” he rubs at his eyes harshly, “Mad at us. She knows we’re hiding stuff from her.”

“For her own good.”

“Yeah, but she sees it as us lying to her. I don’t blame her for being upset. We’ve been pretty crappy friends keeping her at arm’s length.”

Scott frowns, walking into the elevator, “You forget that keeping her in the dark keeps her safe.”

“Well, not anymore with Derek roping her into it.” He leans against the wall, holding tight to the railing. “Did you notice the scar on her chest?”

“No,” Scott says, “But I did notice her heartbeat. It was all over the place. She must’ve been really upset.”

Stiles takes a deep breath, “Did you find anything in the morgue?”

~~~

The next evening you drove with your mother back to the hospital. You were still aching with the argument you had with Stiles. You knew something was going on between him and Scott, but you still didn’t know what.

Your mother sensed your mood and said in a cheery voice, “We made an arrest today about that woods murder.”

“Did you?” you say in a quiet tone.

“Yeah, Derek Hale. He’s been back in town for a couple weeks. I guess there was evidence on his burnt property.”

You close your eyes, thinking back to the warning about Hale. “Good thing you got him.”

“And then I got a strange call on dispatch today from the Sheriff’s son.”

“Stiles?” you say.

She hums, “He’s one strange kid.”

“Does he call dispatch often?”

“He’s not allowed to anymore, but he did call today about a dog sighting.”

You shake your head, “You’re right, he can be real strange.”

“Are you sure you can’t make the big game tonight?” your mother asks. “Everyone is going, even the Sheriff.”

“I can’t. I’m helping on Melissa’s floor since she took it off to see the game.”

“That’s right,” she replies, “Shame. I’m sure your friends would’ve liked to see you in the stands.”

You turn in your seat, staring your mother down, “I thought you’d object to me watching a heart racing game surrounded by loud, rowdy people, standing in the frigid cold air.”

She shrugs, “You’ve been proving yourself capable of handling your heart rate, even when it’s the spur of the moment.”

A sudden warmth creeps up your chest. Your mother was starting to trust you despite the illnesses. It was just enough of a mood shift to prompt you to text Scott and Stiles good luck at the game.

The shift was long and grueling; you were exhausted by the end of it. Another medical assistant drove you home late, no doubt long after the lacrosse game was over. You made a mental note to commend Melissa for handling such a difficult floor of the hospital.

Your mom had been called away because of a case update and your father was on an overnight shift at the firehouse again. You were quick to shower the nights worth of patient grime off your body and throw your scrubs right into the washer.

You were just applying lotion in your pajamas when something hit the glass of your window. Startled, you stood from your bed and waited for it to happen again.

A small pebble flew through the air and pings against your window.

Peering through the glass, you saw a disheveled, sweatshirt-wearing Stiles holding a handful of your garden rocks. He waves at you shyly as you struggle to slide the window open.

“What are you doing?”

Stiles holds up his hands, “Seeing if you were awake.”

“And you couldn’t think to text?” you say incredulously, “Put those rocks back.”

He threw his handful of rocks on your mothers tulips, “My phone died like an hour ago.”

You stood there, leaning on your windowsill, regarding him with a soft expression. He looks tired and scared, eyes looking up and imploring as he stuffs his hands in his pockets.

“Then what’s up?” you ask.

He swallows hard, the cold air making his breath come out in icy clouds. “I wanted to talk… about what you said yesterday.”

“How did you know where I live? You dropped me off at the end of the street, remember?”

“Well, yeah,” he chuckles, “And I just watched you walk to this house.” He scratches the back of his head, “Or maybe I looked up your mom on my dad’s computer and found her employee records.”

You nod your head slowly, “That sounds about right.”

“Can I… Can I come up?”

You bite at your lips, hair still wet from the shower. “Sure.”

It was like letting a dog off a leash. Stiles frantically jumps to the garden trellis growing on the front of your house. He struggles past the vines and up the wooden ladder, ignoring your calls of disapproval. He was huffing and puffing by the time he made it to the roof and next to your window.

“Stiles,” you say in your gentle voice, “My parents aren’t home. You could’ve come through the front door.”

His mouth was dry from panting in the cold night air, “Right, but that wouldn’t have been as impressive.”

You watch his fumbling figure fall from the window and onto your carpeted floor, “Yeah, that was real impressive, Stilinski.”

There was only a side table lamp on, lighting the bedroom in a soft peachy glow. You went to sit cross-legged on your bed, patting the covers in front of you for Stiles to sit.

He fixes his shirt, taking your offer before looking you in the eye. “(Y/N), I wanted to say that I was sorry.”

You look towards your hands, playing with the edge of your comfy pajama shirt. You could smell the fruity scent of your lotion still on your fingers.

“I didn’t realize our covering up was so obvious to you. We just wanted to protect you, but I guess it does seem like we betrayed your trust.” He keeps his eyes on you, waiting for you to look at him again, “When I got your good luck text I thought maybe there was still a chance you weren’t super angry with me.”

“Just a little,” you say quietly, giving him a soft smile.

“I wanted to tell you some things that we’ve been hiding from you,” he holds his hands up, “As a peace offering.”

You shake your head, “How generous of you.”

“The body that was found in the woods… Scott and I found it. Us visiting the hospital? That was Scott and I trying to find evidence on the partial body. Derek Hale? He had been seen on the property where we found the other half of the body. He was also in the woods with the first half. We were suspicious of him, and he was basically stalking us because of it.”

You listen carefully, your heartbeat was loud in your ears. “And when he came to talk to me?”

“That terrified us. We thought he was a murderer, and he was talking to you… alone.”

“You thought? My mom told me he was arrested today for the murder.”

Stiles rubs at his face with a tired hand, “Not anymore. The coroner’s said the cause of death was from an animal attack. And the victim was Laura Hale – Derek’s sister.”

“Must be nice having your dad be the sheriff,” you smile. “So Derek’s innocent like he told me he was.”

“I still don’t trust him. He’s not telling us everything. And since we’ve gotten him thrown in jail, my guess is he’s not very happy with us.”

You nod, your head clearer than it was at the beginning of the week.

“Is that everything you’ve been hiding?”

Stiles licks his lips, a nervous habit you’re realizing. “Do you remember when you said you don’t lie, you’re just honest about not sharing the whole truth?” At your nod he continues, “There is one more thing, but it’s not fully my thing to tell. We want to tell you, but it’s not exactly safe at the moment.”

You take the cryptic words and stew with them for a while. “Apology accepted.”

He let out a deep breath, “Thank goodness. Scott would have never forgiven me if we lost our one connection to the pretty girls club.”

You punch his shoulder and laugh, “The one thing I’m good for… gossip from the girls.”

Stiles rubs his shoulder, “That’s not why we want you around.” He clears his throat at your sudden undivided attention, “What I mean is… you’ve been a good friend, and we like you.”

“You and Scott,” you smile.

“Yeah, me and Scott.”

“Scott and I,” you correct, brushing the wet hair from your face, “How was the game?”

Stiles sat more relaxed on your bed, “It was great, we won. And there weren’t any injuries like Jackson’s.”

“Good,” you smile, “And Scott had a pretty victorious after party, so I’ve heard.”

“Allison texted you?” Stiles questions.

You shrug, “Of course. She said you were watching like a little pervert.”

Stiles chokes on his gasp, “I am not…” 

“You were watching Lydia and Jackson too. There’s a trend I’m noticing,” you tease.

He shoves your crossed knee, relishing in your laugh, “Very funny.” He eyes the neckline of your pajama top, searching for the edge of the scar he noticed yesterday. “Can I ask you my one personal question of the day?”

“Fine,” you sigh, “Ask away.”

“Where did you get that scar?” he nods towards your chest.

You immediately clam up, covering the spot protectively. “I got it over the summer.”

Stiles raises his eyebrows, egging you on, “How?”

“I had a surgery.” You watch the concern begin to etch into Stiles’ face. “I don’t like talking about it.”

He bit the inside of his cheek, blinking rapidly as he tries to compute the information, “But you’re okay now. The surgery helped you be… healthy?”

“For the most part,” you say quietly, “The surgery did help me be healthier.” You could already see the cogs turning in his mind. He was going to head home and research what surgeries would leave scars like that on the side of the chest.

His eyes wander your room for a minute before landing on your nightstand. There were three different sized prescription pill bottles resting there. He returns his gaze to you, but didn’t ask further questions, “So I was thinking… how about I give you rides to school from now on.”

You let out an anxious smile, grateful he didn’t press you about your health problems. “Honestly, that would be great.”

“Good,” he seems pleased with himself, “And in return for gas money, you come to our lacrosse games.”

You outstretch a hand, “Deal.”

Stiles takes your hand to shake and instantly blurts, “You smell really good.”

You laugh, “I did just shower.”

He awkwardly lets go of your hand, standing from the bed, “No, you always smell good.”

“Thanks Stilinski.”

[okay-j-hannah]

Part 6: Orange Cream and Peachy Sugar

Teen Wolf : Multishot

Stiles Stilinski x Reader

Word Count: 13.6k

Warnings: series rewrite, season 1 {aka 2011}, slow burn, friends to lovers, Stiles pining, slight NSFW, usual teen wolf levels of violence and gore, heart conditions, talk of scars {good and bad}, dementia, hospital death, abuse

Request: This just came from my own head 😊  

A/N: I COULDN'T RESIST 😭 Their chemistry is TOO GOOD

Part 5: Mieczyslaw

Part 6: Orange Cream and Peachy Sugar {You Are Here}

Part 7: The Summer Filter

Scott was frantically searching his bedroom for his phone, arguing with Stiles along the way. “The Argent’s plan was to use Derek to get the Alpha. They’re not gonna kill him.”

Stiles sways in a swivel chair, blatantly not helping. “Alright, so then just let them do what they’re planning, you know? They use Derek to get Peter, problem solved.”

“Not if Peter’s going after Allison to find Derek!”

Frown growing on his face, Stiles picks at the weathered wood of the chair, “You know this wasn’t why I came over.” He waits for a reply that doesn’t come – Scott is under his bed, throwing socks and crumpled papers out of the way. Stiles huffs, “We’ve had a major (Y/N) development… hello? Earth to Scott! (Y/N) slept in my bed last night!”

He grinds his teeth at the lack of a reaction, “And she asked me to take Allison to the formal, which is stupid because we could get Jackson or another lacrosse meathead to do that. I should be taking (Y/N) to the formal!”

Scott bangs his head on the underside of his bed, scrambling to get out, “Shut up!” he hisses.

“Ex-fucking-cuse me?!”

Scott hushes him, “I hear voices in the driveway.” He cocks his head to the window and squints his eyes in concentration.

“Who is it?”

“My mom coming home from work… and she’s been crying,” Scott deflates, sinking in on himself. “And (Y/N)’s with her.”

Stiles wheels the chair towards Scott, looking ridiculous with his legs spread out and paddling against the hardwood floor. “What are they saying?”

“(Y/N)’s trying to cheer her up. She’s asking to see me. She’s worried.” He doesn’t even have the energy to groan his sorrow as he sits on the bed, void of dramatics.

Stiles takes a breath, hearing his friends anxiety without needing the words. “Scott, you can’t protect everyone.”

The beat that follows is short and tense, resignation in Scott as he says, “I have to.”

“Well, we’re going to have to put a pause on that because (Y/N) is probably coming inside any second now.” Stiles straightens his jacket, “And she doesn’t want to be involved in any werewolf stuff, remember?”

“I don’t know how we’re supposed to be friends with her and keep her from all that,” Scott sighs, laying on his back and covering his face with his hands.

“Like it or not, she may be the eventual love of my life, meaning you have to suck it up and deal with it.” Stiles chokes on his breath as you knock on the wall before entering the open door.

You wince at the coughing fit Stiles is in, “Good morning.” Your eyes fall on Scott, “I hear something went down last night,” you fold your arms, “Melissa just told me outside. She’s seriously torn up about it.”

Scott finally is able to groan his frustrations, “Everything is going to shit.”

“Someone’s down in the dumps,” you smile, but stop upon seeing the lack of enthusiasm on Stiles’ face. “Any updates?” You play with your fingers, worry evident in your stance as you look between the boys. “Look, just because I don’t want to be there for the werewolf crap doesn’t mean I don’t want to hear about it afterwards.”

“Derek took Jackson to the Hale House and drew Scott out,” Stiles resigns, “It turned into a giant werewolf battle that ended with Scott being shot by the Argents and Derek going missing.”

You whip your head to Scott, lines of worry in your brow, “Are you okay?”

Scott lifts his shirt in a silent reply – no bullet wounds in his torso. He rolls over onto his feet and grumbles, “Deaton patched me up.”

If it was possible, your brows arch even closer to your hairline, “Deaton like your vet boss Deaton? He knows about all this too?”

“Evidently,” Stiles shrugs his shoulders.

“And Peter showed up to threaten Allison’s safety. He thinks the Argents have Derek and now I have to be on guard 24/7 to make sure she’s safe. Not to mention my mom went out with the maniac last night and you are the number one first target should a werewolf want to kill my pack…” Scott was tangling his fingers in his shaggy hair, “And with not going to the dance I don’t know how I’m supposed to keep her safe.”

You walk to stand in front of him, “Scott,” you say softly, “Noone expects you to be a guard dog for all your friends 24 hours a day. That’s impossible and too high an expectation for yourself. You’re just a sophomore in high school.” You raise your arms to grab Scott’s wrists, easing them from his head, “You shouldn’t have to be worrying about all this – it’s why you’re failing your classes.”

He lets you hold onto his arms between you, “But I have to worry; it’s all my fault. And I’ve screwed myself in the long run because now I’m banned from a whole night where anything could happen to you guys.”

You listen, eyes soft and sad, “I wanted to talk to you about who you think should take Allison to the dance, just so you feel more at ease about it.” You finally let go of his arms, returning to your finger picking. “Any ideas?”

“Jackson,” he says, ignoring the silent cheers coming from Stiles behind you. “He likes her, and they have a decent friendship, even if he won’t admit it.”

You nod, “Sounds good. Do you need me to help in any way?”

“Are you going to the dance with Andrew?” he asks, checking all his boxes.

“I don’t know,” you say, “He hasn’t asked me yet, but I have a feeling he might after our date tomorrow.” The smile on your face says it all and Scott again ignores the despair hitting Stiles – the poor boy banging his head into his crossed arms on the chair.

“Let us know,” Scott says, now fixated on finding a way to protect his mom, “We still have a week until the dance.”

You smile, but your eyes are pinched with empathy, “I’ll try to have as many sleepovers as possible with Allison and Lydia this next week,” you say determinedly, “I know you were thinking about stalking her house at night.”

“Only to keep watch,” he says with a slight upturn of his lips.

“But you need your sleep,” you pat his shoulder, turning around, “Doctor’s orders.” You spy on the last remnants of Stiles’ despair as he wipes his face of emotion. You grimace at the terrible unevenness of his hoodie strings. “And have you figured out someone to ask to the dance?”

You move to pull on his hoodie strings, evening them out as you adjust the fabric around his neck. He gulps and takes a second to respond.

“Not yet,” he gasps out a laugh, “We’ll see.”

“There’s always Lydia,” you smile, flattening the fabric against his wide shoulders. “Or you could just go stag.”

~~~

You drive with Lydia that night. It had been so long since the two of you hung out that it was almost awkward visiting the strip mall together – the same one you went to on your first date with Andrew.

The white fairy lights were just starting to turn on as you enter a beauty shop. Lydia goes right for the latest face serums while you follow along. “Don’t you already have every skincare product alive?”

“You can never have too many,” she says, holding up something pink and shiny.

“Actually, too many products can mess with your skin barrier and…”

Lydia holds up a finger, “That doesn’t stop me from having them sit pretty on my vanity.”

You giggle, running your eyes over the pretty packaging of various bottles. They really knew how to draw your attention. “I need a new lip gloss,” you say, encouraging Lydia’s shopaholic tendencies.

“Let me show you some of my favorites,” she says quickly, purse hanging from the crook of her elbow.

Shopping with Lydia was fun, especially when she made you feel beautiful and offered to buy things for you. She had you holding a few things for herself, but also a couple products for you that she refused to let you buy.

“Have you found someone to go to the formal with?” you ask nonchalantly, checking Lydia’s mood.

“I’ve narrowed it down to a couple lacrosse players. We’ll see who asks me by tomorrow.” She purses her lips and leads the way to the checkout line. “Do you know who Allison is going with?’

You hum your response, “Um… I think Jackson might ask her.”

Lydia takes a deep breath, “Sure. Why not.”

“Are you not okay with that?” you ask quietly, “I’m sure Allison will say no if you want her to.”

“I’m not going to control what that conceited little man wants to do. He was a moron to let me go – clearly I’ve been doing better than him since. You know after every lacrosse practice he just goes home? I haven’t seen him at a single after practice party.”

You pull your card out to pay for your things and she smacks your wrist. “How often does the team meet after practice?”

“Like once or twice a week,” she shrugs, “Jackson never liked to go, though. He doesn’t like doing things for popularity’s sake.”

“I’ve noticed he kind of just does things that serve his own best interests.”

“Exactly,” she says a little exasperatedly, handing you the shopping bag. “He’s so full of himself. I don’t know what’s going on with him.”

You hold open the door as Lydia storms out, shoulders tense at the thought of him. “Hey, crazy thought…” you say with a giggle, “Do you want to go spy on him?”

Lydia stops on the cobblestone sidewalk, giving you a dose of skepticism. “Are you crazy?”

“Come on, we could just drive past his house,” you say, still smiling, “It’s what girls do after a hard breakup.”

Consideration fills her gaze, slowly starting to walk again. The click of her heels builds a rhythm as her confidence grows, “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to see what he does on a weeknight. I swear he’s become so boring now.”

You laugh, linking arms with her and going for the car. You think about what Stiles said at the hospital. Jackson was focused on getting the werewolf bite. He was becoming an obsessive recluse in his hunt for power. It was no wonder that he avoided people that wouldn’t help him with his mission.

The drive to the upper class part of town was fast and full of loud music. Lydia looks determined as she turns into the neighborhood, headlights blinking off. You turn down the radio and look upon the grand estate that was the Whittmore house.

It looks renovated in comparison to some of the other houses on the street.

“They sure like a clean and modern look,” you remark at the plain white walls and geometric windows.

Lydia scoffs, parking across the street a little away. “He was always so proud of his money. Like it made him something he’s not.”

You feel a twinge of pity. “The poor thing. His Porsche is here – I bet he’s brooding in his bedroom.”

Pointing a finger, Lydia picks the window to Jackson’s room, “He’s up there; the lights on.”

The pair of you deduce what the reclusive boy might be doing. You were just laughing about anime porn and edibles when a loud voice starts yelling within the house you’re parked in front of. Lydia stops her laughter, looking to her right to peer out your window.

“Someone’s having a fight inside.”

You wince at the persistent yells, “Sounds pretty serious.” There was a crash and a boom. It made you jump being the closer of the two to the house. “Oh my god, what are they doing? Breaking things?”

A breath catches in Lydia’s throat when another bellowing yell seems to shake the windowpanes. “Maybe we should get out of here.”

Your mouth falls open when it sounds like someone slams into the front door. “Maybe we should call someone for help.”

The front door opens and a teenager falls out onto his side. He scrambles to get away from whatever was happening within. He trips down the concrete stairs of the front porch and finally makes it to his feet.

You audibly gasp, recognizing the teenager as Isaac Lahey. “Holy shit, I know him!” You go to open the door and Lydia cries out.

“Wait! We should…”

“Lydia…” you spot something bleeding on the side of Isaac’s face, “He’s hurt and he needs help.” You don’t even let her begin a retort as you leap out of the car at Isaac’s retreating form. “Isaac!”

He flinches, turning around in a frenzied motion. He looks wild with fear, holding his hands out like he was going to stop whatever was after him. In a second he looks even more uneasy, “(Y/N)?”

“Get in the car,” you say, keeping your distance, “We’ll get you out of here for a while.”

He looks at the slightly open front door and the look of desperation on your face. He swallows hard and seems fidgety with adrenaline.

“It’s okay,” you say quietly, taking a step forward. “I can help, Isaac. I work at a hospital – I can fix you up. Let’s go take a break somewhere else. Somewhere safer.”

Isaac looks to be choking on something – whether breath or words, you weren’t sure – but you feel a drop of relief as he follows your lead into the car.

Lydia looks petrified as she faces forward, two hands on the wheel. “This is not how I expected tonight to go.”

You put on your seatbelt and ask her firmly to drive to your house. “Is that okay, Isaac? My dad is at the firehouse and my mom is probably napping on the couch. She always does after having some of her tea.”

“Um…” Isaac wraps his arms around himself, trying to hide just like he did in the computer lab. “Yeah, sure.”

In those few seconds you look over your shoulder, you check the bleeding to the side of his face. The skin must’ve split open from some kind of force. In another second you notice the bruise around his eye.

It was yellow and green with age.

It’s quiet as Lydia tensely drives the car to your house. You try to silently thank her for going along with your plan. You were concocting scenarios in your mind as to why Isaac was so hurt. The yells, the bruises, the crashes and bangs, the fear as he scrambled away.

You think, sadly, of how alone Isaac always was. You realize that there wasn’t a single instance you could think of when he was with anyone. There was just that one time you spoke with him in the computer lab.

What was he actually dealing with at home?

Lydia was curt as she drove away from your house, no doubt brewing a passive aggressive text for you. Isaac, though extremely tall, seems to shrink beside you. He doesn’t look up as he follows your footsteps.

“Is this okay?” you ask gingerly, stopping at the door. “I just want to take you upstairs and have a look at that cut. It’ll be a quick bandage and then we can do whatever you like. We’ll take a break for a while.”

He seems to stew for a few seconds, not daring to look you in the eye. You suddenly wish to see them bright blue with the smile he got from laughter. The one you complimented him on. He finally speaks in a quiet tone, “Yeah, that’s okay.”

“Good,” you say, opening the door and going for the stairs. Peering over the banister you see just as you predicted. Your mother is fast asleep with a book resting open on her chest, and an empty mug of tea on the side table. “I swear that chamomile one she has puts her right to sleep.”

You walk upstairs and to the hallway bathroom. You put the toilet lid down and gesture for him to sit. Under the sink, and next to an array of things that sometimes help you when you feel faint, is a first aid kit.

Isaac looks wary as he holds his hands in his lap. It seems pretty plain what was going on. Something to do with an angry dad at home. You suddenly remember how apprehensive he was when you mentioned asking his dad for permission to go on the spring retreat.

“What was it that split your cheek open?” you ask gently, just a few inches taller than him as he sits.

He looks fearful to admit the truth. “I uh… fell.”

You nod, knowing it was a lie. “Pretty hard fall,” you give him a sad smile as he appears relieved you don’t question further. “I’m just going to clean it and put a butterfly bandage on, okay?”

He swallows again, wringing his hands, “Sure.” He winces as you swab a disinfectant wipe along his cheek.

“I’m sorry,” you say softly.

“It’s okay,” is his reply. He continues to be on edge as you pinch the cut closed and place a butterfly bandage on it. You let the silence continue if that is what he wants to do.

You’re throwing away the used wipes now, “Is that what happened to your eye?” you ask, “Another bad fall?”

He looks at you and seems to soften at the understanding in your gaze. It was warm and safe. He takes a deep breath, “Yeah. Another fall.”

“Would you consider yourself pretty clumsy?” you ask vaguely, stating the obvious without saying it out loud.

He catches on pretty quick, “It depends. Some days are better than others.”

You nod again, “Would you like something for the pain? I’ve got some ibuprofen or Tylenol.”

He agrees and follows you down the stairs again to find your mother groggy on the couch.

“Oh, hello sweetie,” she says, rubbing her eyes, “Who’s this?”

“This is Isaac,” you introduce, filling a glass with water. “He lives by Jackson Whittemore.”

Angela smiles though her eyes are droopy, “Nice to meet you, Isaac.” She suddenly squints, “What happened to your face, dear?”

He freezes as you open the medicine cabinet, “Oh, just lacrosse practice.”

He looks grateful, adding quietly, “I uh… got tackled without my helmet.”

“Boys,” Angela says funnily, “Well, hopefully it heals fast.”

Isaac gives a half smile before accepting the medicine from you, “Thank you.”

You’re still gentle as you reply, “You’re very welcome.”

~~~

The next night turns into a better one as you go on your second date with Andrew. He takes you to a Barnes & Noble, buying you a book and a coffee inside. Sitting in the little indoor café, sipping hot drinks and nibbling on pastries, you discuss your favorite genres.

Andrew listens to you with bright eyes, a sweet smile on his face. He takes you back to his house after that, turning on a Disney movie like you agreed on the last date. It only took about twenty minutes before he was pulling your chin towards his.

The night ends with a long-winded makeout and a winter formal proposal.

You were fit to burst with the information the next day, wanting to talk to the girls about the whole thing – but Allison had been off the radar the last couple of days and Lydia was attending after practice parties with the lacrosse team.

No doubt scouting for her next boyfriend (and date to the formal).

The next best option was Stiles. He picks you up and takes you to the nearest gas station for drinks and treats. You grab all your favorites, including peach rings and a large orange creamsicle.

The perfect summer treats to remind you of your favorite season.

Stiles insists on paying for the load, throwing his gummy worms and sodas on the counter. “I’d slip you cash anyway if you tried to pay.” He’s amused by your sweet smile as you open the creamsicle.

He even opens the jeep door and holds all the packages before dumping them on the floor between you.

“You’re going to step on them as you drive,” you cry, reaching down to shove all the snacks towards your feet. You almost lose a line of melting orange from your creamsicle. You lick a long stripe up the cold pop, “Should we just stop at the park?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah sure,” he says, putting the jeep in gear. “You enjoying that popsicle?”

Your lips kiss the tip of the pop, embarrassed when it makes a slurping sound, “Of course, it’s the best desert besides cheesecake.” The park isn’t far from the gas station, Stiles parking in front of the field and playground, turning off the engine. You continue to kiss and lick the creamsicle until orange and white ice cream is coating your lips.

Stiles wonders what it would taste like to kiss it off.

“My mom used to take me to this park when I was little,” you say, settling against the door and kicking your feet onto the seats.

Stiles does the same, one leg bent onto the seats and the other off the edge, able to bounce if needs be. “My mom did too,” he adds, a finger at his temple and thumb at the beginning of his jawline. He considers you, “I can see you just dying to tell me what happened.” He says it with convincing eagerness, but his face is placid as he says it.

He chooses to focus on how you lick the last remnants of ice cream off the wooden stick. It made him squirm within five seconds.

“Well, Andrew did ask me to the winter formal,” you say in hushed tones, “But that isn’t the best part. We kissed again and not just a goodbye on the doorstep kind of kiss – like a on the couch with a movie in the background kind of kiss. It must’ve been like forty-five minutes before his parents got home.”

And before you knew it, you were delving into the details of the entire night, focusing on the exciting kiss at the end. You start to compare the kissing with other boys you’ve been with before, critiquing the skill level and any corresponding downsides.

You open the sugary peach rings, chewing on them as you say, “Overall, I’d give it a solid B or B-.”

“You’re kidding!” Stiles retorts, stretching a gummy worm between his fingers, “You just went off about how great it was.”

“Yeah, but…” you shrug, sticking a peach ring on the tip of your finger like it was a life preserver for it. “… his technique was a little much.”

Stiles bites the head off his gummy worm, “What do you mean?”

“He was kind of abrasive, I had to keep telling him to slow down.” At the look of confusion on Stiles’ face, you keep going – you forget that he’s never kissed anyone before. “From the first kiss it was like he was eating my face. They were very open mouthed, and he kept trying to use tongue. I finally told him to slow down after I felt our teeth knock a couple times.”

Stiles grimaces, “That doesn’t sound fun.”

“I didn’t peg him for being the aggressive kisser,” you shrug, “It might’ve been nice if I wasn’t so surprised – like I could’ve matched his energy a bit better.”

“So, you… wait – what kind of kissing do you like?”

You ponder the question, eating the peach preserver on your finger, “I like it slow at first, you know – like you hold a cheek and draw each other in. Then it should get heavier, like more firm kisses, and you usually start moving at that point. Like… you get closer and I might sit on his lap or something.” You pull apart another peach ring, playing with the sticky gumminess between your fingers, “Then I like it when… oh my god, this was another thing! He never left my mouth.”

Stiles was only able to listen because of (1) his feelings for you and (2) the possibility that he could get some pointers on how to charm you. He had to listen to your previous encounters – a very real knife of white hot pain stuck in his collarbone and digging down his sternum – but he was getting a front row seat to your kissing preferences.

“I thought that’s how kissing works?”

You throw a candy at him, and he chases it down his chest. “Yeah, one type of kissing. But that gets boring after ten minutes. I like it when they start to kiss my neck and chest. How did you think people got hickeys?”

Stiles grumbles, head drifting to not just your ice cream lips, but the warm pulse at your neck, and the beauty marks on your skin below that. He quickly understood the desire to kiss other parts of the body.

“I get it,” he says, taking another sip of his soda. He kept finding his throat going dry, “So start slow, get more intense, and don’t forget to kiss other areas.” He nods to himself, “And the tongue thing?”

You grimace, “It can be nice if they know what they’re doing.” You sigh, slouching against the car door, “Easton from down the street was a heavy tongue guy. Like he saw one couple frenching on tv and decided that was the best way to kiss. It was like… so so wet. My chin was covered in drool by the time he left.”

Stiles was already hot around the collar, skin splotchy with red and pink. But he was starting to get an awful anxious feeling in his stomach, “There are so many things to remember.”

You look endeared as you lean forward, “But when you’re with the right person, it just feels natural. You click like all the puzzle pieces fit between you. You stop thinking about all the details and just go with what feels good.”

He tilts his head, and he looks so nervous and curious, “Was that Adam from San Fransico?”

The breath catches in your throat for a second, “Nearly. It was like a first love. It did feel natural with him, but our puzzle pieces didn’t all fit right.”

Stiles bites at his lips, “I think I had something similar to that. Never to the point where we kissed, but… I kind of obsessed over Lydia for a couple years.”

Your eyes widen, “You’re kidding, our Lydia?”

He nods, embarrassed, “Our puzzle pieces didn’t fit right either. Come to think of it, it didn’t really feel natural either. I guess that’s a pretty crummy first love, huh?” He smiles like he pities himself.

You frown, so entirely endeared by him that you feel a warmth enter your chest at his somber expression. The desire to hold him and show him what it feels like to be natural and wanted came on hard and fast.

“You can always learn to be a good kisser,” you smile, “But yes, having your puzzle pieces all fit makes all the difference in the world.”

“And how did you learn to be a good kisser?” he asks, crumbling his candy wrappers and throwing them in the back.

“That’s a bold assumption,” you laugh, “I never said I was a good kisser.”

He shrugs, playing with the hem of his shirt now, “I can just tell. There’s no way you’re a bad kisser.”

You feel rosy at those words, “I just learned from trial and error. I never had a teacher or anything.”

“I bet you’d be an excellent teacher,” he mumbles. His eyes go wide, clamping his mouth shut, biting his tongue.

You’re giddy as you laugh, “There’s only one way to find out, I guess.” Your eyes trail around his mole-dotted skin, guiding you to his slightly chapped lips and the cupids bow that leads to his perked nose. You love how red and flushed his skin is.

“What are you implying, Miss. Westbrook?” His eyes are bright, but he is deadly still.

“I don’t know,” your hands go to your temples, laughing a bit breathlessly. “Must be a sugar rush, don’t mind me.” There is something hot and heavy filling the space of the jeep, and you suddenly want to open the window to let in some cold air. You feel Stiles’ eyes on you like a deer caught in the headlights.

The silence is deafening as you turn your peachy gaze to his. He is flushed and breathing heavy and…

You consider it.

“Friends can kiss.” You pout adorably as you reason, “Scott and I kissed.”

“Not willingly,” Stiles says in his breathless voice, a small smile curling his chapped lips.

You wave a hand, “It’s purely a teaching moment.”

“Exactly…”

“But we did already make a kissing pact.”

“We can null and void the whole pact. Make it invalid based on… new circumstances.” He looks deep into your eyes before snapping out of it, shaking his head. “Wait… no, I… kissing you (Y/N)…” he was really struggling, fidgeting in his seat. “I want to but… what if I’m a terrible kisser and you’re so nauseated by it that you never want to kiss me again? I don’t wanna – I don’t want to mess it up.”

You try to decipher the speech, fogginess entering your brain as you focus on the shadows dancing across his skin.

“It’s a chance you have to take,” a smile on the tip of your words, “I did say I would help you get your first kiss out of the way.”

He struggles for breath, “Does that mean the offer still stands… to happen right now?”

You inch across the seats, in the middle now and loving how Stiles was having such a visible reaction. He goes rigid, his mouth open and eyes turning desperate. He looks scared and wanting. It looks conflicting… and hot.

“If you really want a lesson right now.” You whisper it like a newfound secret, “Only if you want to.”

“If I want to?” he sounds disbelieving, “Of course I… I mean, I don’t think I could ever say no to you, (Y/N).”

Something blossoms in your chest and it’s warm and addictive, you chase after it – prompting you to get closer, “C’mere,” you say gently and smile at how responsive Stiles is. He moves forward like a puppy searching for a treat.

You raise a hand and pause right before touching his cheek, “You sure?”

“Positive,” he says immediately, nearly leaning into your hovering hand.

You smile, touching his face and winding your hand to under his ear, your thumb in the perfect position to rub along his cheekbone. His eyes flutter close and an inaudible sigh escapes his open mouth. With the tips of your fingers reaching the back of his neck, you pull his face closer to yours. You position him at a slight angle, and he responds to your direction instantly.

He opens his eyes to find your noses nearly touching. You’re both breathing shallow, sharing the air between you, feeling it breeze and dry against your lips. He smells like candy.

And you… you smell like orange cream and peachy sugar.

“Put one hand here,” you direct his hand to your waist. Your heads stay close, gazes flickering between eyes and lips. “And another here,” you put his other to the side of your neck. His hands are so large – his fingers so long – you feel them shake as they engulf the space between your neck and shoulder. His thumb rests on your jawline while the side of his pinky sits on your collarbone. “Do what feels natural,” you whisper. “It’ll come to you.”

One hand shakes on your waist, testing a light pressure while his other hand rests very warm against the side of your neck, afraid to move.

You tilt your head to match his and find his dark honey eyes illuminated by the park streetlamps. They were still slanted in nervous desperation. He didn’t dare move, but you can tell he wants to – wants to badly.

“Close your eyes,” you say quietly, and your lips barely brush against his as you speak.

His lids close instantly – he is so pliable under your hand.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, nervously twitching his fingers against your skin.

You smile, still looking at his eager expression as you brush your nose against his slightly upturned one. And then you slot your mouth on his bottom lip. You hold it there as he tenses, his hand gripping your waist suddenly – the other digging his fingertips in the soft skin of your neck.

You pull away a few inches and say, “There… you’ve had your first kiss.”

His lips search for you, leaning forward until his eyelids fly open, “What? That’s...” his throat bobs and he clenches his teeth so you see the muscle bulge on his jaw. “Any more things you can teach me?”

You lick your lips, giggles falling out of your mouth until he cracks a small smile. You put your forehead to his, smiling wide, “The night’s still young.” You press a chaste kiss to the corner of his mouth, “You need to relax. You’re super tense, mischief. I’m giving you permission to move your hands to whatever feels natural.”

At his quick question of hesitance, you continue, “I would tell you if anything made me uncomfortable. As long as you do too.”

He nods frantically, eager to go again with less nerves this time. Winding a hand to the back of his neck and into the short crop of his hair, you pull him towards your mouth. You kiss him softly but curiously.

You peck and move. Lip lock and switch sides. Press firmly and repeatedly. And slowly the tension falls from Stiles’ shoulders. He grips you with less anxiety and with more curiosity. A hand drags up your side, feeling the dip of your waist up to your ribcage and the line of your bra beneath your shirt. His hand drags down the same path, feeling all the same things before landing on your hips, thumb feeling the edge of your jeans.

His other hand finally relaxes, long fingers winding around your neck until his thumb is resting right on your artery. The pad of his thumb tickling under your jaw. He was being light and soft near your face, only using the pads of his fingers – while his other hand was searching with more pressure.

He was just going down to put his hand on your thigh to squeeze when your breathing hitches. He pulls away instantly, lips pinker than before and eyes wide with worry. His hands are off you in a second and you almost… almost… whine in protest.

“Are you okay? Did I hurt you? Did I do something you didn’t like?”

You take a calming breath, slumping your shoulders, “No, in fact you’re taking my advice beautifully. You relaxed and started exploring – that’s one of the best parts about kissing someone new.” You brush a few strands of hair behind your ear, made loose when Stiles moved his hand to the back of your neck.

“Then why did…”

“I…” it was your turn to be shy, “I liked when you gripped my leg.”

Stiles widens his eyes with wonder now, “I made you make that noise?”

“Like I said, you take advice beautifully… and it works.”

He smiles wide, his turn to laugh at your endearing shyness. “Can we keep going?”

You match his smile and reply by going in for more kisses. This time you cup both his cheeks between your hands and Stiles squeaks in surprise. Both his hands land on your thighs, squeezing them under his larger palms.

You take a sharp intake of breath instead of making a noise, and Stiles fucking smiles against your lips.

Your hands touch his abdomen, and he sucks in taut, probably never having been touched there before. You quickly move up to his chest to find the expanse of his pectorals. Like you expected, Stiles isn’t rippled with worked muscle, but there’s a kind of lanky natural muscle beneath his shirt. You trail your hands up past his collarbones and around his shoulders. With your arms there you can pull him even closer.

He has to move his hands to the small of your back to remove any more space between you. He’s able to press you into him from that position.

Your hands search for his shoulder blades, fingers applying pressure there. His fingers were spreading wide against your lower back, thumbs wrapping around your waist while his fingertips touch your spine.

Your lips still fall into an easy pattern of firmly pressed kisses, switching sides and from top lip to bottom lip. Some are quick and rapid, others are longer and deeply felt. Your noses brush and press into cheeks as you struggle for air at times.

“When can I…” he kisses you, “…move from your mouth?”

You smile, kiss him, smile again. “Whenever it feels like…” you kiss again, “…the right thing to do next.”

He hums deep in his throat, moving his hands up your spine beneath your shoulders. Then he moves his lips. He places two quick kisses along your jaw and lands on your neck, right beneath the bend in your jaw. Your head falls back as he leaves chaste kisses there.

“Is this good?”

You breathe with your chest pressed against his, “You see how my head fell back? That means I like it and I’m giving you more access.”

He makes another low sound and it sends tingles of pleasure down to your core.

You keep a hand on his shoulder, supporting yourself while the other hand scrapes against his head, short hair bristles tickling your palm. You love the sound it pulls out of him.

“Open your mouth a little more,” you say, “Bigger kisses.”

He responds eagerly, excited to see what the change will do to you. His mouth opens more, leaving big, wet kisses under your ear and down your neck. A shiver runs through you, making your shoulders tense a little.

Then your watch starts to blare with an alarm.

Stiles flies off you like he was killing you, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” he cries, backing away to assess you. “I didn’t mean to, I’m so sorry.”

You steady yourself by gripping the back of the chair, realizing too little too late that your breathlessness was catching up to you. Your heart was working overtime. You lift your free hand, eyes scrunched as it gets harder to force air into your lungs.

“God, shit…” Stiles mumbles, coming closer again. He puts one hand on your chest, over your sternum. And his other hand holds the side of your face, thumb resting at your temple. “You feel my hand? Do you see it moving with your breaths? You need to move your breaths to your belly – your belly should move with breaths, not your chest. Try to make my hand stop moving.”

You look at him with watering eyes, your heart beating erratically in your ears. Stiles was counting the seconds until you start belly breathing – breathing with your diaphragm.

“There you go, that’s better.”

You slump into his neck and his hand wraps to the back of your head, the other to your back.

“That was unexpected,” you say quietly, lips tickling his neck.

He laughs, “I’m guessing you liked the other kisses more than the grabbing the thigh thing?”

“Maybe just a tad bit,” you say, “I told you I liked it beforehand.”

“You did,” he says, pulling you back to get a good look at your face. “You’re okay.”

You smile, “I’m okay.”

He starts to get this giddy look, “We kissed.”

“That we did.”

“Like a lot.”

“It was a lesson in many things.”

He screws up his lips, “And you liked it.”

“You take direction well.”

“I don’t know why guys don’t ask more,” he marvels, “It would make every makeout exactly what you want.”

“You are a rare breed,” you bite your lip and his eyes dart to look. “Did you like it?”

“I loved it.”

His quick answer pulled a laugh out of you. And once you start, you can’t stop. Stiles finds it cute and finds himself laughing too. Just two friends giggling in the car after an impromptu round of kissing. It was warm and light and felt… good.

“I don’t think you need to worry about messing things up with the next girl,” you say, scooting back to your side of the car, “You’ll do just fine.”

His laughing stops abruptly. “The next girl?”

“Yeah…?” you smile with a furrowed brow. “You wanted to learn to be a good kisser, right? To have your first kiss out of the way for any future girls?”

He looks put out, slightly angry, and… defeated. “Right, we had that pact.”

“Right,” you say, wondering what was miscommunicated between you two. “Maybe we should… head home for the night.”

“Yeah,” he says quietly, looking for his keys, “Andrew will probably be sending you a goodnight text any second now.”

You scrunch your brow, lips resting in a frown as he turns the jeep on. You’re quick to notice the steamy windows from your hot and heavy kissing. You would’ve laughed at it if you didn’t feel like something was off in Stiles.

With the air conditioning and heater broken, you roll down the windows and Stiles tells you to stay in the car as he wipes down all others outside.

You watch him with a finger between your teeth. Did you just mess up?

~~~

You spend the next couple days trying to convince yourself that kissing Stiles was simply practice kissing. There wasn’t anything past friendly feelings between you two. It was a no strings attached kind of makeout.

It had to be.

You didn’t have feelings for Stiles. You were going out with Andrew Wickstrom for gods sake.

And again you feel guilty. If you acknowledge any interest in Stiles, then kissing him was a betrayal to Andrew.

But it’s not like you were seriously dating Andrew.

But maybe to him you are.

You hadn’t found a reason to talk to Scott and Stiles outside your friendly conversations at school. Scott didn’t usually text you, but Stiles? If he couldn’t think of a good enough reason to climb the garden trellis, he would text you about the most random things.

Facts about honeybees, star wars memes, updates on a Dateline investigation you were following, werewolf puns, and links to things he thought would make you smile.

Recently? He hasn’t texted you at all. While he wasn’t avoiding you at school, he sure as hell was when you were home.

You are currently in the mall with Lydia and Allison, picking out dresses for the winter formal. All three of you are acting distant and suspicious of each other, which is not a good look for the pretty girls club.

Getting onto an escalator, you question Allison about her frequent absences.

“Nothing’s wrong,” she says, “I just have a lot on my mind.”

You wonder if there’s been a recently discovered secret in her family – maybe like a kidnapped werewolf?

“But Jackson’s taking you to the formal,” you say, “That was nice of him.”

“Yeah, just two recently broken up friends supporting each other by going to the school dance,” Allison says with smiling sarcasm. “And what dumb, roided-up jock did you say yes to?” she asks Lydia.

“Ben Manley,” Lydia sighs, “More of a himbo if you ask me, but he’ll look good in the pictures.” She drags you two towards the prom dress section, quick to pull dresses to try on. She’s four hangers in by the time you find one you like.

“Advice,” you say to Allison, “Do I care if my surgery scars show, or do I go with a collar that climbs up to my neck?” You hold up one deep blue dress that has a lower heart-shaped neckline and another soft purple dress with a small v-neck shape that stops just under the collarbone.

Allison considers for a second, “The blue is more flattering, and you’d look great in that color. I’d say screw whoever doesn’t like you for your scars. They’re the reminder that you’re still alive.”

“Damn, okay,” you smile, “I’m going to try the blue one on.” You fling the purple chiffon dress onto a mannequin display and head for the dressing rooms.

Lydia is there with a small pile of dresses she’s already said no to. You talk to her loudly between the dressing cubicles.

“How’s it looking?”

“The cream chrome one is promising,” she says, “Hey, are we hanging out after this? I’ve got a new foot soaker I want to try. We can do mani pedis before the dance.”

You shimmy into your blue gown, loving how it flairs at your waist in beautiful night sky sparkles. “Yeah, I’d love a sleepover! It’ll be the perfect way to get ready for the dance.” There are two thick straps of the same dark blue fabric that go over your shoulders. The neckline falls lower in a heart shape, outlining the curve of your breasts and revealing your arms and chest.

The scar from your heart defect correction is less raised, less discolored, and less noticeable – but you see it run down the center of your chest. The small, three-inch incision scar from last summer is newer and still red and raised above your heart. And finally the four deep claw marks that dig around your left shoulder and arm – they leave actual divots in your flesh, and you can’t help running a finger over them. They went up and down like tiny rollercoasters.

“Get out here, Westbrook. I want to see if it’s a keeper.”

You take a deep breath, shaking your fingers through your hair to give it more volume. You step into the hallway and find Lydia in a shiny cream colored dress, complete with a black flower in her hair.

“You look amazing,” you say, smiling, “And the dress really shows off your legs. You gotta pair it with a heel.”

“I look amazing?” Lydia gawks, “Look at how flattering that one is on you! It doesn’t flair out like a ballgown, but enough to give you an airy look. And the top is stunning, it fits your figure well.” She doesn’t even mention the scars.

You grin, “I think that settles it. We’ve got our winners.” Lydia goes to change, and you agree to show Allison since she picked the dress for you.

You walk out barefoot, lifting your dress a little to give you easier access to walk faster. You find Allison holding a funny feathered dress to a mirror. It takes you a second to realize that she isn’t alone.

A man is there holding a silver dress to her figure. A man you recognize at a second glance.

It was Peter Hale, one of your long-term patients at the hospital – and the Alpha.

You run over, calling for Allison’s attention, “What do you think?”

She looks grateful to be rescued, “Absolutely beautiful, (Y/N). That’s the one for sure.”

“(Y/N)?” Peter says, “Ah, yes – you look stunning.” He goes to shake your hand, “Peter.”

You hesitate. He’s playing the ‘never-met-you-before’ coverup. “I think I’ve seen you before. Maybe… at the hospital? That’s where I work.”

He has a clever smirk on his face as he retracts his hand, “No, I don’t think so.”

“Somewhere else maybe…” you stare him down. “Like the local video store perhaps.”

“Never been much into movies,” but he does look at your exposed skin to admire his handywork to your shoulder, “You’ve got quite the collection there.” He smiles, “Wearing them like badges of honor.”

“Like a friend said,” you say, chin held high. “They’re a reminder that I’m still alive.”

He still has that subtle smirk, otherwise very rigid and unsettling, “Yes, you are.” He sounds like he would add, ‘not for long’ to the end of that.

The PA system comes on and a fuzzy woman’s voice says, “Attention, shoppers. The owner of a blue Mazda, your car is being towed.”

“What?” Allison says, “That’s my car!” She runs to find the front desk or the car outside.

You’re left with Peter, barefoot and in a pretty starry dress. He looks to you with a plain expression that held sinister notions regardless.

“Well played,” he mutters, “Scott.” You don’t dare look away from him as he talks to the thin air. “Just remember… you can’t be everywhere all the time.” He looks to you with roaming eyes, “It’s been nice seeing you, (Y/N). I’m glad you like my addition to your complexion so much. It makes me think you may want more to add to this masterpiece.”

You hate the way he stays there to gauge your reaction. You stand firm, but your fingers dig into the fabric of your dress.

“You really do look stunning in that dress,” he smiles, “It’d be a shame if it got shredded.” He walks away, leaving you feeling strangely violated and targeted. You feel angry and unsafe.

Scott was at your side in seconds, grabbing your arms, “(Y/N)? Are you okay?”

You take a shaky breath, “He’s a persistent bastard.”

“Yeah, and he’s just threatened to attack you – probably at the dance judging by how he complimented your dress.” He stands straight, listening for Lydia or Allison. “Listen, I heard how you’re having a sleepover tonight. That’d leave me free to…”

“I’ll look after the girls,” you smile, still cold and shaky from the encounter. “You look after your mom and the boys.”

He gives you a look, clearing his throat, “Right, course.”

You squint your brow, “What has Stiles told you?”

Scott scratches at his head, looking anywhere but you, “Nothing much, he’s been quiet these days.”

“Impossible,” you snort, “You may be a super cool teenage werewolf, Scott – but you are a terrible liar.”

He looks defeated, “Look, he told me how you guys kissed and he’s… he’s kind of hung up on it.”

“In what way?”

He bites his lip, looking painfully awkward, “He doesn’t want you thinking it was a mistake. He’s… scared you regret it.” Scott shoves his hands in his pockets, “He realizes it might be weird trying to be friends, and you with Andrew… he’s trying to keep the friendship civil.”

“Civil?” you scoff, “It was a no feelings kiss.”

Scott keeps his mouth shut, nodding his head and backing away, “I’ll see you at school tomorrow.”

Your mouth is left hanging open as he walks away. Did you feel regret for the kissing? You put one hand on the silken fabric covering your hip, the other hand going to rub away the worry lines in your forehead.

Did you feel guilty because you had been going on dates with Andrew? Had you ever set clear expectations with Andrew before? If he felt like this was taking a direction into serious relationship territory, you would definitely feel guilty.

And Stiles not being completely himself…? Was that really because he was worried you thought the kiss was a mistake? Or was it because of some other unknown reason.

Returning to the dressing rooms, you knew one thing was for sure. You were in desperate need of a girls night.

~~~

In the second story living room of the Martin house, you three spend hours into the night pampering yourselves and raving about whatever came to mind.

When Harry Met Sally plays quietly on the tv in front of you, Allison leaning onto the couch and painting her toes a white color.

“I hope I don’t smudge these before they dry.”

“Here’s a fast drying topcoat you can put on them,” Lydia tosses a small clear polish. She was stuck in the armchair beside the couch with her feet bubbling in the new foot soaker. “I think I’m going to go with black for my toes. Maybe black French tips with my fingernails.” She admires her hands as you place the black polish bottle near her for later use.

You sit between the two, your toes drying an inky blue color while you prepare to paint your nails. You unscrew a pretty sapphire blue. “Can I ask you guys something?”

“Please,” Lydia pouts, leaning back in her chair.

“Do you consider Andrew and I in a serious relationship?”

Allison frowns, focusing on her brush strokes, “Um… maybe? You guys have been dating exclusively, right?”

“Only two dates.”

“No,” Lydia clicks her tongue, “You guys have had two dates and a few noncommittal kisses. I don’t think that means you’re dating seriously.”

Allison dips her brush again, “But if you’re not seeing anyone else then people will think you’re exclusive.”

“But what if I have seen someone else,” you shrug, “I guess that doesn’t matter if Andrew thinks something different.”

There was a splash, “Hold the phone. Are you saying you’ve gone out with someone else recently?”

You pull an indecisive face, “Well, no – just maybe had a… makeout.”

Allison gasps while Lydia giggles, “Oh my god, with who?!”

“I don’t know if I want to talk about it yet.”

“Well, if you’re kissing other boys then you definitely don’t think you’re seriously dating,” Allison shakes her head, “Does Andrew?”

Your shoulders tense as you focus on your nails, “I don’t know. We never had a ‘what are we’ talk. And I never told him I didn’t want anything serious.”

“Ouch,” Allison grimaces, “I think he really likes you.” 

Lydia has her arms folded tightly, “Was it Josh Arnett?”

“Gross,” you accuse, “Absolutely not.”

“Tanner Humphries?”

“No, Lydia,” you huff, “What do I tell Andrew?”

Allison stretches her legs out and wiggles her newly painted toes, “You tell him the truth. At least, you tell him you don’t want anything serious.”

“I bet it was Lucas McCrary,” Lydia muses.

“Should I do that before the dance?” you ignore Lydia. “I think it’ll hurt him.”

Allison fishes in the bucket of self-care on the couch cushion, “It’s better than leading him on further.” She extracts an avocado sheet mask.

“Was it at least someone on the lacrosse team?” Lydia interjects.

You give a tired smile, “Because those are the only boys you know?”

“The only boys I care about.”

You finish one hand and ask Allison to help with the other, “What if Andrew decides he doesn’t want to take me to the dance anymore?”

“Then…” Allison takes the sapphire blue from you, “You go stag and hangout with us. I have a suspicion that Jackson isn’t going to be the most enjoyable date.”

“Oh! Please tell me it was Tyler O’Connell – no girl can get her hands on him.”

You laugh and faceplant into the couch, “Tyler O’Connell is gay. Danny has had a little crush on him for months.”

“Huh,” she huffs, “I’m usually good at catching those things.”

“I think I’ll talk to him after school tomorrow,” you rub your worry lines with your free hand. “If anything Allison, you and I could just be each other’s dates.”

“I have a feeling I’ll be abandoned by the end of the night with how Jackson’s been acting,” she sighs, doing a second coat on your nails. “I wouldn’t mind a sweethearts dance with you.”

Lydia is having an existential crisis in the armchair, confined with her feet in the soaker. “Well, it can’t be Cameron Sanchez because he’s going with that Brittany girl in homeroom. It’s not Henry, is it?”

“What’s with the tone?” you giggle, “I like Henry Greenburg even if Coach is a little harsh with him.”

“What about…” she widens her eyes, “What about dork #2?”

Allison freezes with the paintbrush still on your nail. You take a moment to decipher what Lydia just asked.

“Who is…” you clamp your mouth into a thin line.

“Oh my god!” Lydia stands with her feet still in the soaker.

Allison flinches, “Holy shit.” She looks at your nails, “Oh, shit – I’m sorry, (Y/N).” She takes a cotton swab to fix the smudge of blue going down your ring finger. “I just… I mean…”

“What was that dorks name?” Lydia squeals, waving her hands frantically and snapping at Allison. “He’s – god, what’s his name!” She looks ridiculous being rooted to one spot but moving her upper torso like a madwoman, “He’s the little weirdo… the idiot in love!”

Your face is positively blooming red, it’s scorching, as you bury your face in a couch pillow. Allison is quick to correct her mistake to your nails, replying in a much calmer and heartwarming voice. “Stiles Stilinski.”

“Stiles!” Lydia cries in triumph before frowning, “That’s his name?”

“Yes,” you cry out, “Yes, Stiles. And it was another noncommittal kiss. It was absolutely no feelings. I was just helping him out.” In your embarrassment you slap your free hand to cover your mouth, “God, don’t ask me why,” you mumble.

Allison waits for Lydia to ask – like she knew she would.

“Why?” Lydia says, still standing in the foot soaker.

“It doesn’t matter,” you pat at your flaming hot cheeks, “What matters is that I did kiss him, and I need to clarify with Andrew that I’m not looking for a relationship.”

“I knew he was going to grow on you,” Allison mumbles with a sweet smile on her face. She finishes doing your nails and sits back on the couch. “He’s been obsessed with you for months now.”

You shake your head, “Stiles is just… very enthusiastic. He was just excited about getting a kiss.”

“From you,” Allison smirks.

Lydia is jumping out of the foot soaker and toweling her feet, “At least he’s on the lacrosse team.”

You blow out a breath and hope it calms the redness in your face. “It’s not like that. He’s…” you hesitate. “He’s a good friend.”

Allison grimaces, “I wouldn’t be too sure about that.”

~~~

You wring your hands as you pace at the end of the hall, next to the vending machines. You wait for Andrew to leave his last class, the bell having just rung. It was eating at you thinking of a way to talk to him without hurting his feelings.

But there was no way around it – even if the dance was in two days, you weren’t going to continue playing with Andrew’s feelings.

The tall, dimpled boy comes out and sees you instantly. He smiles and jogs to reach you, excited to see you waiting.

Shit.

“Hey,” he gives you a hug and a kiss to the cheek, “How are you?”

You swallow hard, “I wanted to talk to you about something.” You pick and pull at your fingers, looking up at him with a face that scares him.

He furrows his brow, nodding his head toward the empty ceramics classroom. There weren’t any art classes on Tuesdays and Thursdays. “Then let’s go talk.” He guides the way and opens the door for you.

You have a terrible guilty feeling in your stomach. You’ve never had to let someone down before.

Among the desks with spinning wheels dusted with dry clay, you stand in the middle of the room. “Andrew… I wanted to ask what you see between us… for the future.”

He still looks skeptical, but there’s a smile enveloping his face. “Well, I’ve liked how our dates have been so far. And I really like you, (Y/N).” His dimples are out full force, shadowed by the dim lighting. “I want to see where this goes. I think we could get serious. I’m – I’m looking for something serious. But… I want to hear what you have to say first.”

You pinch your fingertips, “Um… well I’m glad we’re having this talk.” You swallow thickly and the smile on Andrew’s face dips. “I… I’m not looking for something serious.”

“Oh,” Andrew says dryly. His face is in full shadow now. “I see, uh… have you always felt that way?”

You nod while you try to find your voice again. The look of hurt on his face was making the guilt in your stomach flare tenfold. “I don’t want a boyfriend in high school.”

He nods slower, looking to the ground. “I wish I knew that sooner.”

“I’m sorry,” you say, “I should’ve been more clear in the beginning. I thought we were just having some fun.”

“Fun,” he laughs sardonically. “No, I should’ve been more honest with what I was looking for.” His eyes were sad, but he put a smile on his face. “I’m glad you told me.”

You nod, desperate for his words. “I totally understand not wanting to see each other anymore…”

“That would probably be for the best,” he runs a hand through his curly hair.

“And… and we can go separately to the dance,” you say quickly, “I don’t mind.”

He looks at you with slight concern, “I don’t want you to go alone.”

“I have some friends I can go with.”

The room feels smaller, colder than you remember. It was an awful feeling telling someone you don’t like them in that way. You did not like hurting people.

Andrew was nodding to himself in agreement, “Then I hope you have a good time with your friends.”

He was being so kind to you when you felt you didn’t deserve it. It was your fault he was sad. Your fault that he didn’t have a date for the dance. Your fault that his feelings were being hurt now.

A stinging was building behind your eyes. “Thank you. I hope you do find someone to be serious with. You deserve it.” A lump builds in your throat, “You’re a good guy, Andrew.”

He sighs deeply, “I guess I’ll see you later then.”

“Sure,” you say quietly, voice being overtaken by emotion. And you’re left in the dark, cold room. Guilt eating at you and shame whispering terrible things in your ear. You almost wish he had blown up about it; yelled at you for not being completely honest in the beginning. It hurt worse hearing his quiet acceptance of the rejection.

You’re grateful the classroom is abandoned when a tear falls from your eye.

~~~

“Why didn’t you stop by Lydia’s house?” Stiles accuses, arms in the air, “That was prime time to overhear girl talk!”

“I wasn’t going to spy and eavesdrop,” Scott scolds, leading the way out of their last class of the day. “That wouldn’t be right when I still need to keep you and Jackson safe.”

Stiles rubs harshly at his face, silly noises of outrage spilling out, “But how else am I going to hear how (Y/N) feels about the whole jeep-makeout thing?!”

“I don’t know, talk to her?” Scott deadpans.

“Yeah, right,” Stiles scoffs, “I’m such an idiot. How else is she supposed to feel about it? She told me she doesn’t date seriously, and she told you how it happened with no feelings…” A white hot pain stabs his sternum, his heart roiling excruciatingly. “I just… I wanted it to be real.”

Scott sighs, pulling at his too long hair, “Listen, if she is seeing you in a friends with benefits kind of way, I don’t see why you can’t give it a shot.”

For a few moments Stiles dwells on the thought of having all the benefits of a relationship without commitment. It was tempting but... “I want more than that.”

“Wow,” Scott raises his eyebrows, “I’ve never heard such mature words leave your mouth before.”

“Shut up,” Stiles groans, “I just wish she’d talk to me!” He goes for one of the back doors by the vending machines, “She does this thing where she tells me the truth without the whole truth.”

“You mean with her heart?”

Stiles rubs hard at his eyes, “It’s got to be the reason for everything. I tried to get my dad to tell me about it and he pulled the ‘doctor-patient-confidentiality’ thing on me.” He grumbles, letting his backpack drop from his shoulders, “I’ve never… I don’t know how I’m supposed to go on like this.”

Scott sits on a hallway bench, watching his friend wallow in his self-pity and broken heart. “It starts out that way. But it gets easier.”

“What do you know about unrequited love, genius?” Stiles puts his hands on his hips, “You got to be Allison’s boyfriend with the dating and the kissing and the feeling her up…”

“Watch your mouth,” Scott points a finger.

Stiles slumps to the floor and against the stone wall. “And now we’re all targets in a major werewolf operation. How do you think the dance is going to go?”

“I don’t know. I’m still going to be there,” Scott says with a sad smile, “Even if Coach is up my ass.” He stands from the bench, “I should probably find a suit before my shift at the vet clinic.”

“Yeah,” Stiles mumbles, lifting a few fingers in a goodbye, “I’m gonna grab a snack before I go – see you later.”

It took another minute before Stiles could get off the ground. Thoughts of you swirling permanently there. The feel of your warm, soft skin. The pressure of your lips on his. The thrill of hearing you react to the things he was doing. He could still smell the sweet fruity scent of your hair, your lips sticky sweet with sugar.

Had it all been a dream? You sure acted like it with how the whole night was yet to be a topic of conversation.

But the feel of you, as dreamlike as it had been, was grounded in his mind like a chain to a wall. He would never forget how your head fell back, how your fingers went through his hair, how your lips fit so well between his own. Fit like a puzzle piece.

He thought that the kiss would lessen his ache of unrequited love – that he would have at least gotten a taste. But sitting there with the deep ache beating a little stronger in his chest – he knew it was going to be even more painful to be around you and not spout what he was feeling.

Like he told Scott, he wanted more. It was more than the sugar left on your lips. It was the way his dad smiled at the homecooked meal. The way he felt he could mention his mom around you. The fact that you were the first girl he could be alone with and not feel completely at a loss.

He rubs his forehead again, standing as though lead was in his stomach. He felt nauseous. It was making him sick how much he wanted you.

Then an empty classroom door swings open and Andrew Wickstrom walks out, head down and expression bleak.

He walks right out the back doors into the late afternoon light. And the slump in his shoulders made Stiles curious. All thoughts of a snack out of his mind, he stands, abandoning his backpack, and inches toward the empty classroom.

He wasn’t sure what he was expecting, but seeing you standing there, holding yourself as tears fell from your eyes was not it.

The deep ache in his chest pulses like it yearns for you. Having you in his vision was enough to make the roiling in his heart pucker with hope. But the lead in his stomach becomes heavier as he pushes the door open.

“(Y/N)?”

You snap your wet eyes to him, “Stiles, what are you doing here?”

He continues to inch forward, eyes never leaving your face, “I was just going to stop by the vending machines before heading out.” He stops a few feet from you, “What happened?”

You sniff, wiping at your eyes that just continue to stream. “I told Andrew I don’t want anything serious.” Your brow is furrowed into permanent lines, face screwed up like it’ll stop whatever emotion is trying to get out. “And he was pretty hurt by it.”

Stiles takes another step forward, fingers twitching at his sides. Was it okay to touch you? “Andrew doesn’t seem like the type to get real upset by a breakup.”

“He was being so kind to me,” you hiccup as you continue to hold back, “And I was hurting him.”

“But you were being honest, which is better than leading him on,” Stiles says quietly. He’s now just a foot away from you.

“I’ve never had to turn someone away like that,” more tears were cascading down your face, much to your chagrin, “It did not feel good.”

Stiles lifts one of his hands, meaning to touch your shoulder, but you accept it as an invitation for a hug. He almost sighs in relief and wraps his arms around you tightly, keeping you pressed to him like it would staunch the ache in his chest.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers into your strawberry scented hair, “If it had to be with anyone, though – I’m glad that it was Wickstrom. He is a good guy.”

You sigh and it stutters with emotion, “It’s all my fault.” You nuzzle into his shoulder, “If I was braver I would’ve kept it going.”

“What do you mean?” Stiles was holding your waist with one hand and rubbing up and down your spine with the other.

“If I was braver, I’d get into a relationship.” You let the tears run from your cheeks and soak into Stiles’ shirt. “I’m a coward.”

Stiles runs his fingers down your back in a soothing motion, “It’s okay not to be ready for a relationship.”

“That’s not it,” you pull away, wiping at the tears making your skin itch. “I’m sorry, I’m talking nonsense.”

“No! No, wait…” Stiles was getting desperate, “You don’t have to stop there. (Y/N), I want to know what’s wrong. I want to know why. Please don’t brush it off like it’s nothing – I can see how it bothers you.”

You shake your head, trying to swallow past the lump in your throat. “Trust me, this is not the time and place for that conversation.”

Stiles pinches his lips together, finding it more difficult to be patient. “What could be so terrible that you avoid it this badly?”

There’s a heavy silence and you open your mouth like you’re about to say something. He can see it on the tip of your tongue, eyes shiny and cheeks raw. It looks painful for you to say it out loud. He feels instant regret for trying to force it out of you.

“I’m sorry,” he says, walking over to pull you into a quick, but firm, apology hug. “I’m sorry, I just want to help. I hate seeing you like this.”

You gulp, “I… I think I’ll be able to tell you soon. I just… right now with… it’s not the right time.”

He nods quickly, “I get it.” He puts some space between you, watching your face carefully, ready to catch you should your heart give out. He puts a thumb between your brows and wiggles it around like it’ll ease the tension enough to remove the lines of worry.

You melt a little, a smile curling the sides of your mouth, “I’m sorry you walked in on that.”

He shrugs, “I’m not sorry at all.”

You take a deep breath, remembering to fill your belly with it and not your chest. “I guess I’m going to the dance without a date now.”

There’s a leap in his chest and Stiles wonders if his heart was the one about to give out. “I can take you!” he says before you even finish your sentence.

You smile wide this time, “I probably shouldn’t go with another boy after just breaking things off with Andrew. I am going with Allison and Lydia, though.”

His leaping heart crash lands, “Sure, right – that makes sense.” He’s grateful for the dimly lit classroom keeping his embarrassment blush in shadow. “I’ll still be there though, for a dance or two.”

“I’d like that,” you grin, eyes bright but no longer tear-filled. “Could I get a ride?”

“Always.”

~~~

Melissa trades patient files with you at the newly refurbished nurses station. You exchange some words of note about certain patients on the floor. She reminds you to drink more water and you remind her to take a break.

She smiles at your avoidance, “How are the dance preparations going?”

You show her the shiny blue nail polish on your fingers.

She squeals and admires them, “Ah, I miss dances. And the dress?”

“Like starlight,” you breathe, taking a twirl around the hall, “But with flats because I am not venturing into battle in four-inch heels.”

Melissa sighs, “Dances are so much more fun with girls. Scott refuses to show me his suit and he’s never home anymore.” She leans against the counter, “I hope he’s okay.”

You give a thin smile, “He’s doing his best. With Allison and lacrosse and his grades… he’s doing his best. Trying to do more than that actually.”

“He expects a lot of himself,” Melissa nods. “I’m glad he has friends like you with him.” She checks her watch when she asks, “And the Andrew thing?”

“Over,” you shrug, a day after the breakup and still a little tender. “We wanted different things, and I thought it best not to drag it out.”

“Man, better than just ghosting him,” she says with a bitter tone, “How mature of you.”

You remember the terrible date she went on with Peter Hale. Jackass. “It was the right thing to do. And I’ll just save a few dances for my friends. It’ll still be a nice night.” You sit in a swivel chair, arms folded, “There’s no way I’m going to miss my chance to go to a school dance.”

Melissa gives you a soft, sad smile, “Well, kiddo – I’m off to make my rounds. Mr. Hendrickson has been calling my button for the last ten minutes. I swear I’m going to take his tv away if he keeps asking me how to change the channels.”

You laugh, saluting her off, and returning to the rest of your charting. You were just marking when you administered medications when a soft tap to your counter caught your attention.

Standing there was Scott and Stiles.

“Hello,” you say cheerfully, “How are my boys?”

Both lift their hands to reveal brown paper bags. Scott grins, “We might’ve brought you guys dinner?”

“Greasy takeout,” Stiles corrects, “But edible enough for dinner.”

You sigh, heart warmed, “Well, your mom just went into room 18 down the hall,” you point, “But we can take our break when she gets back.”

“No, I’ll wait for her,” Scott says quickly, already down the hall, “We’ll catch up with you guys later.”

Stiles shrugs at your look of suspicion, “Where do you usually eat?”

You lead Stiles from the elevators to the hospital cafeteria. There you find a round table by the windows to sit. It was dark outside with the perfect view of the moon over the mountains. Stiles seems a little uncomfortable as he follows you through the building.

He keeps looking behind his shoulder and peering into patient rooms with big eyes.

“Burgers and fries?” you ask hopefully.

Stiles lays the meal out on grease stained napkins, “Bon Appetit.”

You lean into him, “Thank you, I wasn’t planning on dinner tonight.” You start with your fries as he looks at you with contempt.

“Because that’s a great idea with your prone to fainting condition.”

“Why did you guys really stop by?” you always start with your fries, saving the main meal for last. You focus on them as Stiles thinks of something to say, eating his hamburger like it was his first meal in days.

He gives a funny half shrug, “Scott needed to check on his mom with his whole ‘patrolling-the-pack’ schedule. He asked if I wanted to come, and we came up with the excuse of getting us all dinner.”

“Brilliant,” you say, finding that the drink he brought was filled with your favorite soda. “Any news from the Alpha?”

“Not since you guys went dress shopping,” he wipes at his mouth with his sleeve. “Which, by the way, I would’ve loved to come to.”

“No you wouldn’t of,” you laugh, “Helping girls carry their dresses and waiting forever to critique every outfit with the same indifferent words… sounds terribly boring.”

He takes a deep breath as he downs his drink. “Sounds like fun. Helping you pick out a dress? I’d run out the red carpet so you could practice your model walk. We’d play montage music with different colored lights. We can make trying on dresses fun.”

“I don’t know how to model walk,” you giggle.

He nods in mock seriousness, “You just have to look like you’re about to sneeze and the thing you’re wearing is giving you a massive wedgie.” He moves his shoulders around in a pretend walking motion, his face slightly pinched like his nose was itching.

You were laughing by the time he coached you into making the same ridiculous face. Then he flinched when a group of resident doctors walked in loudly, ready for their dinner. He looks uncomfortable again, picking at his fries half-heartedly.

You consider him for a minute, “You don’t like hospitals, do you?”

He huffs a laugh, “What gave you that idea?”

“You’re being more twitchy than usual.”

He eyes you, “I’ve been here plenty of times, you haven’t made that observation before.”

“You’re really thinking about it today,” you press, “Is something wrong?”

He ticks his jaw, playing with his fries. “I used to eat in here a lot… when my mom was here.”

Your chest goes tight. Of course it has something to do with his mom, “Stiles, I’m…”

“My dad used to leave me here when he went to work,” he keeps going, “The nurses were all my friends, and I ate dinner in the cafeteria all the time. They would save an extra chocolate pudding for me sometimes.” He smiles in painful fondness, “I was alone when… when she…”

He couldn’t say it.

You scooch closer to him, letting him talk without you interrogating him. He looks at your eager expression with a soft smile, “She had frontotemporal dementia.” He leans closer to you subconsciously, enjoying the security he felt near you.

“It started with little things like she couldn’t pick up her keys and she wouldn’t sleep at night. Then she couldn’t function at her job, so she stayed home. Then she started to get… scary.” He takes a deep swallow, “She started seeing things – hallucinations – and became paranoid sometimes. We had to hospitalize her soon after that.”

You knew the symptoms of frontotemporal dementia. Some of the long-term patients at the hospital had dementia. But you let him continue to talk without your input. You could guess that he didn’t talk about his mom very often, especially her death.

You put a hand on his arm as silent support.

He takes a breath at your touch, “When I’d visit, I didn’t know if I’d see my mom or the patient dealing with dementia.” His eyes look a little glassy as he continues, “It was hard spending so much time here. I knew she wasn’t going to come home. And then one night when my dad was on call… it was just me at her bedside.”

You rub your thumb into his forearm, “How old were you?”

“Eight,” he says, sniffling as the emotion burns his throat. “Seeing her deteriorate that fast… it was awful.” His lip trembles, “That was my mom, you know?”

You move your arm around his back, resting your head on his shoulder. It was a hug you could give while sitting at a table. “I know.” You squeeze him tight, “It must’ve been horrible.”

His breathing was shaky, “It was,” he rubs roughly at his eyes, “I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy. Not even Derek Hale.”

“What about Mr. Harris?”

He makes a considering face, a smile curling his lips. “Maybe.”

You pinch him, “That’s terrible.” You trail your fingers across his back, looking for more tears, “Why tell me?”

He watches you wipe away a tear before it reaches his chin, “Because I wanted you to know.” He shrugs, eyes a little redder, “I like you, and I trust you.”

You watch him with rosy cheeks. An immense feeling of pride was swelling in your chest. Stiles chose you, out of dozens of people, to talk about the death of his mom. A horribly sensitive subject for him. He had gone out of his way to be in an environment that reminded him of uncomfortable things to bring you dinner. He opened up to you and gave you a large part of his heart.

He was doing it partially to tell you things he wanted you to know – things you needed to know to be close to him – but also to partially tell you that it was okay to open up about horribly sensitive stuff.

He wanted to hear your story too.

But how could you now? You feel a pang in your chest. How could you explain to Stiles that you would reach a similar end before too long. An end like his moms.

~~~

Taglist: @assassinsasha23 @tasty-book-fans @lovelybaka @the-fandom-queen @runs-with-sciss0rs @iamaslytherin0 @n3muru @bethsvrse @taylorbrooke-0912 @iloveyou2mia @everrrsincenewyork @gisellesprettylies @dullypully @taylordaughter @greenoliveslover

[okay-j-hannah]

Part 8: The Favor

Teen Wolf : Multishot

Stiles Stilinski x Reader

Word Count: 13.5k

Warnings: series rewrite, season 2 {aka 2011}, slow burn, friends to lovers, Stiles pining and depressed, usual teen wolf levels of violence and gore, heart conditions, talk of scars {good}, amnesia, finger picking, AGAIN ANGSTY AS HELL

Request: This just came from my own head 😊  

A/N: Don't worry

100% recommend listening to rain sounds when you get to the end part where it's a thunderstorm.

Part 7: The Summer Filter

Part 8: The Favor {You Are Here}

“No, I’m sorry, who are you?” The look on your face sends a wave of hurt down Stiles. “How do you know my name?”

He’s gripping the steering wheel of the jeep, cruising with Scott and Allison in the car. Lydia had gone missing about twenty minutes ago, the police at the hospital taking witness statements and rallying an APB.

With you indisposed, the trio decide to take matters into their own hands. That doesn’t mean Stiles is free of the hurt. You really have no idea who he is.

“Alright, but if Lydia’s turning, would they actually kill her?”

Allison is fretful, “I don’t know. They won’t tell me anything. Okay, all they say is, ‘We’ll talk after Kate’s funeral when the others get here.’”

“What others?” Stiles looks in the rearview mirror.

“They won’t tell me that, either.”

Stiles sighs, “Okay, your family’s got some serious communication issues to work on.” He yells at Scott whose head is out the window, “Scott, are we going the right way?”

Scott sniffs the rushing air and says, “Take the next right!”

“This is really turning into a real shit night.”

Allison is chewing on her fingers, “(Y/N) really doesn’t remember us?”

“She’s lost her memory from the last few months,” Stiles bites the inside of his cheek. “She remembers last summer but doesn’t remember starting her job at the hospital. That means her memory stops around October of last year.”

“God…” Allison mumbles, “Did they say if her memory would come back?”

Stiles digs his thumb into the ridges of the wheel, “They called it retrograde amnesia, and there’s a chance the memory loss could come back if they treat the underlying cause. But the cause was an anoxic brain, and they just needed to oxygenate her body to fix that. I don’t…” he slams a hand against the wheel as Scott slides back into the car. “This is what happened to…”

“Happened to…?” Allison presses, but it was Scott who answers.

“His mom,” Scott’s voice was quiet and full of sympathy. “There were days she didn’t know who Stiles was.”

Allison looks mortified, “Stiles, I am so…”

“How close are we?” Stiles cuts in, jaw set.

Scott points toward the woods, “It’s coming from that direction. We’re definitely closer – the scent is stronger.”

“There’s no way she’s a werewolf, right?” Allison says in a shaky voice, an attempt to get past the topic of you. Clearly this expedition to save Lydia was a way to distract Stiles. “You said her bite didn’t heal.”

“I know,” Scott frowns, not-so-subtly looking over at his friend to gauge the hurt he was feeling. “Maybe it was a late reaction?”

“I don’t think so,” Stiles muses, tone a little rigid, “This has got to be something else. Peter made it clear that she either turns or she’s dead.”

Scott directs the jeep further into the woods, “Maybe we should try to get ahold of Derek?”

“I’m done being on speaking terms with psychotic alpha werewolves,” Stiles goes off road into the trees and leaf-strewn ground. “I want that guy out of here by the next full moon.”

“Do you think he’ll leave town now that he’s gotten his revenge?” Allison muses, eyeing the back of Stiles’ head just as much as Scott was looking. “He avenged his sister, right?”

Scott shrugs, “I wouldn’t be surprised if he wants to create a pack of his own.”

“And he can do that somewhere else,” Stiles scoffs, bouncing along with the jeep, “Go back to wherever he was the last six years.”

“(Y/N) wasn’t bitten, right?” Allison asks quietly.

Stiles is quick with the answer, “No, just… she was just thrown around a bit. No teeth action.”

“With all the supernatural stuff happening to us… hearing about (Y/N)’s heart problems just seems so – human, don’t you think?”

Scott gives his girlfriend a warning look, “Yeah, you’re right.”

“I think her memory will…”

“Can we drop the whole (Y/N)-amnesia thing?!” Stiles grumbles.

Allison is swift in her retort, “She’s my friend too, Stiles. I’m allowed to be worried about her just as much as you!”

“Let’s not do this right now,” Scott says in a louder voice. “Lydia’s scent is coming from there.”

Stiles parks the jeep, leading the way into the moonlit forest and the house far in the distance. The Hale House. He’s still grumpy as he asks, “She came here? You sure?”

Scott stands back with Allison, hands nearly touching, “Yeah, this is where the scent leads.”

They keep walking, “Alright, but has Lydia ever been here?”

Allison shakes her head, “Not with me. I don’t think with (Y/N) either.” She talks with Scott in hushed tones, “Maybe she came here on instinct, like she was looking for Derek.”

“You mean, looking for an Alpha.”

“Wolves need a pack, right?” she asks, “Would she have been drawn to an Alpha? Is it an instinct to be part of a pack?”

“Yeah, we’re stronger in packs.” They watch Stiles wander around the tree line, inspecting the area as he goes. “Like literally stronger, faster, better in every way.”

They could see the breaths coming from their mouths, it was so cold. Allison pulls her beanie over her ears, “That’s the same for an Alpha?”

Scott nods as something tightens around his ankle and lifts him into the air. Allison muffles a scream and backs away, watching her boyfriend be pulled toward a tree.

Stiles makes a funny choking sound, squatting on the ground and holding a black wire between his fingers, “Sorry, buddy.”

“Stiles, next time you see a tripwire… don’t trip it.”

Allison smiles, cheeks rosy from the cold, “Let’s get….”

“Wait, wait, wait!” Scott flails in the air, waving them off, “Someone’s coming. Hide!”

The pair of them jump into action, Stiles grabbing Allison’s arm to pull her back towards the woods. No sooner had their footsteps soften on the leaves as they hide behind a tree, did a group of hunters appear from the backside of the house.

“Oh, shit,” Allison mumbles into Stiles’ shoulder, “They probably thought about Derek too.”

“I can’t hear anything they’re saying,” Stiles bemoans, “This is stupid.”

Allison clutches his arm, “It’s going to be okay.”

In a quick motion, Stiles slams his head into the tree. Considering they were already pressed into it, the hit wasn’t that hard. “Things are anything but okay.”

~~~

The boys huddle into the locker rooms as Coach yells for them. Isaac fumbles with his equipment, joining the back of the pack.

“Quicker!” Finstock yells, “Danny, put a shirt on.” The coach prattles on, “Stilinski, that means you! Let’s go, gather round. Listen up.”

Isaac searches the office wall behind Finstock, looking for you. You were always near the Coach during team meetings, usually holding an energy drink or pointing out things Finstock failed to mention to the team.

But you are nowhere to be seen.

“Police are asking for help on a missing child advisory. It’s a sick girl, roaming around, totally naked.”

Isaac remembers how the Sheriff questioned him about the same advisory that morning when he reported the strange grave robbery at the cemetery.

“Now, it’s supposed to get below 40 degrees tonight. I don’t know about you, but the last time it was that cold, and I was running around naked… I lost a testicle to exposure. Now, I don’t want the same thing happening to some innocent girl. So police are organizing search parties for tonight.” The Coach brandishes a piece of paper and Isaac can visualize the rolling of your eyes at the poor delivery of the speech.

Finstock tapes the paper to his office window, “Sign up, find the missing girl, you get an automatic ‘A’ in my classes.” He smiles at the instantaneous cheers, but Isaac is of the few standing still.

He holds his duffel bag and looks for you again. There was no way you’d let Coach give students straight A’s like that. You were his voice of reason – the only way classes came out coherently and fairly graded.

A swarm of players rush past him, but Isaac lets his eyes roam until he finds Stiles and Scott. He knew you were friendly with those two, more so than him at least. He walks over to the boys at the shower entrance.

“Um… hey…” he says awkwardly, holding the strap of his bag with two tight hands.

Scott looks taken aback, but is friendly anyways, “Hey, Isaac.”

Stiles is a little more blunt, “What do you want?”

“I uh… I wanted to ask where (Y/N) was,” he wrings his hands, “Usually she’s at these team meetings.” He notices the way Stiles looks to the ground, letting Scott speak first.

“She’s still at the hospital,” he says calmly, “She won’t be back for a while.”

Isaac knits his brow, “Oh, is she okay?” Again, he notices how Stiles scoffs at his shoes.

“Yeah,” Scott says with a lackluster tone, “She’ll be fine. Did you need her for something? We can give her a message.”

“Just… I haven’t seen her in class and – we miss her.” He has a hard time looking them in the eye, “And maybe that Coach is running rampant without her.” His lips upturn ever-so-slightly, “She’ll want to know her assisting is very much appreciated.”

“I’m sorry,” Stiles cuts in front of Scott’s laughter. “I didn’t realize you and (Y/N) were close?”

Isaac wipes the smile from his face. “We’re not. Not outside of class at least.” He grinds his teeth, “She’s great. She’s always been kind to me. I’d hate if something happened and I didn’t know about it.”

That seems to appease Stiles, a flash of guilt washing over his face. “Right.”

~~~

The days seem to darken. Even with the promise of spring right around the corner, the world seems dusky, like the sun was a dimmer set low. Stiles’ lens was filtered with gray, shadowing his perspective with melancholia.

He spends his afternoons chasing the supernatural with Scott. But his nights he spends alone – quiet – in his room. He sits at his desk, spinning from side to side to look at the bulletin boards on the walls.

The one directly in front of him was all about you. He had covered it up with a blanket when you slept over that one time. A family picture and a selfie he got from your social media are pinned in the middle. Countless strings are between the picture of you and little bits of information.

A few green strings lead to fun facts like:

Watches true crime

Likes to read

Works at Beacon Hills Memorial Hospital

Born in Palo Alto, California

Fireman Tom

Front Desk Westbrook

Atrioventricular canal defect

A yellow string leads from the fact about a congenital heart defect. It spreads to multiple pictures, article clippings, and website screenshots on the heart problem.

“Children born with this condition have a hole in the wall between the heart’s chambers. They also have problems with the valves that control blood flow in the heart.

Atrioventricular canal defect allows extra blood to flow to the lungs. The extra blood forces the heart to work too hard, causing the heart muscle to grow larger.”

“Ventricular tachycardia is a type of irregular heartbeat, called an arrhythmia. It starts in the lower chambers of the heart, called the ventricles. A healthy heart typically beats about 60 to 100 times a minute at rest. In ventricular tachycardia, the heart beats faster, usually 100 or more beats a minute.

Sometimes the rapid heartbeat stops the heart chambers from properly filling with blood. The heart may not be able to pump enough blood to the body. If this happens, you may feel short of breath or lightheaded. Some people lose consciousness.”

He has a red string leading to an unknown section about the 3-inch incision on your chest. After hearing you mention that it was a device inserted near your heart, he did some more research. It might have been an implantable cardioverter-defibrillator, or an ICD.

Those devices detect irregular heartbeats and deliver electric shocks to hopefully restore a regular heart rhythm.

Other blue strings lead to theories he has about why your CHD correction wasn’t permanent, as well as solutions to your persistent tachycardia.

The other side of the board has a few other green strings that lead to a picture of you, Lydia, and Allison. Another is the name ‘Andrew’ written sloppily and then crossed out repeatedly with a ballpoint pen. A few short strings lead to the various situationships in your past and some notes on their kissing techniques.

Overall, Stiles was proud of the research he had conducted on you. But staring at it wasn’t making him feel any better. He was exhausting himself over retrograde amnesia, failing to put those details on your bulletin board.

He was hoping it would correct itself before he had to.

He barely registers that his dad enters the room. “Hey, kid,” he says, void of his sheriff uniform. “How you holding up?”

Stiles shrugs and it pulls a sigh out of Noah. “Listen, I’m glad we were able to find that Martin girl tonight. We should consider that a real victory.” Stiles just nods and Noah continues, “I uh… what in god’s name is that?”

He looks over Stiles’ bulletin board. “Research,” Stiles mumbles.

Noah sounds hesitant, “Right. Um… should I be concerned about this?” He searches his son’s vacant expression, “Like, are you peeping into her windows and stealing things from her underwear drawer?”

“What?” that snaps some life into Stiles, “No! No, dad, it’s not like that. It was a little inside joke from when we first started hanging out. Then it kind of turned into me trying to figure out what her heart problem was.”

Noah looks to the side with the medical research, “You know… uh, the Westbrooks called.”

“And?” Stiles looks up with dull brown eyes.

“And the doctor says (Y/N) should be exposed to things that might trigger her memory back. Stuff that she doesn’t remember.”

Stiles bites at the inside of his cheek, “Like me?”

Noah takes a deep breath, folding his arms. The reserved Stiles before him was disconcerting. “Having you visit might help.” The Sheriff tries to find something helpful to say – his wife was always better at these things. “They’ve had Scott sit with her and she remembers the few times they ran into each other during her early hospital days; back when she was still getting surgeries.”

“I don’t know how I… how do I sit there and…” Stiles leaves his hands limp in his lap. “How am I supposed to help? Pretend that I don’t know anything about her? Act like we’re meeting for the first time?”

“Maybe,” Noah grimaces, “I’d start with keeping this bulletin board to yourself. It might scare her into getting a restraining order.”

Stiles cracks the smallest smile, “How long is she going to be at the hospital?”

“About two or three days,” the Sheriff scratches the scruff on his chin, “They’ll probably keep her from school for even longer.”

“She’ll need to keep up on homework,” Stiles sighs, “She’d hate to miss out on so many assignments.” His small smile grows, “Of course she’s already done with her end of term projects.”

Noah smiles, “Even that biology one you guys were supposed to do together?”

Stiles shrugs, “Honestly, I don’t have a clue.”

They both share a laugh before Noah beckons him, “You should go. I’ll tell Tom you’re on your way.” He looks at his son, nostalgia flooding him.

Little Stiles jumping across waiting room seats. Little Stiles following the nurses around. Little Stiles foraging for snacks in the vending machines. Little Stiles afraid to talk to his mother who didn’t recognize him.

Little Stiles that cried in the hallway while he was busy with a police dispatch.

���Hey, it’ll…” Noah tries, “… it’ll be okay.”

Stiles looks drained, but he smiles at his father’s attempt. “Thanks dad.”

It was a long drive to the hospital. It felt like the world around him was moving in slow motion. It was like his jeep was gliding on the road with no traction. It didn’t help that he let the ringing in his ears be the only source of sound.

There was a tightness in his chest that wasn’t as warm as before. It was accompanied by an anxious knot in his stomach. Hospitals were bad enough. He doesn’t need to be reminded of his mother while he sits with you.

Knots in his shoulders, he walks into the hospital with shuffling steps. He vaguely remembers running into Melissa. He barely notices how the Westbrooks dismiss themselves to grab lunch.

He’s in your doorway and watching the line of confusion grow between your brows. The look of someone meeting a stranger.

And he’s suddenly eight years old again.

“Hi, (Y/N),” he says with a growing lump in his throat.

You fidget with the blanket laying over your legs. Your eyes are uncertain, “Hello. Um… are my parents…?”

“They’re grabbing lunch,” he says, hands in his pockets, “Is it okay if I visit for a bit? The doctor said it might trigger your memory.”

You look reluctant and it pains him. “I guess it’s worth a shot,” you watch him pull a chair over, “I don’t think you told me your name before.”

He tries to swallow past the lump, “Stiles.”

“Stiles,” you say quietly, as if you had never said the name before. “Stiles what?”

“Stilinski.”

Your eyes brighten, “You’re a Stilinski?”

He snorts, “Yeah, my dad’s the sheriff.”

“Woah,” you smile, “Your dad has been to my house a few times.”

Stiles nods, reminiscent of your first conversation together searching the woods for Scott all those weeks ago. “And you’re front desk Westbrook’s daughter.”

That makes you giggle, “I like that nickname.” It grows quiet for a few seconds while you consider his deflated figure. His eyes are downcast and his hands are stuffed in his pockets; you can see his leg starting to bounce. “Are we really good friends?”

His muted brown eyes turn to your brighter ones. “Yeah, we are.”

You nod, “For how long?”

“Since January when the school came back from winter break.”

You give a side smile, “So I did manage to start public school.”

He licks his lips, “Yep. And being a medical assistant here and being a teacher’s assistant to Coach.”

“That’s amazing,” you remark, “I didn’t realize… I’ve been dreaming about doing those things for years, but the fact I did… and I don’t even remember.”

Stiles frowns deep, “You haven’t gotten any of your memory back?”

You shake your head, “I get these flashes sometimes and I can’t tell if they’re dreams or not. Like… blue spray paint on my arms.”

Stiles’ face brightens with hope, “That’s – that’s real! That’s not a dream. We had a spray paint fight when we were fixing my jeep.”

Your eyes snap to his. A strange guilty feeling enters your stomach. It was bad enough disappointing people simply because you couldn’t remember them. Seeing the hope on his face makes you fill with pressure. You two must’ve had a pretty significant friendship.

“What other things have we done together?”

Stiles takes a tight breath, “Well… we’ve had dinner together. You’re an excellent cook. We painted my jeep and took Scott to get drunk on the preserve. We did a few school projects together and hang out at lacrosse practice. I took care of you when you were sick,” he suddenly looks you right in the eye, “I was there when you broke up with Andrew.”

Your eyebrows go up, but you don’t interrupt him.

“I was there when you got those claw marks on your shoulder – and other times you felt in danger,” he swallows hard, “We went to the winter formal together.”

“I went to a school dance?” you breathe out quietly. “Was it amazing? I’ve always wanted to go to a school dance.”

Stiles rubs his suddenly clammy hands down his pants, “It was. You looked great.” At seeing the light shining in your eyes, he continues. “You wore a dress that had these sparkling stars on it. The… y-you let the scars on your chest show. You were… you looked beautiful.”

“Did we slow dance?”

“Yeah, we did,” he sighs, chest aching. “It was the only dancing you could do that didn’t mess with your heart.”

You feel a drop of insecurity enter, “How much do you know about my heart?”

“I know about the heart defect and the tachycardia,” he rubs at his face. He could really take advantage of the situation here and learn more about your condition. But as quick as the thought came, it left. He wasn’t going to manipulate you like that. “I know you had a device put in last summer.”

“And that’s it?” you ask quietly. “I didn’t tell you more?”

“You always felt like it wasn’t the right time,” he shrugs, “But I suppose you might feel differently once your memory comes back.”

You brush your hair away, “I’m sorry I don’t remember.”

A sadness creeps into him. “It’s not your fault.”

“I’m still sorry. I hate seeing the disappointment,” you gesture to his slumped figure, “I really am trying.”

“I believe you,” Stiles says with a little more vigor.

Your eyes are a little wide as you say, “My mom told me you were the one to find me and bring me here.”

Stiles bows his head, visions of your bloodied figure going purple from the lack of oxygen. “Like I said… it’s not your fault.”

“And you’re saying it’s yours?” It was an honest question, but you said it with such sarcasm that it takes you aback to see the seriousness on his face. He really believes it was his fault. “From what I hear, you saved me Stiles.”

“Not all of you,” he winces a smile, leaning back in the chair, “If I had been sooner… maybe your heart wouldn’t have given out in the parking garage.”

“You don’t know that,” you say quietly. You may not recognize the boy, but it upset you to think he was blaming himself for your condition. “Regardless of whatever retort you can think of… you brought me to help. If you hadn’t done that then I would’ve been dead for sure.”

He doesn’t see the point in arguing with a version of you that doesn’t even know him. “Maybe. How has your heart been since being here?”

“Fine,” you say quickly, “I’m ready to get back home.”

“Ollie misses you,” he smirks.

You gush, “Oh my god, you know Oliver! He’s my handsome little man.”

“That he is…” Stiles laughs, “Very handsome.” He plays with his fingers, leg still bouncing from the rising anxiety in his stomach. “Is this helping with your amnesia at all?”

Your shoulders rise in a shrug, “I’m not sure. Nothing has come to me yet. But I do like talking to you.” You have a sweet smile on your face, “You mentioned I was dating someone named Andrew?”

“Just for like two weeks,” he says hotly.

You don’t notice, “I told myself I wouldn’t ser…”

“…seriously date anyone,” Stiles finishes, “That’s why you broke up. He was looking for something long term with you.”

Curious, you tilt your head to the side. “Was he cute?”

Stiles snorts, “Well… I guess. You had a crush on him.” He tries to stop his leg bouncing, “You have good taste too, he’s a good guy.”

“Is that why we went to the dance together?” you wonder, “Because I broke up with Andrew?”

“Technically we both went stag,” he says with a faux smile. A forced smile to keep you at ease. “But it was important to you to have the full experience – so I asked.”

You sigh, leaning against your pillows in thought, “You don’t realize how lucky you are to live such an average teenage life.” Stiles holds back his sarcastic laugh. What you said was so ironic. “I spent a lot of my life dreaming about the little things – silly things – like high school dances and playing sports and learning to drive.”

“Wait…” Stiles leans forward, “You don’t know how to drive?”

“No, I do,” you say defensively, “I have a license, technically.” You slump a little further, “But medically I’m not allowed to drive. The potential for fainting is a big red flag for driving. I don’t want to cause any accidents because my heart decided to give out on the road.”

Stiles has a wary smile on his face. “That’s okay, I drive you everywhere.”

“Is that with the jeep you mentioned?”

“Yep, my pride and joy,” he says, “It was my mom’s. She called him Roscoe.”

You remember how the Sheriff lost his wife. Something your parents told you after a few visits from him. You remember feeling sad that someone had died. Now you realize how sad it would be for a child to lose their mom as well.

“And we fixed him up one time?” You want to hear him talk more.

“Yeah, we put a new hood on him,” Stiles sighs out a smile. “You kept poking fun at how… how much duct tape and spray paint I have for him.”

You have a sweet smile on your face, “You want the car to last, I get it. Probably will be just duct tape by the time you turn him in.”

“Oh no,” Stiles waves his hands, “I’m going to keep this jeep for the rest of my life, even if it runs down. I’ll import custom parts to keep him fixed, I don’t care. I just need to find a way to make enough money to.”

You giggle and it strikes Stiles.

“What sort of job would that be?”

“I don’t know, maybe like an FBI agent or something.”

“FBI…” you nod, impressed, “That’d be cool.”

Stiles swallows, unsure of how to keep a conversation going with you. That was a feeling he wasn’t used to. It was so easy to talk to you before. He hates the awkward edge he feels brimming his smile.

“What about you?”

“Another one of those silly things I dream about,” you say sadly, “I don’t know what I’d do.”

His brow knits, “Spitball some ideas for me.”

You laugh again, “Maybe… a writer. Or maybe I’d open a cat rescue. Even better, what if I opened a cat café where you could read and buy books and pet cats.” The more you talk, the easier it was to spill your dreams. “I could be a nurse one day. Maybe work under a cardiothoracic surgeon. I could also just be a stay-at-home mom.”

Stiles feels that achy warmth in his chest more and more. “You want a family?”

“Of course,” you say as if it were the easiest decision in the world. “I always hated being an only child. It made being stuck at home so much worse. I’d want a bunch of kids.”

“How much is a bunch?”

You smirk, “I don’t know, like ten maybe.”

“Ten!?” Stiles jerks in his chair and it makes you laugh louder than before.

You wave a hand, “I’m kidding. I think four might be my max.”

Stiles wipes at his brow comically and your following giggle keeps that ache pulsing in his chest. “I think all those ideas are great. I think I’d even read a book written by you.”

“Are you not a big book reader?” you ask.

He winces, “If it’s not for research I don’t usually partake.”

“That’s a shame. There’s some really good fiction out there,” you smile. But there’s a sudden shift in your expression. “Have we had this conversation before?”

Stiles feels a tug at his heart, “No, actually. We don’t talk about the future much. Usually it’s whatever has happened in the past before we met – or what our friends are up to.”

You nod, a little reassured. “I would hate it if you just pretended like you didn’t already know this stuff about me.”

“When it comes to you, (Y/N),” he says confidently, “I’d say I’m scarily unfiltered. I say things to you that I don’t to anyone else. I don’t think I could pretend.” Even with his feelings for you – they came out in the littlest of ways without him voicing them directly.

That puts the smile back on your face, “It makes me sad not remembering you. It sounds like we got along really well.”

“We did,” he says quickly, “We do.”

You pull at the edge of your cotton blanket, “Our friends seem nice too – Allison and Lydia.”

“Nice might be a little kind for Lydia,” Stiles laughs, “Maybe a faux cold-hearted rich bitch is more appropriate.” He feels proud to rouse a look of shock on your face, “She’s all talk at school, but she has a good heart and is super smart. Just don’t get on her bad side.”

You chuckle, “And Scott sat with me a couple times. He looks different than what I remembered.”

“It’s been almost six months from where you memory ends,” he says, “That makes sense to me.”

“Do you…” you falter, “Do you think I will remember eventually?”

God, I hope so, he thinks. “I think you’ll get a few things back,” he says honestly, “I don’t know about everything. Amnesia is stupid like that.”

You frown, “Will you still – hang out with me?”

“Of course,” he says instantly, “If you want to. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. I know it’s probably overwhelming.”

“It is,” you push back your hair again, “But I still want to try.”

~~~

The next week is full of anxiety. With spring right around the corner, March appears with sunny days and average temperatures. The promise of rain was on the way. It was nearing the next full moon and Stiles was full to the brim with nerves.

You still hadn’t come back to school, and he was finding it hard to come visit you. Meanwhile he and Scott try to tackle school one day at a time. Scott finds ways to see Allison while the overly watchful eyes of her grandfather become an increasing pressure.

The old man, Gerard, was still living at the Argent residence after his daughter’s funeral. His presence brought a newfound fear to the group.

He was the one at your door when you heard it knock.

“Hello, (Y/N),” he says with a smile. “I’m Mr. Argent, the new principal at Beacon Hill High.”

You blink a few times before awkwardly saying, “Right, um… hello.”

He raises his eyebrows, “May I come in?”

You look behind your shoulder for a moment before muttering, “Sure, we can sit here.” You gesture to the sitting room with the piano just beside the door. The older man nods his thanks and finds a seat in a comfy armchair.

You follow and sit on the loveseat opposite him. “How can I help you?”

“I’m just checking in on your progress since leaving the hospital. Many of your teachers have asked about you returning. I understand you experienced some memory loss the night of the school dance.”

“Yes,” you say, sitting on your hands, “I don’t remember any of it.”

He leans his elbows on his knees, looking at you seriously, “And you haven’t regained anything?”

“I get these flashes sometimes,” you mutter, looking towards the carpet beneath your toes. “But those seem like dreams to me. I don’t recognize them.” At his persistent look, you elaborate, “Like visiting the mall or a lacrosse field or the woods.”

He nods, “I’m sorry to hear that. Do you have any intention of returning to public school?”

You swallow hard, “Well, um… seeing as I don’t remember any of it – I think it would be hard to pick up where I left off.”

“Our staff is willing to accommodate to your situation,” he finally leans back, “We’ll give you special permission to use more resources and have extension time on all assignments. We want to make sure you’re comfortable in returning.”

“That’s good to know,” you say, noticing Oliver enter the sitting room. He jumps onto the couch with you, “I’ll need to talk to my parents about it.”

Gerard gives another strange smile, “Of course. Are you getting any of your course work from friends at least?”

You grimace – does he mean the friends you don’t remember? “I’ve had a few homework things dropped off.”

“Some from my granddaughter, I believe,” he chuckles, “She’s always had a good heart, that one.”

“Who is your granddaughter?”

“Allison Argent,” he says.

You widen your eyes, “Oh, yes – Allison. She’s been helping me with some assignments. I didn’t realize her grandfather was the principal.”

“Like I said, my position is relatively new.” He claps his hands together, “Please reach out to the office if you plan on returning full time.”

Meanwhile, in the middle of town, Stiles and Allison are at a hardware store looking for something to help Scott with the upcoming full moon. Allison was intent on being involved this month, her first full moon since learning the truth of it all.

“You used handcuffs last time?”

“On the radiator, yeah,” Stiles grumbles, looking at the shelves stocked with tools. “And he still got out and almost killed (Y/N).”

Allison gasps softly, “You’re kidding.”

“Not at all. If Derek hadn’t shown up, I think he would’ve…” he stops at the end of the aisle, “We need something that won’t break as easily. Heavy duty.”

“Like… chains?”

Stiles waggles a finger at her, “I like your thinking.” He checks the signs above each aisle for what they need. “We can chain him up somewhere until the moon sets.”

She follows, her intentions on more than just helping Scott with the full moon. “(Y/N)’s told me you haven’t been visiting her.”

It’s like she can see the tension knot in his shoulders. His sneakers squeak on the tile floor, “And you have been?”

“I’ve been helping her keep up to date on our school assignments.” She watches the hunch develop in his posture. It was like he was deflating before her eyes, “Don’t you remember the doctor said exposing her to things she…”

“Yeah, I know,” Stiles says a little more coldly than before. “It’s just that…” He spots the chains and goes for them.

How does he tell Allison that seeing you might finally break his already tearing heart? He’s sure seeing the look in your eyes again – the polite look someone gives a stranger – would kill him. How does he explain the pain he feels knowing you don’t remember a single memorable thing you’ve done together? It was a new kind of rejection.

He prefers daydreaming about the you that knows him. The you that he feels more deeply about than anyone else before. The you that he now searches for in his sleep. It was now his favorite time of day.

Sleep meant he could dream about you. He could see you there, smelling of sparkling strawberries by the lake – looking like a sun warmed burst of color. He yearned for that peachy summer filter your presence brought to his life.

His days were dull without you. Like the world resorted to turning the brightness down because its sun had disappeared.

“I’ve been…”

“… distracting yourself?” Allison offers.

He grips a coiled pile of chains and pulls them over his shoulder, “Maybe. The full moon kind of takes priority the next couple of days.”

“Do you think (Y/N)’s in danger?”

“Not if this idea works,” he grumbles under the weight of the metal links. They walk towards the registers. “And with you helping it might make things easier.”

Allison pulls out some cash so they can split the cost. “First searching for Lydia, then looking into a new beta werewolf, now making plans for the full moon… you’re going to run out of distractions eventually.”

I’ll just sleep then, he thinks. You’ll be waiting for him there.

“Let’s tackle this first,” he says.

Allison sighs her frustration. “I wish there was a way we could just… reach in and pull the memories out, you know? Make her remember.”

Stiles drops the full weight of the chains on his foot, and he curses loudly, “Ah, fuck!” He bounces on his unhurt foot, panting as he has a stroke of brilliance.

Maybe there was a way to force your memories to the surface.

 ~~~

Scott is lying on your living room floor, Ollie hiding upstairs from the doggish presence. You’re sitting cross legged on the couch ottoman, listening to his woes.

“So you think the principal became the principal to spy on your secret relationship with Allison?”

“No, there’s got to be more to it than that,” Scott grumbles, arms splayed to either side. “He’s looking for something more. The Argents are… very loyal to their ideals. Once they set their minds to something – they accomplish it no matter what.”

“And by becoming principal, Mr. Argent is trying to accomplish… total domination over teenagers?”

Scott sighs out a laugh, sitting up, “Maybe. I’m sorry – I’m venting too much. It’s got to be super confusing for you.”

You shrug, “Just a little. I’m starting to piece things together.” You start to pick at your nails, a nervous habit you’ve been more partial to since the hospital. “Allison has been a big help. I think Lydia is still recovering from the attack, more than me at least.”

“And Stiles?”

You frown, “I haven’t seen him.”

Scott matches your frown, “He’s taken it pretty hard.”

“I thought as much,” you pick at your cuticles, “Why do you think that is?”

Sensing the touchy subject, Scott looks to the ground. “We all deal with hard stuff in our own way.”

“But he told me he still wanted to see me,” you say confusedly, “Even if I didn’t remember everything.”

“I think he holds a lot of guilt for the memory loss,” Scott defends, “He uh… he cares a lot.”

“I sort of got that from his last visit,” you wince, “I guess I wouldn’t want to be reminded of something I consider a failure.”

Scott furrows his brow, “You being alive isn’t a failure, (Y/N).”

“My amnesia is, though,” you sigh, “But it’s got me thinking… maybe there’s more to why he thinks of it as a failure.”

“What do you mean?”

You swallow, “I don’t know. It’s hard trying to figure this whole thing out. It’s like I’m trying to give a summary on a book I never read.”

“We’ve done that plenty of times in English class,” Scott smiles warily.

You chuckle at the joke. “I mean, I’m seeing the end of the movie without any plot. I don’t know what to make of anything I see. I hear of all these things I did, and it just feels like I’m out of the loop. I’m being told about someone I don’t even know.”

Scott nods at your words, happy to be your confidant. “It sounds hard.”

“And even with that, everyone is making an effort to stay connected to me. Everyone I don’t remember. Allison does homework with me, you vent to me about Allison, the hospital has put my work schedule on hold, the high school is making accommodations, even Lydia has texted me.” You grimace as you pull at the skin around your nail. Part of a cuticle tears away, “So why hasn’t Stiles? Why is he different?”

Scott bites his tongue. “This whole thing might mean something a little different for him.”

“In what way?”

“Just you,” he swallows, “You mean something different to him.”

“You mean, because he was the one who saved my life?”

Scott clenches his jaw, “Yeah, something like that.”

You suck on your finger. It stings where you tore the cuticle away. You taste blood on your tongue.

“We should do something,” Scott decides, “We should get the friends together and hang out.”

“And do what?” you ask, standing to find a band-aid.

Scott follows you to the hallway closet, “You have a firepit in the backyard. Maybe we roast some marshmallows?”

“You don’t think it might rain?” you wrap a plain brown band-aid around your finger. It almost surprises you to see two other fingers with the same bandage around the nail. “It’s been cloudy all week.”

“No, I think we’ve got a few more days before the weather gets real bad,” Scott waves a hand at you, “Would your parents be okay with it?”

“Sure,” you shrug, “My mom would probably be thrilled.”

Scott is already texting on his phone, “Perfect. I’ll let everyone know – do you have firewood?”

“Are you kidding?” you laugh, “My dad keeps the shed fully stocked. Marshmallows and everything.”

“It looks like Lydia is going to be at her dads place tonight,” Scott grimaces at his phone, “But Allison is available.”

You watch the dopey lovestruck smile grow on his face, “Won’t it… won’t it be terribly awkward for everyone? You guys have history to talk about while I… I don’t remember meeting any of you.”

Scott shifts his face into a serious expression, “That doesn’t mean we don’t want to still hang out with you.”

You fist your bandaged fingers into the pockets of your sweats. “I guess I can see it as a chance to get to know you guys better.”

“We could play like truth and dare, or answer get to know you questions,” Scott chuckles.

The next half hour has you creating a s’more station outside while Scott brings over a pile of firewood. He’s just exploring the depths of the shed when Allison appears, the sunset illuminating her in flattering light.

“Hey!” you say, glad to see her again, “I was just laying out the chocolate.”

Allison gives you a hug, eyeing her secret boyfriend carrying an armful of wood from the shed. “Perfect. Let me help with the camping chairs.” She hops over to kiss Scott before taking the covers off the chairs.

“Have you talked with Lydia recently?” you help move the seating around the firepit, “She was a little frazzled the last time I saw her.”

“She was a little shy coming back to school,” Allison admits, “But Lydia has always exuded a kind of confidence, even if she doesn’t especially feel it. The whole school was gawking at her, and she strut down the hallway like nothing happened.”

You nod, a smile of gratitude on your face, “I’m glad.” You notice how Allison deliberately set the chairs in two pairs across from each other, on either side of the firepit. She plans to sit by Scott, and across the fire, you sit by Stiles. “Is Stiles for sure coming?”

“He told me he would,” Scott throws a few more logs on their pile, “Just that he’d be late.”

As Scott was making a tent of wood in the firepit, a grumbling engine could be heard pulling in front of the house. You sit in your chair, matching cream colored sweatshirt and sweatpants on. You even had a green and blue flannel on over the sweatshirt for an added layer of warmth. It was something you just found in your closet.

Stiles appears walking around the house, hands in his pockets. His lips are in a thin line as he waves a hand in hello.

“How are you, Stiles?” Allison asks, ever the polite one.

He shrugs, eyes flitting between the remaining seats. He knows his best friend will want to sit beside his girlfriend. “I’m alright.”

Your eyebrows knit. Stiles doesn’t look very alright. He looks like he could collapse from exhaustion at any second.

“Hey, grab me some of that kindling, would you?” Scott says, kneeling beside the firepit and crumpling old newspapers into flammable balls.

Stiles leans down for a box of splintered wood and shaved bark. He gives the pieces for Scott to create a nest in the heart of the pit.

You fold your arms as the sun fully sets and the stars become more visible across the indigo sky. You observe the wrinkled nature of Stiles’ clothes – the dark rings beneath his eyes. He looks a little worse for wear.

“This is my first fire of the season,” Allison says, crossing her legs and admiring how Scott sets the kindling aflame, “I love having campfires.”

“Me too,” Scott says warmly, standing to go sit beside his girlfriend, “I’m a fiend for toasted marshmallows.”

“I like them a little on the burnt side,” she says in reply, enjoying how he easily slips his fingers between hers.

Stiles stands as the kindling burns more brightly, sending plumes of smoke into the air. His eyes find your form tightly wrapped in your chair. There’s a flicker of something sad in his gaze – guilt, pity, pain?

He walks around the pit and sits in the camping chair beside you. It was more like he collapsed in the chair, the legs scraping on the stones littering the ground.

“What about you?” you ask timidly.

Stiles looks at you with tired eyes, “Sorry?”

“How do you like your marshmallows roasted?”

His eyes are still sad, but something quirks in his lips, “Golden brown – although that’s dangerously close to burnt and that happens more often than I care to admit.”

“I don’t have patience for roasting marshmallows,” you say begrudgingly, “They’re never exactly what I want. I eat them too fast.”

Stiles swallows hard, moving his limbs slowly as if any faster would give him a headache. He spears two marshmallows on the end of a roasting stick. “And if you had patience for marshmallows – what would they look like?”

“I like them golden too,” you smile, “A little or a lot is fine with me. I just don’t like them burnt.”

“It gives them flavor!” Allison defies, “And it’s fun blowing them out when they catch fire.”

“Until they melt right off the stick,” Scott laughs, “And they burn in the pit like Anakin near the lava pools.”

You giggle, a strange flash of a dream crossing your mind. Yourself wearing a star wars t-shirt with a blue and green flannel. The same flannel you have on now. Was it a dream… or a memory? Was it like the strange memory of blue spray paint on your arms?

There was something stirring in your stomach. You could mistake it for anxiety or the painful churning of your insides – but something was trying to pry itself out of you. Watching Stiles rotate the roasting stick against the firepit was sending waves of familiarity through you.

The campfire reminds you of Stiles in a way. He reminds you of autumn and woods and campfire smoke. It makes you think of fallen leaves and flashlights and flannels.

Just as you remind Stiles of summertime – he reminds you of autumn.

“Did you hear about Isaac’s dad?” Allison suddenly speaks.

Scott sighs, “Yeah, he was taken out of lacrosse practice today to talk to the police.”

“I don’t think he has a strong case of his innocence,” Stiles mumbles.

“What happened to Isaac’s dad?” you ask, unsure of who Isaac even was.

Scott clears his throat, checking his marshmallow by pinching the soft white fluff. “He was murdered.”

Something cold and steely takes ahold of your limbs, “Oh my god, that’s terrible.”

“Yeah, it happened during the last rainstorm,” Scott continues, “I think they suspect Isaac.”

“Why would he kill his own father?” you ask with a slanted brow.

Allison prepares some graham crackers and chocolate, “I don’t think they had a very good relationship.”

“You could say that,” Stiles scratches at his neck, “Seeing as he comes to school with new bruises weekly.”

A small gasp escapes you, “That’s awful…”

“You’ve actually helped Isaac with it before,” Stiles says, “You’ve taken him to your house and cleaned him up after a fight.”

You find it hard to swallow, “I’m glad someone did. Has there ever been an investigation at the house for child abuse?”

“Not that I know of,” Stiles sighs, “Isaac has never wanted any trouble.”

“That doesn’t make any of it okay,” you say more to yourself, “Is he still being questioned?”

“I think my dad might take him into the station tomorrow for further questioning,” Stiles says.

You tilt your head towards him, “As in, Isaac is going to be arrested?”

“I’m not sure,” Stiles says quietly, “I wouldn’t be surprised seeing as he’s their biggest suspect with a damning motive.”

You don’t realize your fingers are searching for more tender skin to pick at around your nails. Scott puts his toasted marshmallow on a prepared cracker and proceeds to set another on fire. Allison giggles as she smashes one s’more down.

“I haven’t seen Isaac,” you say quizzically.

Scott presents the marshmallow aflame on his roasting stick for Allison to blow it out. “He’s been asking about you though.”

Stiles removes his marshmallows from the fire as well. “He says Coach has been unreliable and chaotic since you’ve left.”

You bite the inside of your cheek, “Because I’m his TA?”

“He may be your superior, but that man is hopeless without you,” Scott laughs, “I honestly don’t know how Coach has kept his job as long as he has.”

Stiles is preparing two s’mores beside you, layering a graham cracker and chocolate with golden brown marshmallows. You are picking at your unbandaged fingers terribly.

Scott and Allison are preoccupied with feeding each other sticky s’mores while you stare into the dancing flames of the fire. You wince at a sharp pain. Looking down you see your fingers have pried a sliver of skin from around a nail. It stings being exposed to the nighttime air and a blossom of blood speckles the tender skin beneath.

A large hand enters your vision – long fingers reaching for yours. He pulls your injured hand away and inspects the bandages on your fingertips. He places a readymade s’more in your palm. “What’s happened to Isaac isn’t your fault,” he says quietly, “Neither is Coach being manic – that’s nothing new.”

You watch his hand pull away, fisting in his lap as if regretful to touch you without your permission.

Taking a deep breath, you look at the perfectly cooked s’more, “Man, there weren’t even coals yet,” you say with mustered warmth. “This looks amazing.”

You catch him staring at your smile. The tiredness is evident in his look, but the fondness that warms his eyes is undeniable. He holds his hands together like he fears they’ll move for you if he didn’t.

The gooey marshmallow sticks to the sides of your face as you eat. It’s exactly how you like it, and you can’t help giggling at the sticky sweetness melting on the chocolate.

Stiles is watching you with something sad and sweet in his face.

“Thank you,” you say, cracker crumbs littering your lips. “You didn’t have to make me one.”

“I wanted to,” he says in return. “I wanted to see if that marshmallow would stay on the cracker or not.”

You snort with a full mouth. Bits of sticky fluff are on most of your fingers and stuck to your cheeks. You flick your fingers, seeing how some of the marshmallow was gripping the fraying fibers of your band aids.

“Oh, shoot,” you shake a hand free of crumbs. “I’ll be right back.”

As you rise from your chair, Stiles grips the arms of his – like he was about to stand with you. His eyes follow you all the way to the back door.

Scott clears his throat loudly and Allison nibbles the marshmallow from her fingers.

“What?” Stiles questions, still on the edge of his seat.

Scott wiggles his eyebrows, “You know what.”

Allison licks her lips and nods toward the house, “Take the chance.”

“Ah… god.” Stiles slips out of the chair, tripping on his way to the house. He opens the door and spies you starting to open new band aids at the kitchen counter.

 “Oh!” you say sharply, “Hey – everything okay?”

“Um…” his throat was suddenly very dry, “I just – wanted to see if you needed help.” He walks to the counter and sees the pile of marshmallow coated band aids. “I know it can be hard to… wrap those on your fingers by yourself.”

You feel shy, hesitant to display your fingers, “That… that’d be nice, thank you.”

He ignores how your hands shake, unwrapping a band aid and picking a finger with raw skin around the fingernail. Some were scabbed over, and others were still wet with exposed, tender skin.

He’s soft in how he holds your hand, gently wrapping the band aid. “I’ve never seen you pick at your fingers before.”

“Me neither,” you say quietly, “I guess it’s just a new nervous habit.”

“What was making you nervous?” he asks just as quietly. He keeps his gaze on your hands, his own oddly cold against yours.

It leaves you free to look at his face without fear. You never noticed how thick his eyelashes were. You suspect they frame his bronze eyes well, especially when they were well rested. He also has a constellation of moles across his face.

You were tracing them with your eyes as you say, “I guess I was feeling guilty again for losing my memory. It sounds like people need me… the old me.”

I need you, Stiles thinks, upset at how the guilt was presenting itself in you. “But none of it is your fault.”

“That doesn’t stop the fact that lots of problems would be solved if I could just remember.”

“I’m sorry,” he says with hidden emotion, “I… I could’ve… if I had just stayed with you…”

Your brows knit as he applies a third bandage. “It’s not your fault either, Stiles. We’re both doing the best that we can.”

He clenches his jaw, “Maybe we should put band aids on all your fingers so you’re not tempted.”

You snort, “Thank you for helping me.”

Stiles smiles and again you’re struck by another one of his features. Stiles is cute, you think, he’s really cute. “You’re welcome,” he says.

He holds your hands for a second before lifting them to his lips. He kisses each of your bandages in a chaste, silly way. “Make-it-better kisses,” he says almost dreamily – remembering a past memory, “Your specialty.”

You’re stuck on the way his mouth hovered over each of your fingers. “You learned well, apparently.”

“You’re basically cured,” he smiles again, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Make-it-better kisses are a medical miracle, so they say.”

You nod slowly, “Maybe I just need a couple more of those to get my memory back.”

Stiles’ eyes blow wide, “Oh… oh my god – that’s not what I… I didn’t mean to insinuate – I mean, not that I’d be upset to do… ah, shit, I’m messing this up.”

Giggles are falling out of you faster than Stiles is running his mouth. “Stiles, I was meaning a forehead kiss. Help fix my brain.”

He lets out a loud sigh, “Of course – of course that’s what you meant.” He’s jerky and hesitant and terribly endearing as he leans over to place an awkward kiss to your temple.

~~~

The jeep stops with a jolt in front of the sheriff’s station. Through the blinds Stiles and Derek see a woman behind the counter.

Somewhere in the holding cells is Isaac, being held on suspicion of his father’s murder.

“Okay, now the keys to every cell are in a password protected lockbox in my father’s office,” Stiles says. He grits his teeth, “The problem is getting past front desk Westbrook.”

It was Angela on duty, filling out her part on police reports behind the counter.

“I’ll distract her,” Derek says nonchalantly.

Stiles freaks, “Whoa, whoa, whoa!” he grabs Derek’s leather jacket, “You? You’re not going in there.”

Derek looks at the hand on his jacket like it might be his next snack.

“I’m taking my hand off,” Stiles says quickly. “That is Angela Westbrook in there – you can’t just ‘distract her.’” He uses air quotation marks.

“Sure, I can.”

“She’s married!”

Derek shrugs, “And I’m charming.”

“You’re a criminal!”

“I was exonerated.”

Stiles licks his lips, “You’re still a person of interest, and trust me, Westbrook is the last person you want to mess with. She almost always hangs up when I try to call the station.”

“That’s because you’re a hyperactive, overexaggerated teenage boy and I’m…” he adjusts his collar, “A handsome innocent person of interest that looks really good in leather.”

The look of acceptance in Stiles’ face was laughable. He couldn’t deny any of those points. “Fine. Try and charm her and see what happens.”

They wait as another police officer appears to talk to Angela, looking like they were about to head home for the night. It’s the opportunity Stiles needs to talk to Derek about one more tiny favor.

“So with me helping with this whole Isaac fiasco… I was thinking maybe you could do something for me.”

Derek whips his head over, “Excuse me?”

“A favor for a favor.”

“You know I could just walk in, knock everyone out, and break into that lockbox, right? I don’t actually need you.”

Stiles lifts his hands in protest, “You do if you want to remain an innocent person of interest!”

Derek stares him down uncomfortably, “What favor?”

~~~

The new spring rain was finally here, starting with a light sprinkle. You are on the couch, your favorite forest green blanket over your socked feet. Oliver is snuggled on your lap, enjoying the way your stomach rocked him back and forth with your breaths.

Angela sits with you, warming her hands on a mug of tea she brewed for you. “Chamomile and lavender,” she says.

You sigh, “Good for stress.” You give her a knowing look, paired with a smile.

“And sleep,” she says, “I’ll probably pass out in about ten minutes.” She laughs and then clears her throat, “You know, there was something super strange that happened at the station the other day.”

“What was it?” you ask, excited that your mom wanted to share about her workdays again. She had been worried about putting stress on your heart by telling you those stories.

She looks worried now, “It was a little chaotic.”

“Please, mom,” you say, “We haven’t just talked in a while.”

Angela seems to agree, taking a big gulp of her tea. “Well, we had a boy in holding for a murder – no, I won’t tell you who. And Derek Hale came in to talk to me.”

“Hale,” you mutter, “Wasn’t that the name of the family whose house…”

“Burned down, yes,” Angela says, “And while he was there, the boy broke out of holding and an officer I’ve never seen before was knocked out on the ground.” She shakes her head, “I have no idea how any of that happened on my watch. The poor officer had an arrow in his leg and everything.”

“Oh my god, from what?” you ask with pursed lips.

Angela shrugs her shoulders, “The Sheriff is looking into it, but I’m not sure. His son was by the holding cells when he got there.”

“That Stiles guy?”

She nods, suddenly looking at you with warmth – a question in her eyes. “That’s right. He’s a good kid. A strange one, but good.”

“Did you…” you start to say, “Did Stiles and I hang out a lot?”

Angela swallows, “You did. He thought we couldn’t hear all the times he climbed the garden trellis,” she smirks, “But your father and I aren’t that dumb.”

You scoff in surprise, “He climbed the front of the house?”

“A couple times,” she replies, finishing her tea, “He’s not exactly the most graceful person. It’s easy to hear him struggle up the vines and fall through your window.”

You laugh, “And you never thought to stop it?”

“Your dad considered it,” she says, pausing to hear the rain fall heavier on the roof. “But we knew you kids were fine. He might be a bit of a troublemaker, but I know he wouldn’t do anything to put you intentionally in harm’s way.”

Squinting your eyes, you suddenly gasp, “Oh my god, you approve of him, don’t you?”

Angela shrugs again, “Maybe.”

“You’ve never liked any boys I’ve brought over.”

“I think your dad still needs a little convincing,” she says, “But Stiles will win him over eventually.”

“I didn’t realize…” you say, flinching as thunder crashes overhead.

Angela shivers, “Well, that’s my cue for a nap.” She stands and stretches, “Warm tea, cozy bed, and rain in the background? Don’t expect me to wake up anytime soon.”

You laugh, “I’ll be here reading. Thank you for the tea, mom.”

“No problem, sweetie. I wish I could start on that garden, but the recommended time frame is the end of April,” she rolls her eyes, “My herbs are suffering in their little pots!”

You smile as she retreats up the stairs. The rain was really coming down now, pelting the roof like a hail of bullets. You always loved the sound of rain. Maybe it was the cliché book reader in you, but the weather gave the perfect conditions for a reading session.

Ollie sleeps soundly on your lap as you pick up your latest read. It was strange coming home to see a bookmark in a book you didn’t remember. It still sits on your nightstand, hopefully to be picked up again should your memories return.

In the meantime, you begin to read a new fantasy trilogy.

The rain and thunder continue for another half hour, Oliver choosing to sleep on an overturned pillow beside you. He snuggles his face into his fluffy tail as you read. You were just starting to feel sleep tugging at your eyelids when a firm knock came on the front door.

You close your book, apprehensive as the last time someone knocked on the door, the new principal sat you down to question your current whereabouts.

But you find that it was someone new. A tall handsome man with light eyes stands on the porch, sprinkled with rain.

He wipes the water dripping into his eyes, “Hey, (Y/N).” He looks up at the ceiling as if listening for something, “Can I come in?”

“I’m sorry, who are you?” you ask, shocked that this handsome man knew you by name.

“I’m Derek,” he says, pushing his way in and standing beside the piano.

You follow by quietly closing the door, afraid to wake your mom. One of the men involved in the strange chaos that happened at the police station was currently in the sitting room.

“Like Derek Hale, Derek?”

“You remember me?” he asks with confusion in his brow.

You fold your arms, “I remember your name on one of my mom’s police reports years ago. About a house fire.”

He clamps his mouth shut and nods. “Listen, Stiles and Isaac have been talking about you – asking me for favors.”

You remember your friends talking about an Isaac. “Okay?”

“I told them it might not even work, but alphas are usually the ones best apt to do it.”

“Do what?” you ask, arms tightly wound and your feet rooted to the spot. You are starting to get a pit in your stomach. Thunder is roiling outside.

“Just… jog your memory a little bit.” He takes a step forward and you suddenly find the ability to move backward as far as the room would let you.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” you say quickly, “I don’t even know you!”

Derek holds up his hands, “You need to calm down. Your heart is stuttering all over the place.”

“Yeah, it does that,” you say angrily, fear overtaking you, “Especially when strangers threaten to do something to jog my memory.”

“It’s just some minor memory manipulation,” he says, shrugging his shoulders, “I haven’t really done it to extract memories out of someone else before, but it can be done.” He approaches your body pressed against the wall, “You need to hold still though – I don’t want to damage your spinal cord.”

You gape your mouth, “What the hell do you mean!?”

He takes ahold of your neck and you’re on the brink of a scream when he covers your mouth with his other hand. “I need you to stand still.” And he sinks his claws into the back of your neck.

You flinch and gasp behind his hand. Something sharp punctures the nape of your neck, heat trickling down from the top of your head to your spine. You feel a strange twinge of electricity and it makes you shiver.

A picture was filling your mind, crisp and warm as you close your eyes to see it better.

It was you in a pale yellow dress, bows in your hair, and your hand held tightly in Tom’s fingers. Judging by how you had to crane your neck to see his tall figure, you had to be about four years old.

Another warm image appears: dirty carrots being pulled from smelly earth. Your mom claps her soil stained gloves, proud of the garden you planted together. Little you was just as excited, taking a bite out of the carrot and grimacing at the gritty taste of dirt.

One memory flows in, a tinge of cold on the edge of this one. Like you found a cold spot in a pool of water. You were finishing a homework page your mom made on algebraic equations. A bitterness was in your chest at not being able to do it in an actual school.

Your mom appears to place a stapled packet of papers in front of you. You curiously pull the first page towards you and the top reads: ‘Beacon Hills Memorial Hospital – Job Application.’ You squeal and launch yourself into a hug with your mom.

The next memory that tries to surface isn’t as warm as the others. And it doesn’t flow in as easily. You start to get a headache as a cold image swims into view. A jeep driving through the woods.

“I don’t get out much.”

He laughs, “Then why the sudden change?”

“I felt like it.”

“Woman of many words,” he smirks.

You flinch, the memory crumbling into something new – just as cold and difficult to resurface as the other one. A movie was playing in the background and a steaming meal was on plates in front of you.

He was describing a different meal to you, “It was a masterpiece.”

“Sounds amazing,” you say, moving your plate, “Like a fancy kid’s meal.”

He laughs, “That’s what it was! When I was little the only thing I would eat was kraft mac and cheese with chicken nuggets. She was determined to make me a better version.”

“I would’ve liked to have met her,” you say softly, “She sounds like an amazing person.”

“She was,” he says quietly, “She would’ve thought you were sweet.”

Pain pulses in your temples as floods of memories try to pry through your vision. It was like trying to yank sharp rocks through a rubber hose. But the next memory appears with a slight warmth.

Your chest was fluttering with desperate breaths.

“And what do you feel?” he asks.

“My heartbeat,” you say, tightening your fingers around his, “Your hand. And the cracking spray paint.” It was getting easier to breathe as you open your eyes to look at him.

You can see your initials drawn on his cheek with blue paint. He looks concerned as his thumb starts to rub along the inside of your knee.

Stiles, you think. That’s Stiles!

A burst of freedom surges through your head – like a lock being broken. You start to remember everything in between these colder memories. They start to warm with recognition.

Stiles is rambling, “… and I wasn’t sure how you felt about me being close when you weren’t in some kind of distress from your heart because so far the only times I’ve touched you has been when you were about to faint or your heart is racing or you just went through a traumatic ordeal, and seeing as being drunk and having a breakup bonfire with your friends is none of those things… I thought maybe you’d be mad at me for, you know… touching you.”

You smile as he gets even more adorably endearing, “I’m not mad, Stiles.”

He still looks ashamed, whispering, “Okay.”

“I would tell you if I didn’t like how you were touching me.”

He whips his head to you, his throat bobbing.

Your eyes start to prickle with tears. How did you not realize how much this boy was into you? The signs were all there.

“Get in the bed, Stilinski,” you mumble, already soothed by his woodsy honey scent. You breathe it in deeply, loving how he apologizes as he gets under the sheets. You relish in his awkward avoidance of your limbs, “It’s fine, Stiles,” you laugh, “We’re bound to touch being this close.”

He swallows hard, staring at the ceiling like avoiding your gaze would save him from the heat encompassing his heart. It was making his cheeks burn.

“Goodnight,” you mumble.

He bites the inside of his cheek, “Goodnight, (Y/N).”

Tears are filling your eyeline, a drop racing down your cheek as the distant, cold memories are fully back in focus. The pain in your head was growing, but it was worth it to remember all this. The fact you didn’t notice Stiles’ feelings sooner was putting a pool of guilt in your stomach. The poor boy was being so terribly obvious now that you saw the scenes again in your mind’s eye.

He smells like candy, you think.

Your lips fall into an easy pattern. He moves his hands to the small of your back to remove any more space between you. Your noses brush and press into cheeks as you kiss.

He hums deep in his throat, and it sends a shiver down your spine. He places two quick kisses along your jaw and lands on your neck, right beneath the bend in your jaw. Your head falls back as he leaves chaste kisses there too.

“Is this good?”

You laugh with your eyes still closed, tears actively falling down your face. It was good, you remember. So good you actually have a crisis in thinking you might’ve made a mistake. You were in denial of any feelings you had for him.

Even when Allison and Lydia questioned you before the dance.

Your mind swims to the desired memory that you had forgotten. Projected stars fill the space as the band plays a soft song. You hold onto Stiles in a beautiful starry dress. You’re hidden from him as you’re pressed together, swaying to the music.

You wonder if that’s part of the reason you two have courage to talk. Neither of you were looking.

“What else?” you ask with a puckered brow. A warmth you now know to be likeness enters your chest.

He grips your sides, “I like… being this close to you. And smelling that wonderful fruity stuff on you.”

You laugh, “You’ve said that before.”

He smiles, “I like you in this dress. I like that your scars are out. I like the fact you came without a date because I get to dance with you like this. And I like knowing you’re smiling right now without me needing to look because I can feel it against my cheek.” He pulls away to see proof of that smile. “I like you, (Y/N). Like a lot.”

Your cheeks start to feel itchy with salty tears, a quiet sob making your breath stutter.

“Like a lot a lot.”

Before watching the aftermath of that dance play out in your mind, you force yourself to the present. Claws rip out of your neck, and you wince, wiping at the tears that had dripped down your chin.

“How…” you sniffle, “How did you do that?”

Derek looks serious, searching for side effects in your crying, “It’s just something werewolves can do.”

“Never heard of that one before.” You cover another sniffle with a laugh, “Thank you,” you say, “Thank you.” You jump on him, wrapping your arms around his neck.

He’s frozen for about three seconds before placing his hands gingerly on your back, “You’re welcome.”

You’re on your tiptoes to reach him, but it’s the perfect height to hide your face in his chest, “He was so devastated when I didn’t remember.” You recall Stiles when he first saw you in the hospital, “He has to be so upset.”

“He’s miserable,” Derek says gruffly, pulling you away. “I need you to fix him. I didn’t think he was capable of being any more annoying.”

Your smile suddenly drops, “I never got the chance to tell him.” Your hands fly to your hair, completely ignoring the pain still pulsating in your temples. “I went to find Lydia before I…”

Derek raises his eyebrows, “Before you…”

You look at him with red eyes, “Derek this is so important. I need a ride. Please!”

~~~

The rain is in full force behind you, providing a backdrop to your panting silhouette. Just traveling from Derek’s car has you soaked in rainwater. The sleek black car drifts away under the cover of thunder.

You’re shaking terribly, water dripping from your hairline and down your face. The porch at least gives you some cover while you wait. It was ridiculous. You left the house in such a hurry, you hadn’t thought to change.

You wear comfy sage green pajamas, matching with little white daisies on them. A sunflower yellow knitted cardigan lays wet and heavy over your shoulders. One sleeve is dangling further down your arm than the other.

Anxiously you check that the police cruiser is absent from the driveway. Then you hear the door creak open.

Stiles is there in dark blue loungewear himself. It brings out the purple circles under his eyes.

“(Y/N)?” the dull expression in his face suddenly changes to one of deep concern, “What are you doing here? Did you walk in the rain?” He’s reaching for your cardigan, wishing to pull you into the shelter.

But he hesitates – not knowing if it was okay to touch you so forwardly. Not knowing if you’d find it a violation that a near stranger lays his hands on you.

It breaks your heart.

“I need to talk to you.”

He blinks, hand falling to his side, “Yeah, of course.” He opens the door further and ushers you in. “You must be freezing.” He jumps to find a towel to cover your shivering figure.

You’re pulling the wet cardigan off when he returns with a giant fluffy towel. He sees the straps of your pajama top and immediately averts his eyes, wrapping the towel around your shoulders. He rubs up and down your arms for about two seconds before catching himself again.

He takes three steps back, rubbing at his face harshly. “What do you want to talk about?”

You aren’t sure if the tears ever stopped since regaining your memories; it was too hard to discern what was from the rain and what was from you. But you look at Stiles now with a deep warmth in your chest.

It was so large and so warm it was constricting your lungs. Looking at him was making it hard to breathe. “Are you not sleeping?”

He clenches his jaw, “I try to sleep as much as possible. It’s probably not very restful sleep,” he runs a hand over his shaved head, “But… it’s nice to dream.”

You want to touch his face, touch the circles beneath his eyes. “There’s something I forgot to tell you. I completely forgot and then there just wasn’t any time to.” You hold the towel around your shoulders, taking a few steps toward him.

He looks scared, his throat bobbing as you approach.

“That night at the dance,” you start, “We were on the dance floor, and you were saying such wonderful things.” You shiver, “And I was afraid to admit the things I was feeling.”

Stiles’ eyes were growing wide. Wide and desperate. They were silently pleading with you. The very air surrounding you two seemed to be sucked out. A hitch is in your chest as you continue:

“I never got the chance to tell you… how I feel.”

His eyes were growing warm, tears lining his bottom lashes, “(Y/N)…”

“I like you too, Stiles,” you say with a proud smile. “I like you a lot.”

You watch the breath leave his lungs – like his chest had collapsed. He’s screwing up his face like he’s trying not to cry, but a tear falls anyway. “Really?”

You give a breathy laugh, voice choking on the emotion in your throat. “Really.” And you let the towel drop from your shoulders, launching yourself forward to crash your lips against his.

He stumbles back and grips your waist for support.

You stand in the entryway, holding his face and kissing him deeply. You tilt your head and make the kiss deeper; he follows a second behind you, still recovering. He’s shaking just as much as you are now.

Goosebumps erupt on your bare arms, and you pull away to look at him. Tears are smeared on both your cheeks.

“You remember?” he whispers softly, moving his hands to hold your face.

You run your hands down to his chest, “There’s this little trick with a werewolf and my spinal cord,” you shrug, unable to stop smiling. “It pulled everything back for me.”

He’s still trying not to cry, twisting his lips, “Thank god,” he gasps a sob. “Thank you god.” He pulls you in for another kiss, soft and tender this time. He wipes away the wet strands of hair framing your face.

You take a deep breath, tracing a finger up his chin to the soft skin beneath his eyes, “You really need to sleep.”

“I do,” he licks his lips, eyelashes sticking together with tears, “Just to see you.”

You take ahold of his wrists near your face, “You need real sleep.” You tug on his hands and lead the way upstairs. The rain continues to fall, accompanied by rumbling thunder. It gives you something to listen to as you enter Stiles’ bedroom.

You take a quick peek at the disarray: clothes strewn about the floor, old books open and stacked precariously on scrap paper, lacrosse equipment dirty with soil and grass piled in the hallway. The bed is scrambled like he was kicking in his sleep.

Pushing him to sit down on the mattress, you turn to move toward the dresser, but his hand clamps down on yours.

“Where are you going?”

You look back at the instant terror that envelops his face. “I’m just going to change out of my wet clothes.” You lean down to kiss his forehead, “I’ll be right back.”

At the dresser, you find a pair of plaid pajama pants and a shirt with a Doctor Who logo. In the hallway bathroom you change and comb through your hair. You’re hanging your wet clothes on the shower rod when you hear stuttered breaths coming from Stiles’ bedroom.

In a few quick steps you’re back in the room and see Stiles struggling to maintain his breathing. His eyes are still wet with tears and he’s holding his chest like it hurt. His head snaps to you when you enter, and a micro change happens in his expression – the smallest amount of relief.

You’re at his side in an instant, running your hands over his chest and to his face, “Stiles, it’s okay. I’m here and I remember. This isn’t a dream. We’re okay – I’m here.”

He nods his head, but still struggles to draw breath. He is fully panicking.

You grab the covers and pull them over you, crawling onto the bed and laying yourself over his body. Like a weighted blanket. You take deep breaths and hope he can mimic the feeling as he feels it against his torso.

One of his hands goes to your back, holding you to him. With his other, you intertwine your fingers. You pull your hands under your chin, giving them a kiss. With your head nestled into his chest, your free hand raises to be up by his pillow. You’re able to reach his short hair, running your fingers over his head in a soothing motion.

A tangle of limbs, your body holding his down, he starts to calm. He holds onto you like his life depends on it. Like if he lets go you’ll float back into his restless dreams.

It feels like hours later you both fall asleep, holding each other.

And it was the best sleep either of you have had in weeks.

~~~

Research Websites

Atrioventricular Canal Defect

Atrioventricular Canal Defect

Ventricular Tachycardia

Ventricular Tachycardia

Implantable Cardioverter-defibrillators (ICDs)

~~~

Taglist: @assassinsasha23 @tasty-book-fans @lovelybaka @the-fandom-queen @runs-with-sciss0rs @iamaslytherin0 @n3muru @bethsvrse @taylorbrooke-0912 @iloveyou2mia @everrrsincenewyork @gisellesprettylies @dullypully @taylordaughter @greenoliveslover @nataliambc @anehkael

[okay-j-hannah]

Part 5: Mieczyslaw

Teen Wolf : Multishot

Stiles Stilinski x Reader

Word Count: 13k

Warnings: series rewrite, season 1 {aka 2011}, slow burn, friends to lovers, Stiles pining, eventual NSFW, usual teen wolf levels of violence and gore, heart conditions, fainting

Request: This just came from my own head 😊  

A/N: A little more history of the Reader in this one - I honestly love her family's backstory

Part 4: Ollie's Catnip

Part 5: Mieczyslaw {You Are Here}

Part 6: Orange Cream and Peachy Sugar

The hospital was quiet that evening. You were assigned to the long-term care floor and spent long hours updating patient files and making your rounds. Checking vitals, refilling water bottles, adjusting patients with bed sores, and administering medication at the right times.

It was the perfect distraction. You would be missing the lacrosse game that night, missing the first game with Scott being co-captain and Stiles being first line.

You’d be missing Andrew and his dimpled grin.

Instead of focusing on that the rest of the night, you call Lydia who had texted you an SOS.

“What do you mean you’re done?”

“I mean, he sent me a pathetic text asking for his house key back. The loser is so down in the dumps that he doesn’t think he deserves me, which is right, of course.”

You hold the phone with your shoulder and start typing notes into a patient file, “I’m sorry, Lyds. Breakups suck.”

“He’s become such an asshole recently. I don’t know what’s gotten into him. But good riddance. I needed to climb the social food chain anyway. He’s been lacking in the lacrosse category.”

“Sounds like you’re handling it surprisingly well.”

“I’m completely over him. Only took a few minutes… seconds actually.”

You smile, “Yeah, you barely sound upset over it.”

She can hear your sarcasm, “Did you hear that Allison is still going to the game? Her dad and aunt are going too.”

“That’s weird,” you frown, “I wonder why.” With the Argents being hunters… you wonder how much they know about the number of werewolves in town.

“You’re still on shift tonight?”

“Yes, right where I want to be. The perfect excuse to miss the game.” You upload another patient file and wave to another night nurse leaving for her break. It was just you and one other nurse on the floor – a redhead named Jennifer.

“Anything exciting happening?” she asks in a huff, upset that the attention was no longer on her dilemma.

“Nope, I’m working the long-term floor. Everyone here is mostly in recovery or stuck in their beds. It’s usually pretty quiet at night, which is why there’s less staff.”

“Fascinating,” Lydia says quickly, “Anyway, I’ve got to go. I’m going to sit with Allison and scope out my next boyfriend.” She laughs before adding, “Don’t worry, Andrew is off the table.”

You scoff, “Yeah, thanks. Have fun.” And you slide your phone back into your scrubs pocket.

The next half hour was relatively quiet, just two call buttons going off. The rest of your time was spent making your rounds and completing chores. That is until a pair of sneakers comes walking down the hallway.

“Yeah, I said I can’t find her.”

You stand to confront the foreign male voice that was definitely intruding past visiting hours, only to find Stiles on the phone. He was getting snippy with whoever he was talking to, “Hey, listen here wolfman – the only reason I’m harboring your fugitive ass is because you saved (Y/N)’s life last full moon, got it? I don’t owe you any more favors.”

“What the hell?” you say, catching his attention, “Don’t you have a lacrosse game to get to, hotshot?”

In a few seconds you can see a range of emotions flickering through his face: confusion, happiness, worry, and something in the way he looks at your scrubs. “Hi, (Y/N).”

You walk around the nurses station and fold your arms, “Care to answer my question?”

He gives you a goofy side smile, “You’re talking to me.”

“Yes, Stiles,” you fight the immediate grin that wants to envelop your face. “What are you doing here?”

He leans into the phone for a second, “Uh… is there a Jennifer working here?”

“She’s the on call nurse tonight, why?” you pop a hip, arms still tightly crossed.

“What about Melissa?” he asks, walking down the hall and to a room. He speaks to the phone again, “Yeah, well, he’s not here either.”

“Who are you talking to?” you ask exasperatedly, “Stiles, you can’t be here past visiting hours. Would you please…”

“He’s not here. He’s gone, Derek.”

Your jaw drops, “The fugitive you’re harboring is Derek?”

He looks to you, “Yeah, the rest of the town doesn’t know he’s innocent because it’s actually a psycho Alpha werewolf that’s killing everyone,” he says to you. “You sure Melissa isn’t here?”

You hold your hands up, “I’m not answering anymore of your questions until you tell me what’s going on.”

Suddenly you can hear the frantic voice of Derek over the phone and Stiles has a look of instant terror. It sets you on edge when a mysterious man stands at the corner of the hall; it was as if he had appeared out of thin air.

Half his face is covered in burn scars and after a second thought you realize that it’s Peter Hale – the long-term resident of the floor. Your eyes widen at the sight of him standing without his wheelchair and Stiles takes a few steps in your direction.

“You must be Stiles,” Peter says in an eerily calm tone. He’s barely smiling as he nods in your direction, “Hello, (Y/N). It’s nice to finally be able to speak to you.”

Stiles drops his hand holding the phone, walking back until he feels you near him. He reaches behind him and takes hold of your arm. Your instinct is to press yourself closer into his back, “Is that…?”

“He’s the Alpha,” Stiles mutters, whipping his head to the side at the newcomer.

“Jennifer!” you say, “We have a situation with…”

The redheaded nurse holds her head high, “Shut up!”

Your mouth clamps shut – how many people are in on this? Stiles, in his usual fashion, can’t stay quiet for long.

“You and… him? You’re his… and he’s the…” Stiles is shielding you with his body at this point. “Oh my god, we’re gonna die. We’re gonna die.”

You jab a finger into his spine, silencing him. “This is not how I’m supposed to die.”

But with an elbow to the face, Jennifer falls to the floor and Derek takes her place. You forget momentarily how tall, dark, and handsome he is. Peter speaks again with that same calm, menacing tone.

“That’s not nice. She’s my nurse.”

You start to pull Stiles against you, taking you both behind the nurses station.

“She’s a psychotic bitch helping you kill people.”

Peter makes his way over, “You think I killed Laura on purpose? One of my own family?”

A growl ripples from Derek’s throat, fangs appearing from his open mouth. Blue eyes glowing with strange power, he bounds for the attack. You’re paralyzed at seeing the action up close.

“Holy shi…”

Stiles drags you to the floor, doggy-paddling across the tile like a swimmer. You army crawl beside him as Peter and Derek start to throw each other against the hospital walls. Bits of plaster and plastic side railing break away easily.

“Okay,” you say, coughing as you breathe in some plaster dust, “I believe you now. I really believe you.”

“Is that why you haven’t been talking to me or Scott?” Stiles yells over the growling werewolves. “Scott could have easily proven werewolves existed if you just asked him to show himself.”

They continue their sliding movements across the station and to the next hall, the sound of breaking glass loud behind you. “No, I stopped talking to you because I needed a break after hearing the truth. It’s a lot to think about when you realize the whole freaking town has lore in supernatural entities that aren’t just make believe… they’re actual fucking werewolves!” You swipe an arm across the tile and shove his legs out of the way to reach his side. “I needed time to cope with the sudden shift in what I knew to be reality.”

“Understandable,” he pants, tongue sticking out, “I just wish we could’ve helped you cope instead of you just shutting us out.”

“Like I said… I wasn’t really thinking!”

“And of course it was the same night as Scott forcing a kiss on you and trying to kill you in your own home…”

“Shut the hell up, Stilinski! Bigger problems at hand!” The werewolves were moving to a different patient room to continue their fight. You gesture to the end of the hall, “The emergency exit is there. We just have to get there and down the stairs. We can call 911 when we’re outside.”

Stiles agrees, watching you with a different panic, “How’s your heart?”

“If anything happens we’re in a hospital,” you say frankly, “Come on.” You lead the way as the fighting becomes quieter.

Stiles admires you from behind, standing to run the last few feet. You slam into the door and guide the way down the many flights of stairs. Stiles is jumping whole steps and crashing into the walls.

Your lungs start to fight for breath by the time you reach the bottom, Stiles tripping over the last step and falling to his knees beside you.

“Does… Does the Alpha have control…” you pant, holding a stitch in your side, “… over Derek?”

Stiles breathes dramatically, his face scrunching up in a funny way. “I wouldn’t be surprised. He might be forcing Derek onto his side right now with some crazy alpha mind control.”

You stumble toward the exit, shoving it open to a gust of chilly night air. You lean against the hospital wall, hands on your hips. Stiles follows, pulling out his car keys.

“Can you make it to the jeep?”

“If I say no would you carry me?”

He shrugs, pulling a face, “No promises. I could probably swing a piggy-back ride.”

“Yeah, no thanks,” you say, bending down to put your head between your knees. It was routine when you were out of breath and starting to feel lightheaded. Your hands lay flat on the concrete, your mind focusing on how cold and gritty it feels under your fingers. You listen to the crickets and the wind whistling through trees. You smell the honey sweet rain from Stiles.

A large warm hand spreads against your back, rubbing up and down your spine.

You feel the air flood your lungs, “Have you called the police yet?”

“I told them there was a possible break-in and a nurse got knocked out,” he says, “They’ll be here soon.”

You take a few deep breaths, soothed by Stiles’ hand. “I have to wait for the police.” You sit up and Stiles retreats a few feet. The action makes you consider him for a few seconds. “I’m not mad at you or Scott. I just… I needed some distance while I tried to figure things out.”

There’s a bob in Stiles’ throat, “And… have you figured things out?”

You screw up your lips in thought, “I need to talk to Scott first.”

Stiles nods vigorously, hope lighting his eyes. “Yeah, yeah – for sure. Let’s go find him now, I’m sure the lacrosse game is almost over.”

A flash of pity is in your face, “You missed your first game.”

“Yeah, well…” he waves a hand, extending it to help you to your feet. “I had a couple more important things to tackle tonight.”

“Won’t your dad be disappointed?”

“Maybe a little,” he shrugs, walking to the passenger side of the jeep, “But if the pinkeye epidemic continues then I’m still first line for the time being!”

You giggle, sliding into the jeep, “I’ll pray for the conjunctivitis.” With the heater still broken, you’re grateful you chose a long-sleeve undershirt for your scrubs. It took a few minutes for you to call your boss and explain the situation.

The police were on their way, and you were meant to stay to give a witness statement. It would also have been irresponsible to leave your patients in their time of need. Choosing to wait in the jeep was just common sense seeing as there were two werewolves having a row upstairs.

“Do you think Derek is okay?” you look out the window.

Stiles was drumming his fingers against the steering wheel, “He’s fine. Peter will probably try to get him under his control.”

“Then what?”

“He’ll keep trying to get Scott into his pack.” Stiles leans more against the door to get a better look at you. “So we have some catching up to do.”

“Like what?” you smile.

He frowns, picking at his fingers, “I don’t know… like how Jackson broke up with Lydia.”

“Yeah,” you grimace, “Lydia only just told me about the breakup tonight.”

Stiles blows air between his lips, “Jackson always has another agenda. He’s been black mailing Scott because he wants the werewolf bite.”

“You’re kidding,” you say, “How did he find out about the supernatural?”

“I don’t know! He hasn’t been talking to anyone, not even Danny.”

You lean against the door to match Stiles’ stance, “Well, I know Lydia has said he’s never been the same since Scott outperformed him. He’s been slipping ever since.” You rub at your eyes, “He doesn’t talk to me much, and now it’s awkward between him and Lydia.”

“There’s also the news that the Argents know about a second beta werewolf.” At your look of confusion, he continues, “They know there’s an alpha and they know about Derek. They’ve realized that there’s a second werewolf and they’re trying to figure out who it is.”

“They being Allison’s dad and aunt?”

Stiles nods, “They have been scouting ever since – they think it might be a teenager.”

Your head perks up, “Lydia said Allison’s family was going to be at the game tonight. I bet they’re looking for clues as to who could be the other werewolf.”

“Let’s just hope they don’t suspect Scott.”

Stiles continues to pick at his nails, looking at them instead of you. “I’ve also heard that you might be going on a date with a certain potential lacrosse boyfriend…?”

You fight a smile, “Andrew asked me out.”

“And you said?”

“Yes!” you laugh, “I’ve been waiting for him to ask since I started working with Coach on the lacrosse field.” You miss the bitterness in Stiles’ face; he was trying to hide it with his downcast gaze.

A police siren could be heard down the highway. Stiles clears his throat, “Is he going to ask you to the winter formal?”

“I don’t know,” you shrug, tickled at the thought, “But that’s still a couple weeks away.”

“Do you want him to?” Stiles finally looks at you, straining to keep the hurt he feels at bay. The tightness of his chest was smothered by the boiling jealousy in his stomach. He hates the way you sound doting on Andrew. And he hates himself for being jealous over something he shouldn’t be mad about.

You made your choice and Andrew is a good guy.

“I’m not sure. He doesn’t know about my heart and a formal dance would be prime time for it to give out.” You take a deep breath, “I’d rather not spoil an evening like that.”

Stiles nods and considers you, “I guess you just need to go with someone that knows how to calm you. That way you don’t need to worry.”

It was suddenly tense for a few seconds while the police cars come closer to the hospital. You put a hand on the door handle and say, “You should probably get out of here so your dad doesn’t overhear why you might not be at the game. Police radios, you know…”

“Right,” Stiles says, “Let me know if anything comes up. I’m going to find Scott and tell him about our newly identified alpha.”

~~~

The next few days felt a little less hostile as the friend group settles into a new norm. Jackson is still moseying up to Allison, who is still apologizing on behalf of Scott for the impromptu kissing. You console her in that Scott wasn’t himself that day.

Allison was also venturing into new hobbies to keep her mind off things. She had taken to practicing archery in the woods, sometimes taking you or Lydia with her.

Jackson was talking in angry whispers to Scott and Stiles more often. You know it has something to do with seeking the werewolf curse.

As for yourself, you were working on your science project implanting E.coli in varying meats and cooking them, swabbing each as you go and putting samples in petri dishes. They were currently incubating in the chemistry lab while you walk down the hall with Andrew.

“I’m sorry I missed it,” you say, eyeing the way Andrew held your books for you.

“Hey, now we’re going to state,” he says, “You can come to that game.”

You smile, almost to English, “I’ll bring my pom-poms and megaphone.”

Andrew laughs, handing back your books for class, “I won’t say no to a little cheerleading outfit.” He winks at you and a warm blush envelops both your faces.

“I’ll see you later,” you say.

Walking into class you’re quick to notice Scott and Stiles staring at you (Stiles with a little more of a frown). You choose to sit in front of Scott, taking any opportunity for Allison to be near him.

“(Y/N)…” he starts with hesitance, “Stiles told me you’re talking again.”

You don’t turn around at first, “And?”

He leans forward across the desk, and you can hear his whisper over your shoulder. “I’ve been trying to think of a way to apologize to you this last week and… nothing seems good enough. After you avoided me and everything, I thought I lost my chance.” He sighs and you can feel it in your hair. “(Y/N), I am so so sorry. I’m sorry for attacking you – I’m sorry for forcing a kiss on you – I’m sorry for scaring you – and I’m sorry for trying to kill you.”

Very slowly you pivot in your chair to look at him.

Those puppy-dog eyes were back full force. Those were Scott’s eyes – not the dark, menacing look they had on the full moon. You knew the difference was night and day. The real Scott McCall would never do those things if he was in full control.

“I feel terrible,” he continues, afraid at your persistent silence. “I’m an awful friend and I should have told you the truth sooner. Maybe you would have been more prepared for the full moon like Stiles.”

You blink, “Have you apologized to Allison?”

“Well, I tried…” he scratches at his shaggy head, adding to his puppy-dog look. “She was shooting arrows in the forest with Lydia yesterday… and I needed to return a necklace of hers.”

“You mean you were stalking her?”

“The details are a little foggy,” he says quickly, “I might’ve scared her and she tazed me.”

Stiles snorts from beside Scott and you have to stop yourself from losing your composure. “She’s picked up a few things since breaking up with you.”

“I noticed,” he says lowly. “Anyway, I tried to apologize, and I think it got to her a little. She’s still mad, but I think she might forgive me eventually.”

“I told you,” you say with a slight smile. It gives Scott hope.

“And what about you?” his dark brown eyes are wide with anxiety.

You share a look with Stiles, who shrugs. “I forgive you.”

Scott sighs, his head falling into his arms on the desk. “Thank god. I promise, (Y/N), I didn’t mean to do any of those things. The full moon had me wired and it was like something else was controlling my body.”

“It’s okay, Scott. I did a lot of thinking while taking a break.” You look between Scott and Stiles as the tardy bell rings. “And I don’t think I can be involved with all this werewolf stuff.”

Stiles is nearly out of his chair with how he reacts. “What do you mean?” his desk squeaks terribly against the tile floor.

“I mean, I’d like to still be friends with you guys…”

An awful needle like puncture was screwing its way through Stiles’ chest. Friends.

“… but I don’t really want to be included in any werewolf business or late night investigations or almost being killed – which has happened to me about three times now since starting school.”

“Werewolf business is a very regular part of my life,” Scott says with a disbelieving laugh.

You nod, “I get it, I just mean I’d love to hang out or go to a party sometime, but I can’t be involved with anything else related to the alpha situation.”

Stiles was having trouble swallowing as Scott continues, “Like it or not, (Y/N) – you’re kind of a part of my pack. The pack that the Alpha wants me to get rid of.”

“Then… I’m resigning from the pack,” you shrug half-heartedly.

Stiles’ jaw nearly hits the floor as the teacher snaps at the three of you for talking. There is about three minutes of quiet as the teacher explains the upcoming book report that you’ve already finished on Sense and Sensibility.

After that you receive a group text from both Scott and Stiles.

Stiles: You’re just unfriending the pack?!

(Y/N): Can’t I do that and still be friendly?

Stiles: No

Scott: Of course you can. We just don’t get why

You raise your hand and share what stance you took on the book report requirements. You wrote an analytical piece on the personalities of two sisters: Elenor being all sense and Marianne being all sensibility.

The teacher looks pleased and asks for more volunteers. You’re now covered to keep texting.

(Y/N): Tell you later

Scott: Ok

Stiles: Tell us now

You tuck your phone away and feel it buzz with a few more messages before going quiet. You don’t mean for it to be such a shock. You just knew that the more stress you had the more likely you’d have a fainting episode with your heart condition. That would lead to more heart damage and an end that you want to prolong as much as possible.

Being surrounded by high stress werewolf situations was going to be the death of you.

You are quick to leave the classroom at the bell and the boys weren’t far behind.

“Hey,” Stiles grabs your shoulder, slowing you down. “Explain.”

Scott holds his backpack straps, awkward but less demanding on hearing your explanation.

“It’s not a good idea for me to be around a lot of stress,” you sigh, “You know… because of my heart.”

Both boys purse their lips and share a look. Scott is quiet when he asks, “Because you have a tachee-heart?”

You and Stiles both say, “Tachycardia?” You laugh and continue, “Yes. My heartbeat is already irregular and if I do anything to add to it… it’s bad news bears.”

“Care to expand on what these bad news bears are?” Stiles asks irritably.

“That’s a talk for another day,” you say quickly, leading the way to your next class. “Just know that the more my heart struggles the worse off I’ll be.”

“But we can help you,” Stiles says, pressing into your shoulder as you all walk down the hallway. “We can calm you down if that happens.” I can calm you down.

You sigh, “Not always. It can be random and persistent.” You stop outside the door of your next class. “This isn’t me saying we can’t be friends, just… I want to avoid any werewolfy scenarios that might involve near death and/or general terror.”

You leave Scott and Stiles to contemplate out in the hallway. Shoulders sagging, Scott groans, “This werewolf thing is ruining my life.”

“Yeah, and mine.” Stiles broods at the classroom door, taking a second to realize what he said and turning to the mild anger on Scott’s face. “What? I’m the best friend – I am legally bound to whatever misery you experience.”

“All the new friends I’ve made are literally being pushed away because of this curse,” Scott rubs hard at his face, “And it’s ruined my love life, not to mention my lifespan. Hunters are basically knocking down my front door!”

“Yeah, it’s really putting a damper on my love life too.” Stiles mumbles to himself, “I really thought I had a shot with her.”

Scott shoves his friend, “Even after all her talk about Andrew?”

Stiles scowls, “That’s just a silly crush.”

“And what she feels for you is… what exactly?”

“Hidden feelings that I will unlock one day for her to realize that I am the perfect guy for her…” he licks his lips, wincing, “… despite the clumsiness, sarcasm, and general idiocy.”

Scott laughs, “Yeah, she’s really missing out.”

“Hey!” he rams into Scott as they walk towards their next class. “I really like her, Scott. Like… I like her, like her.”

“I know, Loverboy.”

“She’s all I can think about, and I know I’m just a pathetic friend of hers, but I’m hopeless, Scott! Completely hopeless.”

Scott gives him a look, “Are you sure you’re not stalking her?”

“In a broad sense of the term,” Stiles shrugs, “I’ve never felt this comfortable around a girl before. I’ve never felt this way about any girl.”

“You’ve got it bad,” Scott sighs, “I know the feeling well.”

~~~

You walk through the aisles of computers to sit near the back beside a hunched figure. He keeps his head down even as you watch his eyes dart to see who you are. If anything it makes him more shy, his shoulders drawing in as if he were trying to make himself as small as possible.

You sling your backpack onto the ground and ignore the random text Stiles sent you about the history of the male circumcision. He was always sending you the most out-of-pocket things.

“Hey,” you smile at the quiet boy, “My name’s (Y/N)…” He turns his head a little more and you instantly recognize him as one of the benchwarmers on the lacrosse team, “… and you’re Isaac, right?”

His blue eyes seem to warm at your recognition, “Yeah, Isaac Lahey,” he clears his throat, “I uh…”

“You play lacrosse!” your smile widens, “I didn’t realize we had computer science together.”

“Play is a strong word,” he says with a hint of a smile. “I sort of keep to myself.”

You lean on your elbow, considering him as he fidgets under your gaze. “I think the last time we talked was when I was passing out permission slips for that spring retreat Coach was talking about.”

Isaac nods his head, still bowing like he was trying to hide behind his computer screen. “I don’t talk much.”

“You didn’t bring back your permission slip if I remember correctly.”

“No,” he clears his throat again, finding it hard to swallow. “My dad needs me to stay home.”

“Even for just a weekend?” your brows knit.

He licks his lips, “He needs help at work and… I’m the only one around to do it.”

“Shame,” you mutter, “I’d like to have seen you there. Maybe we could’ve roasted marshmallows together and tossed Coach’s whistle in the lake.”

His lips upturn a little more, “You’re going on the retreat?”

“I don’t think the Coach can survive without me,” you stifle a laugh, “Besides I’m the only one who knows anything about the retreat. He probably couldn’t drive a single one of you up there.” You nudge your arm into his, “You should ask your dad again, see if he’ll change his mind.”

Isaac has an emotion you can’t gauge flash across his eyes. “Maybe.” He nods and hides that smile you’re trying to pull out of him. “I wouldn’t mind messing with Coach, though.”

“We could hide his energy drinks or put dye in his toothpaste,” you muse, “Make his teeth blue for a day.”

“Or we could put a squirrel in his cabin,” Isaac says with a little more enthusiasm, “Or maybe we could hide his shaving kit and see what kind of beard he can grow.”

You snort, “I bet it’s as white as an old mans.”

“It’s because all us kids give him gray hairs,” Isaac laughs, smiling wide.

You laugh along, suddenly struck with his change of demeanor. “You have a great smile, Isaac,” you say, “It looks good on you.”

A rush of red fills his cheeks, unable to stop smiling now. He isn’t hunched behind his computer anymore, “Thank you.”

The teacher was about ready to throttle you two for giggling over her talking. You nudge Isaac again with your arm, putting a finger to your lips.

~~~

The next day you’re being dropped off at the Argent residence for a ‘family dinner.’ Allison has been complaining about how often her dad talks about meeting you. It was odd not having met them – almost every parent in town knew who you were.

That was the consequence of a small town with two working parents in the emergency fields. Most adults knew that they had to leave at the drop of a dime if your heart was ever in trouble.

Hence the anxiety making your fingers pull on your sleeves.

“(Y/N)!” Allison greets, pulling you into a hug, “I’m so sorry for this,” she whispers.

You whisper back, “Don’t be.” But a flash of fear crosses your face when the door widens to reveal a blue-eyed, middle-aged man. “Mr. Argent?”

“(Y/N),” he extends a hand, eyes never blinking as he probes you, “We finally meet.” He shakes your hand firmly, “My wife and daughter have only had good things to say.”

And my friends have told me about your penchant for shooting arrows at teenage boys. “Nice to meet you.” You follow the family inside and to the dining room. “I hope you don’t mind…”

In your free hand was a small container of peanut butter brownies you had made earlier that day. Chris Argent looks pleased when he inspects the contents, “How wonderful – you didn’t have to.”

“I know,” you say, handing the dessert to Allison to plate. The Argents were able to provide for themselves, plus extra.

Living on the other side of town, the Argent residence was much more lavish than what you were used to. It created a very unfortunate divide between the teenagers. An invisible line that was rarely mentioned, but nonetheless present.

Over in these neighborhoods, Lydia, Allison, and Jackson lived with rich crown moldings, nice cars, high ceilings, and antique furniture. More in the valley, you, Stiles, and Scott lived in modest homes with hand-me-down items and a small growing pile of bills.

With one check you bet the Argents could take away your family’s medical debt.

“Your home is lovely as always,” you say, admiring the chandelier in the dining room. “And dinner smells amazing.”

“Not my doing,” a dirty blonde says with a crisp laugh. A near forced laugh as her less piercing blue eyes meet yours. She assesses you with something a little colder than Chris. “Hello, I’m Kate, and I have no talent for cooking.”

You give a wave across the table, instantly wary of her. Allison pops up beside you, “That’s my aunt I told you about.” She looks to Kate as she sits, “(Y/N) is an amazing cook.”

Kate nods, still scrutinizing you with her gaze. “What else are you good at, (Y/N)?”

“Reading,” you say instantly, sharing a laugh with Allison. “I keep to myself mostly.”

With the table set, the Argent family sits to enjoy the meal. Victoria Argent, whom you’ve met the few times you’ve been out with Allison, sat with her husband.

“So, (Y/N), tell us a little more about yourself,” Chris says, spearing asparagus with his fork. “You’re close with our daughter but we know almost nothing about you.”

You try to swallow your roast chicken quickly as Allison scolds her father. “I told you not to interrogate her,” she leans closer to you, “He doesn’t really have a ‘pleasant conversation’ option in his vernacular.”

“It’s alright,” you say with a wave, grabbing a nice cloth napkin to dab at your mouth. “My parents like to know who I’m friends with too.”

“You know Scott and Jackson, correct?” Kate digs into her chicken with a knife.

“Yes, we’re all friends. I also am a teacher assistant for Coach Finstock, so I see them at lacrosse a lot.”

Chris considers you, “But you weren’t at the last lacrosse game?”

“No, I work at the hospital as a medical assistant and I picked up a shift that night,” you take a sip of your water. How much information was too much information to give?

Kate tilts her head in your direction, “Wasn’t there a break-in at the hospital that night?”

You nod slowly, “Yeah, someone got into an altercation past visiting hours. I don’t know who but when I went to investigate the noise, there was a lot of broken glass and cracks in the walls. Thank goodness none of the patients were harmed.”

Chris takes his time cutting his meal into pieces, “That sounds terrible. What did you do?”

“I called the police, checked on my residents, and ran outside to meet the cops.” You take a small bite of food, “They didn’t find anything besides the damage.”

“Cameras?” Kate questions.

You shake your head, “My co-workers said that they had been damaged as well. Wiped clean or lost… I don’t know exactly.”

Chris seems satisfied for the time being, “Well, I’m glad you got out safely, whatever it was.”

Kate, on the other hand, seems to perk with interest, “I hear you’ve had a run-in with danger a couple times this year.” At your look of confusion, she nods toward your collar. “The attack on the video store, I mean.” She barely moves a centimeter as she stares you down, “Allison told me you had gotten clawed pretty bad.”

You spot the wince in Allison’s brow. “I did get attacked that night,” you wipe at your mouth again. “It was pretty bad for a while, infected and everything. But I’m okay now.”

Kate was persistent, “Must have left a pretty gnarly scar.” Her eyebrows lift as if expecting you to reveal your shoulder. She was scolded by her niece.

“It’s still a little pink, but that’ll go away with time,” you say as nonchalantly as possible. “I’d say it makes me look a little cooler than I am.” You shift the collar of your shirt an inch to reveal the tail end of three massive claw marks, another curling around your arm. It was your turn to gauge the reaction of the Argents.

Chris and Kate share a look and you clear your throat in response. Are you making yourself a possible werewolf suspect?

“And what do you guys do for work?” you say, steering the conversation off yourself. “Allison says that you’re a weapons dealer?”

Chris pours himself more water, “That’s right. We have quite the collection if you’re interested.”

You shake your head quickly, “I’m not really built for that. I enjoy my books and my lazy cat sleeping in my lap as I read.”

He nods, hopefully in a sign of respect. “That’s why Kate is here. She deals in weaponry as well – a very skilled hunter.”

She raises her glass, “The art of the kill. I needed my brother’s expertise on a few pieces for my latest hunt.”

“What do you hunt?” you say innocently.

“Big game predators,” she says, cold eyes locked on you. “Cougars, bears, wolves.”

You almost smirk. These people are hiding in plain sight.

“My mom is a buyer for a store in San Fransico,” Allison steers the conversation even more. “Right, mom?”

Victoria, already done with her meal and leaning back in her chair, replies, “Yes, it’s a charming little boutique. I also teach math at a boarding school for boys on the side.”

You nod, “Why math?”

“Strategy,” she says flatly. “Equations and probabilities. I enjoy the art of stratagem.”

That was slightly off putting as well. Did these people know how to be subtle? How had Allison gone this long without knowing her family history?

“And your parents are…?” Victoria continues.

You smile, “My mom works behind the desk at the police station – taking and directing calls. My dad works at the firehouse.”

“You must hear everything that goes on around here,” Chris smirks.

“Only when I ask,” you say, “And that’s considering nothing wild has happened in Beacon Hills for years…”

Kate leans back in her chair as well, crossing her arms in contemplation. “Have you lived here your whole life?”

“Yes,” you say, pushing your plate away, “Almost since birth.”

“Where did you live before?” Chris asks.

He might be intimidating, but you enjoy talking to him much more than Kate. “My parents lived in Palo Alto when I was born. We had a nice house and my mom worked security at Stanford University. My dad actually met her at the San Francisco Bay. He was a lifeguard before he was a firefighter, and he watched the swimmers at Keller Beach and Berkeley Marina.” You smile a sweet smile, “She kept coming back to those places to see him… even pretended to drown once for a kiss.”

“Must be a fan of The Sandlot,” Allison snickers, enjoying hearing you talk more than her family.

 “So why make the move to Beacon Hills?” Kate asks, arms still tightly wound.

Your smile falls a little, “I was born with a congenital heart defect. The medical bills and surgeries became too much… and we had to downgrade.”

Allison puts a hand on your leg beneath the table. Chris sends a piercing look to his sister and mutters, “I’m sorry, (Y/N) – I didn’t know you were sick.”

“Still am,” you say with mock cheerfulness, holding your water glass with two hands to give yourself something to focus on. “Heart problems are persistent. We try to keep it as discreet as possible.”

He nods, looking at you with a different air of likeness. “It sounds like you have a wonderful family.”

“I do,” you say fast, “Thank you.”

They move on to the brownies you brought as a means to change the subject. Victoria hums her appreciation, “These are delicious, did you put caramel in here too?”

“Caramel is one of the greatest inventions of all time and deserves to be incorporated into as many sweets as possible,” you laugh, “Of course I put caramel in them.”

The table laughs as you eat, feeling a little stripped bare after revealing so much about yourself. As Allison said, it did feel more like an interrogation rather than a pleasant family meal. You were quick to text the boys as you leave the residence.

“My place in ten minutes. I have an Argent update.” You smile as you add, “… and leftover brownies.”

Allison was kind enough to drive you home, apologizing the entire way. “My dad wasn’t as brazen as usual, but my aunt Kate?” she rolls her eyes, “I can’t believe how much she was grilling you.”

“You have a protective family,” you shrug, “So do I.”

“Your parents have a good reason to be extra protective of you,” she retorts, “My family is just nosy and suspicious and… I don’t know, my aunt and dad have been a little tense with each other this visit. They usually get along so well.”

“How much longer is your aunt staying here?” you ask, holding your container of leftover brownies.

Allison knits her brow in thought, “I’m not sure. She says she’s getting ready for another big hunt and just needs supplies and my dad’s advice. But I don’t know… sometimes I feel like she isn’t telling me everything.”

You thank Allison for the ride and the invitation to dinner. You promise to give her an update on your date with Andrew that weekend, and she drives off. Entering your house was a breath of fresh air.

Oliver trots to your side, his furry underbelly swaying side to side before you scoop him up and kiss his head. He purrs instantly.

“How was dinner?” your mom asks, sitting at the dining table with little potted plants in front of her. She was trying to grow herbs from seeds and the lavender was not doing so well.

“It was fine,” you kick off your shoes, “Her family is a little interrogative.”

Tom walks in with his usual cola, no doubt with a few ounces of whiskey poured in. “I knew they were a little tense, especially after that Chris guy shot the mountain lion at parent teacher conferences.”

You scratch under Ollie’s chin, “It was still nice, but I would watch out for that Kate Argent. She scares me a little.” You sit at the table and watch your mom preen the little sprouts of eucalyptus and rosemary. “Oh, I also invited Scott and Stiles over, if that’s okay.”

Tom folds his arms, making them look massive beneath his firehouse flannel. “I thought you liked that Andrew guy.”

“I can like a guy and be friends with other guys, dad,” you snicker, “I’m just going to take my medicine real quick, will you send them up when they get here?”

Your mom waves you off, adding some water to her seedlings, “Leave me one of those brownies, would you?”

A minute later, and having taken all your prescription meds, there’s a howling laugh coming from downstairs. You move to the foot of the stairs to see Stiles beaming and your dad wiping his eyes.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Tom says, “Stilinski here was just telling me about a police fiasco with a red tricycle and a klepto.”

You look puzzled as Stiles scratches at the back of his head, “Yeah, I might’ve stolen some already stolen items from evidence when I was a kid. I was the prime suspect for about three days with all the stuff in my possession.”

“And at five years old,” your dad laughs, downing his drink.

“I really wanted the tricycle!” Stiles retorts, “It was my first bike.”

Tom shakes his head, “Learning to pedal on stolen property.”

Scott pulls on his friend, “It was nice talking to you guys.”

“Of course, sweetie,” your mom says, “Now not too late, you still have school tomorrow.”

Walking up the stairs (Stiles tripping over at least two of the steps) you lead the boys into your room, Oliver already on your bed.

“Hey, buddy…” Stiles gets on his knees and crawls to the edge of the bed, “How’s the fuzz ball?”

Ollie perks his ears and blinks slowly at Stiles, bowing his head for a pet. Though upon Scott’s arrival, the cat sets his ears back and hisses.

“What the…” you mutter, watching your cat growl low in his throat and dart to leave the bedroom. “He’s never acted like that before.”

Scott looks guilty, “Well, I am part dog and… I did break into your house as a werewolf not too long ago.”

Your lips make a thin line, “Right. Cats and dogs don’t always get along.” You walk to your bed, flicking at Stiles’ head as you sit down, “Do you guys want a brownie? They’re leftover from my dinner with the Argents.”

Stiles’ greedy fingers dive for the plastic container while Scott shoves his hands in his pockets. “You had dinner at their house?”

You relay some of the conversation you had. The mysterious penchant for weapons and hunting big game predators. The interrogative questions on the hospital break-in and your involvement with Scott and Jackson. The request to see the claw marks on your shoulder.

“Do they think you might be the second beta too?” Scott asks with a tense line between his eyebrows. Stiles was too busy eating his third brownie.

“Maybe… do they think a scratch could turn you?”

“That’s what Derek said,” Scott swallows hard, “He told us a deep enough alpha scratch might give you the curse. The Argents might have the same theory.” He smacks his forehead, “Which is why they’re suspicious of Jackson. He has those claw marks in his neck from Derek.”

You frown, “And they don’t know they’re from Derek and not the Alpha.”

“But they do know your scars are from the Alpha,” Scott mutters worriedly, “I wouldn’t be surprised if they do a follow-up on you.”

“But after I told them about my heart condition, they seemed to back off. At least Chris did.”

You relay the conversation that you had about your parents meeting in Palo Alto and the move to Beacon Hills because of your heart. You remember the likeness Chris Argent had in his voice as he expressed his apologies for your sickness.

“If you’re sick then you couldn’t have the curse,” Scott mumbles, picking at his chin. “Werewolves heal really fast unless the wound is supernatural too.”

Stiles is licking his fingers when he suddenly blurts, “Do you think if you were a werewolf your heart would be cured?”

You shrug, finding the amount of brownie left on Stiles’ face amusing. “I don’t really want to find out. Anyway, I knew you guys would probably want to know.”

“Still not keen on all this werewolf business?” Stiles asks.

“I’m just trying to protect myself.” You sit on the bed, Stiles on the ground and leaning against the mattress. He’s looking up at you with his brown eyes, fizzing with warmth like cola and whiskey. “It’s not that I don’t want to investigate with you guys. I just worry what it’ll do to my heart.”

You laugh and point at your own face, “You’ve got chocolate all over your mouth.”

Stiles is quick to rub his mouth across his shirt sleeves, “Those brownies were just too damn good.” There was still a smudge at the corner of his lips.

“Maybe if you swallowed between bites…” you move your fingers to his face, lifting his chin to look up at you. He’s frozen as you move your thumb to the corner of his mouth and wipe down and under his bottom lip.

Eyes wide and imploring as they look up at you. He’s all sweet innocence and deeply adoring as you touch his mouth. The brown of his eyes was melting into the sticky sweet sap color, like warm honey in the sunlight.

You pull your hand away and suck the chocolate off the pad of your thumb, “… but thank you for the compliment. I’m not as much of a baker.”

Scott was trying to keep a smile off his face as his hand hovered near his crinkled nose. He was smelling something that was flying off Stiles like a firework set aflame. The poor boy was squirming in his spot on the ground, crossing his legs and keeping his hands over his lap.

“How was Allison?” Scott changes the subject.

You look up, now ignoring the sappy eyes gazing from below. “She was fine – maybe a little embarrassed about her family. It was strange knowing the motive behind her family’s questions but seeing none of it register with her.”

“I have a feeling she’ll find out soon enough.”

“Me too,” you stand, “For now she’s releasing a lot of her stress through archery and training with her aunt.”

Scott shivers, “Scary.”

You nod, walking to the door and hearing Stiles scramble to his feet. “I’ll see you guys at school tomorrow?”

Getting into the jeep was uncomfortable, Stiles pulling at his jeans. Scott was laughing at him before too long, “Dude, you should have seen your face. You really are hopeless.”

Stiles groans, slamming his forehead into the steering wheel, “She touched me and every thought just flew out of my head.”

“I could smell it off you,” Scott grimaces, “Just awful lovey-dovey sex hormones, even without the full moon I could smell it.”

Stiles sat straight, making the jeep wiggle side to side. He had a ruddy red mark on his forehead. “Did you smell anything from (Y/N)?”

Scott clamps his mouth shut before shaking his head. “I could hear her uneven heartbeat, but that’s nothing new.”

In a dramatic turn of events, Stiles slumps in his seat and puts the car in drive. “I need to figure out a way to tell her.”

“Tell her your feelings?” Scott gaps, “What about the possibility of utterly crushing humiliation? Not to mention ruining what friendships we still have.”

“Thanks for adding to the anxiety, Scott,” he grumbles, “I just… I can’t help thinking about how I am with her. I have never been able to just talk about my mom to anyone… but with her it’s easy. I’ve never brought a girl over to my house before… but with (Y/N) it was a no brainer. I’ve never been so equally terrified and comfortable with a girl. And with her heart…”

“You’re like an anchor for her,” Scott says quietly, all teasing aside. “You can calm her.”

Stiles puts one hand over his cropped hair, “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell her.”

“You know the difference between you and Andrew Wickstrom, Stiles?”

He snorts, “He’s maybe four inches taller than me, has perfect curly hair, and is way better at lacrosse than I am.”

“He asked (Y/N) out,” Scott says, “You just need to ask her out.”

~~~

Friday night was all excitement and butterflies as you walk around a strip mall with Andrew. The white fairy lights turn on when the sun sets, and you’re left walking on cobblestones and eating ice cream.

You were laughing at the ridiculous training regime that Coach was making the boys do in preparation for the state game.

“What is the benefit of running laps to the classroom and out to the field?”

“Coach makes us carry his stuff too and from his office,” Andrew mocks, “He makes it sound like an exercise, but really he just wants us to fetch his granola bars and energy drinks.”

You laugh again, “That sounds about right. How do you feel about the game?”

“Since switching to goalie it’s been hard figuring the plays out. But I think I’ve got the hang of it now.” He offers to throw away your empty ice cream cup and spoon.

The night so far had entailed a dinner at a little café outside the mall before looking in some of the stores for new summertime clothes. Andrew bought an outfit for you, shorts with little revealing tears in them and a strappy top that shows your scars way more than you’re used to.

You love that Andrew doesn’t question you about them.

Next was a stop at an ice cream parlor, taste testing different flavors before picking your favorites. The pair of you now walking around as the moon comes out, the trees adorned with white fairy lights.

You were walking so close to each other that you kept bumping arms. “Next time I want to show you my favorite antique shop downtown. It has some of the coolest things from every time period, and it’s connected to an old bookshop – one of the ones with tall ladders and a second floor just like in…”

“There’s going to be a next time?” Andrew says, sounding a little giddy. He was looking at you with pink dusting his cheeks.

You blush, “Is that alright?”

In reply, Andrew locks your fingers between his. “Very alright.” You stroll down the next street of cool fairy light, squeezing each other’s hands. “What were you saying about the old bookstore before I rudely interrupted you?”

You brush hair behind your ears, “Oh, just that it reminds me of the old bookstore from Beauty and the Beast… the one from her town.”

“You’re a fan of Disney?”

“Always,” you laugh, “With movies like The Princess and the Frog and The Emperor’s New Groove… how could you not be?”

Andrew snickers, “It’s because of Naveen, isn’t it?”

“Ah, Prince Naveen,” you groan, “You got me there.”

“Got to be honest though… Treasure Planet might be the best one yet.”

You pull on his arm, “I haven’t watched that in ages!”

Andrew side eyes you as his dimples come out, “So old antique shop and then movie night?”

You’re giddy at the thought of another date, “Sounds perfect.” You wander the streets just talking and laughing for another half hour before he offers to drive you home.

He holds your hand atop your lap the whole way.

Walking to your door, porchlight on as your parents wait for your return, you thank Andrew for a lovely evening.

“It’s nice after all the chaos the town’s been in the last month.”

He nods, “I had a really nice time with you, (Y/N).” He hands you the shopping bag with your new summer outfit, “I’ll text you a time for the next one.”

You smile wide as he takes a step closer, “I had fun too.” He was leaning down to your height, your chin rising to meet him.

In a quick mind-boggling moment, Andrew presses his lips to yours. He pulls away just an inch to see your reaction before moving further.

At your slight smile he leans in for more, kissing you more firmly and cupping your cheek. A sudden warmth blooms up your chest and into your face – and a beeping comes from your watch.

You break away suddenly, “God, sorry…” you cover the watch face with your hand. “Parents are waiting.”

Andrew licks his lips, all smiles as he says goodbye, “I’ll see you on Monday.”

You slip inside and find your mom pruning a more successful chamomile plant at the dining table, no doubt planning to make tea with it. “Hello, honey…” she smirks, “Had a nice time?”

Checking your watch, you take a deep breath, your chest tight from something a little more than your racing heart. “The best.”

You had no idea that Stiles was burrowed beneath his blankets in bed, his phone lighting up his face is somber blue light. He watches the alert of your heart rate die down and knows in his gut that you probably had an exciting goodnight kiss on your date.

It sticks him with an ache he can’t shake for the rest of the night.

~~~

The weekend came with an invitation from Stiles in the most untoward manner. You were working on term projects for history and math when there was a sharp rapping on the window. Turning around you see Stiles waving on the roof.

Already smiling, you go to unlock the window and help him open it, “What are you doing here?”

“I came to ask you something.”

“And your phone is…?”

He shrugs, “More of a boring gesture than this.”

“And not coming to the door…?”

He screws his face up in a comical expression, “Again, this is a more interesting entrance.” And with a graceful slip of the hand, he falls forward through the window and crashes to the ground, “Ow!”

You grimace, hearing the floorboards squeak in the hall, “Shit, Stiles my parents will kill me if they knew you were sneaking up our roof!” In a frantic waving of your hands you shove him under your bed.

He does his now famous doggy-paddling across the hardwood floor.

“(Y/N), sweetie?” your mom calls as she enters your bedroom, “Oh – what was that noise? I thought you must’ve fainted and fell.”

You put your hands behind your back, looking around and finding Ollie still snoozing on the history textbook on your desk. He was so unbothered and not at all helpful. “Um… I dropped my math workbook,” you say quickly, “It’s pretty thick.”

Your mom looks to your hands to see the workbook and raises her eyebrows in question.

Choking on your words you look around and find the evidence on your bed covers, “See! I just picked it up when you walked in.”

Angela shakes her head, “Studying must be getting to you. Maybe you should take a break.”

You nod vigorously and thank your mother, closing your door and finding Stiles already trying to pull himself out from under your bed. His tongue was sticking out as he struggles.

“That was close,” you laugh, sitting on the floor with him, “Who knew you’d be such mischief.”

Stiles snaps his eyes to yours and flounders in his words, “I… you – did you…”

Your knees are inches away as you give him a quizzical look, “What?”

“My m-, my mom used to call me mischief.” His voice was quiet and wondering as he says it. He looks at you with a kind of awe; a freckle of sadness making his eyes glassy.

You suddenly feel warm, maybe from embarrassment – maybe from empathy. You couldn’t imagine a life without your mother. “A very fitting name for someone so mischievous.”

He chuckles, his smile subconscious, “That’s not the only reason she called me that. Um… I uh – my name isn’t actually Stiles.”

“I knew it,” you smirk.

“I actually have a polish name – my grandpa’s name. And it’s really hard to pronounce, so I’d pretty much stop at saying mischief cause that was as close as I could get.”

You raise your eyebrows, all curiosity, “And this name is…?”

He looks shy as he mumbles, “Mieczyslaw.”

“Mitchy-slav?”

He becomes shier as he repeats, “Yeah, Mieczyslaw. You can imagine why a young impressionable child would choose to go by something a little easier.”

You look at him fondly, “I like it. I like learning things about you.” You stand, taking his hand to pull him up, “Now what was the thing you wanted to ask me?”

“I wanted to know if you’d come hangout at my place tonight and meet my dad.”

“I already know your dad, Stiles.”

“Yeah, on a professional basis,” he mocks, “But… but you’ve never seen him without the badge on.”

You agree to come over that night and say you’ll bring a treat, which immediately strikes interest in Stiles. You plan accordingly, cooking all Saturday evening and dishing it in traveling containers. Placing them in a large take-out bag, you drive with your dad to the Stilinski bachelor pad.

You hope your gesture is kindly met.

“(Y/N)!” Stiles says with as much enthusiasm as one seeing someone for the first time in weeks. He’s awkward as he thinks of another way to greet you and is grateful when you go in for a hug. “Something smells delicious.”

You lift the large bag, “I told you I’d bring something.”

He leads you to the kitchen and you see Noah Stilinski looking over case files at the dining table. He looks stressed and wary until he spots you in the doorway.

“Ah, hello (Y/N). It’s nice to see you outside of the station…” he stands up, “… and outside of an ambulance.”

You laugh, going in for a hug that he wasn’t expecting, but loving it nonetheless. He holds you for a second longer as you say, “It’s about time.” He smells of whiskey. You gesture to the food in your bag, “I brought us dinner.”

“Oh my god,” Noah deadpans, “You spoil us.” He frantically tries to shuffle his case files into an orderly fashion, “I’m sorry it’s such a mess.” He moves his full whiskey glass and goes to put the decanter away.

“It’s okay,” you start to help, catching words like ‘murder’ and ‘Hale House.’ Stiles ran for some plates and forks. “There’s not always warning when Stiles makes plans.” You wonder how drunk the sheriff already is – the case must really be getting to him.

Noah chuckles, “You really know my son, then.” He seems awkward without the authority of his badge – like any other suburban dad. “He didn’t tell me you were bringing anything. Wait… did you cook that?” he points to your bag of containers.

“Yeah,” you say, helping Stiles set the table, “My specialty.”

Noah shakes his head, “I haven’t had a homecooked meal in…”

“Years,” Stiles snorts, “(Y/N) is the real deal, dad. Whatever she made will change your life.”

“He eats some chicken and rice and suddenly I’m a three-star Michelin chef.”

Stiles chortles, “Don’t forget those brownies. I’ll never be the same.”

You laugh as the boys sit down and you reveal the dinner you brought. A bowl of spicy Italian sausage, a plate of sliced garlic bread, and a dish of homemade mac and cheese topped with chopped parsley and green onion.

It was very quiet for the first few minutes, you placing a slice of garlic bread on each plate and ladling the cheesy noodles on top like an open-faced slider. You end with placing a few pieces of sausage on the side and passing the plates to the boys.

Stiles still can’t find the words as his dad says, “Did um…” he clears his throat. “Did Stiles tell you…”

You nod, feeling a presence there like nothing you had ever experienced before. “He said it was one of her signature dishes – a favorite of his.” You look to Stiles beside you and notice something glistening in his eyes.

You let them soak in the thoughtfulness of the gesture – what it actually signifies for them – and you start to eat on your own. Though it didn’t bring up any childhood memories of motherly love that it would for Stiles… it was still delicious.

“You’re right,” you say softly, “Like a fancy kids meal.”

Noah starts to chuckle, sniffing as he clears the emotion from his throat. He’s next to start eating his meal and the way he savors each bite is compliment enough. You wait for Stiles to start, very conscious of his quietness.

Stiles was never quiet.

He picks up the garlic bread laden with mac and cheese and takes a bite. He giggles like a schoolboy, “Wow.” He closes his eyes and you feel inclined to put your hand on his. Beneath the table, you wrap your fingers around his against his leg.

You rub your thumb in circles around his knuckles, watching him open his eyes and see tears there. “How is it?”

He sniffs, looking at you with wet eyes, “Like I remember.” He wipes at his face as you smile.

The rest of the meal continues with small talk and fond memories bringing up laughter. The sheriff finishes his whiskey and seems full and tired. Stiles keeps eating until there were no leftovers in sight.

He was now staring at the files of paperwork on the current Derek Hale case. You catch his eye and stand to wash dishes, “You finished, sheriff?”

“Oh no, I’ve got it,” Stiles slips out of his chair and takes the plates from your hands, “You just sit down, I’ll clean up.”

You smile to yourself as the sheriff looks more work wary, leaning on his hand and rubbing at his temples. “You bring out the best in him,” he says quietly, “I’m not sure I’ve ever seen him willingly wash a dish before.”

“He’s sweet,” you say. Realizing too late that that was another thing Mrs. Stilinski used to say all the time.

Noah nods, a little red in the cheeks from the alcohol, “He is. She always said so.”

You had a feeling the sheriff didn’t talk about his wife very much. “You seem a little put out.”

“It’s just this case,” he rubs hard at his face, “I’ve been staring at it for weeks and I know they’re all connected, but there’s something missing.”

“What are all connected?” you ask.

He points a finger at you, “I shouldn’t be telling you.”

“You know I’m not going to say anything, sheriff,” you say candidly, “I’m a hermit that makes very good mac and cheese in my spare time.”

He chuckles deep in his throat, quieter the drunker he is. “The thing is… the bus driver that got killed, he was an insurance investigator assigned to the Hale house fire.” He pulls on a paper with his fingertips, sliding it across the table.

You read it sideways as it moves. “’Terminated under suspicion of fraud.’”

“The video store clerk who got his throat slashed, he’s a convicted felon, history of arson. Two others in the woods… they had priors all over their records, including…”

“Arson…” you say to yourself. The true crime fan within you was a little tickled. It sounds like all the victims had something to do with the house fire six years ago. You look over your shoulder to see Stiles standing in the doorway. He had soapy water soaking the front of his shirt.

He puts a finger to his lips and listens.

“There’s just so many questions…” You don’t stop him for fear that he’ll register all that he’s telling you. “If Derek wanted to kill everyone involved with the fire, then why start with his sister? I mean, she had nothing to do with it. And why make it look like some kind of animal did it?”

You shake your head. It must be killing Stiles to know the real reason behind some of these things and not being able to share. He was protecting his dad from the supernatural. Just like how he was trying to protect you from it.

“You know the instances of wild animal reports were up 70% over the past few months? It’s like they’re going crazy and running out of the woods. I don’t know.” He hand a palm to his forehead, already dozing off.

You feel a little guilty as you lean in your chair.

“Hey, sheriff, can I ask you a favor?”

“Anything, sweetheart…”

You smile warmly as Stiles leans his head against the archway. “Would you be willing to call my parents and tell them I’m staying the night? It’s late and I don’t want to worry them. Stiles and I have some work to catch up on… our chemistry project and stuff. Now would be a really good time to get it done.”

The sheriff had a dopey smile on his face as he looks at you. He considers you while Stiles is having a heart attack in the kitchen.

“Sure thing,” he says, fumbling for his phone, “I know your parents worry about you.”

“It’ll sound better coming from you,” you say kindly, “Thank you, sheriff. And thank you for letting me stay.”

He scratches at his head as you stand, already dialing your mom’s number, “Hey, Angela. No, no – she’s fine. We’re taking good care of her… hey, listen. The kids want to work on some projects, and I wanted to offer to let her stay the night.” He rubs at his tired eyes, “Sure, sure… of course. It’s just late and I know Tom is at the firehouse tonight so… yeah, sure thing. We’ve got plenty of room. Yep, thanks Angela. Sure, bye bye.”

You’re walking towards Stiles with a stupid grin on your face, “Let’s go talk.”

“Night dad!” Stiles yells instantly, still in awe that you were able to pull that off.

Noah waves them off, “Don’t stay up too late.”

You pull Stiles’ hand and go upstairs. “I can’t believe that worked.” You find the bathroom but wait for Stiles to show you his room.

“Um… one second,” he holds up a finger and tells you to stay put. He rummages like a madman in his bedroom, knocking things over and slamming things shut. You picture mounds of clothes and old plates of food being shoved into the closet.

He’s breathing heavy when he opens the door again, “Okay, you can come in.” He holds open the door and you walk in to find a queen bed with ruffled blue sheets, a desk on the other side with bulletin boards hanging on the wall. One of the smaller ones had a blanket thrown over it.

You wonder how much decluttering Stiles did because it was still very messy. Papers, sticky notes, and red string were everywhere. “Cozy.”

He looks nervous, playing with his fingers and watching your expression, “I don’t… ha…” he fidgets with his soapy shirt, “I’ve never had a girl in my room before.”

You take a bow, “I’m honored.” You sit on the edge of his bed, “What your dad is investigating…”

“Derek… I know,” he sits at his desk chair. “He’s so close to figuring it all out. He just doesn’t know about the Alpha.”

“Was it bad of me to egg him on while he’s so clearly drunk?”

“No, I would’ve done the same thing.”

“Exactly,” you deadpan, smiling. “If the Alpha is killing people responsible for the fire, then Derek siding with him at the hospital…”

“… is probably because he wants people to pay for the fire as well.”

You rub your legs down to your knees, “And the Alpha just wants to become powerful again in his revenge.”

Stiles was tapping his fingers against the desk, “So was there any other reason why you wanted to stay the night? Because I know for a fact you already finished our chemistry project and it’s incubating in the lab right now.”

“Well, there have been a couple things I wanted to talk to you about.” You sit cross legged on the mattress and say, “Coach has been talking to me about Scott failing his classes.”

“Big surprise,” Stiles scoffs, “The guy thinks he can be some werewolf savior and graduate high school at the same time.”

You wince, “Finstock made a deal with the office. Scott can’t go to the winter formal.”

“Because he’s failing?” Stiles gawks.

“They wanted to kick him off the team, but Coach said… some strange things… and made the dance agreement.” You tilt your head to the side, “Are you still planning on going?”

Stiles spins around in his chair, fumbling over his words, “Um, er – yeah, technically. I was s-still planning on it. Why… might I ask?”

You sigh, “Allison will need someone to ask her out.”

He was caught off guard, “I’m sorry, what? Me ask Allison to the dance.”

“It makes sense!” you say, “With Scott’s savior complex he’s going to want everyone under supervision in case the Alpha decides to take us out one at a time.”

There was a hesitance in the way Stiles kept spinning around in the chair. He seems grumpy, “Why can’t Jackson ask her?”

“You don’t want to go with Allison?’

“Well, I…” he was biting his lips, “I don’t know. Are you going?”

“I think Andrew is going to ask me on our next date.”

Stiles bangs a foot against the desk and nearly slips out of the chair, “A second date? Already?”

You smile, going a little red, “We had a good time and… we may or may not have kissed.”

A horrible sinking feeling enters Stiles’ stomach. His heart clenches painfully and the sudden desire to hurt Wickstrom came on hard and fast. “And… you liked it.”

“It was a nice change of pace from my usual,” you try to hide your smile, “I haven’t been kissed in a while.”

Stiles waves his hands around, “Woah, woah, woah… you’ve been kissed before? I thought you were a hermit that made mac and cheese.”

“And I have the occasional neighbor boy kiss me,” you laugh, “There was Easton from down the street when I was thirteen and then Adam who was visiting from San Fransico over the summer when I was fifteen. Not to mention, nimrod, that Scott kissed me just the other week.”

“Oh my god,” he wipes a hand across his face, “How do you do that?”

“What?”

“Get people to kiss you?”

You squint your eyes, folding your arms, “Are you telling me you’ve never been kissed?”

Stiles squirms in his chair, swinging it back and forth. “Maybe.”

“Ah, Stiles!” you bounce on his bed, “That’s so sweet.”

He groans, “Don’t tell me it’s sweet. It freaking sucks. All of my friends are getting their jollies off and I am left here in the dust with the driest lips this side of the valley.” His arms hang limp at his sides, “Is it nice?”

You giggle, “It can be. I think it only ever is when you kiss someone you like. It’s just… god, it’s hard to explain.” But Stiles was leaning in like the most attentive student. “There’s something really vulnerable about it, which leaves you wide open to feel anything and everything. You’re scared to death of course, especially with someone you like. But the bliss you feel after doing it is like nothing else.”

Stiles purses his lips, “Is that how the Andrew kiss went?”

“Almost.”

That raises his eyebrows, “I thought you really liked him.”

“I do, but I kind of have this new rule since the summer with Adam from San Fransico,” you hold up a hand, “I can’t date seriously. I can’t get too involved with any guy. So I’ll have to tell Andrew to stop eventually if this keeps going well.”

Stiles frowns, a punch to the gut, “Why can’t you date seriously?”

“Personal choice.”

“Because of what?” You smile and he groans, “Let me guess, it’s another story for another day.”

You use a finger gun on him, “Precisely, you’re catching on.” But the smile starts to dip from your face as you look at him. You lick your lips and say, “How about this. If you don’t have your first kiss by junior year… I’ll kiss you.”

The chair creaks as Stiles nearly falls from it, feet kicking out, “What!?”

“I’ll kiss you. We’ll make a kiss pact. I don’t want you getting too far into high school without having been kissed. The first one is always nerve-wracking anyway. It probably won’t be as meaningful as getting surprised with it by someone you really like, but it might be the next best thing.”

Stiles was losing his marbles, little fireworks exploding behind his eyes and falling like sparklers into his chest. “Okay.”

You smile at his goofy expression, “Now, can I borrow those sweats again? And maybe a t-shirt?”

He was still looking at you with sparklers in his eyes, “Huh? Oh yeah, sure.” He went to rummage through his dresser.

A few minutes later you were both in pajamas, having taken turns to use the bathroom to brush your teeth – you just using toothpaste and your finger – and standing in Stiles’ bedroom. You had dark sweats and an oversized shirt. With how broad Stiles’ shoulders were, the shirt hung low on your frame.

His throat was bobbing when he saw you standing there, pillows and blankets on the ground. “You good?”

You yawn, “Yep.” You meet him at the makeshift nest on the ground and nudge him, “Move please.”

“Oh, no this is for me,” he says, “You get the bed.” Standing so close to each other, you have to look up at him.

“I’m the guest, Stiles. You use your bed and I’ll count the dust bunnies under the bed.” You smile at the deep frown on his face.

He shakes his head, “Not gonna happen.”

“Fine,” you say, crawling onto his bed, “We can share.”

He chokes on his spit and starts coughing, “Share the bed?”

“Is that okay?” you look at him innocently.

That look combined with you wearing his clothes was sending him over the edge. His stomach was full of butterflies tickling the tightness in his ribcage. He wasn’t sure what to do with himself. In one night he had a girl in his room, said girl promised to kiss him, and now wanted to share a bed with him.

“Um… I kind of sleep in the middle of the mattress. I don’t want you to wake up to me invading your personal space.”

You laugh, “That’s fine, I can just shove you away.”

He nods, but is lost for words, going to turn off the light while you get comfortable. He’s back in the darkness and hesitates, “Are you su…”

“Get in the bed, Stilinski,” you mumble, already buried in his woodsy honey scented sheets. You feel the mattress dip as he finds his pillow. His knee knocks into your leg, and he apologizes. He shuffles down further and pulls up the blanket, rubbing his arm against yours, and he apologizes again.

“It’s fine, Stiles,” you laugh, “We’re bound to touch being this close.”

He swallows hard, staring at the ceiling as you cuddle further into your pillow, blanket tucked under your chin. “Goodnight,” you mumble.

Stiles bites the inside of his cheek, “Goodnight, (Y/N).” In the dark of his bedroom and the warm, calm presence of you beside him, it gave him a sense of ease. He takes a deep breath and says, “Thank you for the dinner today. It… meant a lot.”

You hum in reply, “You’re welcome.”

The last thing he remembers is turning on his side to face you already asleep. Your mouth was a little open and the pillow was squashing your cheek. Your hair was wild behind you and the shirt you borrowed was low enough that he could see the scar above your heart. You look more beautiful than ever laying there.

He wanted to know what you were holding back. He wanted to know what he had to do to give you the same feelings he was having.

And with thoughts of you looking beautiful in his bed, he fell asleep too.

~~~

Hours later you wake groggily to a still dark room. Stiles was standing and pulling his shoes on, phone in his hand. You groan and shift the covers closer to your body.

“Where are you going?” you ask half-asleep.

Stiles freezes at your words, “Uh… werewolf business. You can just stay here…” he walks over to your nearly asleep figure, “I’ll come back later.”

You don’t reply and he thinks you’re already back to sleep. It makes him smile. He bends down to tuck the covers a little tighter around you and… he hesitates, looking at your face. He swallows hard and leans down to place a kiss to your head.

“Sweet dreams.”

~~~

Taglist: @assassinsasha23 @tasty-book-fans @lovelybaka @the-fandom-queen @runs-with-sciss0rs @iamaslytherin0 @n3muru @bethsvrse @taylorbrooke-0912 @iloveyou2mia @everrrsincenewyork @gisellesprettylies

[okay-j-hannah]

Part 4: Ollie's Catnip

Teen Wolf : Multishot

Stiles Stilinski x Reader

Word Count: 10.4k

Warnings: series rewrite, season 1 {aka 2011}, slow burn, friends to lovers, usual teen wolf levels of violence and gore, heart conditions, lightheadedness, an unwanted kiss, forced kiss, terror, near werewolf attack

Request: This just came from my own head 😊

Part 3: Blue Handprints

Part 4: Ollie's Catnip {You Are Here}

Part 5: Mieczyslaw

Monday had rolled around quicker than you were expecting. After a week of being sick and a weekend of hanging out with your friends, you want to get back to a regular schedule.

The deep claw marks imbedded in your shoulder were healed, but left puffy, red marks that would soon scar terribly. Seeing as you already had a surgical scar on your chest it wasn’t a big deal.

What was bothersome was that it started to ache. Like a bad knee on a rainy day, your shoulder was tweaking something awful. You were massaging it in your classroom as others began filing in for the infamous chemistry test.

A few friendly faces welcome you back and ask if you heard about the incident with the janitor and supposed serial killer.

You wave them off and wait for your friends to appear.

Allison walks in with Lydia, and they sit in front of you. “Hey, how are you doing?”

“I’m fine. Although I haven’t seen Scott since Wednesday so that’s another story.”

Lydia reapplies her lipstick and adjusts her necklaces, “We’ll conquer that bridge when we come to it. Remember, you don’t need him. He treated you badly and he has a lot of making up to do before you even suggest the thought of talking to him again.”

Your eyes widen ever so slightly, “That’s pretty harsh.”

“Just because you decide to hang with the dog toys on the side doesn’t mean you can’t support your girls in avoiding them!”

You look to Allison, “I haven’t told him anything besides that you’re hurt. And that you’re looking for an explanation. I won’t tell him anything more unless you want me to.”

“No,” she shakes her head, “No, that’s fine for now. I want him to stew in it for a while.”

“Oh trust me…” you flip your pencil between your fingers, “He’s been simmering in those thoughts all weekend. The poor boy is crushed.”

“As he should be,” Lydia flips her hair, confidence radiating off her. She would ace this test without batting an eyelash. “He’s the one that’s been miscommunicating and hiding things from you. You don’t need that kind of stress added to your life.”

You frown, eyeing the scribbles and carvings on your desktop. The boys were still hiding a number of things from you. The foggy trip to the forest on Saturday didn’t help much. But the drunken memory of Stiles kissing your hairline and making wolf jokes brought a smile to your face.

Wolf jokes… it was the full moon that night, wasn’t it?

You rub your left shoulder again as Stiles walks in to sit beside you. He waves to you and takes a passive stance in his seat – tapping his pencil in his hand and bouncing his leg like it was the pedal keeping his life support on.

He hadn’t spoken to you the rest of the weekend. Nothing about the drunkenness. Nothing about the flirty touches he kept initiating. Nothing about how those senior boys tried to take you away.

“How was your Sunday?” you finally try and say.

“Fine, I had to come up with an excuse why my dad had one less bottle in his liquor cabinet,” he watches the pencil flying around his fingers, “I had to convince him he had one too many drinks while trying to solve the current investigation.”

You nod slowly, “Has he done that before?”

“Yeah, so it wasn’t that hard for him to believe.” There was a rather sad smirk on his face as he says it. “Anyways, how’s the bump on your head? Rocks punch hard I hear.”

You laugh, “Thanks to your kiss it hasn’t bothered me at all.”

“You remember that?” he winces, trying to hide the pink blossoming across his nose. “You remember anything else?”

You wonder how much you want to embarrass him. “You certainly had some wandering hands…”

“Oh, god,” he drops his pencil and buries his head in his arms atop his desk. “I was hoping that wouldn’t come up.”

“It was just some harmless arm tickles,” you shrug, amused by his reaction. “And you helping me to the car. You know as far as being wasted goes, we weren’t blackout drunk. I remember everything pretty well.”

He takes a deep breath and rubs hard at his eyes, “I was worried sick all yesterday thinking you’d be mad at me.”

“Why would I be mad at you?” you laugh again, “We’re friends; I was leaning on Scott and holding onto his ankle most of the night. Friends are allowed to be close.”

“Yeah, but you told me how you like Andrew and I was worried that you’d be upset about me doing what I did when you were probably hoping that it was Andrew that was doing what I did because you want to go on a date with him… and I wasn’t sure how you felt about me being close when you weren’t in some kind of distress from your heart because so far the only times I’ve touched you has been when you were about to faint or your heart is racing or you just went through a traumatic ordeal, and seeing as being drunk and having a breakup bonfire with your friends is none of those things… I thought maybe you’d be mad at me for, you know… touching you.”

His eyes were boring into his desk, leg back to bouncing like his life depended on it. You were smiling a sweet smile. He was so adorably endearing.

You wait until you see the honey of his eyes before saying, “I’m not mad, Stiles.”

He looks to you as if waiting for a long-winded reply like his, but he settles back into his desk and whispers, “Okay.”

“I would tell you if I didn’t like how you were touching me.”

He whips his head to you again, expression open and pink as he lingers on your warm gaze and soft smile. His throat bobs as Scott enters the room and makes awkward eye contact with Allison.

He sits on Stiles’ other side, giving him a blank nod as a hello. You lean forward and put a hand on Allison’s shoulder as a little silent support.

Mr. Harris starts class right after. “You have 45 minutes to complete the test. 25% of your grade can be earned right now simply by writing your name on the cover of the blue book. However, as happens every year, one of you will inexplicably fail to put your name on the cover, and I’ll be left yet again questioning my decision to ever become a teacher.”

You finish writing your name, peeking to see Stiles doing the same in a much more frantic manner. You share a smile with him as he finds your laughing gaze.

“So let’s get the disappointment over with. Begin.” Mr. Harris starts his stopwatch and the class simultaneously open their testing booklets.

You’re quick to start answering the first multiple choice question. Being someone that spends a lot of time at home, your study habits are perfection. It was a breeze knowing the answers to the entire first page.

As you flip to the backside, you notice Allison sending looks toward Scott. You follow her gaze and notice your friend having a strange, tweaky reaction to different things in the room. He kept jerking his head in different directions and squeezing his eyes shut as if to stop them from seeing something.

You share concern with Allison as you wonder what is ailing him.

Less than a minute later Scott was running out of the classroom with his backpack. Stiles was quick to follow him soon after.

“Mr. McCall!” Mr. Harris yells from his desk, “Mr. Stilinski!”

You probably would’ve followed too if Mr. Harris wasn’t currently giving a lecture about teenage delinquents and how that was a record for disappointment during an end-of-term test. But Stiles was out there with him – he probably didn’t want more attention than that. Scott was already hurting enough.

You attempt to continue the test and take deep breaths to control the random spikes in your heartbeat. Nothing unusual.

~~~

Scott was dripping in the locker room showers, the only thing having calmed him down being the forgotten inhaler in his backpack. Stiles stood back, consoling him on the panic attack.

“I looked at her, and it was like someone hit me in the ribs with a hammer.”

Stiles bites his lip, “Yeah, it’s called heartbreak. About two billion songs written about it.” And unrequited love, he thinks miserably.

Scott bangs his head against the tile wall, gripping his hair and trying to control his breathing, “I can’t stop thinking about her.”

“Yeah, I get it,” Stiles mumbles, thoughts swaying towards you. “Well, you could think about this: her dad’s a werewolf hunter, and you’re a werewolf, so it was bound to become an issue.” He could feel you smacking him on the arm, “That wasn’t helpful.”

“You think any of that matters when I feel about her like I do?”

“Dude,” Stiles lolls his head around, “I mean, yeah you got dumped, and it’s supposed to suck.”

Scott hangs his head, rubbing at his ear as he recalls, “No, that’s not it. It was like I could feel everything in the room, everyone else’s emotions. Anxiety, nerves, hunger…”

“That’ll be the test.”

“There was something warm, like love and a feeling like someone was going to be sick.”

Stiles perks up, “Who was the one feeling love?”

“It’s hard to pinpoint it,” Scott winces, “Maybe the extra heartbreak I’m feeling is because I was feeling it from Allison?”

“It’s got to be the full moon,” Stiles shrugs, “So we’ll lock you up in your room later just like we planned. That way the Alpha, who is your boss, can’t get to you, either.”

“I think we need to do a lot more than lock me in my room.” Something changes in Scott’s eyes. He stands with a new kind of assertiveness.

Stiles starts to ramble as per usual, “What, you mean because if you get out, you’d be caught by hunters?”

“No. Because if I get out, I think I might kill someone.”

“Shit,” Stiles mumbles, screwing up his face and folding his arms. “Is this that whole the Alpha wants me to kill my old pack so I can be a part of his bullshit?” He backs away from the menacing gleam now in Scott’s face. “We’re not going to let that happen. The Alpha has already targeted each of us. I’m not going to let him sway you into doing it yourself.”

“I wonder who will be the first.”

Stiles does not like the condemning tone to his voice as he says that.

~~~

You were heading to the library after school, keeping your backpack on your right shoulder. Consoling your two heartbroken friends and avoiding the hostility between Lydia and Jackson had given you a different type of exhaustion.

But nothing a healthy dose of scientific research for your chemistry project couldn’t fix.

Having memorized the layout of the library, you knew where to look for microbial research. You select a textbook and go to the front desk to check out a school Chromebook – which happened to be the latest donation for student use that year.

You were even more surprised when you went for the couches and tables. Stiles was sitting there doing his own kind of research.

“I thought you were taking care of Scott?”

Stiles seems just as surprised to see you. There was a frantic second where he tries to shuffle around his doodle pads and books. “Uh… yeah, he sort of got tired of me ‘yapping’ at him all day.” He has a funny side smile as he laughs.

“Breakups are hard,” you nod, sucking in your lips. “What are you doing here?” You lean across his table, trying to read his research upside down.

He gets fidgety again, scratching his head and making a low sound in his throat. “Nothing! Just a little hobby.”

“Wolves?” you ask, finally pulling one of his books towards you. “I didn’t know you had an interest in… wildlife.” You snicker as he yanks the book back.

“Ha ha, yeah very funny. I do just so happen to have an… interest… in w-wolves.”

You struggle to take him seriously, “And why wolves specifically?”

His throat bobs and his eyes wander for a second, “… because they say Derek is a serial killer. But you told me that the video store manager was killed by a wolf, not a human. So I’m sort of seeing if it’s possible all the murders were done by a rabid wolf and not a man… or a mountain lion.” He says it so quickly that you’re not sure if it’s his ADHD or him trying to cover his tracks.

You itch to touch your left shoulder, “What have you found out?” You sit across from him and look eager – almost heartened that he was taking your eyewitness account so seriously.

He seems resistant for a second before losing the rigidness in his shoulders. He melts forward into the table as he speaks to you in a hushed voice. “I was looking at their hunting patterns. Wolves are very endurance based predators. They don’t need to sneak up on their prey or have the element of surprise. They’re willing to travel for miles until they find an opportunity to strike.”

“So once you’re a target you’re pretty much screwed,” you smirk – but you’re unnerved at the fact Stiles wasn’t sharing your amusement.

“Right,” he plays around with his papers, “And they’re very smart with their targets. They use visual cues, their hearing, and scent to identify the perfect prey.”

You watch his speckled face as he explains, “What makes the perfect prey?”

His warm sappy eyes find yours, “They go for the weakest or sickest of the herd first.” His voice is almost solemn as he says it, “They seize the advantage in a hunt by going for a more vulnerable animal. They are smart enough to weigh their options for the peak outcome.”

“I didn’t know wolves were so clever.”

“Clever hunters,” Stiles scoffs. “And brutal killers. They don’t have the skillset to kill their victims quickly. Their prey usually die from shock or blood loss as the pack starts tearing them apart like a mob.”

You shiver unexpectedly, “Lovely research, Stiles. I’m going to have those recurring nightmares from the video store again.”

He was watching your amused face with something hollow. He looks sad… and worried. “Sorry, I’m being morbid.”

“It’s been a strange couple weeks,” you say, flipping through the index of your textbook, “While you’re here, do you want to meet about our science project?”

“The one that isn’t due for another month? Yeah, sure,” he finally smiles, warming up at your particular quirks.

You find the page on Escherichia coli. “Well, we’re going to need a few weeks to let the bacteria grow in the petri dishes.”

Stiles makes a face, “Bacteria?”

“I want to test some food handlers rules. There are many ways to cook and defrost different meats – how do we know which is the best to kill any unwanted bacteria?” You smile wide, “We plant some foodborne illness in meat, freeze it and defrost it in different ways before cooking it. We’ll swab them before and after cooking to see what bacteria grows.”

“What bacteria were you thinking?” Stiles folds his arms, stomach starting to feel a little queasy.

“E. coli,” you beam, “It’s a coliform bacterium that can cause food poisoning and diarrhea.”

Stiles swallows hard, “And you thought my research was lovely…”

“Come on, I know Mr. Harris would sign off on us getting some E. coli samples and we can conduct it in the lab. And after we can have steak for dinner.”

“I am not eating any kind of meat that you had stuffed full of a diarrhea bacteria!”

You laugh and miss the look of marveling in Stiles’ gaze. “Don’t you have lacrosse practice today?”

He watches you take notes with your pretty handwriting, completely forgetting about his research. “Yeah, actually. I have to hit the lockers in about ten minutes.”

“Hopefully that’ll be good for Scott,” you sigh, still giving most of your attention to your notes. “It might help him get some pent up feelings out.”

Stiles was very against that idea, pulling on his sleeves and starting to bounce his leg. “Maybe. Hey, speaking of Scott. When we were at the forest with him… there was something you said…”

“We both said a lot of things that night,” you snicker, “Kind of happens when you’re intoxicated.”

“No, it was something that I didn’t think much about until I remembered it the next morning,” he bows his head to try and get into your eyeline as you continue to write. “Can I ask you my personal question of the day?”

You laugh at the use of that question since you’ve become closer friends, “Sure, Stilinski.”

“You said you’ve never had anything past a situationship before,” he looks at your bright eyes with a slanted brow, “Because they get scared about you dying. What does that mean?”

There was a shiver in your eyes, but you remain steady, “I don’t know, Stiles – we were drunk. I probably just meant the inevitable. Everyone dies eventually.”

“Sure,” he says quietly, registering your evasiveness immediately. “Especially in this town.”

You shake your head, going back to your E. coli notes. “I almost wish it was the mountain lion, so we’d at least know it was dead and gone.” You flip the pages of your textbook, “I’m going to sit with Lydia today.”

“You’re going to watch?” he sounds lighthearted at that.

You smile, “Yeah, I want to support my boys. And, you know, Allison isn’t going to be there like usual.”

Stiles nods, staring at you longer than he should’ve. He couldn’t help admiring the natural rosiness to your cheeks when you weren’t sick.

“You worried about your heart?” he asks, starting to pack up his own research. “It’ll be loud and wild.”

“Maybe a little,” you say, “But everyone knows, and they can help if I feel faint.” You watch him stand from the table, “I’ll see you out on the field.”

~~~

Stiles was on a high. Scott was made captain, and he was now on the first line. Thank god for pinkeye.

“Are you not freaking out? I’m freaking out,” he has a stupid smile on his face, bouncing as he walks.

Scott was still brooding, “What’s the point? It’s just a stupid title. And I could practically smell the jealousy in there.”

“You’re still smelling everyone’s emotions?” Stiles stops them in the hallway, “Like from the test this morning?”

Scott is mumbling as he says, “Yeah, it’s like the full moon’s turned everything up to 10.”

Stiles, in his usual fidgety manner, awkwardly brings up, “Can you pick up on stuff like, I don’t know, desire?” He looks down the hall and his eyes warm into that sweet brown color.

It wasn’t registering in Scott, “What do you mean, desire?”

“Like… sexual desire.”

“Sexual desire?” Scott deadpans. He was dealing with a breakup and this guy has the audacity to ask him about sexual desires. His mind immediately pinpoints a moment when he and Allison were kissing on the bed. It made his blood boil.

Stiles was still talking around it, “Yeah, sexual desire. Lust, passion, arousal.”

After a huff of contempt, Scott peers down the hall and spots what Stiles is after. “From (Y/N)?”

Stiles looks toward the double doors at the end of the hall and gulps at your standing figure. You’re talking to Andrew and Danny, shocked at something they’re saying. You look towards the boys and wave, giving two big thumbs up. Apparently the lacrosse team had told you the big news about the recent promotions.

“What?” Stiles says quickly, waving back at you, “No, in a general, broad sense, can you determine sexual desire?”

Scott was experiencing a strange combination of anger and amusement, “From (Y/N) to you?”

“Fine, yes!” Stiles says louder than he means to, “From (Y/N) to me.” He bares his teeth a little in frustration, “Look, I need to know if I have a chance with this girl, okay.” He looks to you again to see Lydia appear to take you away. “I’ve been obsessing over her since getting back from winter break. She’s all I can think about!”

“Why don’t you just ask her? We’re all friends.”

Stiles twitches, “Well, to save myself utterly crushing humiliation. Thank you, Scott. I don’t want her pulling out the ‘I just see you as a friend’ line. I think I’d have to switch high schools.” He pulls on his uniform, “Please, can you just go up and ask if she likes me? See if her heartbeat rises…”

“Her heartbeat is always all over the place,” Scott rolls his eyes, “Hence the medical condition.”

“I don’t know,” Stiles grounds out, flailing his arms over his head, “See if pheromones come out or something!”

Scott turns on his heel and walks away, “Fine.”

Stiles is left in shock and pink tinging his cheeks, “I love you. I love you! You’re my best friend in the whole world.” He grips his lacrosse stick tight enough to hear the leather handle squeak.

At the end of the hall, talking with Lydia, you mutter something that sounds eerily like ‘Andrew.’ Scott didn’t let it bother him, “Hey, (Y/N), can we talk for a second?”

You play with your jacket, noticing the off color to his eyes before saying, “Yeah, of course.”

Lydia rolls her eyes, “I’ll save you a seat on the stands.” She flounces off smelling of heavenly perfume.

You lead Scott off to the nearest empty classroom, arms folded as you ask, “Are you okay?”

“I just needed to ask you something,” he says with his head bowed, sounding hurt as he continues, “Do you… do you know if Allison still likes me?”

You tilt your chin down, frowning slightly at the puppy-dog eyes he was giving you. “Of course she still likes you. I told you it was going to take a long time for her to get over you. That’s probably why she isn’t here cheering on her friends.”

“Friends…”

“I mean, yeah she’ll always like you as a friend,” you say sincerely, “I don’t think she could ever hate you.”

Scott wasn’t liking the answer. He was glowering again, all puppy-dog erased from his eyes. His hands were curling into fists as he says, “Just friends.”

You sound timid as you continue, “She doesn’t want any animosity between you, but yeah… maybe cooling off as just friends could ease the tension.”

He takes a step forward and the room feels three degrees colder, “You’re saying I should just forget all about my feelings for her?”

You take a sudden step back, your heart beginning to leap in your chest. Scott did not look like the friendly version of himself you had grown accustomed to. He was being dark and menacing, an edge to his voice that you did not like.

A hand going to your chest as it usually did to somehow contain your heartbeat, you say, “For the time being, maybe. Just see it as you’re taking a break. When you see her again…”

“Then I need to take my mind off of her somehow,” he says, creeping his way toward you – almost like he was stalking.

You were being backed into a wall, “Scott, are you okay? You seem a little off.” Your shoulders hit the wall, “You’re scaring me.”

He takes a long sniff and cocks his head to the side, “Scaring you a lot, actually.” He invades your personal space – to the point where you can feel the angry heat radiating off him. “Your heart is racing.”

You gulp and Scott eyes the pulse galloping in your neck. “What are you doing?”

“I’m trying to distract myself from the breakup. You said you would help me.” And his hands snap to your face, holding it in place as he crushes his lips to yours. He is stronger than you were expecting, pulling you to him with rigid arms.

You try to flail away, but Scott’s hands land on your upper arms, pining you between him and the wall. He kisses you hungrily – angrily – as he goes in for more and more. Your muffled cries of defiance are smothered in his mouth. It was bruising and intense, way more than you were ready for.

When he eventually pulls away you are quick to smack him across the face. Shoving at his solid form before running from the abandoned classroom. You sprint for the farthest restroom and find it empty.

You lean against a sink before looking in the mirror. Your hair was ratted in the back and the swollen red of your lips was a giveaway. You were just realizing you were crying when the alarm of your watch finally registered in your brain.

Your heart was still pounding in your chest and before long you’d be lightheaded.

It took nearly twenty minutes for you to calm down. Sitting on the dirty tiled floor, head between your knees, and tears running down your nose. You wonder what had gotten into Scott for him to take advantage of you like that.

Scott wasn’t that kind of guy, right?

You had received texts from both Lydia and Stiles before you made it outside. Lydia asking where you were and Stiles asking about your heart. He had gotten an alarm on his phone too.

Scott had told him it was because you were thinking about him… that you had confessed that you did, in fact, have a crush on Stiles too.

Lydia could see the closed, distraught look on your face as you climb the bleachers. “What happened? Have you been crying?” She touches the redness under your eyes.

You push her away, holding yourself and whispering, “I just had a moment. I’m fine.”

It wasn’t enough for Lydia, her manicured nails tilting your chin towards her, “Have you been kissing?!”

You rub at your lips, “Not by choice.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she asks with a sudden lowered tone. The usual façade of the flirty popular spring fling queen was gone. “Did some guy…?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” you whisper again, eyeing the field and rubbing up and down your arms. “Let’s just enjoy the game.”

Lydia was still staring at you, “(Y/N), we need to report this.”

“No, it was an accident,” you say defensively, “He didn’t mean to.”

“Who?”

“Noone, Lydia please,” you start to feel your eyes water again, “I promised Stiles I’d be here, and I don’t break those promises.”

A huff escapes Lydia, “That’s ridiculous. That idiot friend of yours would understand you leaving because somebody assaul…”

You hiss at her, “Stop! You’ll send my heart rate sky rocketing.”

She purses her lips, yanking her bag towards her and flushed with anger, “Fine. At least let me help hide the evidence. You don’t want anyone else questioning you.” She extracts a make-up wipe and a calming chapstick. “And then you’ll tell me what little bitch did this and we’ll set the dogs on him.”

You crack a tiny sad smile, “Thanks, Lydia.”

“We’ve got a whole lacrosse team that would be on your side.” She folds her arms and crosses her legs, tapping her floating foot in the air. “Jackson and Andrew would stand up for you.”

You watch Scott get pummeled to the ground, jumping back up like nothing happened. “I’m not sure I want the lacrosse team knowing.” Andrew stands as goalie, fending off all the incoming pitches. “I’m not even sure what happened.”

An overenthusiastic player in jersey #24 waves at you emphatically. He’s practically on his tiptoes as he grovels for your attention….

You know instantly that it’s Stiles.

You return his high energy with a small wave and in return his points to his chest, right above his heart, and gives you a thumbs up in question. He’s asking about your heartbeat.

After a second of appreciation, you give him a hesitant thumbs up before wrapping your arms around yourself again. Stiles grips his lacrosse stick nervously – Scott was going in for another try.

Only it ends with him clipping Andrew in the helmet, slamming him to the ground. You stand with Lydia, gasping at the sound of the impact. You’re fumbling down the bleacher stairs as everyone huddles around Andrew.

You hear Stiles’ voice as he confronts Scott. “Dude, what the hell are you doing?”

“What? He’s twice the size of me.”

“Yeah, but everybody likes Andrew. Now everybody’s gonna hate you.”

You speed across the grass, avoiding Stiles and Scott as he says, “I don’t care.” You catch his eyes and flinch away, skirting to the other side of the goalpost and to the fallen Andrew. He had a bloody nose but was probably safe from a concussion.

Stiles was stuck on the fact that you had flinched away from him and Scott. Why would you run away like that? He watches your crouching figure console Andrew, pushing your hair behind your ears.

There was still a redness to your eyes and a chapped swollenness to your mouth.

And Stiles was putting two and two together. He was slack jawed and turning to the retreating figure of Scott. Disbelief was the only way to describe what he was feeling.

Disbelief and full blown rage.

But he was more worried about you.

As they were carting Andrew away, along with most of the players and Lydia bickering with Jackson – you were left by the goalpost shaking and quiet.

He was gauging your response as he nears you. “(Y/N)?” He lifts a hand to your arm and you flinch out of his touch. It disappoints him – a punch to his gut. “What’s wrong?”

You gulp, avoiding his eyes, “Uh… it’s nothing. I’m just worried about Andrew.”

He frowns, tensing his jaw, “Did… Did something happen with Scott?”

You’re gripping your arms as you shake your head, “I told you it was nothing, Stiles. I j-just had a heart rate spike and I don’t feel so well.”

The evasiveness was getting to Stiles. He grinds his teeth, “(Y/N), I have a feeling your spike had something to do with Scott.” He wishes you would look at him, “Please, tell me the truth.”

Your eyes were starting to water, “Don’t make me say it, Stiles. I haven’t even processed what’s happened,” you run your fingers through your hair, blowing out a shaky breath, “I don’t want to think about it.”

God, he wants to touch you again. He wants to hold you. “I think I know,” he whispers, rage broiling in his veins. “That son of a bitch.”

You sniff, looking towards the sky to avoid letting the tears fall. It was stabbing a knife into Stiles’ heart.

“Lydia’s my ride home,” you say, your voice cracking, “I have to find her. I’m sure she’s still… fighting with Jackson.”

“No,” Stiles says instantly, “Absolutely not. I’ll drive you home. Just let me change real quick.” He starts stripping his uniform immediately, throwing his gloves with a little more force than was necessary.

You shove your hands in your pockets, still shaking regardless of how warm the spring afternoon was. “That’s kind of you Stiles, but…”

“If you say not to worry and walk away, I swear to god I’ll freak out,” he tosses his jersey and shoulder pads on the grass. “I see it as my privilege to escort you home. Please? It’ll make me feel better about leaving you knowing you’re safe.” His pleading made his eyes warm and syrupy. Your favorite shade of brown.

You reluctantly look at him with your red eyes – it seems to develop worrisome wrinkles in his forehead. “Okay.”

“Okay,” he repeats, hopeful, “Okay. Let’s go.” He avoids touching you, much to his dismay, and leads the way to the parking lot.

“Don’t you need to put your stuff back in your locker?” you ask quietly.

“Nope,” he says frankly, “This is more important.” He walks beside you, giving you some distance.

You can’t help the smile that wants to appear, “Thank you.”

He holds open the jeep door for you and throws his stuff unceremoniously in the back. He’s racing out of the parking lot, tension evident in his shoulders as he sneaks quick looks at your cowering figure.

You’re huddled against the door, holding your arms again.

Stiles has his usual hand on the wheel and the other on the stick shift. His chest was tight and painful as he tries to think of something to say, “I’m not going to ask you if you’re okay again because I know you’re not. And I can tell you just want to sit and think but I got to admit it’s freaking impossible for me to sit still and be quiet. You’re scaring the hell out of me, and I just want to help. I just…” he moves the hand on the stick shift to the edge of your chair. “I want to make you feel better. I’m not good at this. I’m not good at much… except maybe talking when I’m nervous…”

You silently move your hand to Stiles’. He’s quick to grip your fingers and gasp a sigh of relief.

“Oh, thank god,” he laughs awkwardly, “I can do this. Is this helping you feel better? If it is, you can hold my hand for as long as you need. I’ll hold your hand all night if that’s what it takes… I’ll hold your hand…”

“Stiles,” you say, quietly amused. “Please stop talking.”

“Sure,” he says, zipping his lip with his free hand. He mouths silently, “No more talking.”

The rest of the ride was quiet, except for the rumble of the engine and the incessant tapping of Stiles’ thumb against the steering wheel. He sometimes lifts your conjoined hands to change gears. Other times he subtly moves his thumb up your index finger, perhaps trying to be soothing.

You watch things fly past the window as you near your house. The shakiness of Stiles’ constantly moving hands was almost therapeutic. It distracts you to feel his fingers dance around your hand. You wipe at your eyes as the jeep stops in your driveway.

Stiles jumps out of the car and bangs his hip on the headlight as he runs for your side. He curses terribly and opens your door, “M’lady,” he pants in pain.

You slide out, tears smeared beneath your eyes as you say, “Thank you, Stiles.”

As he shuts the door you contemplate for about three seconds before going in for a hug.

Your arms wrap around his shoulders as you place your tearstained face near his neck. He returns the hug timidly, careful with how he’s touching you. He keeps his hands near your shoulder blades, at the top of your back.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, “I’m going to try and figure this out.”

Your sniffles cause him physical pain. “I’ll see you later.”

He waves you off, stewing in his new plan to contain Scott’s rabid werewolf side and to get his full revenge in payback for treating you like this.

~~~

After a nap and an ice pack for your swollen face and oncoming headache, you feel more clearheaded. Oliver, the gray cat, has his front paws perched on your knee, searching for more pats to the head.

“I just don’t get it,” you say, speaking to your cat as if he were your therapist. “I understand that he’s going through a breakup, but that doesn’t give him the right to act like a jackass.” You hold the icepack to your temples, “There must be something else going on – or maybe that’s just something Scott is capable of, and I didn’t see it.”

Oliver chirps at you, butting his head into your palm.

“I know, Ollie,” you say, “I don’t need anymore stress added to my life.”

With your mom helping dispatch with a call in the forest and your dad managing the firehouse that night, you were grateful to be home alone with your problems. It was a shame they had to work so much to maintain the debt from your medical bills.

But they never complained.

The moon was full and bright like a flashlight through your window. You thought about texting Allison but thought better of it.

You were, however, texting Lydia to keep away from filing a police report. You had no idea she was so invested in your care. She always seemed slightly aloof and as if her priorities were centered around high school popularity.

But maybe she had her own set of secrets like everyone else in this town.

You continue to talk with Oliver as the moon rises in the sky. It’s dark and chilly outside and you can hear the rustling of budding branches. It gives the night a strange ominous tone. It prompts you to the open window to peer at the darkness.

Oliver purrs and finds a spot at the foot of your bed to curl up.

The ache in your shoulder reappears as you gaze at the moon. “I think I need to go back to sleep.”

There was a sudden howl on the wind, loud enough that it sent a chill through your bones. You quickly slam the window shut, staring at your scared reflection in the glass. “You need to calm down, (Y/N).”

But there was something moving in the distance that caught your attention. Something fast and on all fours. Something animal… but…

You squint your eyes, pressing against the window to look past neighbor fences and thick growths of trees. There was some kind of creature running through yards and… straight towards your house.

The breath leaving your lungs was shallow as you realize – this thing was coming at you. You watch it reach your yard and stop. It stands and all you see are yellow eyes, sharp teeth, and a furry face.

You make eye contact with the creature and panic, gasping aloud as you back away. “Oh my god…”

Blood was pumping in your ears as you flounder. Where do you go? What do you do? You scramble to find something useful, a strange clawing coming from the walls below.

Where was your phone?

Your eyes dart to your bed and you pounce. Hands frantically searching beneath pillows and sheets, Ollie grumbles and jumps off the bed. Panting, you find the cellphone under your blanket, rolling off the mattress and running out of your room.

That thing knew you were in the bedroom.

There was a louder sound of clawing and splintering wood downstairs. The squeak of metal told you that the front door had swung open. The silence that follows makes you even more terrified. You thought something rabid was entering your house, but instead it was deadly quiet.

You cross the hallway and to your parents room, closing the door as quietly as possible. Speeding towards their ensuite bathroom, you lock yourself in. You think about your options – your parents? 911? Stiles? You don’t want to sound paranoid.

You decide to text your mom, “Are you coming home soon?” and then texting Stiles, “SOS.” You weren’t going to risk talking out loud if there was a tweaking madman entering the house in search of you.

There was the familiar creak of the squeaky floorboard in the hall that usually signaled that your parents were up and about. Whatever that thing was… it was moving past your room and further down the hall.

Your phone begins to buzz with a call from Stiles. You quickly decline, stopping the buzzing sound. You do the same with the next call he tries to make.

A steely cold burrows in your skin, ears trained for any sound coming from outside. You sit on the bathmat, holding your phone so it puts an eerie light across your face. Stiles resorts to texting you.

“I’m already on my way.”

“Are you okay? What’s going on?”

“Why aren’t you picking up your phone?”

“I’m right down the street.”

You tap out a reply, your breath shaky against your knees as they’re pressed to your chest. “There’s something in my house.”

You hear something from your parents bedroom.

“Are you somewhere safe?” Stiles replies. “What is it?”

You move your thumbs quickly, “It’s right outside the door.”

Your phone continues to buzz with frantic replies from Stiles, but you’re preoccupied with the slow, terrifying turning of the doorknob. It squeaks metallically as it’s manipulated. And after a few tries the creature stops.

The door then rattles with a sudden roar of noise. Scraping hands bang against the wood, the panels straining under the force of whatever is on the other side. You scream as a howl penetrates your ears.

The same howl you heard outside your bedroom window.

Fear envelopes you as you scramble to the far wall, screwing up the bathmat and knocking the shampoo bottle off the side of the tub. You resort to dialing 911 as the door bends under the hands of the growling creature.

“(Y/N)!”

Another voice comes from downstairs and you’re afraid to reply, “Stiles!?”

Heavy footfalls are coming up the stairs as the creature hesitates in its assault on the door. You pull at the collar of your pajamas, choking on your breath as your heart fails to oxygenate your body.

The voice of Stiles is so near, you fear for his safety as the creature howls again. But what Stiles says puts you into more shock.

“Scott, calm down buddy. You don’t want to do this,” he sounds full of fear, “This isn’t you, man. Snap out of it!”

You gasp for breath, clawing at your own chest as your heart works in overtime. You can barely register the things you hear on the other side of the door.

A different growl was sounding and (what you hope isn’t) Scott turns toward it. Stiles was encouraging the action.

“Go after the howls, Scott. Go join your other werewolf friends! Get out of here!”

It turns into Stiles banging on the bathroom door – with much less force than whatever power Scott possessed.

“(Y/N)? (Y/N), open the door please. It’s just me – Scott left with Derek. I promise it’s safe now.” He must’ve checked his phone because now he was speaking with a new level of panic, “Hold on, (Y/N). Just try to breathe! Focus on your surroundings – ground yourself!”

He was jumping and searching for those emergency bathroom keys that were sometimes left on the molding above the door. Thankfully your parents never took chances and kept those keys there.

Stiles was cursing himself for fumbling the key in the lock, forcing it open. He fell to the floor with his momentum, slipping on the tile to get to you.

“Holy shit – oh my god. (Y/N), you need to breathe.” He kneels beside you and puts a hand over yours holding your chest, “Just take a breath, please.” Your lips were turning blue from the lack of oxygen. Your eyes were fluttering shut.

Stiles was rubbing your hand against your chest, wrapping his other arm around your shoulders and shaking you into him. “Stay with me, (Y/N). You can’t pass out while you’re not breathing.”

You gasp something shallow, but it was the first breath he hears you take, “That’s it… god.” He puts his head against yours, “You can do it, take another.”

He holds you as you start to take more shallow breaths, each getting stronger by the second. The darkness creeping into your star-spangled vision became clearer; and the tingling in your hands and feet lessen.

Stiles is whispering quiet praises to whatever power helps you breathe evenly again. He holds up your wrist and watches your heart rate lower out of danger.

You rest against his chest, your head laying against his collarbone. You sound out of breath as you say, “You have… explaining to do.”

He chuckles solemnly, your head bouncing against his chest, “Remember that thing that wasn’t exactly mine to tell?”

“Scott?”

“Yeah,” he says, “Something happened when we found Derek’s dead sister in the woods… Scott was bit.” He was grateful for not looking at your reaction, just holding you close as your heartbeat steadies. “He was bit by a werewolf.”

You weakly smack his arm, “Bullshit.”

“Not even a little bit. Our friend is a werewolf. And so is Derek,” he says, “That’s why Derek has been invading – he’s trying to help Scott take control.”

“I don’t believe you,” you say, still sounding out of breath. Your head was aching with the lack of oxygen.

Stiles takes a deep breath, making you rise and fall against him. “Derek isn’t the serial killer attacking everyone. All those kills were done by the Alpha – that’s the big bad wolf that bit Scott and is trying to make him a part of his pack.”

“An Alpha?” you want to laugh but know it would send you into a coughing fit.

“Yes, and on the full moon the Alpha has more control over Scott. The moon has been messing with him all day, which you witnessed firsthand.”

That gives you a shiver, forcing you up from the ground, gripping the bathtub for support.

“Woah,” Stiles gets up with you, hands hovering at your back, “Take it slow.”

“You’re telling me the reason Scott has been snapping at everyone and shoving his tongue down my throat is because of the full moon?”

“Shoves his what down your what?”

You stand straight and nearly blackout until you hold onto the glass shower door. “Where is he now?” You start stumbling out of the bathroom and towards your bedroom, the perfect view of the front yard.

Stiles slips on the tile to follow you, terrified you were going to fall again.

Looking out the window, bathed in moonlight, you spy two beings on the edge of the street – heading towards the forest. Glowing eyes, pointed ears, furry faces, and snarling fangs. They were disappearing into the night.

What you saw before the home invasion was real.

“Was Derek bitten by the Alpha too?”

“Uh… no,” Stiles says, looking at you like a bomb about to go off. He was waiting for the outrage. “He was born a werewolf. He just wants to kill the Alpha for killing his sister. Scott is his link.”

You flex your hands, getting the feeling back in your fingers, “You were already on your way when I texted you. How did you know I was in trouble?” You could hear the audible breath Stiles took, the sound of him scratching his shaved head.

“To make him a part of his pack, the Alpha wants Scott to get rid of his old pack. Me, Allison, Lydia and Jackson… and you.” He takes a pause, “I knew he’d go after one of us under the control of the full moon.”

“You were doing research on the hunting habits of wolves today,” you whisper as the memory appears, running your fingers through your hair.

Stiles tries to focus on how beautiful you look in the moonlight. Beautiful and alive. Thank god Derek showed up.

“You’re right. And I knew wolves take their time with their targets…”

“The weakest and sickest of the herd,” you whisper again. “He was wearing me down today. He cornered me and… it was like he could smell the fear on me.”

Stiles swallows hard, his hands balling into fists, “Yeah. He was making a plan who to pick off one at a time.”

You fold your arms, nodding thoughtfully, wishing the headache to go away. “As far as secrets go… that is one hell of one.”

Stiles wrings his hands, “Yeah, you can see why we don’t want to rope too many people into it.”

“Who knows?” you ask, still debating your options.

“Derek and myself,” he sighs, watching your closed off stance. “But who else knows about werewolves? The Argents do.”

Your brow furrows, still staring out the window, “Allison’s family?”

“Her parents and her Aunt Kate,” he nods, “They’re werewolf hunters. Have been for centuries and it’s part of the reason they moved here.”

“Allison?”

“As far as we know, she’s clueless about the whole thing. But now that she’s spending so much time at home because of the breakup… I think her aunt my have a little too much influence.”

Your fingers dig into your arms, “Interesting.”

Stiles lets the silence hit for a few seconds before inching towards you more, “Interesting?”

You feel the hurt start to creep into your chest. The kind of aching hurt that only comes from feeling betrayal and an overwhelmingness to hide. “I think you should go, Stiles.”

He stands straight, “What?”

Tilting your head over your shoulder, you mumble, “I’ve heard enough and I would like you to leave. My mom will be home soon.” You stay where you are, feeling in need of a long sleep. “I need time to process. I need time alone. Thank you for coming for me and telling me the truth, but I want to be by myself now.”

He bites his tongue, “Are you sure?”

“Goodnight, Stiles.”

“(Y/N), listen to me. It was scary at first for me too,” he sounds nervous, “I know it’s a shock, but…”

“Please leave, Stilinski. I won’t ask again.”

He huffs his frustration, “Okay, I get it. Will you at least tell me when your mom gets here? Just so I know you’re…”

“My mom is on the same dispatch call your dad is tonight. When he gets home you’ll know my mom is getting home too.”

It was quiet after that, Stiles taking a few steps back and grinding his teeth. He was almost out the door when he says, “I’m glad you’re safe, (Y/N).”

Minutes later you watch the blue jeep drive away. An hour later you’re still standing at the window, basking in the cool moonlight. Two hours later your mom enters the driveway.

And you’re finally able to step away and lower your arms – lightheaded from your locked knees.

“Oh, hello sweetie,” Angela says at the door, Ollie at her ankles. “Why are you still awake?”

You let the exhaustion show, “I couldn’t sleep. I wanted to wait until you got home.”

Your mom pouts, walking to you with open arms, “I could use a hug too.” You embrace and feel the knots of tension in her shoulders.

“Long call?”

Angela holds you back by the shoulders and inspects your tiresome complexion. “There were another couple deaths in the forest. It’s being ruled an accident for now, might’ve just fallen in a bonfire because they were drunk.”

“Died in a fire?” you say with a gruesome wince.

“Yep,” your mother sighs, “It was nice seeing your dad though. Fire department was called too.” She ponders your expression, “Why can’t you sleep?”

You lick your dry lips, “My heart has been all over the place. It’s hard to relax.”

Brows knitted, Angela puts a hand to the side of your face, “You feeling stressed at all?”

“You could say that. There’s been drama in the friend group.”

She nods and kisses your hairline, “I’ll make us some tea. Let me put my things away and we can hang out on the couch.” She’s satisfied with your small smile, leaving for her bedroom.

It was just dawning on you that she might see something when she yells…

“Hey, what are these claw marks in my bathroom door!?”

You rub harshly at your tired eyes, “Um… Ollie got into the catnip again?”

~~~

School had gotten strange the next week. It was already tense with Scott and Allison’s breakup, but now that you weren’t talking to the boys… it had felt very estranged. Both Scott and Stiles had tried to contact you, but you still need some time.

The bombshell of the things going on in Beacon Hills was a lot to take in.

It made your little secret seem minor in comparison.

You were sitting in the lunchroom, picking at your meal with your other friends. Jackson had been tense with Lydia the last few weeks and you could smell another breakup coming. His mild jackassery was starting to get on your nerves as he ignores you and the girls.

“He seriously started sending you pictures of you two together?” Lydia sneers, “What kind of move is that?”

“He’s trying to get back together with you,” you say a little melancholy.

Allison plays with her necklace, lost in thought, “It felt like he was trying to make me feel bad for breaking up with him.”

“He is completely clueless,” you sigh, “Most idiots in love are.”

Lydia squints her eyes at you suspiciously, “Speaking of idiots in love. Do you care to explain why you’re also ignoring dork #1 and dork #2?”

Your eyes momentarily shift across the cafeteria to where Scott and Stiles were eating. Stiles was shoving a chicken tender into his mouth with his usual amount of grace. The rest of his tray held macaroni and cheese… a painful memory of him telling you about the gourmet mac and cheese his mom used to make.

“Nothing just… some weird things happened.”

“Like dork #2 confessing his obvious feelings for you?” Lydia continues. “I don’t blame you for rejecting him. He’s a little weirdo.”

You snap your head to her, “You mean Stiles?”

“He’s been drooling over you since you started school,” Allison agrees, “Scott used to tell me about it.”

You shove your lunch tray away, “No! I wasn’t aware anyone was harboring any feelings for me.”

“Well, if we stick to that topic,” Lydia purses her lips, “Andrew Wickstrom is also a harborer of feelings.”

“And maybe two others on the lacrosse team,” Allison chuckles.

You shake your head, closing your eyes momentarily, “No, in fact Scott came onto me.” You rub at your temples, listening to Allison hold her breath.

“Excuse me?”

You look to her, sorrowful in how you say, “He cornered me and kissed me.”

“What!?”

“It was quick and only the one time. He said he was just trying to get his mind off you. I slapped him and everything,” you say with a little more urgency, “And obviously he’s super regretful because now he’s trying to get on your good side again.”

“What a little shit,” Lydia curses.

Allison was even more visibly upset than before, “I can’t believe that.”

You bite the inside of your cheek, “I didn’t want to tell you, but you deserve to know. Scott wasn’t himself that day. He’s been really wrecked.”

“That’s not a good enough excuse,” Allison mutters.

“Has he apologized at all?” Lydia asks with an edge of rage.

You shrug, “I haven’t exactly given him the chance to. That’s why I haven’t been talking to them.” You look to Allison with slanted brows, “I’m really sorry, Allison. I tried to make him stop.”

She shakes her head, snapping herself out of whatever fogginess had invaded her mind. “It wasn’t your fault. I don’t blame you.” She looks toward the boys before standing, “I need the bathroom.”

You nod, giving her space, instead watching Jackson stare down someone from across the cafeteria. Lydia was looking at him too with some semblance of impatience and frustration. In a nonchalant move, Jackson steals the green apple from your forgotten tray.

“How are you two?” you whisper to Lydia.

She scowls, “He’s been a little cozy with Allison if I’m being honest,” she picks a tomato from her salad. “We don’t talk much anymore, just the occasional make out and quickie in the car.”

You refrain from grimacing, “What is going on with everyone?”

“With spring comes all new drama,” she smiles derisively, “Springtime fever as they call it.”

Jackson suddenly stands and leaves them to gossip. Lydia follows him with her eyes, a moment of hurt flashing through them.

“I don’t think I can take much more drama,” you sigh with a fake smile, “My heart can’t take it.”

Lydia looks to you with genuine sympathy. You had grown to love the moments when she was real. “Then it’s a good thing we’re all taking a break. We’re the perfect girl squad. No boys allowed.”

You smile a little wider, “I’d like that.”

Your last period after lunch was gym, which usually consisted of you doing things for Coach since you had a doctor’s note banning you from raising your heart rate. While everyone was in the locker rooms changing, you talk with Finstock.

“I don’t care what they do today, Westbrook,” he groans, his whistle swinging around his neck, “I’m too busy drawing up plays for the game tonight. Bring out the basketballs and jump ropes and freaking hopscotch, I don’t care. Hell, let them use the pools to swim laps.” He scratches at his crazed hair, “Just make them do something for the period – and don’t come looking for me. Thanks, Westbrook.”

You blow out a whistled sigh, “No problem, Coach.” You roll out the cart of basketballs and volleyballs, a couple jump ropes dangling on the side. Your classmates start to trickle out in their gym attire.

Using your loudest voice you announce it was going to be a free workout period – they’re free to use the pools or the gym as long as they’re engaging in a sport of some kind.

Allison voices her wish to swim and Jackson is quick to agree, leading the way back to the lockers. Scott doesn’t say a word, just mindlessly follows them at a distance.

You watch many hands go for the gym equipment, a basketball falling to the floor. You catch it as it tries to bounce away.

“Hey, Westbrook!”

You look up to see Andrew holding his hands up for the ball. A smile on your lips, you pass the ball, pleased it lands right in his hands.

“How are you?” he asks, walking up to you. “I haven’t seen you in a while.”

You push some hair behind your ear, “Oh, just some post sickness keeping me away. I’m all good now.” You put your hands in your pockets, his lovely curly hair in ringlets against his forehead. “How have you been?”

“Not gonna lie,” he spins the basketball on his index finger, “I’ve missed seeing you at lacrosse and keeping Finstock in line in economics.”

You fold your arms, watching the ball spin, “It is good seeing you. I didn’t get a chance to talk to you much last practice – how’s the nose?”

He puts the ball under his arm and leans down to your height, “How does it look?” he grimaces comically, “I don’t dare look – I bet it’s grotesque and crooked and completely messed up.”

You giggle, clamping your index finger and thumb around the arch of his nose, “It looks fine to me.” You wiggle his face around and shove him away, noticing the adorable dimples coming out on his cheeks. “I’m glad it wasn’t something worse.”

“Yeah, McCall was in a funk that day.”

“That’s one word for it.” You sigh, “You going to show me some moves?” You gesture to the basketball, “Any three-pointers?”

He smiles bright, dribbling the ball, “If I make a three-pointer… how about you go on that date with me?”

Your cheeks feel warm as you try to contain your smile, “It’s a deal. Shoot straight, Wickstrom.”

He winks at you and goes for the three-point line outside the black arc surrounding the basket. He dribbles the ball twice before bending his knees and taking aim. With an arm extension, the ball flies in a smooth arch right into the basket.

Andrew holds his arm in that shooting pose, turning to you with a flush growing across his nose, “Nothing but net.”

“Jokes on you,” you say in a sweet voice that was feigning confidence, “I would’ve gone out with you even if you hadn’t made the shot.”

He laughs, walking up to you once more, “Does Friday sound good? Seven o’ clock?”

You say, “Sounds perfect.”

Before he jogs off to join the shirts and skins game being created on the sidelines, he looks at you with his warm expression. “Are you coming to the game tonight?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I might have a girls night…”

“I thought you had to help Finstock being his TA?”

“Oh, no – that’s just during school hours. I’m a regular fan in the stands during games.” You rub awkwardly at your arms as you say, “Things have been tense with some of the lacrosse players.”

He nods, his face suddenly serious with understanding. “I get it. I’m not saying you have to come… but I would love to see you there. Do what’s best for you.”

You take a genuine sigh of relief, “I needed that.” You nod your head towards the team huddles, “Now go earn your gym credit.”

“Finstock isn’t here, Westbrook,” he shrugs, already backing away.

“But he’s left me in charge; I could still fail you.”

He winks again, “You wouldn’t do that to me, sweetheart.”

You laugh as he retreats, but you know what he says is true. You were just glad to be moving on to perhaps a semi-normal relationship with someone that didn’t tangle with werewolves or supernatural hunters or murder investigations.

Stiles was sitting on the bleachers with a couple other kids not wanting to play the games. Each on their phone or reading a book or talking with a friend. Stiles was sitting between the benches, his legs hanging over the side.

He had a deep scowl on his face and twitchy fingers rotating his phone in his palm. He watches your exchange with Andrew with heat in his stomach. He was furious at the entire situation.

Upset that you hadn’t explained your distance. Angry that he hadn’t told you the truth sooner. Mad at himself for letting Scott loose on the full moon. Irritated that his life was consumed by Scott’s problems to the point that he felt like a major comedic side character. One that doesn’t usually get the girl.

But most of all furious that the guy you decide to date isn’t a bad guy at all. Andrew is kind and funny and supportive. He’s such a good guy that Stiles couldn’t be mad at him. And that made him even more mad.

~~~

Taglist: @assassinsasha23 @tasty-book-fans @lovelybaka @the-fandom-queen @runs-with-sciss0rs @iamaslytherin0 @n3muru @bethsvrse @taylorbrooke-0912

[okay-j-hannah]

Part 7: The Summer Filter

Teen Wolf : Multishot

Stiles Stilinski x Reader

Word Count: 11.3k

Warnings: series rewrite, season 1 {aka 2011}, slow burn, friends to lovers, Stiles pining, usual teen wolf levels of violence and gore, heart conditions, talk of scars {good and bad}, character death, CPR, hospitals/surgeries, ANGSTY AS HELL

Request: This just came from my own head 😊  

A/N: I may or may not be sorry for this

Part 6: Orange Cream and Peachy Sugar

Part 7: The Summer Filter {You Are Here}

Part 8: The Favor

It was the night of the dance. You were in your room sliding on sandals with thick black straps; they sparkle as you admire the inky polish on your toes. Standing in front of your long mirror, you inspect the outfit.

Still as starry and beautiful as you remember – little dazzling specks of light against a deep navy sky. The heart-shaped neckline gave your chest shape while revealing your battle scars. You didn’t feel the need to put concealer on the discoloration of them.

This was the real you.

Your hair was pinned up in an elegant bun with a few curled strands framing your face. It might’ve taken you fifteen minutes, but you were finally able to put eyeliner on the way you like. Other than that, your makeup was relatively minimal.

It was time to show your parents and wait for Scott to come pick you up.

Since he wasn’t telling parents that he was banned from the dance, he was free to escort you without suspicion. Once at the dance, you’d have to find other friends to mingle with.

“Oh, sweetheart,” your dad says at the bottom of the stairs, “You look amazing.” He looks proud as your mom appears with a camera.

She snaps a picture, “Ah, you are stunning!” she takes another picture of you laughing. “I love everything about the dress.”

Your mom pulls you aside for a posed picture next to the front door before she gives you a hug. One of her hands lingers on your shoulder, her thumb grazing the edge of your 3-inch incision scar.

“You are so beautiful,” she whispers, “And so brave.”

“We’re proud of you, sweetheart,” Tom says next to his wife. “You’re right – a girl needs to go to at least one high school dance in her lifetime.”

You snicker, “Even if I am going with just friends.”

“Remember to take breaks if it feels too overwhelming,” Angela frets, “Get some water and sit down for a few minutes.”

“And you have friends and teachers there that can help you,” Tom adds, “Don’t be all stoic and pretend you’re fine.”

You wave them off as you hear a car pull into the driveway. “Don’t worry, everything will be great.”

You suddenly have an inkling of the fear Stiles must feel with his dad. Your parents don’t know about the target on your back from a bloodthirsty supernatural creature. They don’t know how in danger you actually are. And if anything were to happen, you would feel immense guilt at keeping them in the dark as they fret and worry.

Scott knocks on the door and you open it to reveal him holding three large daisy flowers. “Hello. Oh, wow…” he looks you over, “You look amazing.”

Your cheeks go pink, “Thank you, Scott. I’m loving you in a suit.” You give him a hug and he presents the flowers.

“At least one of these is from Stiles because he’s upset I didn’t give him a chance to contribute,” he laughs, “I know they’re not much, but…”

“I love them. They’re a wonderful surprise.” You take the flowers from him, and your dad takes them quietly while your mom takes a few pictures. “Mom!”

“Just a few pictures for the album,” she says, “I want you to make sure you get more with your friends tonight.”

Scott feels a little tense standing next to you, a gentle hand on your lower back as you smile. “I’ll have her back before two.”

“One,” Tom says, still holding the flowers.

“One,” Scott agrees, “We’ll send you pictures.”

Angela beams, “Perfect, have fun you two!”

The walk to the car was full of tense giggles. Scott holds the door open for you and he clambers into his seat a few moments later.

“Thank you for driving me,” you smile, “I know tonight is going to be a little stressful.”

“I’d rather drive you and make sure you’re safe than just appear on the roof somewhere,” he shrugs, his knuckles pale where they grip the steering wheel. “You are one of the main targets tonight.”

“Don’t remind me,” you say, “Stiles was still bummed when I said he couldn’t drive me.”

“He’ll get over it.”

You smile, “I’m sorry you couldn’t take Allison.”

He’s quiet for a second, “Me too. But she’s not alone either. And it would be harder for me to explain why I wanted to drive with them when I’m not allowed at the school dance.”

“Well, I’m grateful anyways,” you say, “I didn’t realize how nervous I would be.”

“About the Alpha?”

“About the dance,” you laugh, “Is that ridiculous? There’s a psycho werewolf terrorizing us and instead I’m nervous about who I’m going to dance with and how I’ll look compared to everyone else.”

Scott smiles, “Those are the things you should be worried about. And you really do look amazing – I don’t think you have to worry about that one.”

The drive there feels quick with nerves fluttering in your stomach. Your heart rate is elevated, but you focus to keep a handle on it.

Ironically, the front of the school is decorated with stars, just like your dress. Blue and white balloons stand like statues on either side of the front doors while projections and strands of light wind around railings and stairs. You’re dazzled as you watch hordes of students make their way inside.

Scott looks guilty as he says, “I can’t be seen on the grounds.”

“I know,” you say, unbuckling your seatbelt, “I’ll walk the rest of the way. Good luck trying to get in,” you laugh.

Crossing the parking lot was like a never-ending runway. You feel many eyes on you, whispers being said about your scars or your outfit, you weren’t sure. You suddenly wish you brought a purse so at least there’d be something for your hands to hold. Right now they were clenching and unclenching at your sides.

Your heart was starting to beat a little faster as you near the entry table. All these eyes, dozens of people, loud music and strobing lights, and…

“(Y/N)!”

You whip around to see Stiles tripping over the sidewalk curb. He has on a crinkled suit with a black plaid tie. He looks rosy as he straightens himself in front of you, “I, uh… woah.” His eyes are stuck on you – your dress, your chest, your face. His mouth hangs open; he is completely speechless.

You pull him into a hug, “You look handsome in a suit.”

He giggles awkwardly, still choking on words as he looks you up and down. “I – I um… you look…” He looks into your eyes, very warm and sincere when he says, “You look beautiful.”

You try to hide your smile, “See, that’s why we don’t invite boys to go dress shopping. Their reactions are so much better at the dance.”

He shakes his head, acknowledging your rightness, and extending his elbow. “Might I escort you inside?”

“Sure,” you smile, holding onto the crook of his arm.

The inside of the gym was loud and boisterous. Hanging chandeliers and blankets of shimmery star fabric hang from the ceiling. Lights of pink and purple fly around the room, complimenting the live band in the back center.

Your hand tightens around Stiles’ arm, and he stops instantly.

“Too loud?”

You try to take a deep breath, “I just need a second to adjust.”

“Let’s sit down then,” he guides you to one of the round tables and pulls a chair out for you. “I’ll get you a drink,” he says as he tucks you in.

You smile your thanks, trying to relax enough to breathe steadily. You take the time to look for friends around the room. It didn’t take long to find Jackson huddled with Danny and other lacrosse players. He was pouring something clear from a glass bottle into the punch cups. You roll your eyes – well he was coping in his own unique way.

You continue to people watch, seeing your classmates and the dates they came with. Behind you is Scott hiding next to the bleachers. You pinpoint where Coach is and decide that there’s enough distance between the two.

Allison comes sulkily to your table, sitting down and groaning, “I told you I had a feeling Jackson would be a shit date.”

“He’s not in the mood, is he?” you grimace, watching him across the gym drinking straight from the glass bottle. “We could report him.”

“Let him be stupid,” she sighs, leaning back in the folding chair, “He’ll regret it enough in the morning.”

You grab her hand and squeeze, “Did you see that Scott is here?”

Her eyes light up, “I saw him sneaking in through the roof.”

“A flair for the dramatic,” you huff, “I bet you anything he’ll try to dance with you even with Finstock watching.”

“If not, we can just dance together,” she laughs, “As long as I get to lead.”

You hold up your hands, “Whatever you say.” You nod your head across the gym, “Did you see Lydia and Ben?”

Lydia was aggressively dancing with Ben Manley, the pair of them treating the school dance like a nightclub. Allison shakes her head, “She’s trying to get over Jackson.”

“She can’t hide that she’s hurt forever,” you say, “Jackson isn’t going to care that she’s grinding on some other guy at a dance.”

“We’ll be there for her when she needs it.”

Stiles reappears with two cups of punch, “Oh, hi Allison. You look nice.” He hands you a cup.

“Are you sure these aren’t spiked?” you say comically, “Jackson has been passing around the bottle.”

“Of course he has,” Stiles grumbles, “You okay, Allison?”

“We’re waiting for Scott to make his move,” she says. But a loud commotion in the crowd has caught your attention, “Or maybe he is right now?”

You hear Coach yelling a few things in the center of the crowd that you can’t make out. The audience and band go quiet for a second as he yells for everyone to keep dancing. The band picks up with a soft slow dance song and Scott appears a little out of breath but smiling from ear to ear.

“How did you manage that?” you ask.

He only has eyes for Allison as she says, “Yes, I would love to dance with you.”

Scott looks like a lovestruck puppy as Allison drags him onto the dance floor. You smile after them, happy that they’re reconciling. You don’t even notice how long Stiles has been looking at you until he asks:

“How’s your heart?”

“Still a little elevated,” you sigh, “But nothing I can’t handle.”

He nods, looking afraid and hopeful when he asks, “Do you wanna dance?”

You turn to him with warm eyes. You are completely endeared by him again. “Sure.”

His smile comes on quick and fast, standing and letting his chair topple to the ground. You accept his outstretched hand, laughing, and follow him to the dance floor. It was full of couples slowly dancing with their arms wrapped around each other.

The quieter music and lack of raving students was easier on your nerves. Stiles was timid in how he puts his hands on your waist, waiting for you to make the deciding move.

When you wrap your arms around his shoulders and force him to stoop so you can reach, he finally sinks into you. His head rests beside yours, pulling you close by the waist and swaying to match the rhythm.

You have to tilt your head up so you weren’t smothered into his shoulder. “This is better.”

His fingers twitch on your sides, “Slow dancing?”

“It’s less chaotic,” you agree, “It feels… safer. For my heart.”

He leans his head into yours, “I’m glad you still came, (Y/N).”

“Me too.” You put a hand up his neck, grazing the edge of his hairline, “Let’s just forget all the werewolf business tonight.”

“We can until something happens,” he agrees, “I just… I like holding you like this.”

Your brow puckers, face shadowed by pink and purple light. Something warm enters your chest and dribbles to your stomach. “What else?”

Stiles grips your sides, “I like… being this close to you. And smelling that wonderful fruity stuff on you.”

Nervous butterflies were fluttering in your stomach, teasing your lungs with their wingbeats. “You’ve said that before.”

He smiles, “I like you in this dress. I like that your scars are out. I like the fact you came without a date because I get to dance with you like this. And I like knowing you’re smiling right now without me needing to look because I can feel it against my cheek.” He pulls away to see proof of that smile. “I like you, (Y/N). Like a lot.” You giggle and it eggs him on, “Like a lot a lot.”

You smile and shake your head, “I think I’m a little late to the game. Everyone seems to know that but me.”

His expression starts to dip. He wants to hear a similar confession from you. But you don’t have a real answer yet. “You’re not surprised?”

“I think I’ve been in denial,” you say, still swaying to the music but getting lost in the motion. It was making you feel dizzy. The decorations on the gym walls were blurring behind Stiles’ head. “I think I…”

Stiles looks like he’s on the edge of desperation. His cheeks are flushed with oncoming embarrassment, and you can see the hurt behind his eyes. You move a hand to his cheek, feeling the heat there, “I think I feel… faint.” And your head falls to his chest, still conscious but on the verge of passing out.

Stiles holds you tightly to him, still swaying despite your limp legs, “I’ve got you.” He holds you up by the waist, a hand going for your neck to check your pulse. “I got you – I won’t let you fall.”

You dance like this for the remainder of the song, you breathing in his sweet woodsy smell and grounding yourself in his hold. He carries you gently, running his free hand in soft patterns along your back and arms. It was incredibly soothing and if your head wasn’t pounding like you were about to faint, you would’ve fallen asleep.

The song ends and you’re still swaying with Stiles. It takes everything in him not to force a word out of you. It was killing him waiting for you to speak.

You were in the throes of dissecting your feelings. How did you feel about Stiles? You remember the sleepover. The blue handprints on the car battery. The fries in the hospital cafeteria. The mac and cheese with the Sheriff. The suit jacket searching the woods. The garden trellis and rocks thrown on the tulips. The peachy light of your room and Ollie asleep between you two. The way he bandaged your shoulder. The panic in his voice from the video store call. The hugs when you cried. The truth about his mother. The gas station candy in the parking lot. The lessons in kissing.

You feel warm all over, blood still trickling to your legs and leaving your head heavy with cotton. You finally push him away, “I need to sit down.”

He’s compliant, “Okay,” guiding you by the hand and waist to the round tables. “Um… I’ll get you something to drink. Do you want to find a place to lie down?”

You put a hand to your temples, shading your eyes, “Let’s try the drink first.”

He swallows hard. His question about if you reciprocate any feelings for him left in the air. It’s eating him alive. But he leaves to navigate the boisterous dancing crowd to find the punch bowl and maybe something for you to snack on.

You’re left in your sticky feelings about Stiles. You had promised yourself no serious relationships. It would hurt less when you inevitably had to leave them. Therefore, there had to be no serious feelings.

But what you felt around Stiles. It was safe and warm and natural. And after the kissing in the jeep? Puzzle pieces were falling into place everywhere.

It was going to be dangerous liking him back. You would have to be honest with him about your prognosis. You would have to tell him why it wouldn’t work. It would cause him more grief than joy.

You pinch the bridge of your nose – would you allow yourself to like Stiles back?

Your phone in your dress pocket dings with a message from Lydia.

“I can’t find Jackson.”

You whip your head around to find Ben Manley sulking on the bleachers. Of course Lydia couldn’t let Jackson go. She still cares about him.

“He was crazy drunk last I saw him,” you reply, “He might’ve left to blow off some steam.”

“I’ll check the lacrosse field,” she says.

You feel a tinge of panic, “No, you shouldn’t go out there alone. Come back and we’ll think of something together.”

Lydia doesn’t reply and you feel that panic grow. She was on her way to being the most vulnerable pack member tonight. You stand up and will the shakiness from your drained limbs. Scott and Allison are still dancing, Jackson is missing, and Stiles is swarmed with thirsty students at the refreshments.

You were wasting time trying to get backup. If Lydia had at least one more person with her, she’d be safer.

You are quick to leave the gym and find a path to the lacrosse field. All the stadium lights are on and call to you like lighthouse beacons. You decide sending a text to both Scott and Stiles was the safe course of action.

“Lydia ran off to the field. No time. I’m going to get her.”

The grass was damp and uneven. You were grateful for wearing sandals beneath the long dress. Even more grateful when you notice a limp figure on the ground and another towering over her.

“Lydia?!” you cry, running for the pair in the center of the field.

There was blood painting her pale skin, a horrible contrast in the stadium light. Peter Hale was crouched over her, a trickle of blood running from his lips.

“Ah, (Y/N),” he says with his sinister smile, “I was wondering who would show up. Turns out it was the masterpiece coming to the rescue.” He stands and wipes at his lip, “Now, gauging the relationship between pack members, I do believe you are the more invaluable one.”

He speaks with a calm tone, but the blood on his face and the hunting nature of his eyes was unsettling. Your bare arms erupt in goosebumps, and you watch him take a sniff in your direction.

He grins, “Your fear is delicious.”

“Others are coming,” you squeak, blood pumping in your ears. Your eyes keep flickering to Lydia, searching for her chest moving with air. “A fight will break out.”

“We don’t want that on your special night,” he says in a terrifying coo, “I just need to find Derek.”

Your face scrunches, “And how would we know the answer to that?”

“One of you does,” he smirks, “And I’m going to make sure there is plenty of incentive.” He walks over Lydia and in your direction.

In a split second Peter is swiping at you, sending you flying to the ground in a mass of shimmering blue fabric. A thrill of pain like nothing else explodes in your side and you know his claws are out.

You gasp in pain, too sharp to cry out.

“I can hear the unevenness of your heart,” he growls, fangs lengthening in his mouth, “I can smell the sickly symptoms of death.” He bows to take hold of your neck, the tips of his claws digging into the soft skin there, “Let me speed up the process.”

And he lifts you into the air, his nails sinking further into you. This time you cry out, hitting him pathetically with your arms. He throws you back into the ground and pins you beneath his body. His jaws are inches from your jugular when a frantic voice screams across the field.

“(Y/N)!”

Peter lifts his head and watches as Stiles sprints across the grass like his life depends on it. He slides the last few feet, getting on your level. His hand rises to touch you, but Peter growls at him – protective of his prey.

“Don’t kill her,” Stiles says in a shaky voice. His eyes stay on you, avoiding the gaze of the Alpha. “Please.”

Peter hums, “I might find it in me to spare her; if you tell me how to find Derek.”

Stiles stammers, “What?”

A clawed hand grips into your already damaged side and a sharp cry of pain comes out of you. “Tell me how to find Derek Hale.”

Stiles is losing control of his breathing, digging his fingers into the grass to stop himself from getting killed. “I don’t know that. How would I know that? Leave her alone!”

Peter removes his claws, each dipped in the dark red of your blood. “You’re the clever one, aren’t you? And deception has a particularly acrid scent, Stiles. Tell me the truth or I will rip her apart.”

You feel weak and faint as Peter trails his fingers along your bare skin. Tears are streaming from your eyes and into your hair. The tears to your side are searing with pain; with every breath you’re hurting.

One of your ribs must be broken.

Stiles was panicking, unsure of how to help you. “Okay, look… I think he knew.”

“Knew what?”

“Derek, I think he knew he was gonna be caught.”

“By the Argents?” Peter was staring at him with a hunters mark.

Stiles struggles to look between him and you bleeding on the ground. “Yeah, and when they were shot, he and Scotty… I think he took Scott’s phone.” You wince in pain and he pounds a fist into the grass.

“Why?” Peter asks lowly.

“They all have GPS now. So if he still has it and if it’s still on… you can find him.”

“Then lets go.”

Stiles is still frantic, fingers in the grass and tears of frustration burning his eyes. You were writhing on the ground in clear agony.

“No, I’m not just letting you leave them here.”

“You don’t have a choice Stiles; you’re coming with me.” Peter bends down to fish in your dress pocket, producing your cell phone, “Here ‘Lydia is hurt on the field,’ happy now? Sent it to a friend chat.”

“What about (Y/N)?”

Peter searches his pockets for a handkerchief, “She’ll be coming with us.” He wipes superiorly at his chin. Stiles begs from his place on the ground.

“You can’t drag her around with us! She’s bleeding out; she needs a doctor!”

“Then I suggest you don’t waste my time trying to find Derek,” he straightens his leather coat, “Because the longer you take… the longer she suffers.”

“She has a bad heart,” Stiles pleads, those frustration tears building in the corners of his eyes. “Any more stress could kill her.”

Peter squats beside you, making you whimper. “Then don’t cause her any more stress by fighting me.” He sinks his claws under your arm and drags you effortlessly across the field.

You cry out in pain, your legs too weak to flail. Blood leaves a trail behind you, Stiles scrambling to his feet, “Stop it! That’s hurting her too much. Her heart will give out before we find Derek – and there goes my incentive.” He yells the last part, “I won’t care after that!”

Peter grumbles and wraps his arms around your waist and legs, carrying you the rest of the way to Stiles’ jeep. You’re placed in the back, panting and hissing with pain as Peter and Stiles sit in the front.

You try to think of a way to prolong your consciousness. You gather the extra fabric from your dress and apply pressure to your side. The punctures to your neck and arm are less of a concern. At least he didn’t bite you.

“I forget how long it takes for humans to heal,” Peter huffs a laugh, “You’d be perfectly fine by now if you were a werewolf, (Y/N).”

Stiles sets his face as he drives away from the school. He keeps checking his rearview mirror to see how you’re coping.

You elevate your legs, take deep breaths, and keep pressure on your largest wound.

“Don’t feel bad,” Peter says, “If Lydia lives, she’ll become a werewolf. She’ll be incredibly powerful.”

Lydia had been bitten, you realize horribly.

“Yeah,” Stiles says sarcastically, “And once a month she’ll go out of her freaking mind and try to tear people apart.”

“Oh, the bite isn’t so bad,” Peter laughs, “It might actually save (Y/N)’s life if she can’t surpass her own wounds.” He directs Stiles to a parking garage further into town, “I could grant her a bite.”

“And make her a raging monster every month? No, thank you.”

Peter smiles wickedly, “Not even to save her life?”

It was quiet after that, the jeep making its way into the hospital parking garage and to a certain level. They park near a small gray car and leave you there.

The wounds to your side were pulsating with rhythmic pain and heat. Blood continues to soak through the fabric you keep bunching over it. You can hear Stiles being frantic and you can’t imagine how he must be feeling.

The longer he takes the more you suffer.

He was probably going out of his mind with worry. But you know instantly that you would forgive him for however long it’ll take to appease Peter.

There’s a loud bang and the back of the jeep is torn open. You tumble out at the momentum, crashing to the asphalt in a painful heap. You gasp at the cascading amounts of aching hurt.

Peter grips you by the hair and lifts you from the ground effortlessly. You scream, bundles of bloody fabric leaving your hands to claw at Peter’s hand.

“I can be very persuasive, Stiles. Don’t make me persuade you.”

“Okay, okay!” Stiles yells, “Put her down!”

You sob on the asphalt, the effort to breathe between cries is putting strain on your heart. It doesn’t take long for you to fall into a limbo between pain and unconsciousness. Stiles began to frantically type on a laptop. You couldn’t understand what they were saying.

The hurt was too loud.

“I can’t breathe,” you gasp.

Peter goes to stand over you, urging Stiles to focus on the computer, “I’d suggest typing faster there, Stiles.”

“God. Fuck. Shit. God. Damn,” Stiles keeps messing up the keys and needing to refresh, meanwhile hearing you gasp for air behind him. “Wait! Here, look… they’re keeping him… at the Hale House.”

Peter gives you a good kick to the back as he steps over you, “Not at it. Under it. I know exactly where that is.” His ears perk up, “And I’m not the only one. Give me your keys.”

Stiles is practically bouncing on his toes to get to your struggling figure. “Careful, she grinds in second.” But his keys are returned bent and unusable. “What… how am I supposed to get her to the front of the hospital?!”

“You have a cell phone,” he says, “Now, because you did me a favor, Stiles. I’m going to offer this only once… do you want me to give her the bite?”

“The what?” Stiles is unable to focus with you quieting behind him.

“Does she want the bite?” Peter asks more clearly, “This is her one chance to get a cure all for her wounds. Of course it might kill her either way, but… that’s a risk you’d have to take.”

Stiles is at a loss, quiet as he considers. “No. She wouldn’t want that.”

“Very well,” Peter slides into his car without another word.

Stiles’ dress shoes squeak as he reaches your side, ignoring the way Peter speeds out of the parking garage. He kneels at your head, terrified that your lips were going purple. “Oh my god,” he mumbles, “(Y/N)? (Y/N), can you hear me?”

Your eyes barely flutter open before closing again, unable to breathe. He puts his head to your chest, one hand on your neck, searching for a pulse. Your heart was giving out.

“No,” he says, “No way. Not today. You’re not supposed to faint when you’re not breathing.” He pulls out his phone and puts 911 on speaker. “This isn’t how it’s supposed to go.” He brushes the hair out of your face, revealing road rash from where you fell from the trunk.

911 instructs him to start CPR and wait for personnel to pick you up. Being in the hospital parking garage meant that help would be there soon. Stiles has his hands over the scars on your chest, smeared with blood from your side. He tries to keep his arms straight as he attempts to pump life back into your body.

He gives you a kiss of life, two breaths that would hopefully keep oxygen moving throughout your body. This was not how he envisioned your next kiss. Your lips were lifeless and soft. They were still purple.

You couldn’t die now – not when he still needs to apologize. Not when it would be his fault for not getting you help sooner.

Not when he had just confessed having feelings for you.

~~~

Stiles sits in the hospital hallway, legs bouncing and arms shaking with the movement as he leans on them. His head is bowed as the Sheriff comes speeding towards him.

“You know what?” Noah says as he approaches, “It’s good that we’re in a hospital because I’m gonna kill you!” He speaks firmly, “It has been a madhouse trying to find all you kids.”

Stiles finally looks up and the Sheriff stills.

His son is red-faced from crying. He rubs at his eyes, sniffling loudly as he tries to speak past the lump in his throat. “Is she going to be okay?”

The Sheriff looks behind them at Lydia, “They don’t know, partially because they don’t know what happened.”

“No… I mean, is (Y/N) going to be okay?”

Noah looks at the sorrow in his sons face. “You haven’t gotten an update?”

“No,” Stiles says in despair, “She went back there not breathing and I don’t know if they’ve gotten her back!”

“Listen,” Noah sits beside him, resting a hand on his back, “Let’s handle what we can control first. Now, these girls were attacked by the same thing, right? Did you see anything? I mean, do you have any idea who or what attacked them?”

Stiles licks his lips, hesitant in the truth. He still needs to protect his dad. “No,” he says, “No, I have no idea.”

“But why was (Y/N) with you and Lydia with Jackson?”

“(Y/N) was dragged off the field by whatever attacked them,” Stiles lies through his teeth, “We split up to protect them both. (Y/N) was closer to my jeep.”

Noah clenches his jaw, unsure of how to help his son. “And she was still breathing when you made your way over here?”

“It wasn’t until we reached the parking lot,” Stiles mutters. He runs his hands over the short length of his hair. “God, dad… what if I was too late?”

The Sheriff looks disheartened. “You did everything you could.”

The wait was agony. Agony that only gets worse as Chris Argent comes to interrogate him and Jackson. He’s barely able to keep it together long enough to help create some Molotov cocktails. He instructs Jackson to take them to the Hale House and help.

Your parents appear a few minutes later.

“Oh my god, Stiles,” Angela cries, as red in the face as Stiles was half an hour ago. “Have they said anything?”

“No,” he says, “I’ve been waiting here for nearly an hour.”

Tom runs for the nurses station, “Maybe they’ll give her parents the news.” Angela follows with Stiles on her heels.

A nurse was trying to calm Tom down, “Sir, I understand – let me call into the OR and check.” She makes a call to a different part of the hospital and speaks quietly.

Stiles stays a foot away, not wanting to intrude but needing to hear the news just as badly. Angela was stifling sobs as Tom holds her close to him.

“Okay,” the nurse replies, placing the phone back on the receiver. “She’s currently in surgery.”

“So she’s breathing,” Stiles says loudly.

“Yes,” the nurse continues, “The lacerations to her side are being stitched and some were deep enough to puncture the abdominal wall. There’s been lots of damage and blood loss. So far so good, though,” she consoles. “She did come into the ER not breathing and spent a lot of time without oxygen. But they were able to restart her heart.”

Angela continues to sob into Tom as he says, “Thank you. Please tell the doctor her parents are here waiting for updates.”

They walk back to the waiting room, sitting on the hard cushioned seats. Stiles was slow to follow them, unsure of how to be included in their fretful waiting. It was his fault you were kept from help for so long.

“Stiles,” Angela says, her voice thick with emotion. “Your dad said you were with her when it happened.”

He scratches the back of his head, afraid to look them in the eyes. “I found her after the attack. I tried to get her here as quick as I could.” He licks his lips, “She… she couldn’t breathe as we parked.”

Tears continue to leave Angela’s eyes, “Her heart?”

“It just… gave out,” Stiles breathes, upset that he felt like crying again. “I g-gave her CPR… in the parking lot um – while the doctors came for us.”

Tom is getting teary too as he listens. He leans his elbows on his knees and covers his face. Angela looks horribly between being grateful and being resigned. Like she knew this would be her daughter’s fate, but glad you weren’t alone.

“Thank you for helping her, Stiles,” she pats the seat beside her and he sits. “She wouldn’t have made it to surgery without you.”

He gives her a painful smile. Yes, he got you to the hospital. But he could’ve gotten you here in better shape.

She puts a hand on his arm and rubs soothing circles with her thumb. The burning in Stiles’ eyes was quickly making them water again. He sniffs and leans into his hands like Tom. Angela moves her hand to his back, rubbing the expanse between his shoulders.

They sit like that for another hour before a doctor appears, “Westbrook?”

The trio stand eagerly.

“How is she?” Tom asks. He hadn’t said a word the entire hour.

“She’s stable,” the doctor says calmly. “We were able to repair the lacerations to her side and a few punctures elsewhere. We did have to restart her heart once at her arrival and once during the surgery.”

Angela swallows hard, eyes red but out of tears, “Can we see her?”

“They’re setting her up in a room now. Give it another twenty minutes.” He looks uncomfortable as he prepares himself to say something more. “(Y/N) went without oxygen for over five minutes. When the brain goes without oxygen for that long it results in the death of brain cells. We call it an anoxic brain injury.”

“What does that mean?” Tom crosses his arms, “What would that do to her?”

The doctor clears his throat, “We won’t know for sure until she wakes up. She may be comatose for a few hours or a few days. She may experience some coordination issues, communication problems, amnesia, or other impairments.”

“Oh my god,” Angela whispers, covering her mouth, “Could all that be permanent?”

“It depends on the severity of her brain injury. All minor impairments can be corrected over time,” he gives them all his reassurances.

Not soon after your parents were called back into your room. Stiles stays behind, bouncing his legs and waiting for something – anything – to happen. Everyone he loves is in some kind of danger and he has no idea where they all are.

He’s trying to get comfortable in the hard plastic chairs when Scott and Allison appear. They’re holding hands and running into the waiting room.

“How are Lydia and (Y/N)?” Allison asks.

Stiles slides off the chairs and awkwardly straightens himself. “Lydia is going to be okay,” he nods to the middle room with windows, “Her wounds…”

Scott squeezes Allison’s hand. “Allison knows. She knows everything.”

“Alrighty then,” Stiles hums, “She was bit, but the bite hasn’t fully healed, and she isn’t dead so… whatever that means.”

“And (Y/N)?” Scott asks, looking at every sign that his best friend has been crying.

Stiles swallows, “I don’t know. Her heart gave out and she went without oxygen for a long time.” He licks his lips, rubbing hard at his eyes, “The surgery went well, but we don’t know how bad her brain damage will be until she wakes up.”

Allison, already having lost much that night, was exhausted by the news. She leans into Scott who holds her tightly. Stiles watches it with a pang in his chest.

They talk about the events of the night. How the cocktails Jackson brought weakened the Alpha and Derek delivered the final killing blow. He was now the Alpha. Kate was dead and the Sheriff was at the crime scene. It was a distraction that Stiles was grateful for. It made the time pass quicker than just stewing in his own guilt.

“If it weren’t for you I think Peter would’ve killed a lot more,” Scott says as a way to cheer his friend.

“Jackson’s the one who delivered,” he replies.

Allison looks worried at the obvious disregard of his contribution. “Stiles… you have been a hero tonight.” She shakes her head, “A lot of people are alive because you helped.”

“At what cost,” he mumbles, thinking of your brain injury. “I don’t know.”

“How about we go home,” Scott suggests, “You need some sleep and the Westbrooks would call with updates.”

“No,” Stiles chews on his lips, “I’m not leaving until she wakes up.”

Scott looks at his friend seriously, “Are you sure? That could be a long time.”

“I’m sure,” he waves them off, “I’ll wait for my dad.”

They leave with plans that sound a lot like ‘rooftop cuddling,’ and Stiles is again left to wonder the ‘what ifs’ of the night. What would have happened if he had never left your side to get that drink? What if he hadn’t found Scott’s location in time? What were you going to say about his confession of feelings?

It hurt too much to think.

~~~

Sheriff Stilinski had spent the majority of the night managing the crime scene at the Hale House. The bodies of Kate Argent and Peter Hale were removed, and the property was taped off while forensics worked.

It was nearly daybreak when he left to pass out on his living room couch.

Several hours later he awoke for a finger of whiskey and a sandwich. He was just layering the turkey and cheese when he yelled for Stiles to come down for a talk.

When there was no reply, the sheriff went searching the house, turkey in hand. Stiles was nowhere to be seen.

“Damnit,” he curses, “That complete…” He searches for his phone, dialing and forgetting about his sandwich. “Tom?”

“Yeah, Sheriff, is everything okay?”

“Fine, fine. I just can’t find Stiles. Is he still at the hospital?”

There’s a pause where Tom has a breathy laugh, “Yeah, the kid’s still here.”

“Thank god,” Noah sighs, “I’m sorry, Tom – has he been pestering you guys?”

“No, he’s… well he’s actually just been stuck in the waiting room this whole time.” Tom sounds exhausted. “The times I’ve gone out for drinks he’s been there waiting for an update. I just tell him (Y/N)’s still comatose.”

“God, I’m sorry,” Noah rubs at his eyes, “She still hasn’t woken up yet?”

“Not at all,” Tom swallows, “Not even a twitch.”

The sheriff searches for his keys, “Well, I���ll come grab my son. He needs a shower and some sleep at least.”

“Sure, and Sheriff, we would call you if she woke up,” Tom adds softly, “I know she… she cares about you and Stiles.”

An unexpected twinge of sadness envelopes him, “Thank you, Tom. She’s a special girl.” He clears his throat, “I’ll be there in a sec.”

It takes him another twenty minutes to get to the hospital. On the right floor, he finds Stiles slumped in a hard cushioned chair with his feet propped on a coffee table. He has several magazines open and covering him like makeshift blankets.

His face looks swollen from frequent tears and his eyes look irritated from wiping at them so much. Noah looks at him with a quickly softening heart. The last time he had seen his son cry this much at a hospital…

“Stiles…”

The boy turns his eyes to his father, hidden beneath the blanket of magazines.

“Read anything good?”

He gives a half-hearted smile, “No, but this Victory magazine is actually thick enough to help retain my body warmth.”

“I see you’ve found ways to entertain yourself.”

“I got tired of being stuck in my thoughts,” he sighs, scratching at his head. “You should see the towels the nurses let me fold.”

Noah’s eyebrows raise, “Man, you must’ve been really bored. Did you not sleep at all?”

Stiles shakes his head, “I was afraid of missing when she woke up.”

“And how’s the Martin girl?”

Stiles shrugs, “She’s been able to get up and down with some help. But she’s been sleeping a lot. Her parents are taking turns sitting with her. You know… tension with the divorce.”

“You should get some sleep too.”

“I don’t think I can,” Stiles says, shifting until a few magazines fell to the floor. “I can’t sleep knowing that (Y/N) could still be seriously hurt.”

“And she could be seriously fine.”

Stiles scoffs, “And it’d be all my fault.”

“Hey,” the sheriff goes to sit by his son, knocking a few magazines off his chest. “None of this is your fault. You had nothing to do with the attack.”

“… but I could’ve kept them inside the school. I could’ve stopped them before anything bad happened.”

Sadness creeps into the sheriff, “Let’s get you home. You need to get cleaned up and have a rest.”

“No,” Stiles was quick to reply, “I’m not leaving until I know she’s okay.”

“The doc said it could be days, Stiles. You’re not going to be able to stay awake for days.”

“I can try.”

Noah stands, “No. You’re going to come home for a few hours. I’m gonna be honest, son, you look terrible. And I know you don’t want your little reunion with (Y/N) to be memorable because you smell like musty teenager and look like you’ve got a head cold.” He waits for a few seconds while Stiles pouts like a child. “After you get some sleep I’ll let you stay at the hospital as long as you want.”

A silent battle rages between the two. It takes only one more nudge for Stiles to stand from his uncomfortable chair. “Stiles, you’re not the only one who’s worried about her,” the sheriff gives him another look of concern.

“You have to wake me if I sleep through a call from the Westbrooks.”

“Deal,” Noah claps a hand around his son, leading him to the front doors. “God, do you even own a deodorant stick?”

Stiles jabs his father in the side, “And an antiperspirant spray, jackass.”

Noah slaps the back of his head, “You need to actually use them for them to work, smart alec.”

The entire car ride back has Stiles nodding off against the window. There’s a wet, foggy mark where his mouth rests open. He stumbles into the house and starts stripping as he climbs the stairs.

Noah follows and gathers the clothes, catching the bent ring of keys as they fall from a pocket. It makes him sigh, memories of his wife handling those same jeep keys… then he saw the random sets that had to belong to places Stiles shouldn’t be.

A key to the police station, to the school, to a few neighbor houses.

He would arrange to have the proper keys fixed, and the others confiscated.

Stiles stands in the shower for longer than usual. He lets the hot water run down his head and work at the knots in his shoulders. He feels cramped from being stuck in an uncomfortable hospital chair for nearly twelve hours.

It takes the thought of seeing you again to make him scrub himself clean. His father was right, he wants you to see him fresh and sane. And right now he was anything but.

It feels good to be in a pair of pajama pants and a simple black shirt. He collapses on his bed without much thought. He was more desperate for sleep than he realized.

He drifts into dreams – dreams that he will hold onto in the days to come.

~~~

He walks along the path of a lake, grand berry bushes grow wildly there. Large, tart blackberries and deep, rich blueberries bloom along the leaves. Bushels of ripe berries are everywhere, halfway picked with plenty more to go. He picks a handful of plump raspberries and delights in their sweetness.

The trees overhead protect him from the sun, welcoming him with their shimmering leaves and singing birds. The berries leave sticky sweet juice on his fingers, each delicious as he sucks on them.

Ahead is the path leading to the boardwalk atop the lake. He grins as the summer sunshine appears to warm his skin. He admires the shiny red strawberries growing in twisted strands near the picnic tables. A cutting board is laden with freshly cut lemons and red berries – a pitcher containing sour pink lemonade beside them.

All the colors seem brighter, like a summer filter overlay everything. Stiles picks up an already prepared glass, ice cubes clinking and submerged in the pink drink. After a sip he promptly eats a few cut strawberries, smelling them with an air of familiarity.

He loves the smell of strawberries and summer fruits.

In an open cooler beside the table, half-buried in chunks of melting ice, are bright orange creamsicles and bubbly sodas. A candy tray holds caramel chocolate, sugary peach rings, and sticky gummy worms.

He was quick to sample everything, his attention catching something floating in the lake. A girl was lounging in a large nectarine orange floatie, sunglasses on her face and sunscreen on her shoulders.

Stiles smiles wide, running for the boardwalk. It was all so vibrant and warm. The red of the berries, the lemon yellow, bright orange creamies, shimmering green trees, sparkling pink lemonade, and the brilliant blue of the lake water.

It smelt of sugar and sun warmed earth and fresh berries. It smelt like (Y/N).

He stops on the edge of the boardwalk, shading his eyes to see you lounging in the floatie. “(Y/N)!” he calls to you.

You look up at him, cheeks peachy pink from the sun, “Stiles?” You sit up, swimsuit beautiful with lavender purples and sage stems. “What are you doing here?”

“I don’t know,” he shrugs, “But I’m glad to see you.”

You float closer to the boardwalk, moving the sunglasses to your hair. “Do you even own a swimsuit?”

He laughs, “Probably buried beneath a few camp shirts.”

“Figures,” you smile, lifting a hand bangled in rose gold, “Help me up?”

He swallows, “Yeah, sure.” He bows to take a hold of your hand, but there’s resistance. You yank on his arm and manage to flop him onto your floatie. He flails as you try to balance the giant inflatable.

It makes you laugh to see him so frantic, “You’re going to tip us!” He lands on you, your hands wrapping around him in a fit of giggles.

He holds onto your sun warmed skin, pulling you too close to the edge. Side heavy, the floatie tips over with a scream from your lips. A splash makes the water ripple as you tread to the surface, spluttering water.

“I told you to calm down,” you laugh, splashing at Stiles.

He splutters more, making ridiculous faces as he wipes the lake water from his eyes. “It was getting hot anyways.” He splashes at you next, causing you to squeal with laughter.

The splash battle was short and intense, Stiles mimicking his favorite water benders in sending waves your way. You dive for the ladder at the boardwalk, scaling it to make a quick getaway.

Stiles curses, following your dripping figure. “Get back here!” he runs across the boardwalk to meet you at the picnic table.

You are eating a plump strawberry, tossing one at his head for good measure. He ducks and gives you a sly smile, opening his mouth like a target. You promptly aim a large berry, laughing hysterically as he jumps and catches it in his mouth.

Both his arms go in the air, triumphant, “Did you see that?” he cries between loud chews. He runs to you, tickled by your laughter. He wraps you up in his arms and soaks you in.

This is you. You remind him of summertime. The vibrant colors of life. The sweet berries that grow wild. The sun that warms whatever it touches. The water cooling sunburnt skin.

The orange cream and peachy sugar.

He spins you once and sets you down, still inches from you. The pair of you are laughing like summer will never end.

Then you lock eyes.

The laughter dies slower, smiles never leaving your faces. But your eyes are entirely too warm to be just mirth. He’s looking at you like the sun itself. He was embracing the embodiment of color and sweetness and warmth.

He looks down to your berry stained lips.

With one second of hesitance he leans down to your mouth. He devours the sticky sweetness of your berry lips. He kisses you hungrily, desperately, like it was the one and only time he’d be able to kiss you.

You respond with holding his face, fingertips digging into his cheeks. His hands drift down your sides to the backs of your thighs. In an upward motion he picks you up, your legs wrapping around his waist.

A sigh of surprise escapes you, taller than him momentarily so you have to angle his face up to yours. He groans in delight as he carries you to the picnic table. He sets you on top of it, moving his hands to your thighs, searching for that moan of satisfaction from your mouth.

He nips at your lips, loving every sound you make. He nuzzles into your neck, finding that sweet spot to kiss. He has to pull back to take a breath.

You look tired. Your lips are purplish-blue. His brow knits. “(Y/N) you’re…” He lifts a hand to your chin and finds that it’s coated in bright blood. Brighter than those red berries. “Oh my god!” He pulls back to see a fresh wound to your side, soaking the lavender swimsuit in rich blood. “Oh my god, (Y/N) – what do I…”

Your chest stutters and choking sounds come from your throat. A strained redness enters your eyes as you reach for him, puncture marks along your neck. Stiles is frantic at your absence of words, “What’s happening?” he yells, “What did I do?”

You fall back onto the table, dull lemonade spilling and mixing with your bright blood. Berries and lemons roll to the ground. You choke and flail as Stiles cries his panic.

And he sits straight up in bed, sheets tangled between his legs and pillows on the floor. He’s sweating and cold, the sun setting outside as he scrambles for breath. He throws his legs over and bows over his knees.

~~~

With no word from the Westbrooks, Stiles finds himself wandering the neighborhoods until he finds your house. He looks longingly at your window, dark as it was with the recent sunset, he could just make out the cat staring back at him.

“Oliver,” he whispers, finding something else to distract himself with. He goes for the front door, hoping that in the commotion of getting to the hospital, your parents left it unlocked. He was right.

The cat was there to greet him, mewling loudly and rubbing his head against Stiles’ legs.

“You hungry, little buddy?” he closes the door and makes his way to the kitchen. Inside the pantry he finds a container of dry food shaped like little fish. “I would think (Y/N) made you gourmet cat food.”

Ollie stands on his back legs and stretches his front paws up Stiles’ leg. It was super cute. “I guess maybe just for special occasions, huh?” he sighs, taking a scoop and pouring it in the food bowl by the back door.

The cat purrs and flicks his floofy tail as Stiles sits at the dining table to watch him. It must’ve been ten minutes when the front door opens again.

There was Melissa and Scott, holding keys and a duffel bag embroidered with the hospital logo.

“Oh! Stiles, what are you doing here?”

“Um, I… well, I knew Ollie needed to be fed.”

Scott shuts the door while Melissa continues to look discontented, “Who’s Ollie?”

“The cat,” Stiles gestures to the fluffy animal, “(Y/N) would kill me if he went without food for this long.”

“You broke into the house to feed the cat?” Scott smirks, hands in his pockets.

Stiles lifts his arms, “No! The door was unlocked.”

Melissa laughs, “Still strange, Stiles. You still entered without permission.” She walks to the stairs with the duffel bag; Scott makes his way to the dining table.

“What are you guys doing here?” Stiles asks in a low voice.

Scott slumps into a chair, “The Westbrooks need clothes and stuff, so mom volunteered to pack a bag.”

Stiles crinkles his brow, “Did you do something with your hair?”

“Maybe,” he wipes a hand up and catches the gelled back fringe, “I’m trying something new.”

“I didn’t realize you had a forehead,” Stiles smirks.

Scott mumbles a retort. “I thought you were going to camp out at the hospital.”

“I was until my dad decided to drag my ass out,” he grumbles, “But there hasn’t been any news that she’s awake, so…” He plays with the hem of his shirt, feeling a little empty of conversation. “How are you and Allison?”

“Great,” Scott smiles an idiot smile, “Until her dad hunted us down and nearly killed me.”

“You’re kidding,” Stiles grimaces, “After everything that’s just happened?”

Scott shrugs, “I’m still a werewolf, I guess. He let me live, but I have to stay away from Allison.” His smile grows more subtle, eyes on the floor, “At least, I have to pretend to.”

“Great plan, Scott. Let’s remember how this guy hunts and murders the supernatural for a living. He has a literal collection of the best weapons money could buy, with – let me add – special werewolf ammunition that can work around your little healing superpower.”

“Yeah, but I still get to see Allison.”

Stiles slumps a little further down his chair, Oliver snacking on his dinner in the background. “You’re impossible.”

“I could say the same about you,” Scott retorts, “You’re just as hopeless.”

“You know I told her how I feel about her…” Stiles speaks quietly, avoiding his friends gaze.

Scott measures the rhythm of his friends heart, “And?”

“And she got faint…”

“Made her weak at the knees, did you?”

“And she ran off to be attacked by the Alpha.”

“Ouch,” Scott hisses, “No return confession?”

Stiles clears his throat, “There wasn’t time for her to.”

“Then I guess there’s still a chance that she does,” Scott says softly, “It could be the first thing she says when she wakes up.”

Melissa comes down the stairs with a heavy duffel bag full of clothes and toiletries. She huffs at the boys, “You two coming?”

“Back to the hospital?” Stiles asks, standing quickly.

“Yeah, we’re going to drop off the supplies and maybe grab a late dinner.”

“Count me in,” he replies, scratching Ollie behind the ears in goodbye.

~~~

Stiles had been wandering the hospital hallways all night, refusing any sleeping aide from Melissa as she left. She’d be back for her day shift in a couple hours.

In a pathetic attempt to see you, he creeps past the night nurse to stand awkwardly at your window. The blinds are drawn and he wails silently, upset that it’s been so long since he last saw you.

He falls to the ground and slumps against the wall. Past the point of tears, he just melts into the floor. Until he hears a sneaker against the tile.

His eyes fly to the door to see Angela standing there with dark circles under her eyes. “Hello, Stiles.”

He clambers to his feet, rubbing his shaved hair flat against his head, “H-Hi front desk Westbrook.”

She smiles at that, “Have you been here the whole day?” she leans against the door frame as if she were hiding whatever was inside.

“No, my dad made me go home for a nap.”

“That’s good,” she says, “Um… Tom is asleep on the couch, but if you want to see her…”

“Yes, please!” he says entirely too loud.

She shushes him, “Again – her dad is asleep. Let’s try not to wake him; it’s the first sleep he’s gotten since the accident.”

Stiles nods vigorously, straightening his jacket and pulling on his hoodie strings. “Yep, I got you. Roger that.”

She refrains from rolling her eyes, endeared by him much like her daughter was at times. “She hasn’t moved an inch, but if you hold her hand long enough I swear she squeezes back.”

They step into the darkened room, only a lamp in the corner providing some light on the machines at work. You lay stone cold on the hospital bed. Dressed in a white gown and layered beneath a scratchy cotton blanket, you would look asleep if it weren’t for the numerous machines tracking your vitals.

Stiles goes into shock for a second, standing rigid by the door while Angela goes for her usual chair by the couch. She gestures for him to move, afraid speaking would wake her snoring husband.

With shuffling steps, Stiles makes for the chair beside your bed. Many stickers were on your chest, each connected to wires that lead to a machine. A thin yellow tube goes into your nose and is taped at your cheek. A monitor is attached to your index finger and the back of your hand has an IV stuck there.

He can see little stiches beneath your chin where Peter stuck his claws, and he knew your side was heavily bandaged with surgical tape. The right side of your face, the side that fell onto the asphalt as you tumbled out of the trunk, had road rash. Bloody scrapes were at your forehead and on that cheekbone. They were both covered with a shiny ointment.

“You can sit down,” Angela whispers, nodding to the chair, “She won’t bite.”

Stiles gives her a stiff smile, sitting in the chair. It was much more plush than the ones in the waiting room. He scoots closer to your bed and ponders your face. You look peaceful – not at all how you looked right before losing the ability to breathe.

It was making his dry eyes burn. Your lips weren’t purple anymore. They had the soft pink color he saw in his dreams.

“Hi, (Y/N),” he says softly. It put a lump in his throat “I – I’m… god…” He bows his head and finds that the warmth that usually took hold of him when he saw you… it ached and burned in his chest. “I’m sorry.”

He reaches for your left hand, closest to him. It was free of wires and tubes, but it had hospital tags around your wrist. Your fingers are cold, and he wraps both his hands around them.

Angela tries to mind her own business, pulling a book from the side table to read. Or at least give her eyes something to look at.

“I’m so sorry,” Stiles continues, he holds the mess of hands to his mouth, “I’m sorry for everything.” He tries to compose himself, tired of crying. “Um… don’t worry I fed Oliver before I came over.”

He misses the smile that Angela has on her face.

“And I’m pretty sure he deserves some fancy gourmet fish cake for the trouble,” Stiles deflects, rubbing his thumbs across the back of your hand. “He was worried sick about… about not eating.”

Angela huffs a laugh behind her book.

“That’s why dogs are better, you know. They freak out when their owner is sick. Cats just freak out when they can’t find their next meal.” He tries to swallow past the lump, “I was… I was freaking out there for a second.”

His fingers become light and lazy like they were the night on the preserve when you got drunk. “I felt hopeless again, seeing you like that.” He sniffles and clears his throat, “Which would make it super awesome if you would wake up soon,” he laughs sadly, “Please wake up soon. Please be alright.”

He holds your hand for another half hour, searching for that squeeze that Angela mentioned. Until Tom stirs on the couch and Stiles stands abruptly, suddenly afraid of his intrusion on a family matter.

He waves goodbye to a saddened Angela before returning to his hallway wandering. He walks and walks until the shift changes and the sun begins to rise again. His eyes feel dry and droopy, like he was in need of another emergency nap.

He slumps against the nurses station as Melissa appears in her scrubs, “You hanging in there, kiddo?” She rubs across his shoulders and he groans. “You didn’t sleep last night?”

“I napped all afternoon,” he says into the station counter, “(Y/N) still isn’t awake.”

“I’m sorry, kid,” she sympathizes, “She’s a part of my rounds today. I’ll make sure to give you updates, alright?”

He gives her a silly smile where his face was squashed into the counter, “Thanks, McCall.”

He wanders until he finds the gift shop open. There he buys a foil balloon covered in smiley faces and says, ‘Get well!’ It stays tied to his wrist as he makes his way back to the waiting room by your door.

Getting as comfortable as he could across three hospital chairs, he starts to fall asleep. It only takes five minutes for him to be lightly snoring, chair arms digging into his shoulders and lower back.

He fidgets there, balloon bobbing above him as he fights the stiffness of the chairs. He’s so exhausted that it doesn’t even wake him from the dreams he was diving into. Dreams similar to the summer day at the lake with you.

Ones where he got to hold you and kiss you again.

Melissa checks your chart by the door before sneaking a look at the snoozing boy.

“Oh, just like that. No, no – you first,” he mumbles, “Me first?” he drools in his sleep.

Melissa shakes her head and smiles, returning the chart and being startled by Tom walking out of your room. “Oh, Mr. Westbrook, you scared me.”

“Sorry, Melissa. And it’s Tom, please.” He stretches his arms, looking at the same thing she was moments ago. Stiles is stretched out across the chairs making kissing noises at the thin air. “Has he been here all night?”

“He’s been here all weekend,” Melissa folds her arms.

“That’s… concerning.”

Melissa pats his arm, “He’s one of the good ones.”

“You sure about that?” Tom winces at the dream kissing, “He seems like a load of trouble.”

“Oh, he’s plenty that,” Melissa laughs, “But he’s got a good heart. He cares a lot about your (Y/N).”

Tom folds his arms, “Speaking of which, she was twitching a bit in her sleep just an hour ago. Would you mind checking on her? See if she wakes to some stimulus or something.”

“Of course,” Melissa says, following his lead into your patient room.

Stiles wakes as the custodial service empties a garbage can by his head. Rudely woken at a really good part in his dream, he groggily smacks the balloon tied to his wrist. It floats back to hit him in the face and he falls out of the hospital chairs.

“Oh my god!” a muffled voice yells from your patient room.

Stiles flies to his feet, throat bobbing as he listens for something else. “(Y/N)?” He walks to your windows, blinds open now that the sun was out. His knees wobble at seeing your eyes open and mouth smiling.

He jumps to the door, creaking it open slowly as to not disturb the sudden commotion inside.

“Okay, lets run through basics,” Melissa says, “Cover one eye for me.” She measures your sight, dilating pupils, and your depth perception. “So far so good. Lift both arms for me and smile.” She checks for any signs of one sided weakness, but you pass with flying colors.

“Is she fine?” Angela holds onto her husband, “Is anything wrong?”

“Okay, (Y/N) – I need you to wiggle your toes. Good. And can you feel this?” Melissa checks for any numbness in your extremities. “Perfect. Now can you repeat this for me? Sally sells seashells…”

You lick your lips, “Sally sells seashells.”

“Amazing,” Melissa claps. There wasn’t an immediate speech impediment. “Alright, now tell me your name.”

“(Y/N) Westbrook.”

She nods, “And do you have any pets?”

“I have a gray cat named Oliver.”

“Where were you born?”

“In Palo Alto,” you say, still with confusion in your brow. “What’s going on?”

Melissa holds up her hands, “We’re just checking for any brain injuries. What surgery did you get last summer?”

“I had a device put near my heart,” you point to the 3-inch incision on your chest. “What the hell?” You move your left sleeve to look at the claw marks on your shoulder.

“And where do you go to school?” Melissa asks.

You shake your head, touching the scars, “Um… I go to school at home, I guess. I’m homeschooled.”

The room goes silent.

Melissa tries to maintain the calm, “(Y/N), do you know why you’re in the hospital?”

“I’m assuming because of this,” you point at the claw marks, “Cause I have no idea where they came from.” You scoff and find a hitch in your chest – a pain in your side, “Or maybe there’s another thing by my ribs. That actually hurts a lot.”

“Oh my god, she doesn’t remember,” Angela whispers, terrified.

Tom rubs a hand down her arm, “Just give them a minute.”

“Do you know who these people are?” Melissa points to your parents.

It makes you laugh, “Yeah, that’s my mom and dad.”

“And what about me?”

You lick your lips again, “You’re Melissa McCall. You always help when I’m in the hospital.”

She looks stiff, contemplating the next move. She looks behind her to see Stiles standing frozen at the door, balloon stuck behind him. Melissa grabs him by the sleeve and drags him into your view, “Do you know who this is?”

Stiles gives an awkward wave, balloon bouncing along with his hand. “Hi, (Y/N).”

You squint your eyes, a frown growing, “No, I’m sorry, who are you?” You miss the way the room steels over with fright. “How do you know my name?”

~~~

Taglist: @assassinsasha23 @tasty-book-fans @lovelybaka @the-fandom-queen @runs-with-sciss0rs @iamaslytherin0 @n3muru @bethsvrse @taylorbrooke-0912 @iloveyou2mia @everrrsincenewyork @gisellesprettylies @dullypully @taylordaughter @greenoliveslover @nataliambc @anehkael

[okay-j-hannah]

Part 3: Blue Handprints

Teen Wolf : Multishot

Stiles Stilinski x Reader

Word Count: 12.2k

Warnings: series rewrite, season 1 {aka 2011}, slow burn, friends to lovers, eventual pining, eventual NSFW, usual teen wolf levels of violence and gore, bloody wounds, intense drunken flirting, heart conditions, health problems, lightheadedness, fainting

Request: This just came from my own head 😊  

Part 2: A Lacrosse Boyfriend

Part 3: Blue Handprints {You Are Here}

Part 4: Ollie's Catnip

Mr. Harris walks down the aisle of students, having just given his sentiments to Jackson Whittemore. “Everyone, start reading chapter nine.” He makes his way to the chalkboard, “Mr. Stilinski, try putting the highlighter down between paragraphs. It’s chemistry, not a coloring book.”

Stiles rolls his eyes, blowing the yellow lid from his lips and catching it easily in his hand. Instead, he turns to the phone in his pocket, sliding it out to peer at any new messages. He frowns – there were none.

Bouncing his foot on the bar stool, Stiles huffs before leaning towards the fellow lacrosse player in front of him. “Hey, Danny. Can I ask you a question?”

“No,” was his immediate reply.

“Well, I’m going to anyway. You have homeroom with (Y/N), right?”

Danny sighs, trying to read his chemistry chapter. “Yeah, what about it?”

Stiles leans closer, “Was she in class today?”

“No.”

“Has anybody been talking about what happened at the video store last night?”

“Listen, I’m sorry your little girlfriend hasn’t been texting you…”

Stiles’ stool squeaks as he fidgets, “She’s not actually my…”

“… but I’m not the one to look to next. Shouldn’t you be asking Scott?”

“What do you mean girlfriend?”

Danny grips the sides of his textbook with his fingertips, “Just some things I’ve heard on the lacrosse field when she’s there.”

“What do you mean?” Stiles was leaning so far forward that he suddenly found himself falling to the tile floor.

“To the principal’s office, Mr. Stilinski,” Mr. Harris says in a loud, firm voice. “Don’t forget your highlighter. You can finish coloring the rest of the textbook in detention.”

Stiles wasn’t in the mood for a fight, and besides Mr. Harris didn’t give him a detention slip. This meant that he could sneak out and spend the remaining minutes of the period goofing off.

Or trying to contact one of his friends.

He dials Scott’s number as he leaves class and makes for the parking lot, “Scott! Finally, have you been getting any of my texts?”

“Yeah, like all nine million of them.”

“Do you have any idea what’s going on?” Stiles steps into the sunshine and shades his eyes with a hand. “Lydia’s totally MIA. Jackson looks like he’s got a time bomb inserted into his face, another random guy’s dead. And (Y/N) was mauled last night and had to go to the hospital. You have to do something about it!”

Scott was mumbling, “Like what?”

“Something!” Stiles jogs towards his car, hoping to escape any patrolling school staff.

“Okay, I’ll deal with it later.”

Stiles shoves his phone in his pocket as the line went dead. If Scott wasn’t going to help him, then the next best thing was to visit you. While you also weren’t answering his texts, he figures the reason is because of your parents.

After some rest, maybe you are stable enough to answer some questions.

He’s able to sneak his jeep out of the parking lot without any witnesses. The drive to your house is becoming more routine, and he finds it easily. Without even thinking about it, he went to the front door.

It opens to reveal Angela Westbrook. “Oh!” she says with wide eyes, “Stiles Stilinski?”

“Yeah,” he says awkwardly, pointing finger guns at her, “Front desk Westbrook.”

“You haven’t gotten in any trouble have you? You’re supposed to be at school.”

Stiles furrows his brow, “What? No. I’m… I’m here to see (Y/N).”

Angela looks curious, “(Y/N)? I hadn’t realized you two were friends.”

“I was at the video store with her last night.” Stiles tries not to take offense.

“You saw what happened?” she asks, instantly frantic.

Stiles waves his hands around, “No! No, she called me, and I went to help with my dad.”

“She called you first?” It was Angela’s turn to try not to take offense.

“Yeah, my dad pulled me away before you guys showed up.” He slides his hands into his pockets. “So… I can see her?”

Angela puts a smile on her face, “Of course. But not for too long. She still needs her rest.”

He nods, walking inside for the first time. He took note of the piano in the living room, the family pictures on the mantelpiece, and the sound of a little jingle bell. It was coming from the collar of a large gray cat following them up the stairs.

“You have a cat?”

Angela gave a breathy laugh, “He’s (Y/N)’s. She needed a… well, a friend while being homeschooled, I guess.”

Stiles bangs his shoulder into the wall trying to watch the cat follow them. Angela knocks on your door, “(Y/N), sweetie – there’s a Stiles here to see you.”

You were sitting in bed, reading a book and warming your feet underneath a blanket. “Hey, Stiles!”

“I’ll leave you two alone,” Angela says with a smile, clasping her hands together. “Just… no funny business.”

“Mom…” you say quietly. “Just leave the door open.”

Once your mom leaves, the cat jumps onto the bed and puts his front paws on your thigh, raising himself to get a pet on the head. He was large with fluffy gray fur and big blue eyes.

Stiles walks over, playing with his fingers. “How are you?”

“Fine,” you sigh, scratching the cat behind the ears, “I’ve been a little on edge.”

He observes your face with his investigative eyes. Your skin was dull, a blue tinge beneath your eyes, even your lips look a little off color. He lingers on that last detail longer than he should.

“How was the hospital?”

“The usual,” you run your fingers down the cats back and up the tail. “Any more stress and I’ll get more bodily damage. I’ll be bed bound… blah, blah, blah.”

Stiles swallows hard, “I think that blah sounds pretty important.”

“It’s nothing I haven’t heard my whole life,” you wave him off. “How are Lydia and Jackson?”

“Lydia is home and Jackson came to school, although I’m pretty sure he needs to be put in a coma to sleep off his pent up feelings.”

You smile grimly, “Understandable.”

Stiles scratches his shaved head, unsure of how to ask about the video store but knowing he’d have to be careful. He chooses to sit on the bed across from you, crossing his legs and licking his lips. “So… uh – what’s his name?” he points to the cat.

“Oliver,” you smile, “Sometimes I call him Ollie.” The cat was purring against your hand, whiskers perked. “I’ve had him for a couple years. He’s my best friend.”

“That’s what your mom was saying,” he says, watching the cat keep his fluffy tail in the air. Blue eyes found him sitting on the mattress.

You grimace, “Sorry about that. My mom can be…”

“She’s great,” he says quickly. “I thought you slept a little last night.”

“I did,” you say, “Thanks to you.”

The back of his neck suddenly feels hot, “You look like you haven’t slept in days.”

“The thing every girl wants to hear,” you smile. “Like I said, the hospital wasn’t happy with me.”

“(Y/N), I’ve been doing some research…” Stiles picks at his fingers again. “And you saying there’s something wrong with your heart; and the surgery scar you have…”

You run a delicate finger up the bridge of Ollie’s nose. He closes his eyes and pushes his head into your finger. “I knew you’d do that.”

Stiles licks his lips again, mouth dry, “I’m sorry, I couldn’t help it.”

“I know,” you sigh, “What did you find out?”

“I think you have some kind of tachycardia,” he looks at you with soft eyes, his eyelashes framing them. “That’s something that would make you faint and could weaken your heart if it happens too often. I’m not sure what the surgery was though… I’m assuming it was to stop your heart from getting too weak.”

The room felt heavy, but it was a comfortable heaviness, as in you weren’t afraid to talk to Stiles. “You would be right,” you nod, “I was born with a heart defect. It was an atrioventricular canal defect. It means there was a hole in the wall between my heart chambers. The hole made it so blood flow wasn’t controlled well. I had a surgery to fix it.”

“Just last summer?”

“One of them, yeah.” You smile at him like he knew you were still hiding things. “This is a deep conversation for another day, Stiles.”

“But…” he presses on, leaning forward, “If you fixed the heart defect, you shouldn’t have any heart problems now, right?”

You shrug, “Things happen.”

“You’re not going to tell me anything else today, are you?”

“You got my one personal thing of the day. You know I had a congenital heart defect and now I have ventricular tachycardia.” Scratching under Oliver’s chin, you sigh, “I’m sure you’ll do more research on that later.”

Ollie continues to purr and put Stiles in his line of sight. With soft paws, he walks across the covers and perches on Stiles’ knee.

Stiles wasn’t sure what to do, his hands shooting into the air.

“He doesn’t bite,” you laugh, “He just wants a pet.”

Oliver’s tail swishes around the covers, and Stiles lowers a hand. The cat rubs the top of his head into the palm. “He’s so soft.”

You rub your arms, “He’s a great judge of character.”

“(Y/N), the other thing I wanted to ask…” Stiles continues to pet the cat, enjoying the purring immensely. “… was about last night.” He doesn’t like the way you gulp. “What happened?”

“Well, Arnett decided not to show up,” you shrug, “Big surprise. Still hurt though.”

Stiles mutters something that sounds a lot like, “Piece of shit.”

You retell the events leading to the lights flickering on and off over the dead store manager. “Then there was this growling. Like an animal.” A waver enters your voice and goosebumps blossom on your bare arms.

Oliver senses your change of mood and returns to your side, nuzzling your knee.

“I only got a few seconds to look before…” you gesture to the bandages on your left shoulder, “It was some kind of… wolf.” Your watch lit up with a reading from your heart. The rate was rising exponentially.

“Okay,” Stiles says, scooting closer, “That’s good. I’m sorry that happened.”

“Did your dad say anything about it? Were they able to catch whatever it was?”

He sighs, “No. We haven’t found anything. They think it was just a wild animal attack.” He was itching to touch you again, hold your hand and calm you down again. He wanted to protect your heart. “You’re safe here. You have Ollie to protect you.”

That made you smile, and Stiles took great pride in that.

“Did you wish Allison a happy birthday before skipping school?”

Stiles watches your heart rate lower on your watch screen, “I didn’t know it was her birthday.”

“It was kind of a secret,” you pick up Ollie, resting your face against his head. “Lydia and I decorated her locker yesterday after school.”

Stiles smacks his forehead, “That’s where Scott is! That idiot probably took her out for her birthday. No wonder he’s been avoiding my texts.”

There was another knock on the door, “Sweetie, it’s time to change your bandages.” Your mom was there with fresh cloth and something antibiotic.

“I can do it,” Stiles says, “(Y/N) can tell me what to do.” He rolls off the bed, tripping over his ankle as he stands straight.

Angela raises her eyebrows at you, but you nod. “Okay, but if you need help please call me. I’ll just be in the kitchen.”

Stiles awkwardly took the supplies from your mom, mouthing a thank you before returning to the bed. “You’re really going to have to help me with this one.”

You grimace, “It’s not going to be pretty.” You pull an arm out of your pajama top to reveal a tank top underneath, one strap hanging off the large white bandages on your shoulder. Stiles flexes his fingers.

“I should wash my hands probably.”

“I have hand sanitizer in my nightstand,” you giggle, already starting to pick the medical tape off the edge of the bandage.

He cleans his hands, helping you remove the bandage. You hiss as he lifts it from the wound, blood weeping from the gashes. Stiles has to stifle a groan of disgust.

“God,” he mumbles, “It still looks so fresh.”

You suck in your lips, amused by his expression, “I didn’t realize you were so queasy around blood.”

“It’s not that,” he threw the old bandage in the garbage. “It’s just it’s… you. I hate seeing you with this.” He looks closer at the claw marks, taking some gauze and catching some pinkish fluid seeping out.

You fidget as he touches the red, irritated skin under the wound. “It still hurts a lot.”

“It’s still bleeding and… wet,” Stiles frowns.

“It’s called serous drainage,” you laugh at his look of shock, “It’s a normal part of the healing process. But too much can be a sign of infection.”

“It might be infected,” Stiles says immediately. “This is a lot.”

You wave him off with your other hand, “We’ll wait to see if I have a fever.”

“Just saying, it would explain why you look like a dead man walking.”

“You’re just full of compliments today, aren’t you?” But you were smiling as you say it.

~~~

A few days later Stiles was sitting in his morning English class, staring at the seat that you normally occupy. He was flipping his phone around his fingers, waiting for your next reply.

He was angry and biting the inside of his cheeks.

“It’s not his fault,” you text.

“He bailed on the date night, and you end up getting mauled. And then he bails on conferences and my dad gets hit by a car. Tell me again how he’s not a shitty friend?”

You take a minute to answer, “Those were all accidents. You can’t prove Scott being there could’ve stopped anything.”

“Yeah, it still would’ve been nice to have him be there.”

“I’m sorry I couldn’t of.”

Stiles knits his brow at your message. “You’re hurt. I’m not upset about you not being at conferences. Besides with your luck that mountain lion would’ve went for you.”

“You still don’t think it was the same animal from the video store?”

“I trust you. If you say it was a wolf, then it was a wolf.”

Scott comes walking into class, sheepish in how he sits behind Stiles. Shoulders tense, Stiles sits resolutely forward, closing his phone and avoiding his best friend. Scott sighs, frustrated at more than just himself.

“Can you at least tell me if your dad’s okay? I mean, it’s just a bruise, right?” He was grasping at straws, “Some soft tissue damage?”

Stiles was running his tongue along the bite marks inside his cheeks.

“You know I feel really bad about it, right?” Folding his arms, Scott tries to explain himself, “Okay, what if I told you I’m trying to figure this whole thing out, and that I went to Derek for help?”

Stiles stops his eye twitching to grumble, “If I was talking to you, I’d say that you’re an idiot for trusting him. But obviously I’m not talking to you.”

As the bell rings, Stiles leans forward and contemplates the new development in Derek’s involvement. He stares at his phone lighting up with a new message from you, “Go easy on him.”

He grits his teeth, angry at his curiosity getting the best of him. He whips around, “I still haven’t forgiven you for not being there for (Y/N).”

“I get it,” Scott looks hopeful. “I really do.”

“Lately she’s been there for me more than you have, which is saying something considering we used be connected at the hip. I get this werewolf thing happened and then Allison and now a Derek/Alpha thing… but you don’t just abandon your friends. If anything you should be closer to them when things get hard.”

“I’m sorry, Stiles,” Scott mutters, “I’ll stop by (Y/N)’s place and check on her, alright? I know she deserves better… and that she means a lot to you.”

Stiles sighs heavily through his nose, drumming his fingers on the back of his chair. “Okay. What did Derek say?”

Throughout the day Stiles concocted a plan to help Scott with his anger issues. He spent classes thinking about heart rates and helping Scott avoid Allison as much as possible. After spending a quick minute in Coach’s office, they met outside on the lacrosse field.

“Okay,” he pulls out a heart rate monitor, “Put this on.”

Scott grabs it, “Isn’t this for the track team?”

“Yeah, I borrowed it,” Stiles says.

“Stole it.”

Offended, Stiles set his tone, “Temporarily misappropriated. Listen, I got the idea from (Y/N). She measures her heart rate through her watch, and it sends her readings through her phone. It’s easy to connect through a health app. And you’re gonna wear that monitor for the rest of the day.”

“And it’s connected to your phone?” Scott says, putting the monitor on.

He pulls out his phone and went to the health app, “Yeah, you know your heart rate goes up when you go wolf, right? When you’re playing lacrosse, when you’re with Allison, whenever you get angry. Maybe learning to control it is tied to learning to control your heart rate.” He shows Scott his screen, “See?”

There were two different heart rates being monitored on the screen. One being Scott’s and the other one being…

“Are you watching your own heart rate?” Scott asks, “Who’s that one?”

“I don’t know, doesn’t matter.” Clearly having messed up, Stiles shoves his phone in his pocket and starts riffling through his duffel bag of supplies.

Scott has a smirk on his face, “It’s (Y/N)’s heart rate, isn’t it.”

“Shut up.”

~~~

After a quick getaway from another heart rate experiment, and a few cuts and bruises for Scott, the pair of them drove to your house for an apologetic visit.

“Dude, you got to wipe all that blood off,” Stiles says, “You look like a murder victim.”

“It’ll stop in a second. I’ll heal no problem.”

“Let’s hope her parents are still at work.”

In front of your house, Scott wipes his nose, hoping you wouldn’t notice too much. The injuries were already healed, it was just the leftover blood that he needed to wash off.

It took a few minutes for anyone to answer, and Stiles checks his phone. Your heart rate is slightly elevated.

The door opens slowly, and everyone has a gasping reaction.

“Oh my god, Scott,” you say in a shallow voice, “Why are you covered in blood?”

Stiles’ mouth was gaping as Scott fumbles for words to say, “Uh, I might’ve gotten in a fight at school. Someone got a bloody nose and… I got it on me.”

If Stiles thought you looked like a dead man walking a few days ago, he didn’t realize how worse you would look today. That bluish tinge to your under eyes was deep and the purple of your lips was like looking at a corpse. Your ashy skin was speckled with sweat around your temples. You look sick… really sick.

“(Y/N)…” Stiles says, hands starting to tremble as he reaches for the door, “What…”

“Let me get you another shirt,” you say tiredly, backing away from the door. “My dad has some old Saturday t-shirts in the laundry room.”

“Are your parents here?” Scott asks, following you and Stiles inside. A quick sound check told him that they were the only ones home.

You sound as though it was hard to breathe, “They’re still at work. I convinced my mom to take her evening shift today. She’s been staying home all week because of me.”

The sight of you shuffling side to side, tank top and shorts on under a robe – the robe tie dragging on the ground – hair falling out of a wild bun… it was disheartening. What was wrong with you?

Scott could smell something. Something sickly. “I don’t need another shirt, (Y/N), really. I just wanted to check on you.”

You turn around in the hallway, ghostly in the dimly lit space. “Oh? That’s kind of you.”

“I know I’ve been kind of distant,” he continues, eyeing the worry enveloping Stiles. “And I want to change that. Life has been chaotic, but I want to make time to see you.”

“Thank you,” you smile, “But I’ve been in good hands.”

“Clearly not good enough,” Stiles says, “When was the last time you changed your bandages, (Y/N)?”

You shrug and then grimace at the movement, “Sometime yesterday.” You were swaying on your feet and Stiles took a step forward, prepared to catch you.

“Let’s take a look, yeah?” he says calmly, “Let’s sit down.” He guides you to a dining chair while directing Scott to check the medicine cabinet in the bathroom. “You don’t look so good.”

“So you keep telling me, Stiles,” you smile again, “You need to work on those compliments.” You struggle to pull your arm out of the robe sleeve.

“Here, let me.”

While he pulls out your arm, apologizing for causing any discomfort, he mumbles things to distract you as he takes off the bandage. “I like your pajamas.”

White fabric with little lemons and mint leaves printed on them, along with a robe of fuzzy summer fruits. It was just so you. If only he could still smell that wonderful fruity shampoo from your hair.

“Thank you,” you groan as he removes the bandage painfully.

“Oh my god,” he chokes.

The wound underneath was red and aggravated. It was still weeping blood and whatever fluid you had mentioned before. The center of each deep claw mark had a purple-blue color, and he didn’t like how venomous it looked.

Scott appears beside you, following that sickly scent to your shoulder. It smelt worse than infection, it had a familiar tang to it. Something wolfish about it. That terrifies him. “I’m going to call Derek.”

“What?” you and Stiles say at the same time.

“I have a feeling he’ll know what to do,” he eyes Stiles, pulling out his phone, “Don’t bandage it until he looks at it.”

“Is something wrong?” you say feverishly, looking at Stiles with half-closed eyes. He chooses to focus on your face instead of your wound. But his eyes were no longer a honey brown or an amber whiskey.

They were steely like fossilized tree sap.

“I think you just need some extra strength Tylenol,” he jokes, “Or a rabies shot.”

“God, my mom is never going to let me leave the house again if I don’t stop getting sick.” You hang your head, sweat speckling the back of your neck too. Stiles gingerly puts a hand to your back and rubs up and down your spine.

“You’ll get better, I promise.”

“You’re such a liar,” you cough, “I’m not going to get better. This is what it’ll be… just worse and worse.”

Stiles didn’t like the hurt that was developing in his chest. That inflation feeling in his ribcage came full force but was threaded with hurt. It hurt to see you like this.

“What are you talking about?”

“Nonsense,” you say with sorrow, “Don’t listen to me. I’m sick.”

Scott returns with determination in his step, “Derek’s almost here.” He kneels beside your chair, a hand on your good arm. “This is my fault. If I was there for you then this…”

“It’s not your fault, Scott. It’s not a crime to not want to third wheel.”

“What do you smell?” Stiles whispers under his breath. You have a difficult time concentrating enough to hear him.

Scott mutters something back, “Nothing good.”

“Should we take her to the hospital?”

Derek comes walking into the house, “This isn’t something the hospital can fix.” His nose crinkles at your exposed arm. “She was clawed by the alpha, right?”

Stiles waves a frantic hand, shushing him while Scott mouths at him to shut up.

“You guys are idiots.” Derek looks angry, “You haven’t told her anything yet?”

“Told me what?” you lift your heavy head. “Derek?”

The boys pull Derek aside and quickly whisper a conversation.

“Did the alpha do something to her?” Scott asks worriedly. He’d feel even worse if your injury was a result of his werewolf business.

Derek folds his massive arms, “If an alpha scratches a human and it makes a deep enough cut, the werewolf change could happen.”

Stiles chokes on his breath, “You mean she could be transforming!?”

“It doesn’t have to be a bite?” Scott whisper shouts.

“What the hell are we supposed to do?” Stiles pulls at the ends of his shaved hair. “Why is it making her so sick.”

Derek sighs heavily, “Because her body is rejecting the change. It’s trying to fight off the spread of infection. It’s impressive really.”

“You mean she might be fine?” Scott asks, “She’ll get over it?”

“Maybe,” Derek shrugs, “It could just kill her.”

Stiles swallows thickly, “Tell us how to help her.”

“You just have to let the infection run its course. There aren’t any werewolf antibiotics out there for a wound like that. Tell her to sleep it off.”

“Sleep it off?” Stiles says incredulously. “That’s the best you got?”

“I have other pressing matters. Including a meeting with your boss, Scott.”

Scott took a pause, “What has my boss got to do with anything?”

“I’ll let you know when I finish interrogating him.” Subconsciously or not, Derek was flexing his arms in a way that made him look gigantic.

Scott wasn’t intimidated, “If you lay a hand on Deaton…”

“He’s already in the trunk,” Derek says blandly, “You interrupted my questioning before I could finish.”

“Oh my god,” Scott mumbles, chest tight with oncoming rage.

Stiles was flailing his arms around like they were limp noodles. “Hello! Did we forget the sick-because-of-alpha-claws girl right behind us. Let’s handle one problem at a time.”

Derek was already out the door, “(Y/N)’s fate isn’t my problem. And Deaton isn’t your concern.”

“It is considering he’s my boss!” Scott follows him outside.

“Alright, Scott, you want answers?” Derek spins around on the lawn, “Those spirals you’ve been asking about… it’s our sign for a vendetta. It’s revenge. It means he won’t stop killing until he’s satisfied!”

Scott gawks at him, “You think Deaton’s the alpha!?”

“We’re about to find out.”

“No! Derek, listen. There’s another way to draw out the alpha. I’m connected to him remember?” Scott sounds desperate and on the verge of growing claws. Stiles stands on the porch, anxious to keep you from hearing any of this. “I can try to get him to reveal himself.”

“And how do you propose to do that?” Derek has a steely blue tinge in his eyes, almost as if they were glowing.

Scott looks around him, jerky in his head movements as he tries to create a plan, “Just give me an hour and then meet us at the school. I’ll call to the alpha and we’ll see if there’s a response.”

Derek, rippling with rage, seems to consider. In the next second he growls under his breath and goes to his car. Scott took that as he was in agreement with the new plan.

He turns around to see Stiles giving him a death glare, hands stuck under his armpits as if he’s stopping them from throwing punches.

“Are you forgetting about our teensy-weensy other problem, Scott? Maybe our other friend currently dying inside?”

“She’s not dying,” Scott says as he stomps toward the house again.

Stiles shoves his shoulder as he walks past, “I don’t feel right leaving (Y/N) here while we go tango with the alpha at the school.”

“We could call her mom,” Scott suggests, making his way back to the dining table.

“She’ll hate that,” Stiles mumbles, meeting him at your chair. He kneels beside you again, careful as you were dozing off. Leaning against the table, your chin rests in your hand – your mouth slightly open as you take small breaths.

Scott shrugs his shoulders, “Well, then who do we call? All our other friends are occupied with themselves.” It suddenly dawned on him that he was supposed to meet Allison for a study date. “I’m such an idiot.”

“Finally realized that did you?” Stiles says sarcastically, “Who else do we trust?”

“Someone from the lacrosse team?” Scott says with a wince, “She’s gotten close with a couple of the guys there.”

A flicker of red hot flame licks up Stiles’ side. “Sure, yeah – one of the potential lacrosse boyfriends.”

“Oh please, we could call Danny,” Scott waves him off. “Although Andrew Wickstrom would probably be more willing.”

Good guy Andrew Wickstrom? Stiles did not like that idea. Not because he was just another blockhead lacrosse guy… but because he was genuinely a nice guy. And the possibility of you falling for him was very high.

“He’s better than leaving her here alone,” Scott says, going through his phone. “At least until her parents get off work.”

Stiles curses him, but he agrees. He rests one of his hands on your good shoulder, “(Y/N), hey…”

You stir in your daze, “Where’s Derek?”

“He left, don’t worry,” was his reply. Licking his lips he starts to prepare fresh bandages for your shoulder. “Listen, Andrew is going to come look after you until your mom gets home.”

“Who?”

“Andrew Wickstrom? From the team,” Stiles says, trying to keep the disdain from his voice. “Scott and I need to handle something at the school. And you need to stay here and get some rest.”

He applies pressure on your shoulder with disinfected gauze and you gasp with pain.

“You just have a 24-hour bug,” he continues to distract you. “And in the morning you’ll be right as rain, I promise.”

“Again you’re such a liar,” you smile painfully.

He loves your humor. “I’ll come check on you when we’re done. Just don’t go falling in love with this guy, alright?”

You laugh, “No promises.”

~~~

You were cuddled on the couch, pulling up your favorite forest green blanket to your chin. You try to fix your hair bun, but it was still falling out in wavy strands. The television was set low, a true crime miniseries on.

Andrew returns to the living room, a gatorade in an iced glass with a straw. He went back to his spot on the ground, propped against the couch arm and near your head.

“Did I miss anything?” he lifts the glass over his shoulder and directs the straw between your lips.

You take a few sips, humming your thanks. “I think the husband did it.”

“But there was all that text evidence showing how the wife verbally abused him. I think he’s a scaredy cat.”

“That doesn’t mean he couldn’t have lashed out and killed her.”

He grins, “You’re way into these true crime cases.”

“They’re interesting,” you snuggle further into the blanket, “And I like to see the medical side of things.”

“Can I check your fever?” he gropes under the pile of supplies Stiles had left them and found a thermometer. He brushes your wispy fly-aways into your bun and put the thermometer to your forehead. After it beeps he looks at it, “102.3, that’s a little high.”

“We don’t need the hospital until it’s 105.”

He got comfortable again, crossing his arms. “It’s weird. I hadn’t imagined the first time we hang out was going to involve playing nurse.”

“I appreciate it, really,” you say tiredly. “It’s nice of you to spend your night here. I’m pretty sure my parents would pay you like a babysitter too.”

“It’s no problem,” he smiles, dimples showing. “I don’t mind. I like this, spending time with you. Even if you are super sick.”

You giggle but end it in a cough. “You know I was kind of hoping you’d come talk to me at lacrosse practice.”

Andrew turns so he’s facing you cross legged on the ground, “No way.”

“A perk of TAing for Coach is that I get to watch all you handsome lacrosse players play,” you wink, “I might’ve had my eye on you a couple of times.”

“I’m flattered,” he grins back, “You were always surrounded by a crowd, and I wasn’t sure you wanted another guy forcing his way in.”

You prop your head up a little, “You wouldn’t have needed to force yourself in. I would’ve just welcomed you.”

He bows his head, brown curls hanging in coils. “I wish I would’ve figured that out sooner. Maybe our first night together would’ve had you feeling better.”

“No, this is better,” you smile, “This is more memorable.”

“So you wouldn’t mind if I asked to see you again…” he rubs his hands awkwardly on his knees, “… outside of school.”

“Please!” you say, “I’m so sick of being stuck at my house. Any plans I can look forward to is a blessing.”

He fixes the edge of your blanket, pulling it up a few inches. “Then I’ll think of something really fun.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know,” he plays with his hair. It’s cute. “Maybe something with a bookstore.”

Your sunken eyes widen a bit. “How did you know I like to read?”

“It might’ve been the book you always have with you at school,” he laughs, “Or the time Coach yelled at you because you were reading in the bleachers instead of grabbing more helmets.”

“Well, if you’re buying then I won’t say no to a bookstore.”

Andrew grins, a beautiful smile with his curly hair and warm, green eyes. “It’s a date.”

~~~

“It’s a what?!” Stiles was whispering as loudly as he could.

You were sitting up in bed, limp and frail but with a little more life in your cheeks. “I think he asked me out on a date.”

Scott shut the window behind him, “That’s great, (Y/N).” You miss the pitying look he sent Stiles’ way.

“What did you say?” Stiles asks, sitting on the bed next to you.

You shrug, “I kind of just smiled and we kept watching the true crime.”

“Oh god,” Stiles grumbles, “You’re going to fall in love with him.” He watches a blush rise in your cheeks, “No… no – there’s no falling in love right now. You’re just getting over a fever.” He starts to fan your cheeks, making you laugh.

Scott pulls your desk chair over, “But you do feel better?”

“Completely – Andrew cured me!”

“It was that gatorade I left.”

You try to hide a smile, “Or it could’ve been the goodbye kiss.” Stiles jumps on the mattress, slamming the headboard into the wall. You smack his arm, “God, Stiles I was kidding. My fever just broke.”

“How did your parents take it?” Scott asks. He seems a little put out in comparison to earlier that day.

“My mom was really grateful.” You flicker your eyes between the pair of them. “So are you going to tell me what was going on with Derek visiting to check on my wound?”

“Oh, you know…” Scott says instantly. Stiles was flapping his gums like a fish out of water. “He’s seen animal attacks considering… his sister… was killed that way. He just said to sleep it off.”

You lean against the headboard, nearly shoulder to shoulder with Stiles. “Well, he was right.” The jumpiness in Scott’s fidgeting made you suspect some lying. It irks you to know that there were still secrets they were keeping from you. “Hey, I thought you and Allison had a study date. What business did you have at the school?”

“Um…” Scott was picking at his fingernails, “That’s where I decided to surprise Allison with our studying.”

Your brow knits, “But the school is closed and locked at night.”

Stiles has his hands running over his head, “Scott, the others are going to tell her what happened.”

“Meaning?” you nudge Stiles with your shoulder.

Scott was full of conflict, whipping his eyes between different spots in the room. “Derek told us of a hunch that led us to the school. He spotted that monster wolf you saw at the video store. Allison got a strange text that might’ve come from Derek too.” He looks to you with slight panic, “It told her to meet me at the school. She was with Lydia and Jackson, so they came too.”

“I crashed my car and everything trying to get away,” Stiles says, trying to cover all their assets.

“I missed quite the party,” you whisper, searching for tells of his lying in the words.

“We were chased and attacked. A janitor died. We weren’t sure if it was the wolf monster or Derek.”

You lean away from Stiles and he darts his head to you, “I thought Derek was innocent of everything.” An ache was in the pit of your stomach, it made you feel empty and distrustful. It was plain how much they were hiding from you.

Of course you were also being a hypocrite because you hadn’t told them everything either.

“There might be more evidence,” Scott tries to continue.

“Like what?” you fold your arms, “You have any proof?”

Stiles was piecing together you shrinking away from them, “Enough that we called my dad in on it.”

“You know, I’m tired,” you say, “I think you guys should go.”

The boys share a look, and you miss the worry enveloping Stiles’ face. He pulls his wide shoulders inward to avoid touching you.

“Sure,” Stiles says, “You’ve had a long day.”

“We’re glad you’re better,” Scott adds, standing to open the window again. “Hopefully you’re well enough for school on Monday.” He slides himself outside while Stiles stops at the sill.

He licks his lips, a habit of his especially when he’s thinking. “Hey, listen, I’m going to try to fix my jeep this weekend. If you’re free maybe we could do it together.” He wipes his hands along his pants, fidgety in how he was looking at the floor, then at you, then at the floor again. “It’s no problem if not.”

You nod but avoid looking at him as he slips out. You sit there with your peachy lamp on, upset and confused. You like Scott and Stiles. They were some of the first friends you made when you started public school. Stiles had been so attentive and gently nudged you to be more open.

But the achy feeling of emptiness in your stomach was becoming more prevalent. It had been an on and off feeling since getting to know the boys. Stiles had been swooping in to calm your nerves with small nuggets of truth.

A few more lies and you weren’t sure it was worth it anymore.

A couple of days later and fully recovered from your infectious fever, you eat lunch on Saturday afternoon. Your dad slides a BLT your way and sits down with his own.

He nibbles on a piece of bacon, “Any plans for your post sickness weekend?”

“Catch up on the homework Allison brought me,” you take a sip of soda, “And try not to kill Scott for hurting her.”

“Are they okay?” Tom asks.

You shake your head, “She broke up with him. He snapped at her when she was scared. Kind of a dick move.”

“Language.”

“Sorry,” you grimace, wiping the tired from your eyes. “I’m mad at him too.”

“What a dick,” he says, winking at you.

It makes you smile, “I know he means well. I think he’s just being a stupid teenage boy.”

“Having been a stupid teenage boy myself I can vouch for him.” He eats the larger pile of bacon on his plate, “What about that other boy that visited the other day?”

“Stiles?” you sigh, “I’m upset with him too. I think they’re hiding something from me.”

Both you and your dad say at the same time, “Stupid teenage boys.”

“But that Andrew is nice,” your mom enters the kitchen, gardening gloves in hand. “I like him.”

“You like that he was taking care of me,” you roll your eyes. “You know Scott and Stiles were here doing that same thing earlier that day.”

Angela went for the shoes she wore in the garden by the back door, “Do they know about your heart?”

“I told Stiles some things and he’s told our other friends,” you shrug, “Just about the heart defect and my tachycardia.”

Your parents nod – your dad finishing his lunch much faster than you, “That’s better than nothing. I feel better knowing you’re out with kids that can help you if you feel faint.”

Your mom leaves for the backyard and your dad goes to get you another can of soda.

“Maybe I’ll stop by Stiles’ place today.”

“The Sheriff’s house?” Tom says, “You must not be that upset with him.”

You stand, your heart stuttering, “Eh… I’ll let you know if I need a getaway driver.”

The walk to Stiles’ house was long but nice with the California sun out. Your skin soaks up the warmth, unstiffening your bones from the sickbed. The birds twitter past and trees shimmer their leaves above you.

If your mom knew you were walking such a long way, she would have given you house arrest. But you monitor your heart rate through your watch the whole way.

The house was a little shabby but homely. It screams ‘bachelor pad’ in more ways than one. The grass was trimmed, but the flowerbeds neglected. The BBQ was greasy with use and left out in the open. The house was tidy but nowhere near clean. The old décor was most likely remnant of Mrs. Stilinski, and the boys don’t dare change it.

Stiles was running out of the door, tripping down the steps when he saw you. “(Y/N)! You came.”

You nod, hands in your jean pockets, “I wanted to see the damage.”

The jeep was in the driveway, towed there the night of the school attack. The hood was laying on the concrete and completely smashed in.

Stiles jogs up to you and looks about ready to give you a hug, but you keep your arms down as a signal. He scratches at the back of his head instead.

“I just picked up a new hood from the junkyard. And my dad helped me buy a new battery.”

“What happened to the old one again?” you look inside the engine and see more duct tape than rubber tubes. “Do you usually fix this guy up yourself?”

“Uh, yeah,” Stiles had a funny look on his face, hands on his hips, “It’s cheaper that way. When I hit the school sign it crushed the battery box. It needed to be fully replaced.”

You give him a side eye, “You hit the school sign?”

“I was in a hurry to escape, okay,” he says exasperated, throwing his arms down limp at his sides. He was always lanky and fidgety. “I have spray paint in the garage for the new hood.” He looks at you with a hesitant gaze, “Do you want to help?”

You fold your arms, trying to hide a smile. “Do you have a tarp for the paint?”

“Why would I need a tarp?”

A small laugh escapes you, “Your dad will thank me later. Come on.”

The pair of you lay an old blue tarp down and set the junkyard hood on it. You convince Stiles to sand the metal and prime it before the paint. Thankfully the jungle that was the garage held nearly all the equipment you needed.

“I think it’s funny you have the exact shade of blue you need for your jeep,” you say, shaking your head. “Makes me think you need to touch it up more often than not.”

“If you’re making some kind of assumption about my driving skills, you’re wrong. I happen to be an excellent driver.”

You shake the spray paint can, ready for last touchups, “Anyone is an excellent driver when they’re the only driver in the friend group.”

“Excuse me?” he says with mock offense, screwing his face up comically.

“You’re not exactly comparing your skills to Scott and me since we don’t have cars,” and in a moment of weakness you point the can towards Stiles.

“Hey, woah!” he held up his hands, getting a blast of blue paint on his palms and fingers. “Mayday! Mayday! Paint in mouth!”

You start laughing, shaking the can some more as Stiles spits at the grass. His hands and forearms were coated in shiny, dripping paint.

“Now you’re in for it.”

He ran at you, hands outstretched. You didn’t fight it much as you squeal at the cold wet paint. He hugs you from behind and starts rubbing his hands all down your sides and front, coating your arms and shirt.

He was careful to avoid your chest. “There, now we’re both a masterpiece.”

“Wait a minute,” you say, out of breath from your giggles. You raise a coated finger to his rosy cheek and write your initials, “There. An artist always signs their work.”

He blows out a choking breath, shivers prickling the back of his neck. He has to clear his throat before doing the same to you, raising a long finger to your cheek. A double ‘s’ is painted along your cheekbone, beneath your sparkling eyes.

“Should we put the battery in while the paint dries?” you were closer than you thought, just inches between you. You could have sworn Stiles flickers his eyes down to your lips, no doubt smeared with paint.

“S-Sure,” he stutters, wiping at his nose, “It’s right over here.”

You help lift the heavy black box and slide it into the car. You giggle at the blue handprints all over the battery sides.

“I’m sorry, I’ll get a wet rag.”

“No!” Stiles grabs your arm, “I like it. Let’s let it dry. Our signature touch.”

You look at your handprint on the top and Stiles’ on the side below yours. “Whatever you want, Stilinski. This is your jeep.”

“Damn right,” he mumbles, connecting wires, “This baby needs to last me through college.”

The duct tape didn’t look very promising, but you had to admire his persistence. “I’ll get the topcoat ready then.”

It took another hour to get the hood ready for screwing in. You help with holding tools and holding pieces in place. Stiles makes sarcastic remarks and tries not to swear when he pinches a finger. You laugh at his jokes and ignore the unevenness of your heart rate.

When the hood was in place and the spray paint on your skin dry and cracking, the pair of you walk inside for some lemonade.

Stiles keeps staring at his initials on your cheek. “Thank you for helping me. It wouldn’t have turned out half as good without you.”

“It was fun,” you nod, a hand to your chest. A pain was flaring there. You try to breathe past the tightness, “I think I need… I need a second.” Your watch beeps the exact same time as Stiles’ phone.

You share a confused glance with the boy as he blabs, “I can explain!”

“One second,” you say, leaning forward and closing your eyes. You nearly collapse in a dining chair, and a moment later you feel large hands on your knees, squeezing gently.

“Try to ground yourself,” he whispers to you, “Remember… what do you hear?”

It takes you longer to answer, holding your chest like it’ll keep your heart there. “The refrigerator running. Birds outside. And your heavy breathing.” You crack a smile despite the frantic fluttering in your chest.

Stiles scoffs, “And what do you feel?”

“My heartbeat,” you put your free hand on top of Stiles’, curling your fingers around his. “Your hand. And the cracking spray paint.” It was getting easier to breathe.

Stiles was rubbing his thumb along the inside of your knee. His own chest was inflating again, that powerful warmth that only happened when he was near you. His throat bobs as heat floods his cheeks – thankfully he was covered in spray paint.

He checks your watch screen as your heart rate went down, “That’s it.”

“Thanks,” you say, letting go of his fingers. He pulls his hands away quickly after that. “I think I should head home and shower. All this paint is making my skin itch now.”

He laughs awkwardly, standing, “Well, uh… you could always, you know… shower here.” His eyes widen and he starts to ramble on further as if to stop you from saying no, “I mean, I have extra clothes and I was planning on taking Scott out tonight to get his mind off the breakup. You could stay and we could all go together?”

You let the silence go on just for your own amusement. He was practically shaking waiting for your answer. “Sure, that’d be great.”

“Yay… I mean, yeah sure – cool cool.” He gestures to the stairs and leads the way, “There’s everything you need in the bathroom. I’ll just… jeans probably won’t fit, and I don’t believe in shorts…”

“Sweatpants are fine,” you say, enjoying every second of his rambling.

“Right, good,” he was pinching the ends of his shaved hair. You wonder if he was one to run his fingers through his hair when it was long. “I assume you don’t need boxers…” he chokes on his laugh, probably thinking about you in that very item of clothing. “But I’ll get you a shirt and a towel. Wait right here.”

You spy into the hallway bathroom and giggle at the few items of clothing strewn about the floor. A toothbrush was thrown onto the counter and leaving white, foamy scum on the counter. A deodorant stick was open and toppled over. A 2-in-1 shampoo was leaking in the shower. Overall, about as much as you expected.

“Oh god,” Stiles yells, spotting the same things you were, “I’m so sorry. It’s such a mess in here.” He starts to bang against the walls, picking up clothes and fallen toiletries along the way. “Clearly I wasn’t expecting company.” He steps on a sleeve and trips to the floor in a colossal crash.

You stifle a laugh as you bend to help him up, “So you really didn’t expect me to show up, huh?”

His cheeks were a blotchy red, a terrible sinking pit in his stomach. “It’s a wonder you haven’t run out of here the first chance you got.” His arms were full of clothes and a sneaker and a couple stiff washcloths that you didn’t want to think about.

“Don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere,” you smile at his red face – the picture of embarrassment. He was so endearing in the sweetest way. The spray paint was starting to chip from his skin and flake onto the clothes he was holding. “I like you this way.”

Stiles figures he better leave before he does anything else stupid. “I’m going to use… my d-dad’s bathroom downstairs.” He fumbles the sneaker but catches it by the laces. “I’ll be super quick, so you have all the hot water.”

You nod, closing the door on his bright blotchy face. You step into the shower, not planning to use up the hot water either, and investigate any other hygiene products. The 2-in-1 must have been used as a body wash and face wash as well because there was nothing else to be seen. Shaking your head you use the bottle to clean all the spray paint off your body.

You had to scrub your skin raw, but the blue finally came off. You were quick to realize that the woods smell that Stiles usually had came from this shampoo. It was mixed with the strong scent of tea tree oil. At least the Sheriff knew a thing or two about antibacterial soap and how much a lacrosse player needed it.

The mirror wasn’t even fogged up with steam when you step out. You found the pile of clothes Stiles brought before he fumbled with cleaning.

Some dark sweatpants and a gray t-shirt with a star wars logo on the front. He even threw in a green and blue flannel to keep your arms warm when they went to get Scott.

You thread your fingers through your wet hair, carrying your ruined day clothes over your shoulder. Down the stairs you find Stiles making sandwiches in the kitchen. His shirt was a little damp from the shower, and he had goosebumps running up his arms.

“You look cold,” you say, sauntering in and catching the sweatpants before they fell a few inches. You tie the strings to make them tighter around your waist and find Stiles staring at you slack jawed.

“Um… uh – yeah. Sure, maybe a little.” He shrugs repeatedly as if that would calm the tension he was feeling.

You lean against the counter, watching him avoid your gaze, “Did you take a cold shower?”

“What – I like them!”

“No one likes them,” you scoff, “There was enough time for us both to shower fine.”

He stuck out his bottom lip, tilting his head to a shoulder, “I just wanted to make sure you had enough hot water.” Before you could make any other retort, he says in a louder voice, “I figured we could eat something and then pick up Scott.”

“Sounds like a plan,” you say, watching him work. It seems he wanted to busy himself, so he didn’t get caught staring at you again.

“Have you talked with Andrew at all since him babysitting you?”

You wince at the word ‘babysit.’ “We’ve been texting a little bit. I’m waiting for him to tell me when our date will be.”

“So he did ask you out.” Stiles cut his tomato with a little more force than was necessary.

“I guess, maybe,” you smile, feeling a little rosy in the cheeks.

Stiles sees the sudden flush and he flexes his jaw. “Are you excited?”

“Yeah, I mean – Andrew is actually a good guy compared to most of the boys at school.”

“Ah – shit!” Stiles drops his knife and holds his index finger.

You round the counter, “Are you okay?”

He waves you off, going for a band aid in a cupboard, “It’s fine, blood is red, tomatoes are red… no harm done.”

You laugh, snatching the band aid from him, “Let me see that.” You peel back the plastic and pull his hand towards your face.

He’s obviously upset about something, but that didn’t stop the red splotches from reappearing on his face. His long fingers were shaking slightly – from Adderall or his usual fidgets, you weren’t sure – but he was standing still as you gently apply the bandage.

You’re soft as you wrap the adhesive sides and push down to keep it stuck to the tip of his finger. “There,” you lean down and place a little kiss on the bandage, “All better.”

Stiles huffs an awkward laugh, almost shaken by your make-it-better kiss. “Thanks.”

“Are you okay?”

“Fine,” he says testily, making the sandwiches a little more roughly than before.

You squint your eyes, upset that he was holding back. “Are you going to give me a ‘you-shouldn’t-date-him’ speech like you did with Josh Arnett?”

Stiles takes a deep breath through his nose, and it seems to calm him enough to say in an even tone, “Like you said, Andrew is a good guy. He’d be lucky to date you.”

The sincerity in his voice put a little hitch in your chest, and you had to remember that he had access to your heartbeat.

“Moving on,” you say quickly, “Are you going to tell me how you got ahold of my heart monitor?”

Stiles plates the sandwiches and goes for a couple bags of chips in the pantry. He was stuttering the whole way and came back a little pink. “After the video store and I… stayed the night. I – couldn’t sleep. After a couple hours and me trying to read your latest Harry Potter book…”

“You can’t start reading the series on the sixth one, dummy.”

He waves you off, presenting you with dinner. “You turned over in your sleep… and your hand was – was resting on my arm; the hand that had your watch.” He takes a big bite of his sandwich and rushes through the rest, “It turned on when your heart rate went up a little bit in your sleep and I thought… it would m-make sense to share that monitor with other people so they can take care of you in an emergency.”

You quietly eat your meal as you listen, a warmth in your stomach at feeling looked after and cared about. Stiles took it upon himself to help you and strangely… you didn’t mind it like you did when it came to your parents.

“Your watch doesn’t have a password on it so…”

“My parents thought it’d be easier if someone needed to access my heart monitor app if I fainted.”

He nods, “So I opened it while you were asleep and connected my phone to the app.”

“Why didn’t you just ask?” you say softly, watching him with that warmth you were feeling. It was comforting and you realize how comfortable you felt around Stiles – especially when talking about something so personal to you.

“I was afraid you’d be all stoic and say you’re fine,” he smirks at you, “And that you can take care of yourself.”

You shake your head and huff a laugh, “Smart man.”

The two of you share a few more laughs before Stiles goes on to apologize again, “I’m sorry this isn’t the greatest meal. I’m no chef (Y/N).” He waves his hands around as he says it, “But…”

“It’s good,” you say, smiling. “I don’t like to cook all the time.”

You get off topic as you continue to eat. You discuss your science project and the upcoming chemistry test on Monday. Stiles tells you the made up story about what happened at the school. You ask more questions about Derek. Sherrif Stilinski had contacted state police to handle a possible serial killer. School had been closed Thursday and Friday to deal with the damages, so you hadn’t missed classes while being sick.

The sun starts to set as Stiles cleans your plates. “There is one more thing about tonight that I forgot to mention.” He puts his hands on the counter and leans in, “What do girls usually do during breakups?”

“Well, Allison, Lydia, and I had a night of crying as we watched The Notebook and Titanic. We ordered takeout and ranted about every stupid thing a boy has ever done to us. We ate chocolate and contemplated possibly being alone forever. And then we passed out after doing our hair and giving each other facials.”

Stiles was not expecting that, “You did all of that in one night?”

“Hence why we passed out at three in the morning.”

He shakes his head, “Well for Scott… we’re going to get him drunk.”

You raise your eyebrows, “Excuse me?”

“We’re going to get drunk and make sure he has a good time.”

“Cause no one has ever been considered a sad drunk before.”

He gives you a deadpan stare. It makes you giggle – he was so open with his facial expressions.

“I just want to take his mind off of it.”

You consider him, “Where are we going to get alcohol?”

Stiles holds up a finger and goes to rummage in a side cabinet near the dining table. He returns with a full bottle of Jack Daniels. You smile to see the comparison you had made multiple times. Stiles’ eyes were sometimes like sunshine through whiskey.

He took your smile as a good sign, “You up for it?”

~~~

You and Stiles were leading the way past the park entrance and onto a cliff face with Scott trailing behind. The moon was out and very nearly full, shining a perfect light around the outcrop.

The ground was uneven and layered with rock, sparse pine trees growing between the cracks. There was a bonfire barrel just ahead that Stiles went to light.

“Where are we going?” Scott grumbles.

He was looking a little worse for wear. After your night of girl talk and general anguish, Allison seemed to be faring better. It was strange to see how each party handled the breakup.

“Cause we really shouldn’t be out here. My mom is in a constant state of freak-out from what happened at the school.”

Stiles sighs, “Well, your mom isn’t the sheriff, okay? There’s no comparison, trust me.”

“It’ll be fine, Scott,” you say, “It’s been quiet since Wednesday.”

Your friend was over it. “Can you at least just tell me what we’re doing out here?”

“Yes. When your best friend gets dumped…”

“I didn’t get dumped,” Scott butts in, “We’re taking a break.” He looks to you as if asking you to prove it.

You shrug, breathing in the cold air and swinging your arms in the too-long sleeves of Stiles’ flannel. “She’s pretty decided.” It was Scott’s fault after all that Allison made the decision. “She’s already given you a second chance.”

“Not helping!” Stiles snaps, “When your best friend gets told by his girlfriend that they’re taking a break…” Stiles stops walking next to the bonfire barrel, moon shining right above his head. “You get your best friend drunk.”

He holds up the bottle of amber, proud of himself for taking it from his father’s stash.

Scott sighs but doesn’t fight it. He was more interested in talking to you about the situation, which tells you how he really wants to handle the breakup. While Stiles works on lighting a fire in the barrel, you sit on a rock and pat the spot next to you for Scott.

He slumps down as if his body is heavier than usual. “Thank you for being here.”

You lean into him a little. It was cold and his body was warm. “I’ll always be here for my friends.”

“I mean, especially since you’re one of Allison’s best friends too.” His voice lowers when he says her name, like it was painful.

“Of course, I’m not picking sides, Scott. I have my girls… and I have my boys.” You wrap an arm around his shoulders and squeeze him to you. Your head lays on his shoulder, and you could almost feel the hurt he was feeling. It wasn’t as teary as Allison’s, but it was still very plain to see.

He takes a deep breath and stares out past the cliff at the rest of the forest below. It was almost like the moon was putting him in an even worse mood.

“Has she…”

“No,” you cut him off. “We had our night talking about it and she hasn’t brought it up since. But it’s only been a few days and you know Lydia is trying to swear her off of boys for a while.”

Scott nods, sinking into you a little more. “What do you think about it?”

You rub his shoulders a little, “I think what you did was done out of fear and anger, but it was still very stupid.” You feel him swallow thickly, “You shouldn’t have taken it out on her.”

He hangs his head, moving his hands up to hold his face. “I know.”

“If I’m being completely honest though… it’s going to be hard for her to get over you.” You lean closer to talk quietly as Stiles whoops at his roaring fire from behind. “Just give it some time to settle and try to apologize again. Try to give her more of a reason why you acted that way and she’ll understand. She’s very understanding if you don’t hold the truth from her.”

Scott turns his head sideways in one hand and looks at you with glassy eyes. You could tell he wasn’t going to cry, but he was heartened to hear your words.

“Thanks, (Y/N).”

You nudge him around a little, “Anytime.”

Stiles jumps off another large rock and lands with the bottle in his hands, already taking a swig, “Let’s party!”

Scott grumbles again but takes a couple gulps of the bottle before handing it to you. As you raise the rim to your lips, Stiles starts shouting.

“Hey, hey! You’re not supposed to be drinking that.”

You take a big swallow, the burning liquid stinging your throat as it goes down to warm your churning belly. “Because why?”

“Because alcohol can increase arrhythmias,” he says matter-of-factly, “I read that in my… research.”

You shrug, taking another gulp, blowing out a breath as if it were on fire. “Hasn’t stopped me before.” You mock the boys’ shocked silence with a muttered, “You’re not the only one that has stolen a drink from your parents liquor cabinet.”

Stiles still looks worried as you hand the bottle back, “Make sure you check your watch.”

“You have that on your phone now,” you stretch back, leaning on your hands, “You can worry about it.”

Scott gave half a smile, “You found out about that?”

“He hadn’t exactly hidden it well,” you giggle, already rosy from the alcohol.

You and Stiles continue to share the bottle, laughing at each other as you tell Scott about your day. You mock the state of the blue jeep while Stiles makes fun of your little crush on Andrew Wickstrom. You whisper (basically shout) about the old washcloths found in the bathroom while Stiles splutters his next swig all over the ground. And you finally laugh about how any of you were to take chemistry tests seriously when the school has been in disarray.

Scott stops drinking after his few sips and continues to stare off into the distance, hurting as he watches you and Stiles fall over each other on the ground. Stiles slams the bottle down with a tink of the glass and you shush him.

“You’ll break it,” you slur, words feeling funny in your mouth. You fall back and hit your head on the rock Scott was sitting on still. “Ow!”

Stiles rolls over from where he was laying and cups your head, pulling it from the rock, “Oh no…” he sounds just as drunk, “Did you get an owie?”

You rub at the slight egg forming on the back of your head, “The rock decided to punch me.”

“I’m sorry,” and he kisses your hairline, “There, all better.”

You laugh like that was the funniest thing in the world, “You gave me a make-it-better kiss!”

“I learned from the best,” he let your head go and you both fell onto your backs, laughing.

Scott closes his eyes and takes a shallow breath, tense from his friends having a flirty experience without them realizing it. He ignores as Stiles lifts his bandaged index finger and declares how “(Y/N)’s make-it-better kisses could cure cancer.”

You look up, laughing at that, and notice Scott folding his arms to keep the cold away. “Oh no…” you lean to whisper (again – basically shout) at Stiles, “He’s thinking about her again.”

“Dude, you know she’s just one… one girl. You know, there are so many… there are so many other girls in the sea.”

“Fish in the sea,” Scott corrects.

You gasp, “I should make a shrimp scampi.”

“Shrimp are not fish,” Stiles giggles, “Why are we talking about fish? I’m talking about girls.” His voice gets quieter, “I love girls. I love them.” He stares off at the moonlit sky while you try to contain your laughter, cheeks blooming red.

You tap out, refusing more drink but still overly drunk. Instead you wrap a hand around Scott’s ankle as if that was still giving him silent support.

“I love…” Stiles continues to ramble, “Especially ones that are super smart and like true crime and books and… and can cook super well and have a history of serious heart conditions.”

“Like (Y/N)?”

You lift your head but decided the motion was going to make you sick.

“Like who?” Stiles mutters before smiling wide, “Like whom? What was I talking about?” He looks up to see Scott brooding over his crossed arms, “Hey, you’re not happy. Take a drink.”

“I don’t want any more,” Scott says.

“You’re not drunk?” Stiles asks, only to hear you fall into giggles again.

You lean your head towards him, “I’m drunk.” You still had one hand on Scott, running your fingers weirdly around his ankle in an absentminded gesture. Scott didn’t care – he still found it somewhat comforting to have you there.

“Hey, maybe it’s like… maybe it’s like not needing your inhaler anymore, you know.”

You tug on his pants leg, “You used to need an inhaler?” You were starting to sound sleepy.

“Maybe you can’t get drunk as a wolf.”

Scott picked up a pebble and threw it at Stiles’ face.

“Hey! What the hell…” he rubs at his face harshly, throwing his arms out afterwards. One of his arms lands across yours. “Come on man, I know it hurts. I know. Well, I don’t know,” he chuckles, his fingers subconsciously finding the skin of your wrist just under the flannel sleeve. They’re light and lazy as they trail up your wrist and down to your palm.

You hardly react, too drunk to really care. “I don’t really know either. Never had anything past a situationship before. They always leave when things get too serious.” You shiver, tickled by Stiles’ fingers. “They get all scared about me dying.”

Stiles rolls his head around the rocks he’s laying on, too far gone to really register what you’re saying, “I do know this though! I know that as much as being broken up hurts, being alone is way worse.” He laughs quietly, “That didn’t make any sense.”

His long fingers were overtaking the space of your hand now, tracing the skin there as he drifts off. Scott was staring at the two of you with mixed emotions, that is until a mystery guest appears to steal your bottle of whiskey.

“Well,” a sinister older looking boy says, “Look at the little bitches getting their drink on.”

Scott sets his face in cool indifference, “Give it back.”

Stiles’ fingers are no longer light and lazy – they grip your hand and pull you closer to him, half sitting up as he tries to clear his head. You hardly register the movement of your hand, only the distant panic starting to rise in your throat at the newcomers.

“What’s that, little man?” the guy had to be a senior or even a freshman in college.

Another guy of similar age was just behind him, “I think he wants a drink.”

Stiles was trying to stand up, “Scott, maybe we should just go.”

“Woah, woah – wait a minute,” the first guy whistles, “The party is just starting.” He eyes you down, “What’s your name, baby?”

You swallow hard, “We were just leaving.” Your head was terribly clearer now as a thrill of fear went down your spine. You try to stand too, “Enjoy the drink.”

“Oh, we will,” the guy says, approaching your standing figure, “But only if you enjoy it with us.”

“Hey, back off man,” Stiles says, wobbly as he holds onto you, “We don’t want any trouble.”

The guy goes for your free arm, slow but tight in how he grabs you, “You don’t want to spend the night with these losers. We can show you a better time.”

“Let go of me,” you say fiercely, but fear was shining in your eyes.

Stiles starts rambling off sentences of retort, pulling on you and pushing the guy away. Until you were yanked sharply, and a squeal escapes you.

All bets were off after that.

Stiles throws his drunken arms towards the guy, eventually punching him on the jawline closer to his ear. Scott, his eyes gleaming a strange yellow light, grabs the bottle of jack from the senior’s hand and throws it with incredible speed against a faraway tree.

His voice is deep and strange as he says, “Get out of here.”

And the two guys run off back towards the woods, passing the tree now drenched in whiskey and glass.

Your teeth were chattering, heartbeat rapid, and a look of fear plastered to your wide eyes. Stiles was shaking your shoulders, “You okay?” Then he pulls you into his embrace, guiding your head to rest under his chin, “You’re okay.” He rubs up and down your arm as he watches Scott stomp away towards the jeep.

“Hey, woah – Scott!” he holds you to him, kind of like a support for both your drunken bodies, but you’re grateful for the warmth his body provides as you head for the parking lot again.

Scott drives you all home, angry as he watches you sleepily lay in Stiles’ arms. The fidgety, sarcastic boy was slumped against the door and had his arms wrapped around you, snoring and completely unaware of how lucky he was.

He was going to lose his mind when he wakes up and doesn’t remember it all very well.

~~~

Taglist: @assassinsasha23 @tasty-book-fans @lovelybaka @the-fandom-queen @runs-with-sciss0rs

[okay-j-hannah]

Part 2: A Lacrosse Boyfriend

Teen Wolf : Multishot

Stiles Stilinski x Reader

Word Count: 11.4k

Warnings: series rewrite, start of season 1 {aka 2011}, slow burn, friends to lovers, eventual pining, eventual NSFW, usual teen wolf levels of violence and gore, heart conditions, health problems, lightheadedness, fainting

Request: This just came from my own head 😊  

Part 1: Her Broken Heart

Part 2: A Lacrosse Boyfriend {You Are Here}

Part 3: Blue Handprints

The summer heat had finally decided to die down to a reasonable temperature. It was the only reason your mother decided a picnic at the park would be nice. It was equal parts safe for you and enough of a distraction that you could pretend you were a normal kid.

At just four years old you were starting to notice how you didn’t live like the children you saw outside your window. You had started to grow bored of your usual antics stuck at home.

You lay on your stomach near the edge of your blanket. Along the blades of green grass you spotted a ladybug climbing towards the sky. You were practicing counting the spots on its back when the beat in your chest became noticeable.

The pressure from laying on your tummy made it easier to feel your heartbeat unevenly.

“Do you want another grape, sweetie?” your mom asked, stretched out and enjoying the shade.

You reached out a smaller, pudgier hand, accepting the grape with a hungry toddler’s mouth. Your eyes looked above the ladybug grass and stared at the playground, complete with twisting slides and a rubber rock wall.

“Mom,” you say in your timid tone. “I want to play.”

“I know, honey,��� she says, “But you know how that’s not safe for your heart.”

A pout grew instantly, “I am careful!”

Sensing your coming tantrum, your mother drew your attention away from the other children playing with a lacrosse ball in the nearby field.

“Yes, you are very good at being careful. But remember your heart sometimes has a mind of it’s own. Sometimes being careful isn’t enough. The doctor said not to be too crazy.”

You ball your little fists but hold back the angry words. “I don’t like my heart.”

Your mother cooed, reaching for you, “No, sweetie, you have a wonderful heart. It’s big and warm and full of love for far too many things. It tries its best to take care of you. So we need to try our best to take care of it, okay?”

You snuggle into your mother’s arms, upset feelings turning into tears, “Okay, mommy.” You feel a kiss on your head when the children playing in the field came running past your blanket.

They stopped on the other side of your shaded spot and conversed behind dirt smudged hands. They were both rowdy boys with scabbed knees and grass stained shirts, but they had wide smiles as one approached you.

He had unruly hair and sunburnt cheeks.

“Hello,” he said in a nervous voice, “What’s your name?”

You rub at your eyes, “(Y/N).” You sink further into your mom.

The boy was out of breath and already itching to run again judging by his fidgeting. He said quickly, “Hi my name is Stiles. Do you want to come play with us? We were playing sharks and minnows, but it’s not so fun with only two people.”

You look up at your mother’s chin and ask quietly, “Can I go play?”

Your mother sighs, tickling your sides, “If you don’t run around so much and stay on the playground…”

You were instantly crawling out of her lap, “Okay!”

“And if you start getting out of breath you need to tell me!” your mom continues, “Be careful climbing the ladders and don’t you dare stand on the slide!”

“Bye!” you yell in reply, already jogging away with Stiles to meet with his other friend.

He touched your shoulder, “Do you like chasing bad guys?”

“I’m not supposed to chase,” you say seriously, “But I do like to catch bad guys.”

Stiles nodded his head in deep thought, “Okay. How about we make traps for bad guys under the slides.”

You agree enthusiastically, grateful at your young age for someone who didn’t know about your heart. Grateful that they played with you like any other child.

And you schemed underneath the slides, building traps out of woodchips and leafy twigs. Innocent kids that didn’t know any better. Didn’t know that you wouldn’t remember this first meeting.

~~~

“I’ve started TAing.”

Allison gives you a strange look, “What?”

“I’m a teacher’s assistant now,” you lead the way into the school, “I have a free period since I finished a core class during my homeschooling.”

“Who will you TA for?”

You hold back a grimace, “Coach Finstock.”

Allison snorts, “You know I’m pretty sure he doesn’t know what’s going on half the time. He forgets which periods he’s teaching economics and which periods he needs to be in the gym for P.E..”

“All the more reason why he needs a TA to sort things out,” you say, straight-backed. “And it means I can help out at lacrosse games too.”

“What, like a waterboy?”

You bump into Allison’s side, “No… well maybe. Just helping out with supplies and plays and locker room stuff.”

“Locker room stuff,” Allison says with raised eyebrows.

You choke on a laugh, “Don’t start. I reserve the right to ban you from the locker rooms. Especially seeing as that’s become your new make out spot.”

That caught her off guard, ramming right into the person in front of her. With a squeal she drops everything in her arms and put her hands into her hair. It was Scott who turns around after the collision.

“You scared the hell out of me,” Allison laughs, joining you as you help pick up her things.

Scott looks terrifyingly relieved, “You’re okay.”

“Once my heart starts beating again, yeah.” You smile ruefully at that statement. “What?”

“I’m just happy to see you.”

You thought Scott looks more like seeing Allison walking and talking was a miracle. Like he couldn’t believe that she was alive. You hand Allison her pencil case and folders, watching their goodbye with skepticism.

“What was that?” you whisper as Allison walks away to first period.

Scott was still breathing shallow, “She’s okay.”

You snap your fingers in front of his dazed eyes. “Are you okay?”

The speakers suddenly turn on with a crackle of fuzzy interference. “Attention, students, this is your principal. I know you’re all wondering about the incident that occurred last night to one of our buses. While the police work to determine what happened, classes will proceed as scheduled. Thank you.” With another crackle of microphone feedback the principal’s voice was gone.

You return your eyes to Scott and furrow your brow.

He took in your confusion and whispers, “I had a dream last night where Allison and I snuck into the buses behind the school.”

“Oh?” you say, still skeptical but now with a smile on your face.

“And I sort of had… an outburst.” He seems to struggle with finding the right words. “I killed Allison and broke through the back of the bus.”

“Well, shit that sucks Scott,” you fold your arms, “But I don’t think you’re capable of all that.”

He grimaces, “No, when we showed up to school and saw the bus out back – and how it looked just like it did in my dream – I thought maybe I had actually killed Allison somehow.”

You reign in your teasing smiles and bump into his shoulder, “Scott, like I said, I don’t think there’s a mean bone in your body. There’s no way you could kill someone and tear up a bus.” He still slumps as he follows you to first period. “I can understand why that would still be scary regardless.”

It was his turn to bump into your shoulder, but with more force, causing you to trip into a row of lockers. “God! I’m sorry, (Y/N),” he pulls you closer by the hand.

You laugh, ignoring the jump of your heart. “It’s okay, let’s just get to chemistry.”

Stiles was already sitting down, bouncing his leg against the table stool. He looks at Scott as if asking if everything was okay. Scott gave him a reassuring nod as he took a seat at the table in front of him.

You smile at them as you took the remaining empty seat at a back table. You immediately start copying the diagram drawn on the blackboard, taking out your science project notes for inspiration.

You could hear the frantic voices of Scott and Stiles near the front, and a needle of hurt stuck in your chest as you remember the secret that Stiles wasn’t ready to tell you. You had to remind yourself that the friendship was still relatively new.

There was still a secret you hadn’t told them either.

“Mr. Stilinski, if that’s your idea of a hushed whisper you might want to pull the headphones out every once in a while,” Mr. Harris says from the blackboard. “I think you and Mr. McCall would benefit from a little distance, yes?”

Stiles begrudgingly moves his stuff to the back but stops when he spots the empty seat next to you.

“Hey, trouble,” you say quietly.

He sat clumsily, “How was the rest of your weekend?”

“It was fine. Just a lot of reading.” You finish copying the blackboard notes.

Stiles leans on his elbow, “Still reading that werewolf book?”

“You mean Harry Potter,” you snicker, “Yeah I’m on the fourth one now.” Turning your head you could see Stiles staring at you, “What?”

He swallows hard, awkwardly straightening himself, “Nothing just… I like that coconutty-strawberry smell.”

Warmth came up your chest, “That would be my shampoo.”

“Then thank god for personal hygiene.” He grimaces and smacks the back of his head.

You ignore it, pulling your notebook closer. You could still feel his eyes on you as a classmate jumps to the window, “Hey, I think they found something!”

Everyone ran for the wall of windows. You stood quickly from your stool too when a fuzzy feeling flickers on in your head. You grip the table, closing your eyes and frowning.

No one notices as you compose yourself, waiting for the fainting feeling to go away. You wander closer to the group of kids terrified at what they were seeing. A tingling was making its way down your legs – the blood rushing to your toes.

You felt uncomfortably warm when a cool hand touches your shoulder, “(Y/N)?”

Stiles was at your side, unsure of what was happening. “You look ashy. Are you lightheaded again?”

The breath leaving your lungs was shallow and rapid, cotton was building pressure in your ears. “I’m going to faint, Stiles.”

“Mr. Harris!” Stiles yells, “(Y/N) needs to get to the nurses office!”

Not that the student body would know, but every teacher at the school knew of your health problems. They knew it was a possibility that you would require medical care. Mr. Harris, as cynical and distrustful as he was, let you leave promptly despite his feelings.

“You may leave, Miss. Westbrook.”

“Sir, I don’t think she should be walking alone to…”

Mr. Harris was using his phone as he looks out the window, “Get out of my classroom, Stilinski!”

Stiles keeps a hand on your back and another on your arm, watching your face the whole way. His voice was frantic and small as he talks you through it.

“It’s like I can see the blood draining from your face. Does that happen a lot? I mean, I know you get head rushes a lot, but the fainting thing? Do you just have bad blood circulation? Was it something I said? Look I know I’ve mentioned how good you smell twice now and while it is true I acknowledge that it’s a little creepy of me to be sniffing your hair so much. I probably shouldn’t have admitted that. Not gonna lie it’s kinda freaking me out that you’re not saying anything.”

You struggle to breathe, “It’s sort of hard when you don’t give me time to answer.”

The shallowness of your breathy words put a strange feeling in Stiles’ chest, “Do you need me to do something else? Does the nurse… what the hell is that?”

Your watch was suddenly beeping with an alarm. Your heart rate was far too high and had stayed that high for more than thirty seconds. A pain enters your chest, and your walking slows.

Stiles starts panicking, “What does that mean? (Y/N), what’s happening?” He yells down the hallway towards the office, “Hey! We need help over here!”

It was hard to keep your eyes open as you start to slump, “Stiles…” you mumble. And you lost consciousness, falling into Stiles and in return he fell to the ground to catch your body.

He held your back and shoulders, using his free hand to brush the hair from your face. Your skin was still gray-tinged. An office lady and the school nurse came rushing down the hallway. Their heavy footfalls matching the hard beating of your heart.

Stiles was finally at a loss for words, holding you like you had just died. “(Y/N)?! Oh my god, I think she just fainted,” he says to the incoming help, “I hope she just fainted.”

The nurse asks Stiles to help drag you to the sickbed. He complies, frantically asking questions until the nurse ordered him to stop.

“Alice, will you call her mother and I’ll get her doctor on the line,” the nurse says to the office lady. She dials a number and holds it to her ear as she elevates your legs and checks that your airway wasn’t obstructed.

“What did she say to you before she fainted?”

Stiles was still flabbergasted, “She turned gray and said she was lightheaded. She told me she was going to faint.” He ran a hand over his shaved head, “And then her watch started freaking out and she had a pain in her chest.”

“It’s been more than 90 seconds now,” she mumbles to herself, checking your watch monitor to measure your heart rate.

“Wh-What does that mean?” Stiles asks, blinking blearily. “Is she going to be okay?”

The nurse starts talking to a doctor on the phone and Stiles was ushered out by the office lady, forced to watch from a different room. He refuses to leave the office until he sees your eyes open just a few seconds later.

~~~

“By the time I checked with the office at lunch she was sent home,” Stiles vents, one hand on the wheel and the other in his short hair. “She hasn’t answered any of my texts or phone calls.”

Scott was stretched thin between worrying about his possible dreamlike wolf attack and the mystery of his newfound friend. In all honesty he was more worried about how worried his best friend was.

“I talked to Allison about it, she doesn’t know anything either.”

“God, I knew there was something wrong,” Stiles bites the inside of his cheek. “That scar she has… whatever I look up says it has something to do with her heart.”

Scott eyes his friend, unsettled by the palpable worry. “She’ll be okay.”

“You don’t know that.”

“We would have heard something if she wasn’t.”

Stiles grips the steering wheel, “We would have heard something if she was.”

They pull up against the fence to the bus drop off, putting the jeep in park. Stiles rubs at his worn face and Scott leans in with an edge to his voice.

“Listen, let’s just get this Derek theory over with and then we can go check on (Y/N). Sound good?”

Stiles grumbles, slipping out of the jeep with his friend.

“Hey, no, just me,” Scott says, “Someone needs to keep watch.”

“How come I’m always the guy keeping watch?”

Scott pulls on his friend’s arm, “Because there’s only two of us and I happen to have wolf-like reflexes and you’re distracted by your sudden love for (Y/N).”

“I am…” Stiles scoffs, caught off guard. “I am not in love with (Y/N).”

“The eight text messages and four phone calls would say otherwise.”

Stiles juts a finger in the air, “Hey, that is totally untrue.” He put his hands on his hips, “I only made three phone calls.”

“Whatever,” Scott whispers, “I’ll just be in and out.”

“Okay, why’s it starting to feel like you’re Batman and I’m Robin? I don’t want to be Robin all the time.”

Scott was bewildered, “Nobody’s Batman and Robin any of the time.”

“Not even some of the time?”

But true his word, Scott was quick upon entering the bus. Stiles surrenders and sits in the jeep ready to drive with the headlights off. He pulls out his phone and scrolls through his messages to you, concern eating away at his stomach.

It was bad enough that he witnessed you fall ill so quickly and dragged you to the nurses office. But now he was realizing, through some personal investigation and the unhelpful words of Scott, that he had a crush on you.

He liked you.

With all the strange supernatural problems infiltrating his life, it was almost an unexpected surprise to have something so human as a little crush. His stomach flips. But what if there was something more supernatural about you?

Your heart rate was elevated when you fainted. Scott’s heart rate is a tell of an oncoming werewolf transformation.

Is that why you wanted to keep it a secret?

Stiles was sick of his investigative brain, slamming his forehead against the steering wheel. Couldn’t he have normal high school problems like fretting over the girl he liked instead of deducing if she was a shape shifter or not?

Flashlight beams could be seen from the school’s entrance. Stiles lifts his head to see them shining in his eyes, “Oh, shit…” he starts laying on the horn.

~~~

After dropping Scott off, Stiles sat in his jeep contemplating his next move. Staring at the clock on his dashboard he knew it was far too late for your parents to accept company.

But there was still that garden trellis outside your window.

Making his decision, Stiles drove to the end of your street, hopping out and running for your house. It was easier to climb the garden trellis now that he knew where to put his hands and feet through the vines and ladder.

He creeps over the roof tiles and squats outside your window. The lights were off, and he could just make out the human shape lying in bed… he still couldn’t help himself. He taps on the glass until he saw your figure stir.

Ruffled in white pajamas with little blueberries printed on the fabric, you carefully tip toe to the window to let him in.

“Stiles,” you yawn, the moonlight still bright enough to make your eyes squint. “What are you doing here?”

Stiles made a much more graceful entry, afraid to disturb your parents. “I wanted to check on you. You haven’t been answering my messages.”

You sit on the edge of your bed, clearly exhausted. Stiles remains standing – because he wanted to pace or because he was preparing to catch you should you fall, he didn’t know.

“I’m sorry,” you run your fingers through your bedhead. Stiles thought it was cute. “Between the hospital visit and the bedrest I haven’t even looked at my phone. My mom usually keeps it whenever I have a fainting episode. Gives me time to unplug and unwind.”

“But…” Stiles folds his arms, “But you are okay?”

He didn’t like that it took you longer to respond. “Yes, I’m fine. You know I get lightheaded a lot. Fainting is usually a consequence of that.”

“Your watch went off right before you fell,” he says quietly, his eyes dark and serious. “Like some kind of alarm.”

“Yeah,” you look at your watch that you wear even when sleeping. “It measures my heart rate. Whenever it spikes for too long it warns me that I might faint.”

“That’s why you get lightheaded… your heart?” his eyes linger at the collar of your shirt, hoping to see that scar again.

You fold your arms, protective, “When I get worked up it doesn’t beat enough to get oxygen to my brain. Then I get lightheaded and sometimes faint.”

Stiles nods his head and walks over to your bed, “Can I?”

A soft smile quirks your lips, “You may.”

He sits beside you, the mattress sinking down further. “So when we saw the ambulance and the bus driver all mangled like that…”

“It got my heart rate going,” you say easily. Of course you got lightheaded before even seeing the commotion outside the window. You didn’t feel like getting too deep into your diagnosis. This was a good start.

“It was really scary seeing you get sick like that,” Stiles says honestly, looking down at his hands. “Not knowing what was going on made me feel… like I was helpless to make it stop.”

You turn to him, silhouetted by moonlight. His eyelashes were so long that they were casting shadows onto his cheeks.

“I’m sorry,” you say gently, placing a hand on his forearm. It made him look up at you. “I should’ve been more honest with you.”

“Is this where I can ask you my one personal question of the day?” his eyes were warm as his voice held slight sarcasm.

You lean into him, “I suppose.”

“If you start feeling faint or if you do faint, what can I do to help? Just so I’m prepared if it happens again.”

You blow air between your lips, “Oh, it’ll happen again. That’s my curse.” You hum as you think, oblivious to how Stiles was unconsciously smiling at your thinking face. “I generally avoid things that would get my heart rate up.”

Stiles scoffs, having an epiphany, “Like a lacrosse game or an after party.”

“Or a crowded lunchroom,” you smile. “But if it goes up regardless, I usually try to ground myself. Like thinking about what my five senses notice. And I hold onto whoever I’m closest to. Doing that and taking deep breaths can control my heart rate.”

“I know a thing or two about that,” Stiles mumbles, “That’s a technique to control anxiety.”

You nod, “You’re right.”

“And if you faint again?”

“First step is to call for help and the second step is to make sure I’m stable.”

You turn to him, and he looks so sincere that goosebumps erupt on your skin. He was taking your words so seriously. Without interrupting your council he grabs the blanket off your bed and drapes it over your bare arms.

“Lay me down and elevate my feet. Make sure I’m not choking on anything. And then if I’m out for more than 90 seconds or I start seizing, then turn me on my side.”

“Why 90 seconds?” he asks.

You pull the blanket closer around you, “Because after 90 seconds then there might be some brain damage or something else seriously wrong.”

He turns his body towards you more, your thighs fully touching. “The nurse today said that you were out for over 90 seconds.”

“That’s why they sent me to the hospital,” you nod, “But they didn’t find any serious damage. I just can’t have any more fainting episodes like that.”

Stiles swallows hard, tracing the outline of your side profile with his eyes. Brow. Nose. Lips. Chin. “Why?”

“Because the more I have the weaker my body will become. The more damage I’ll get. We don’t want that to happen.”

He licks his lips and plays with his fingers, “Thank you for telling me.” He thought back to the scar on your chest and realized that some things still didn’t add up. Craning his neck to look at you, he asks, “That’s still not everything, is it?”

Your eyebrows slant and you look scared for the first time that night. “No.”

Stiles found himself closer to you than he intended, urgency laced into his next words, “(Y/N), I want to know everything. I want to be able to help.”

A sad smile crept onto your face, “I can’t.”

“Why not?”

You take a shaky breath, “Because then it’ll become too real. I’m not ready to share that reality yet.” You match his urgency as you express, “This is enough for now.”

Stiles suppresses the instant anger that brought up. He hated not knowing things. “Does anyone else know?”

“The school staff and most parents know,” you say, “Yes, even your dad.”

“My dad!”

You shush him, “It’s a small town and my mom works under him.”

“What about Scott and Allison?”

“Not yet,” you sigh, “But I don’t mind if you tell them now. It was stupid of me to keep it to myself when I could faint at any time around you guys.”

He bites his lip, “When will you be back at school?”

“Maybe Wednesday,” you shrug, “Fainting always puts my family in a tizzy. My parents don’t like me leaving the house until they’re sure I can handle the stress again.”

Stiles was sinking further towards you, your arms now touching along with your thighs. “Is that why you were homeschooled?”

“Yes. I finally decided to not let my problems stop me from living my life to the fullest,” you relish in his warmth beside you, the goosebumps going away. “I decided to go to school, to get a job, to do things my parents and doctors said I shouldn’t do. My heart rate will go up the same way if I get jump scared in my own kitchen. I might as well be out doing something enjoyable.”

Stiles sighs and he was close enough you could feel his breath on your cheek. “I like that.” You smile and cuddle further into your blanket. He felt reluctant to leave, but all the same says, “I should go.”

He stands and walks carefully to your window. “You’re going to miss a wicked history test tomorrow and the ‘hang out’ between Scott and Allison.”

“I thought they were going on a date?” you say, crawling back towards your pillow.

“Nope,” Stiles began to slide out your window, “Lydia and Jackson made it a hang out at the bowling alley.”

“Does Scott even bowl?”

He snorts, “Never.”

“That could only end in hilarity,” you grin, “I’ll text Allison about it tomorrow.”

“Okay,” Stiles mutters, “Goodnight, (Y/N).”

“Stiles?”

He slips on the roof tiles, “Yep!”

You smile at his goofy face, “Thank you for helping me today. Not everyone would’ve done what you did.”

“I think anyone would be competent enough to cry for help when…”

“No, you coming to check on me. Asking me for details so you can help more in the future. Not judging me for having a problem. No one else has done that for me.”

Stiles nods awkwardly, gripping your windowsill. “I’ll text you tomorrow.”

~~~

Wednesday evening you were on a mission to convince your parents that you were well enough to go to school tomorrow.

You stood in the kitchen, soft blue silk pajamas on and fuzzy socks keeping your toes warm. A home speaker was playing songs from your favorite playlist, coercing your body to nod and sway with the beats.

“Are you sure you feel alright enough to be alone?” your mother frets, putting a coat on as your dad grabs the car keys.

You hold up your wrist with the watch, “My heart has been steady all day.”

“Yes, but you don’t know if…”

“Mom!” you cry, “It’s Wednesday. Wednesday is date night. You should enjoy your Wednesday date night. I can make myself dinner and watch a movie before bed.”

Your dad nudges your mother towards the door, “Let her have some freedom,” he teases.

Angela smacks his arm, but keeps moving nonetheless, “You better believe I’m getting my own cheesecake tonight.”

Your father, Tom, gave you a wink, “Let’s treat ourselves tonight, sweetheart.”

And for the next ten minutes you were blissful in making yourself some chicken and rice, green beans on the side. Clad in your softest sleepwear and dancing around to your favorite tunes, it was hard to shift the mood when you receive a frantic phone call.

“Hey, Stiles. Sorry I wasn’t at scho…”

“(Y/N), I need your help,” he says quickly.

You turn away from the stove, “Cutting to the chase, alright. I’m listening.”

Stiles trips over his words, “Y-You work at the hospital right? You have a wealth of doctor knowledge? Like you could tell me a few facts about first aide?”

You lean against the counter, the marble cold under your arms. “Yes… Stiles what’s going on?”

“I might, sort of… maybe have a friend who is… very hurt.”

“Very hurt?”

“He has a wound that just keeps sprouting blood and he’s not looking so hot.”

You hum a ‘uh huh’ as you ponder who this friend might be, “Not looking so hot meaning what?”

“You know, just the general sweating, pale skin, heavy breathing.”

“He must be in a lot of pain then.” You could hear a slam on something metal in the background. Stiles must’ve jumped by how his voice rose an octave.

“Lots – lots of pain. Listen, what might we do to help said wound?”

You go to stir your sizzling chicken, “How does it look?”

“Red and gross and all around a major health code violation,” he felt his chest tighten at your slight laugh. “There’s also these purple veiny things creeping up his arm.”

The smile falls from your face, “That would mean he has blood poisoning. Whatever wound he has is infected and if it reaches his heart then it’ll kill him.”

Someone was rummaging through drawers; you could hear pill bottles flying around.

“That’s good, great,” Stiles curses, “What do we need to stop that from happening?”

“Well, you need to stop the infection with some pretty heavy antibiotics,” you rub at your forehead. “And you need to clean the wound to stop more infection from getting in. And you could put a tourniquet on to help stop the bleeding.”

Some heavy whispering was happening behind Stiles’ hand. Something recognizable was in the other man’s voice.

“Stiles,” you say warningly, “Who are you with?”

“Just some guy,” Stiles replies, moving around, “We’re putting a belt around his arm as a tourniquet now. Thanks for your help, (Y/N).”

A cry of pain was heard through the phone and you hiss, “Are you with Derek Hale?”

“What?! No way… not a chance,” he laughs weakly before growing silent. “Yes, I’m with Derek Hale.”

“What the hell, Stiles – I thought you hated that guy.”

A growl was heard behind him, “Listen, I gotta go. Talk to you later?”

“I’ll be here, making dinner and watching old Disney movies.” You wait for a goodbye, but the line went dead. “That was weird.” And it continues to be that way as you finish making the dinner and grab a soda from the fridge.

You sat on the couch, pulling a fluffy forest green blanket on you. It was quiet and serene as you pull up one of your favorite movies: Atlantis: The Lost Empire.

You weren’t even ten minutes in when there was a knock on your door. Slipping on your thick socks, you skid across the hard wood to the door.

Suspicious, you say, “Stiles… how is Derek?”

“He’ll live,” Stiles says, out of breath and wrapping his jacket tightly around him. “He’s having a chat with Scott right now about the Hale family or something.”

“About the house fire?” you ask, “So now that he’s innocent of killing his sister you’re suddenly buddies with him?”

Stiles had an exaggerated look on his face, “Well, not exactly. He’s still a big scary guy that we got thrown into jail for a day. And now the town thinks he’s some murdering recluse because of the evidence we put against him.”

You couldn’t fight the smile creeping onto your face, “So it was just a favor you helping him tonight?”

“Yeah, it was a hunting accident,” he says casually, as if it were the whole truth. “And he didn’t have any friends to turn to.” He dances on his toes, looking up at the porch light, “While I love chatting out in the cold, do you think your parents would be alright if I hang out here and check on you?”

Leaving the door open, you walk inside, “My parents aren’t here. It’s date night.”

“Right,” he says, closing the door and kicking off his shoes, “How are you feeling?”

You sigh, “I feel fine. My mom is just determined to keep me couped up for the rest of my life.” Without prompting you prepare a dinner dish for Stiles and meet him in the living room, “I’ve only been in school a few weeks, but I miss it.”

Stiles eyes the plate of food with wide honey eyes, “Oh my god, that smells amazing.”

“Come on, I’m watching Atlantis.”

The boy was only too eager to follow you onto the couch. He flops down, staring at his plate hungrily. You share the green blanket, throwing it over his lap. He looks at you with big eyes.

“You said it was cold outside,” you shrug, picking up your plate. Your legs were touching again as the pair of you ate.

Stiles was eating the chicken and rice like his life depended on it, “This is the best food I’ve had in years.”

“You must be in love with it,” you snicker, “Judging by the sounds you’re making.” You laugh as he chokes on his fork.

“No, it’s just…” he scratches the back of his neck, “I don’t eat a lot of homecooked food anymore. My dad and I survive on takeout mostly.”

You push the rice around your plate, “Did your mom cook a lot?”

There was a shift in the air as Stiles continues to eat, but he responds with as normal a voice as he could manage. “Yeah. My dad used to say that… that she would bribe him with a good dinner to get him home from the station sometimes.”

Your voice was warm as you say, “She must’ve been an excellent chef if that got the Sheriff away from his caseload.”

“She used to make this delicious homemade mac and cheese, like fancy mac and cheese…” he made silly hand motions in the air, “Like with the little chopped up green things on top.”

“Parsley?”

He shrugs, but his eyes grew wide and bright, “And she’d serve it on top of a piece of garlic bread with some Italian sausage on the side.” He makes an overexaggerated chef kiss. “It was a masterpiece.”

“Sounds amazing,” you lean back into the couch, leaving your plate on the side table. “Like a fancy kid’s meal.”

Stiles guffaws, “That’s what it was! When I was little the only thing I would eat was kraft mac and cheese with chicken nuggets. She was determined to make me a better version.”

“I would’ve liked to have met her,” you say softly, fixated on the points where your bodies were touching. “She sounds like an amazing person.”

“She was,” Stiles says just as quietly, playing with his food like he had lost interest in it. “She would’ve thought you were sweet.”

You lean closer, intrigued, “Sweet?”

“That was her descriptor word for all things she liked.” He puts his plate aside too, resting against the couch and your shoulder that was so near. “We got a coupon for the arcade? Sweet! My dad picked her a flower from the woods? That’s sweet of him. I’m forced into a sailor outfit for family pictures? He looks so sweet!”

You take a deep breath, “That is pretty sweet.”

Stiles turns to you, startled to see you so close to him. His throat grew dry and his chest felt tight, all words trickling from his brain and out his ears. He never talked about his mom. Not to Scott, not to his dad, not to his pillow – not to anyone. But talking about her to you was… easy.

You were having the quick realization that Stiles had not just brown eyes, but the most glassy brown eyes you had ever seen. Like if sunlight were to shine through the liquid of a whisky bottle. Or if a sunset caught a glimpse of a glistening honeycomb. Or if a campfire reflected off a drop of amber tree sap.

“So…” Stiles clears his throat, not wishing to pull away but very conscious of how high his voice sounds. “You like Atlantis?”

The movie had been playing the whole time in the background.

“Yes! Have you seen Milo Thatch? I’d marry him in an instant.”

“I didn’t realize you felt so strongly for an animated man.”

You poke your shoulder into him, “Fictional men.”

“And the appeal is?”

“It’s in the name,” you snicker, “They’re fictional.”

Stiles hums a reply, turning his attention back to the tv screen. “I’ll add that to your case file: only attracted to fictional men and therefore can conclude that she’s never had a real boyfriend.”

“Oh, it feels real though.”

Stiles fought a shiver tickling the top of his spine. He instead readjusted his pants, “I think I’m going to need more research on these fictional men you’re so fascinated with.”

“We’d have a lot of ground to cover,” you sigh, “Seeing as I don’t think you’ll read any of the books I give you, we’ll have to have a lot more movies nights like this.”

“I think I’d be okay with that,” Stiles says with a smirk on his face. His hands were above the blanket you share, lying in his lap and fidgeting with the green fuzzies coming from the fabric he was pulling.

~~~

You sat on the windowsill in the girls bathroom the next day, reapplying your lipstick and combing your fingers through your hair. Allison was readjusting her hairband in the mirror while Lydia fixes her mascara.

“We’re going to have a movie night,” the redhead says, admiring her eyelashes. “All of us.” She turns with a flair and points to the other two. “It’ll be prime time for a little under the blanket action.”

You make a face while Allison coughs awkwardly, “You want to do a double date?”

“Triple if we can get (Y/N) a boytoy,” Lydia smirks.

“I’m not exactly in the market for boytoys,” you say, crossing your arms.

Lydia leans against the sink, “You will when I tell you half the lacrosse team wants to ask you out since you started helping with Coach.”

A nauseous feeling enters your stomach, “I’m not a huge fan of dating, Lydia.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll handpick the perfect one for you.”

Allison was all skepticism as the bell rang, “There goes the last of English.”

“And now we can go straight to lacrosse practice!” Lydia claps her hands, “Let’s go shopping for (Y/N)’s boyfriend.”

The trio make their way to the field, each at a different level of enthusiasm, as you see Scott and Stiles in their uniforms. The boys were quick to pull you to the side.

“Why did you skip the rest of English?” Scott asks, “Is Allison okay?”

“We got an emergency text from Lydia,” you huff, “Turns out it was just the regular scheming and gossip.”

Stiles raises his eyebrows, “Like…?”

“Like how Lydia is going to find me a lacrosse boyfriend to match her and Allison’s lacrosse boyfriends…”

Scott and Stiles spoke at the same time:

“I’m Allison’s lacrosse boyfriend?”

“You’re getting a lacrosse boyfriend?”

You roll your eyes, “And with all our lacrosse boyfriends we’re going to have a ‘movie night’ to coverup the sexcapade I think Lydia’s planning.”

Scott was blinking really hard, and Stiles seems to have left on a thought tangent based on the slack jawed look on his face.

You snap your fingers, “I need your help with Lydia.”

“No,” Scott mumbles, “She’s scary.”

Stiles was still lingering on his imagination as he says, dreamily, “You don’t want a lacrosse boyfriend?”

Your hands fall on your hips, “I just don’t want Lydia to conduct a speed dating the lacrosse team weekend.”

“WESTBROOK!”

You close your eyes, “Yes, Coach!?”

Coach Finstock stomps over, clipboard in hand as he struggles to wrap the whistle around his wild haired head. “I need you to register the team for a spring retreat.”

You blink blearily, “A spring retreat, Coach?”

“Yeah, yeah it’s good for bonding and teamwork and… bonding.” He threw his hands up, “We have the funds this year so we’re going out.”

The teenagers share looks as you attempt to get a baseline of knowledge, “What’s our budget? When are the dates? Who do I contact?”

“Everything’s on my desk. Now get to it,” he puts the whistle between his teeth, “The district likes to hear about these things in advance.”

You back away to the locker rooms as you silently plead to Scott and Stiles to handle the Lydia situation. They were frantically whispering back to you, making exaggerated and confused gestures. You could spy Lydia and Allison talking to a lacrosse huddle by the bleachers.

For the next forty-five minutes you handle the paperwork that the principal and district employees emailed Finstock. You create an excel sheet for signups and a budget tracker. You contact a sports summer camp that allows retreats and field trips during the school year. All you need was to pass out permission slips and gather player information.

You were on your way out of the copy room when you spot Lydia on Jackson’s arm, conversing with some players on the sidelines. Scott was playing goalie while Stiles and a few others were doing a play on the field.

“Give me some good news, Westbrook,” Coach grumbles, bending his clipboard to near splintering levels. “Because these dancing monkeys need some incentive to play better than my recently deceased grandmother.”

“I’ve got everything scheduled here,” you say, not even bothering to show all your hard work. The Coach trusts you enough to have it finished. “I just need to get players information.”

“Done. Boys! Get your pansy ballet asses to line up next to Westbrook! Do what she says fellas or you’re going to miss one hell of a weekend retreat.”

A herd of maroon jerseys and shoulder pads stampede towards you on the bleachers. Sweaty, and slightly smelly, boys began to filter past as you write down their names, shirt size, contact information, and give them a permission slip. You could feel Lydia and Allison waiting on the bench behind you.

Lydia’s heel toed boot prods the middle of your back whenever a boy she particularly likes came up.

“Ben Manley,” a blonde-haired, freckled face says. “I like your jacket.”

Seeing as it was a jacket you borrowed from Stiles’ jeep, you smile, “Thanks, Ben Manley. Get this paper signed if you want to come on the retreat.”

He looks a little dejected as he walks past. Another boy comes up, shiny with sweat on his wonderfully dimpled cheeks. His hair was chestnut brown and curly, “Andrew Wickstrom,” he says with a smile, “Thank you for helping Coach. He hasn’t been as manic since you started.”

“I’m glad my hard work is paying off.” You hand him a permission slip as another sharp poke was felt in your back. “Just turn that in within the next week.”

“Thanks, (Y/N). See you in gym.”

Right, gym class that you were a TA in instead of attending. You told the other students that you already got those credits during homeschool, but really you had a doctors note detailing how under no circumstances were you to get your heart rate up.

While others ran laps and did pushups and played volleyball indoors, you graded papers for Finstock from various classes.

Scott and Stiles came next in line. Scott gave a lovestruck wave to the girl sitting behind you while Stiles whispers to you.

“Hanging in there?”

“I think Lydia is making a March Madness chart with eligible lacrosse players,” you hand the boys permission slips. “She’s relentless.”

“You think I’ll make the bracket?” he asks clumsily, his cleats sticking into the grass.

You shrug, a teasing tone to your voice, “She’s very particular about who she adds.”

Stiles hopes he wasn’t hearing sarcasm, or even worse – dislike, in your voice. He was shoved to the side by a much taller boy coming in next.

“Josh Arnett,” he says.

He was broad, darkhaired, light eyed, and currently getting a dirty look from Stiles.

“Hi there,” you say, a little starstruck at the intense eye contact. You immediately recognize him as a narcissistic asshole, one that you’d still gladly kiss and get your heart broken over. He was one that made you think Greek gods still existed. He was one that made dirty look sexy.

And you just said, ‘hi there.’

His smile was killer, “Are you going to be at the retreat?”

You ignore the boot in your back as you fumble over your words, “Probably. Coach has kind of grown dependent on me to function.”

He took a permission slip, “I’ll go if you go,” and he winks. Like full on ‘sent-a-warm-river-of-shivers-down-your-chest-and-to-your-middle’ kind of wink. Your uneven heart patters at the sight of him walking away. Those wide shoulder pads… slim waist… and tight little…

You snap out of it as you realize the boy next to you was doing the exact same thing. Danny Mahealani was gawking as he groans under his breath, “Damn I love being on the lacrosse team.”

You laugh, shoving him away in a playful gesture. Danny was by far one of your favorites on the team. Lydia was right above your shoulder in an instant.

“I think we have our winner.”

“What?” you say a bit breathless, “Mr. Tall, Dark, and Philanderer?”

Allison was choking on laughs as Lydia huffs, “Come on, just a little movie date tonight. You don’t have to see him again if it’s really that bad.”

“You’re just trying to get a hot squad together,” you poke her button nose before you stand. “But you can’t force a healthy relationship on incompatible people.”

“Sure I can,” she scowls, “Jackson and I are still together.”

You share a look with Allison before packing up, “If you two are bringing dates tonight, I might as well bring the one that flirted with me.”

“Oh, please,” Allison crosses her arms, “All of them were being fl…”

“Perfect,” Lydia claps, “I’ll talk with Josh in the locker room.” And she flounces off in her skirts, leaving Allison to walk with Scott.

And Stiles appears at your shoulder, grabbing your leftover papers and the laptop from your hands. “So, has Lydia decided your fate?” He tries not to sound too eager (and/or desperate) to learn about the evenings plans, but he was hovering a bit close as you rub your temples. Your heart rate was a little high since encountering Mr. Philanderer.

“We have a big movie date tonight.”

He holds his breath as he continues, “… slash sexcapade?”

You snort, “I’d rather clean out whatever is festering in Coach’s desk drawers than have a sexcapade this weekend.”

His next breath was deep and tight, “Then who are you watching the movie with?”

“Josh Arnett.” Stiles stuck to the grass while you walk a few steps ahead. “What?”

“You are going to spend the night with Jealous Josh? Judgy Josh? Jockstrap Josh? Forget that last one.”

You giggle, “Yes, I’m going out with Jaw-dropping Josh.” You pull on Stiles’ arm, “It’s just to appease Lydia.”

“I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“Of course you don’t,” you say, “It’s going to be just a one time thing.”

“But what if he charms you and kisses you and you agree to more dates…” he watches a dreamy look slide onto your face. “Oh my god, you’re thinking about kissing him, aren’t you?”

You open the door to the locker room, full of sounds and smells alike. “It would be a crime not to acknowledge that he’s hot. And I’d have more status by saying I kissed him once.”

“I don’t have a good feeling about it.”

“Because I’m going on a date or because I’m going on a date with him?” You try to keep your tone civil as you’re surrounded by changing lacrosse players.

“Because he’s a douchebag that will probably do something to hurt your feelings and I don’t want that to happen.”

You take all your supplies from him, speckles of anger popping up your spine, “You trying to control who I go out with is a little douchy, don’t you think?”

“I’m not trying to control…” Stiles threw his gloves on the ground, “I’m trying to look out for you.”

“I’m not going to catch feelings for him,” you say indignantly, “I just want to try it Lydia’s way for once. It’s just one date, how bad could it be?” A sudden rush to your head makes you stumble, ramming your shoulder into a line of lockers.

Stiles jumps to your back, hands on your arms as you screw up your eyes. You take a deep breath and force the black spots from your vision. Slowly the voice of Stiles enters your ears.

“I’m fine,” you say, standing straight, “My heart was just beating a little fast.”  

“Because of our argument?”

You turn to the sound of his voice. The previous anger was gone. In its place were fearful honey eyes and an open, honest expression.

“Among other things,” you say, trying to catch your breath. “I’ll see you later.”

Stiles was screwing up his lips, chewing the inside of his cheek, clearly worried as you retreat. “Call me if something happens!”

 ~~~

You wait at your living room window for over an hour. You wait in your comfy blue sweater that’s cute enough for a date and soft enough for cuddling. You wait with styled hair and a little lipstick.

You could feel your parents spying from the kitchen, disappointed that you were being abandoned like this. A pain creeps into your chest that has nothing to do with your heart. It made your stomach twist and your head hurt.

It did not feel good to be stood up.

You text Lydia to give her an update. Her quick reply was that she and Jackson would pick you up and you could pick out the movie together.

You didn’t wave goodbye as you left the house, embarrassed by the turn of events. “I was such an idiot.”

Lydia turns in her seat, “You’re not an idiot, you look gorgeous.”

“I’m an idiot for getting excited about a night out with that jerk,” you play with your fingers. “And I knew from the beginning that he was an asshole, and I still got all ready trying to impress him.”

“No, you got ready because you wanted to feel hot. Remember you were going to one and done him tonight; Josh should be the one feeling disappointed that he isn’t here with you.”

You crack a faint smile, “Where’s Scott and Allison?”

“Oh, Allison’s hanging out with her aunt and so Scott decided to make other plans.”

“Meaning it’s just us three tonight?”

Jackson sighs begrudgingly, “Yep.”

“Then we might as well make it a chick flick night,” Lydia says, cheery despite her boyfriends obvious disdain for the situation. “Let’s watch The Notebook.”

“Absolutely not,” Jackson says, “We are not doing chick flicks just because your friend was dumped.”

Lydia purses her lips, “You’re not making this any easier, Jackson.”

“Yeah, I don’t really feel like crying, Lyds,” you attempt, the video store just down the road.

Jackson starts to ramble about different action and sports movies, “We never choose a movie that I pick. How about Hoosiers? Not only is it the best basketball movie ever, but it is also the best sports movie ever made.”

Lydia was quick with her reply, “No.”

“It’s got Gene Hackman and Dennis Hopper.”

You grimace at Lydia’s same short reply. “We can go in and browse for a little bit.” The night was shaping up to be one of the worst by far.

“I am not watching The Notebook again!” Jackson raises his voice.

“Come on, Jackson,” you say, opening the door. “Let’s just go look around for a second. I’ll help pick a good one.”

You walk to the first aisle inside, both of you on edge for different reasons. Jackson makes no effort to make conversation as you peruse the romantic comedy shelves. “She means well. She’s just trying to cheer me up.”

“Yeah, I’m sorry if I don’t want my date ruined by turning it into a girls night.”

You cross your arms, “I’m sorry.”

Jackson scowls at your drawn expression, “Arnett really is an asshole, by the way. I told Lydia as much.”

“Again, she meant well,” you sigh, “But thanks anyway.” A phone starts ringing in the background and kept echoing through the empty store. “Geesh, you would think someone would pick that up by now.”

“Hello?” Jackson calls out, “Is anybody working here?”

“What’s that?” you ask, pointing at a pair of shoes sticking out from an aisle further down. “Did someone fall off that ladder?” The medical assistant in you was already in action, pulling your phone out as you near the shoes.

You both move slowly, tense as the atmosphere gives an eerie flicker of lights. As you round the aisle of movies, there laying on the ground is the store manager – his throat clawed out.

“Oh my god!” you scream, gawking at the blood soaking the front of his shirt. It was fresh and glistening, splattered up onto his face and glasses.

“Holy shit!” Jackson yells, jumping back and onto the ladder. It moves enough that a broken light fixture falls, ripping the exposed wiring and plunging the entire video store into flickering darkness.

One second it’s dull yellow light, and the next an awful red dark, and then light again. It was making your vision blur with spots. You fall to your knees, sickened by the sudden wet warmth that soaks your pants.

Your heart was racing, beating like a war drum as you fought to control your breathing. Jackson was standing in the middle aisle, clearly shocked into silence. You were fumbling with your phone, attempting to dial any number that came up first.

There was a low, deafening growl that ripples through the store. You eye the claw marks on the store manager and immediately think of something big and terrifying. Jackson did too as he falls to hide behind a shelf.

You could hear the growling towards the back, too near for your liking. You shuffle away from the body, aware that Jackson had just left you to fend for yourself. A row of shelves falls behind you as you make your way to the front, crawling on your hands and knees.

You finally manage to dial a number, the first one you could think of. And the sound of Stiles on the other end brought you a sense of relief. He would do something.

“Hello.”

“Stiles…” you whisper, crawling along the front of the store and next to the windows.

“(Y/N), what’s wrong?”

Your breath was shaky and came out in wheezes, “I need help.”

There was a rustling on the other end, “Where are you? (Y/N), you need to breathe.”

A snarling growl came from your left and you dread to turn your head, “Oh god…”

“(Y/N)! Stay awake – tell me where you are!”

But as you turn your gaze to the hot breath and red gaze of the growling creature, you let out a bloodcurdling scream. The giant monster swipes a paw at you, clawing at your shoulder and sending you spinning into the opposite wall. You slam against the brick with a sickening force, a crash of broken glass above you as the creature jumps through.

Shards of glass collect on your body, stinging some of your exposed skin. Warmth was spreading down your left arm as you fought to breathe. Your vision was blurring, and you were falling in and out of consciousness.

Jackson crawls out from under the fallen video shelves and finds you at the front, noticing Lydia screaming in the car. He kneels beside you and pulls out his phone, dialing 911.

~~~

Stiles sat in the parking lot of a burger joint, eating dinner with his father in the police car. He was reminiscent of the homecooked meal you made him, fondly thinking of his mother too.

“Did they forget my curly fries?”

He chides his father, “You’re not supposed to eat fries, especially the curly ones.”

The Sheriff smirks, “Well, I’m carrying a lethal weapon. If I want the curly fries, I will have the curly fries.”

Stiles took his bitten straw out of his mouth, “If you think getting rid of contractions in all your sentences makes your argument any more legitimate, you are wrong.”

His dad gave him a bewildered look, “Somethings off with you tonight. Did you take too much Adderall?”

“No,” Stiles grumbles, picking at his hamburger wrapper, “Just… thinking about school.” He watches his dad’s expression egg him on further, “… and lacrosse… and Scott…” He huffs and throws his dinner back in the brown bag. “And girls.”

The Sheriff scoffs, hiding a laugh, “Just the usual then.”

Stiles felt his phone ring and he was surprised to see your name appear. Thinking you’re going to tell him Josh Arnett is the asshat that they all knew him to be, Stiles says confidently into the phone, “Hello.”

There was a terrified whisper in reply, “Stiles…”

He sat straighter, his dad catching a soda before it fell to the floor. “(Y/N), what’s wrong?” You sound like you were on the verge of a panic attack.

“I need help.” Your breathing was erratic, and he knew your heartbeat was probably the same.

“Where are you? (Y/N), you need to breathe.” God forbid you faint in whatever terrifying situation you’re in.

There was a terrible growl behind your shaky words, and you sound so small when you cry, “Oh god…”

It sent a thrill of terror through Stiles, “(Y/N)! Stay awake – tell me where you are!” A million scenarios were flying through his mind. Was there a werewolf there? The alpha? What had happened to your date?

There was a deafening bloodcurdling scream as the phone must’ve fallen from your hand. It took Stiles a second to realize that it was you that screamed. “(Y/N)? (Y/N)!” Your cries flew to the side along with a crash of glass as the snarling beast left.

The line went dead and Stiles fell into a panic, “How do I… where… god, dad we have to find her!”

The Sheriff listens with sincerity as he had watched the entire conversation. “What’s going on?”

“That was my friend, (Y/N) Westbrook. She was supposed be out tonight on a date, but something went wrong. She sounded terrified and then there was a scream and a crash and then… nothing.” His arms were flailing as he sat on the edge of the car seat, “We have to find her!”

“Westbrook?” the Sheriff says, throwing his wrapper to the floor, “You don’t mean…”

“Yes! And I know you know about her heart.”

His dads eyes widen ever-so-slightly, “How do you know about…?”

Stiles slams a hand on the dashboard, half tempted to grab the steering wheel, “We have to go – she’s in serious trouble!”

“Now hang on just a damn minute,” was his reply, “We don’t even know where she is. And before you go flying out the window, let’s think about this with some sense. Do you know where she was supposed to be on her date?”

Stiles whacks his head, as if to jog some memories over the panic, “They were going to watch a movie.” He bounces his leg, pleading with his dad, “Please, dad, she’s going to have another fainting episode.”

The police radio turns on with some crackling feedback. The dispatcher on duty was a man judging by the voice. At least that meant Mrs. Westbrook wasn’t on shift that night.

“Unit One, do you copy?”

Stiles leapt for the radio and the Sheriff slaps his hand away. “Unit One, copy.”

“Got a report of a possible 187.”

Stiles jumps in his chair, shaking the whole car, “A murder!?”

“It’s at the local video store. Some teenagers are involved.”

The Sheriff confirms he’ll be there and felt a twang of guilt as he watches the fear bubble in his son. “Do you have confirmation on how many are hurt?”

“Negative, but the boy on the phone was in a frenzy about an animal attack.”

“Thanks, Johnson.” The Sheriff put the radio up, speeding down the street with sirens blaring. “Let’s not fear the worst, Stiles. They said there was just one possible 187.”

Stiles was biting his lips, drumming his knuckles over his mouth, “I should have stopped her from going out. I knew it was a bad idea.”

The drive was tense and painfully slow despite the speed the Sheriff was emitting. When they reach the video store it was swarming with EMTs and an ambulance. The store window was shattered, and Jackson was yelling at whatever emergency personnel he could. Lydia was huddled in a shock blanket on the curb, and sitting on the edge of the ambulance was you.

“Oh, thank god,” Stiles cries, “Thank you god.” He was falling out of the police car before it even made a complete stop. “(Y/N)!” He ran for the Beacon ambulance.

You were leaning against the side of the car, an EMT bandaging your left arm. You had a few butterfly bandages on your face and a rapidly developing bruise to the side of your head. There were dark circles under your eyes and your skin was ashy again.

“What happened?” he asks, quiet compared to the panic he was in moments ago.

You turn your wet eyes to him, gulping, “Stiles. There… there was a monster.”

“She hit her head pretty hard,” the EMT says, finishing your bandage. “She needs to go home and get some rest.”

Stiles gave the man a nod, gently sitting next to you and giving his full attention. “What kind of monster?”

“It was like a bear or a wolf,” you whisper, exhausted. “I was so scared.” The break in your voice put a hitch in his chest. “Josh bailed on me and then Scott and Allison. And I just wanted to go home.” You turn to him, “I want to go home, Stiles.”

He clenches his jaw, his throat bobbing, “Okay. Okay, we can go home…” He stole a shock blanket from the back and wraps you in it, careful around your left shoulder. “Did you faint at all?”

You stare off, disassociating, “In and out.”

The Sheriff calls your parents as you lean into Stiles. Your head nestles into the crook of his neck and shoulder. He couldn’t put his arm around your shoulders for fear of hurting the new wound. Instead he wraps his hand lower on your waist.

With his other hand he reaches for your fingers, worry still eating away at his stomach. “Where are we on the possibility of fainting right now?”

You groan, “60% chance.”

He gives a painful smile, wrapping his hand in yours. With his fingers he felt for the pulse in your wrist. It was a little high and stuttering unevenly.

“What do you hear?”

You hum, “Sirens. People. You.”

Stiles felt a warmth seeping into his chest, it was loud and suffocating and squeezed at his heart. “What do you smell?”

“Rubbing alcohol. And you.”

He plays with your fingers, tracing them with his thumb, “What do I smell like?” A small huff of air escapes your lips, and he likes to believe it was almost a laugh. “Cause you know exactly how I think you smell.”

You try to clear your throat, “Like sandalwood.”

“I’m not even sure what that is.”

“Like the woods,” you whisper. “Like rain, and trees, and honey.”

“How did you know my favorite pastime was bathing in forest rain and honey?” He imagines the twitch in your cheek against his neck was an attempt at a smile. “What do you feel?”

You fidget in his embrace, “Tired. Pain. Fear…”

“Okay, bad question.”

“Your hand,” you continue, “You’re warm. It’s nice.”

The inflation of his chest was reaching a bursting point, and he laid his face against your hair. Holding you there, he checks your pulse again with his long fingers. It had lowered since his arrival.

Your parents came soon after that, fretful and terrified of your condition. They wanted to take you to the hospital for a full checkup and your grip tightened on Stiles’ hand as his dad took him away.

“Don’t worry,” he whispers in your ear, your parents approaching. “I’ll see you later.”

~~~

It was very late into the night when Stiles climbs the garden trellis to your window. He was delighted to see that it was left cracked open. He pushes it open the rest of the way and falls inside, careful not to make too much noise.

You lay in bed with the lamp on, illuminating the room with its peachy color. You were in midnight blue pajamas with little stars printed on them. Your left arm was stiff and heavily bandaged, painkillers adding to your collection of prescription meds on the nightstand.

“Hey,” he whispers, gaining the attention of your wet gaze. You must’ve been crying for a long time judging by the redness of your eyes. “How was the hospital?”

“I’ll be fine.”

He didn’t believe you. He sat on the edge of your bed, itching to grab your hand again but needing a good reason. “When I got your call… it scared me shitless.” A chuckle escapes him, “My dad was ready to clobber me.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No,” Stiles says, “You don’t have to be sorry for anything. You did nothing wrong. This was all just a terrible ordeal.”

You sniff, “I’m tired.”

Stiles nods, “Yeah, I just wanted to check on you before bed. I should let you sleep.”

“I’m not going to sleep.”

His chest tightens like earlier. He aches to touch you again, seeing you so fragile and tense. “(Y/N)…”

“Every time I close my eyes I see that thing clawing at me.” Another tear escapes your eyeline and runs down your cheek, “I’m too scared to sleep.”

“Well…” Stiles picks at a seam in his pants, “How about you call for your mom? I’m sure she’ll…”

“I don’t want to worry them anymore. I’m tired of making them worry so much.”

Stiles chews on his lip, “Hmm, okay. How about I stay? I’ll just sit at your desk and keep watch.”

You watch him with swollen eyes, “You’d do that?”

“Of course,” he shrugs his shoulders, “I’m worried about you too. And I feel better knowing I can keep you calm.” He wasn’t going to tell her that for the last three hours he had been replaying their moment outside the ambulance. The way you leaned into him, and he got to hold your hand and listen to you talk about how nice it was to be next to him.

“I want you to stay,” you say quietly. “But you can’t sit in a desk chair all night.” You pat your uninjured hand on the mattress beside you.

Stiles feels warmth flood his cheeks, “Oh, yeah… well – great.” He sits down and stretches out on top of the covers, “This is a much more comfortable spot to keep watch.”

You pull at your blankets, turning towards him and grounding yourself in his presence. “There’s a squeaky floorboard in the hallway. You’ll hear if my parents are coming.” You place a hand on his forearm, “Thank you for being here.”

His throat bobs at your touch, “Always.” And he lays there well into the night, cursing when your hand falls away in your sleep. He waits for sunrise to leave, occupying himself with watching your breathing patterns and checking your pulse every once in a while. He even brushes the hair from your face and flattens the arm bandages that start to unstick.

He was just memorizing the curve of your nose and the slant of your cheekbone when the sun broke over the horizon.

He sighs, rubbing hard at his face. If this is what having a crush on you was like… it was going to consume him.  

~~~

Taglist: @assassinsasha23 @tasty-book-fans @lovelybaka @the-fandom-queen @runs-with-sciss0rs

[okay-j-hannah]

I'm in love with your Stiles fanfic😭, thank you very much for that gem❤️

You're so welcome ❤ Thank you for reaching out! I am also in love with the Stiles series. There's something so satisfying about creating a series that's been brewing in my mind for months.

As I write it usually turns into something more and I surprise myself with the direction it takes. It's been a pleasure, thank you for reading!

Part 1: Her Broken Heart

Part 2: A Lacrosse Boyfriend

Part 3: Blue Handprints

Part 4: Ollie's Catnip

Part 5: Mieczyslaw

Part 6: Orange Cream and Peachy Sugar

Part 7: The Summer Filter

Part 8: The Favor

[okay-j-hannah]

Hiii, how are you doing?

No pressure but I was wondering when we could expect another part of your Stiles series? I'm so obsessed with it, I love your work!! <3

Again no pressure though! I hope you have a great day :)

Hello dear! I'm doing well.

I'm really busy with school and work at the moment, but I was able to finish part 8 in the Stiles series. I had to reread and edit it (I ended up writing like 3k more words because of it lol)

I would say expect the next part to be published sometime this weekend. I'm excited about this one. It's been hard writing about the reader in the state she's in and having Stiles be so brooding and distant because of it.

But what I've got cooked up will work. I've got big plans for the future of the series!

Thank you for asking, I don't feel pressured at all - just excited to talk about a series that we both enjoy 🥰

Part 1: Her Broken Heart

Part 2: A Lacrosse Boyfriend

Part 3: Blue Handprints

Part 4: Ollie's Catnip

Part 5: Mieczyslaw

Part 6: Orange Cream and Peachy Sugar

Part 7: The Summer Filter

[okay-j-hannah]

are u okay? you haven't updated in a long time

Hello!

I feel so special that you're checking in 😊 I am doing okay, thank you for asking. I posted a lot when I had time over the summer and saved up stories. Now that the school year has started, my free time is very minimal.

I'm itching to write all the time. But my mind is so exhausted I fear what I make wouldn't be up to my usual standard.

In short, yes I'm doing okay. I'm enjoying work and school and my extra curriculars. I'm assistant directing Beauty and the Beast Jr. So making costumes and props has been fun. I cannot say when I'll be posting next, but know I haven't given up on my series.

I wish you a wonderful rest of your day 💙

[okay-j-hannah]

omg i just wanted to say i’m OBSESSED with your stiles series. i’ve been binging teen wolf again because i recently got an ear infection ｡ﾟ(ﾟ´Д｀ﾟ)ﾟ｡ and i took some time off work and this series is literally the only thing that brings me comfort. you’re so great i can’t wait for more!!

Oh my 😭 I'm so sorry for your ear ache. I agree, Teen Wolf is a great comfort binge series. It's when I rewatched it that I got the inspiration for the Broken Heart series.

Thank you for reaching out! I can't wait to show you what ideas I have in store for the rest of the series.

Part 1: Her Broken Heart

Part 2: A Lacrosse Boyfriend

Part 3: Blue Handprints

Part 4: Ollie's Catnip

Part 5: Mieczyslaw

Part 6: Orange Cream and Peachy Sugar

Part 7: The Summer Filter

Part 8: The Favor

[okay-j-hannah]

i just wanted to say that your writing is AMAZING and i’m loving the stiles fics, i mean they are awesome and i just hope you get more recognition bc you deserve it🫶🏻🫶🏻🫶🏻

i can’t wait for the new chapter!!

This is so very kind! I hope the story reaches more people too. I wrote it partially because there are so few Stiles stories out there, and especially Stiles stories that hit all the tropes that I love.

It's been busy, but I can't wait to get the next chapter done too!

Part 1: Her Broken Heart

Part 2: A Lacrosse Boyfriend

Part 3: Blue Handprints

Part 4: Ollie's Catnip

Part 5: Mieczyslaw

Part 6: Orange Cream and Peachy Sugar

Part 7: The Summer Filter

Part 8: The Favor

[okay-j-hannah]

Genuinely cant wait to read about yn eventually falling for stiles again while he just yearns for her still head over heels for a girl who has no recollection whatsoever of their history and all the juicy juicy angst that comes along with it

Not gonna lie, I'm a sucker for angst. It's one of my favorite things to write 😂 if you haven't already noticed.

I've been having fun trying to figure out how everyone would react to an event like this. It's been a roller coaster and I'm excited for you to read the next part.

Let's see how their relationship works now 🥰

Part 1: Her Broken Heart

Part 2: A Lacrosse Boyfriend

Part 3: Blue Handprints

Part 4: Ollie's Catnip

Part 5: Mieczyslaw

Part 6: Orange Cream and Peachy Sugar

Part 7: The Summer Filter

[okay-j-hannah]

hi hi, can i please be added to the teen wolf/stiles tag list?? i’m loving the story so far! it’s one of the best teen wolf rewrites i’ve read.

Yes, of course! I just added you to the taglist. Thank you for reaching out! I'm really proud of this rewrite and excited to see where it goes. Hopefully I'll think of enough content to rewrite most of the show lol

[okay-j-hannah]

so we don’t except the new chapter to be posted today?🥹

No, I’m sorry! It depends on when I get part 8 finished. But I will post part 6 no later than late July 3rd!

I like to always have a few chapters finished in my drafts so I don’t feel pressured to write. I can take a little break here and there knowing there is something completed to post later.

I’m struggling with this part a bit, something happens and it’s hard to come up with scenes for it 😂