Five Times Stiles Stilinski Hid His Feelings and The One Time He Didn’t.
Buckle in this is a long one.
Number 1-The first time Stiles hid his feelings.
It wasn’t dramatic. That’s the worst part. No lightning strike. No music swelling in the background like the universe itself was nudging him in the ribs saying, hey idiot, this is it.
Werewolves were real, his best friend was one. Nothing made sense anymore. And yet— you were still there.
The night felt wrong around the two of you. Not just dark—wrong. Like the air itself was too tight in Stiles’ lungs, like every sound was enhanced. Branches snapped somewhere too close. The distant echo of something that might be Scott—or might not be Scott anymore.
“Scott!” Stiles shouted, voice cracking slightly as a figure disappeared into the trees. No answer. Of course no answer. Because this was insane. Because werewolves weren’t supposed to be real and yet here Stiles and y/n were—running through the Preserve in the middle of the night chasing their best friend who might just rip someone apart if they didn’t find him first.
“You see anything?” he called out to you, pivoting on the spot—
You were a little ahead of him now, pushing through branches without hesitation, like fear was something you decided not to entertain tonight. Your hair was already a mess, leaves caught in it, your breathing uneven but determined.
“Nothing,” you called back shaking your head, but you didn’t slow down. “He definitely came this way though—I heard something.”
Stiles swore under his breath and followed you immediately. He should have told you to stay back or even at home. He should have told you that this was too dangerous, that you shouldn’t be there, that this wasn’t your fight. But the words never came out.
The honest truth was… he didn’t want you anywhere else.
You had both found Scott eventually. Or something close to Scott. There was a moment—a split second—where everything went still. Scott stood in the clearing, shoulders tensed, back turned, breathing too heavy, too animal.
“Scott…” Stiles tried, softer this time, holding a hand out to support his friend.
You stepped forward before he could stop you.
“Hey,” you offered gently, like you were talking to someone who hadn’t just become something out of a nightmare. “It’s just us.”
Scott turned, and everything went wrong way too quickly. One second you’re stood there, calm, steady—The next, Scott lunged forwards before you could even blink.
“Move!” Stiles boomed over at you, trying to get to you in time—but you didn’t move fast enough. Neither did he.
You hit the ground hard, breath knocked out of you as claws caught your shoulder, not deep enough to be lethal, but enough to sting, enough to bleed.
“Hey! HEY!” Stiles yelled, grabbing Scott, pulling him back with more strength than he knew he had. “Scott, it’s us! It’s me!”
There was a struggle. A blur of movement. Scott shoved him off, bolting into the trees once again, gone before either of you could react, a cloud of silence crashed in after him. Stiles didn’t even realise he was moving until he was on his knees next to you.
“Hey—hey—are you—” his voice stumbled over itself, hands hovering like he didn’t know where to touch, what to fix first.
You let out a breath that turned into a shaky laugh whilst you were mumbling out profanities.
Your shoulder was burning, dirt was smudged across your skin, hair completely wrecked, sticking out in every direction like you had run headfirst into chaos and decided to stay there. There was blood. Not a lot. But enough to make Stiles’ face turn ghostly pale.
“You’re bleeding,” his voice cracked slightly, like you didn’t know.
“Wow, Stilinski, really earning that detective title tonight, nothing gets past you huh” And there it was. That stupid, sarcastic tone. That you-ness. Even now in a moment of crisis.
You pushed yourself up slightly, wincing, brushing dirt off your hands like this was just another inconvenience, like this night wasn’t completely bonkers.
Stiles just… gawped at you. The fear. The adrenaline. The wind still echoing through the trees. All of it faded. And it was just you. You, sat there in the middle of the woods, scratched up and messy and breathing a little too hard—but still cracking jokes, still looking at him like he was something steady to hold onto. And something hit him.
Hard. Not gentle. Not subtle. It crashed into him like a epiphany he should have had a long time ago. This was it. This. You. Covered in dirt. Injured. Still choosing to run into danger with him instead of away from it. He had feelings for you. What?-
“Oh,” Stiles breathed, his mouth falling into a small ‘O’ as his brain re-wired in front of you.
You tilted your head slightly. “What?”
He didn’t answer. Because how was he supposed to explain this? How was he supposed to tell you that somewhere between shouting your name in the dark and watching you hit the ground, something inside him shifted into place in a way that made everything else feel… irrelevant?
That he was looking at you right then and there—and he knew.. He knew.
“I—uh—” he scrambled, forced himself to look away, grabbing onto something normal, something safe. “We should—clean that up. Probably. Before you, you know, scar dramatically and then blame me forever.”
You snorted softly. “Bold of you to assume I won’t blame you anyway.” And you reached for him. Not even thinking about it. Your hand brushed his wrist as you steadied yourself, balancing yourself on him like it was instinct.
Stiles froze for half a second. Your touch— It had always been there. But now it felt different, suddenly now it meant something. Now it was something. That terrified him more than the werewolf currently running loose in the woods. So he did what he had always done. He leant into the familiar.
“Yeah, okay, that’s fair” he muttered, helping you up, keeping his grip on you for just a second longer than necessary before letting go. You were still looking at him like he was just Stiles. Just your best friend. Not the idiot who had just realised that he’d always been completely, hopelessly—
He swallowed hard, he’d rather have you in his life as his best friend as opposed to not having you in his life at all.
So he buried those feelings deep down.
Like it had never happened.
Number 2-The Crash Reunion
There was a quiet understanding that things weren’t the same anymore after Jackson had left for London—Scott and Allison carefully avoided each other, something broken lingering between them that no one quite knew how to fix. Stiles was driving. Talking. Rambling. Filling the silence like he always did. Scott was only half-listening, staring out the window, his thoughts lost entirely when they pulled up at a red light.
A car rolled up beside them. Stiles knew that you were back before he even saw you. Lydia’s car. Stiles glanced over without thinking. Sure enough there you were In the back seat. You were laughing—really laughing this time, head tipped back slightly, one hand resting against the seat as you leaned forward between Lydia and Allison like you belonged right there in the middle of everything.
Stiles suddenly forgot how to function. Because he hadn’t seen this version of you yet. Not fully. Not like this. The moon hitting your face just right, catching on to your skin, your hair, the curve of your smile. The idea of you consuming him all over again.
You turned your head and saw him. Everything softened. Your expression shifted instantly, like some invisible thread had tugged you toward him without you even realising it. You leaned slightly toward the window, tapping lightly against the glass with your knuckle.
Stiles rolled his window down without thinking. Your smile widened. There was that feeling again. That lock in his lungs. The light was still red. Too long. Not long enough. He didn’t know which. Then it happened. The sound came out of nowhere. A violent crash of glass and metal and something too sudden to process. The deer hit Lydia’s windshield with a force that made everything lurch—
“Shit—!” Stiles didn’t need to think. Neither did Scott. The door of the jeep was open before the car had even fully stopped. The two boys were already moving. Already running. Already there. Your door was yanked open so fast it nearly rebounded.
“Are you okay?” he demanded, breath uneven, hands already on you—your shoulders, your arms, your face—checking, searching, making sure that you weren’t hurt. Scott checked Allison and Lydia from head to toe as they tried to catch their breaths after the unified scream you had all just let out.
You blinked at him wide-eyed, stunned, adrenaline still catching up.
“I—yeah—I think—Stiles—”
“You’re okay” he muttered, more to himself than to you, he needed to hear it out loud to believe it. Your hand came up, instinctively wrapping around his wrist.
“Stiles.” Softer this time. He stilled. Finally looked at you properly. You were little shaken, a little breathless. But okay. A soft laugh escaped your throat, one that said you couldn’t believe this was happening. That sound did something to him.
Lydia’s worried voice carried across the road first, sharp and alert. Then Allison’s softer voice, quieter than it used to be—like something had dimmed after everything with Scott.
Stiles did the only thing he knew how to do. He stepped back to give you some room. Put space where he didn’t want there to be any. Stiles didn’t expect it to effect him like that. He moved back slightly to lean against Lydia’s car , mid-rant to Scott about how nothing can ever be straight forwards in Beacon Hills. Your best friend stalled with his words as his eyes wandered back over to you, his eyes never leaving you as you gave the girls a reassuring hug.
You looked the same. That’s what got him. Same face. Same eyes. Same you. But also… not.
There was something different in the way you held yourself, you had grown into your own skin over the summer. Going to France with Allison had given you something you hadn’t had before—confidence, maybe. Or maybe you had always had it, and now it just… showed. You laughed at something Lydia said, tucking your hair behind your ears.
“Dude” Scott said slowly, following his gaze.
“I’m fine” Stiles said immediately, the crack in his voice betraying him. He was not fine.
“So, did you miss me then?” you asked as you approached the two, nudging his shoulder like no time had passed at all. Greeting him properly after what had just happened.
And Stiles—who had spent the entire summer trying not to think about you like that, or miss you like that, trying not to replay every little moment—grinned like nothing had changed.
“Obviously not” he said.
And ignored the way his heart was trying to claw its way out of his body.
Number 3: The Jealousy He Pretended Wasn’t There
“Tell me why Isaac specifically wants her help again?” Stiles mumbled, as he pressed his forehead against the inside of his locker hoping that maybe the cold metal would knock some sense back into him. Stiles was going to kill Isaac. Not actually. Probably. But the thought was very… present.
He could hear the two of you. That was the problem. Not clearly— but just enough. Your laugh echoing faintly down the hall, light and easy in a way that made him nervous. Scott shifted beside him, leaning casually against the lockers like this was a normal conversation and not the beginning of Stiles losing his mind.
“They’re just talking”Scott offered, far too calm for someone witnessing this slow mental breakdown in real time.
“I have eyes. I can see,” Stiles muttered, slamming his locker shut harder than necessary before crossing his arms tightly over his chest, like physically holding himself together. Scott followed his line of sight. And yeah—there you were.
Fumbling around with the lockers, one shoulder relaxed, head tilted slightly as you listened to Isaac. There was something easy about the way you stood there, comfortable, like this wasn’t new.
Stiles didn’t like that. Didn’t like that at all.
“You look like you want to explode his head”Scott said, not even bothering to hide the amusement creeping into his voice.
“I’m trying to”Stiles replied flatly. Isaac was standing way too close. That was the issue. Not the talking. Not the laughing. The distance, or lack of it.
Isaac stood casually against the locker beside you, one arm braced above your shoulder, not quite boxing you in—but close enough that it made Stiles’ jaw tighten. And then you laughed again. That laugh. That specific one. The one that came out when you weren’t even trying, when something genuinely amused you.
Stiles swallowed hard. That was his. Not in a possessive way. He wasn’t like that. It was just… historical. He had earned that laugh. He knew how to pull it out of you when no one else could. He knew the exact tone to use, the exact timing, the exact look to get that reaction.
So why was Isaac—
“I’m not jealous,” Stiles decided quickly, like he needed to get ahead of the accusation before Scott could even think it. “I’m being absolutely reasonable.” Scott didn’t say anything. Which somehow made it worse.
“Man, he is basically undressing her with his eyes,” Stiles continued, voice dropping lower, more irritated with every word. “He always does that.”
“Stiles—”
“Isaac doesn’t seem just friendly with her.”
Because that’s what this was, right? Friendly. That’s all you and Isaac were. It had to be. Because anything else— Stiles’ body shivered at the thought so sharply it almost knocked the breath out of him. He watched as Isaac said something quieter this time, you rolling your eyes in response.
Your hand came up absentmindedly, lightly pushing his arm away with a small, unimpressed shake of your head.
“Don’t you have better things to do, like avoiding the full moon?” you said, voice laced with that familiar annoyance you only used when someone was toeing the line.
Isaac smirked, completely unfazed. “Not really. You’re kind of my favorite distraction.”
Stiles’ fists curled up into balls by his sides, something ugly twisted low in his stomach. Not anger. Something worse. Something quieter.
“See?” Stiles muttered to Scott, gesturing vaguely in your direction. “That’s not normal. That’s not—he doesn’t talk to people like that unless—”
“Unless what?” Scott asked carefully.
Stiles opened his mouth. Closed it again. He didn’t have an answer he was willing to say out loud. Instead, he dragged a hand down his face, exhaling sharply.
“Forget it.” But he didn’t forget it. He kept watching. Watched the way you rolled your eyes at Isaac but didn’t walk away. Watched the way Isaac leaned in again, softer this time, like he was trying to keep your attention.
“Why don’t you just tell her how you feel?” Scott mumbled next to Stiles.
“Nope, not another word from you McCall”Stiles warned, holding his pointed finger up.
“I think you would be pleasantly surprised by her rea-“ Scott opened his mouth again, knowingly.
“Not another word”Stiles interrupted his best friend not wanting to hear the end of his sentence.
Stiles wanted to walk over there. He wanted to hold your hand, pull you away, drag you back into his orbit where things made sense again. Where you were his again. Not in the way his brain tried to immediately reject—but in the way things had always been. You and him. Side by side. Close. Untouchable by anyone else. But he didn’t move. You looked… okay. You looked like you were choosing to be there.
He bumped into you by your locker later that afternoon after class, alone this time. Which should have made things easier. It didn’t.
“Be honest,” Stiles started, leaning casually against the locker next to yours like this was a normal conversation and not something he’d been overthinking for the past forty minutes. “Is he uh-funnier than me?”
You didn’t need to turn around to see that it was Stiles, a small smile started to play on your lips, you didn’t even have to look up at first, shoving a book into your bag with a quiet content hum.
“Everyone’s funnier than you” you lied, completely deadpan.
Stiles scoffed. “Wow. Okay. Rude. Inaccurate, but rude.”
You glanced at him then, a smirk tugging at the corner of your mouth like you were trying not to give him the satisfaction. God, he hated it.
“You were smiling at him” Stiles said, like it meant something. Like it should mean something.
You blinked, genuinely confused. “Yeah? That’s what you do in a conversation. You smile.”
“Not like that.” He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair, already regretting opening his mouth. “Forget it. It’s stupid.”
You studied him now properly. Your head tilted slightly, eyes narrowing just enough to make his stomach churn.
“…You’re annoyed.”
“Nope” he said too quickly.
“You so are.”
“I’m not.”
“You totally are”you insisted, stepping a little closer, searching his face in a way that made it impossible to hide behind sarcasm. “What’s the problem? Who has upset you today?”you questioned.
He hesitated. Just for a minute, everything sat right there. All of it. The jealousy. The confusion. The way his ribs felt too tight every time a male got too close to you. The way he didn’t know what to do with it.
“You just—” he started, then stopped, frustrated. “You don’t have to help him, y’know.”
Your expression shifted slightly. “It’s a full moon, Stiles.”
“I know that.”
“Then you know what happens if he doesn’t stay in control, they all need help tonight and if you haven’t noticed the pack has been spread quite thin recently.”
“I do,” he snapped, then immediately softened, dragging a hand down his face. “I thi—look, there are other people who could help him”
“Interesting point, like who?”
He didn’t answer. Honestly, he didn’t want anyone helping Isaac, he didn’t trust him. Especially not with you.
“You’re acting weirder than usual, I’m concerned” you said quietly.
“I’m not.”
“You are, let me take your temperature or something”
“I’m not, I’m fine!” he protested , voice rising slightly before he forced it back down.
Silence settled between the two of you and you ogled at him for a second longer than necessary. Stiles thought you might see it. Really see it. See past the sarcasm, past the deflection, past the irritation. See the truth sitting right underneath it all. But then you exhaled, shaking your head slightly. Rolling your eyes like he was just being grumpy. Like this was just Stiles being Stiles.
And everything stayed exactly the same.
Even though—
For him— Nothing felt the same at all.
“I think that you’re the funniest human on this earth Stiles Stilinski, nobody could ever compete with you”your voice lowered into a gentle hushed tone that only he could hear as you squeezed his hand. Sending chills up his spine.
“Now eat something before you pass out, you get all moody when you’re hungry”you flashed him a loving goodbye grin as he peered down at his hands where your hands sat seconds earlier. All that remained was his favourite chocolate bar.
He tried to fight back the small smile that was creeping onto his face.
Number 4: The fear that nearly broke him
The plan was already falling apart.
Not in a loud, obvious way—in the quiet, insidious way where nothing quite lined up anymore, where every step felt just slightly off, the building itself was shifting beneath your feet and swallowing the edges of your control.
Eichen House didn’t feel like somewhere you could win.
It felt like somewhere you all survived—if all of you were lucky enough. The air was thick, sterile but somehow still suffocating, humming faintly with something electrical and gas, like the walls themselves were alive and watching.
But then you saw her. The girl you had all come for, the reason why you were at Eichen house in the first place.
“Lydia—” The name left your lips before you even realised you’d spoken. Down the corridor, under flickering fluorescent lights that buzzed overhead like dying insects, two orderlies were dragging her—your Lydia—half-limp, her body barely responsive, her head lolling slightly with each step she wasn’t fully there. Something in your head snapped so fast it didn’t even feel like a decision. You ran, more like sprinted. Your trainers hit the floor hard, echoing down the corridor, breath catching somewhere between panic and adrenaline as your entire focus narrowed down to one thing—her.
“Hey!” your voice rang out, sharper now, louder, desperate. “Leave her alone you creeps!”
They didn’t stop. Didn’t even hesitate. And that was it. That was all it took. You pushed harder, faster, closing the distance between you and them—and then—
The gate. It came into your peripheral vision too late. Metal bars. Thick. Industrial. Locked. A barrier, your brain didn’t process it as one. Lydia was right there, you could still reach her. Because you were so close—
Your hand lifted instinctively, fingers stretching toward the bars, and in that fraction of a second— Everything sharpened. The cold air against your skin. The faint hum in the walls, louder now, vibrating through your bones in a way that should have warned you. Your pulse hammering in your ears, too fast, too loud. Your thoughts flickering—not fully forming, but there—Something’s wrong.
Behind you— “Y/N DON’T!”
Stiles. His voice cut through everything. Sharp and panicked and a little too late.
“Don’t touch the—”
Your fingers closed around the metal. And for one suspended, impossible second—There was nothing. No pain. No sound. Just a strange, hollow stillness—like the world had inhaled and forgotten how to breathe. Then it hit. Not like a shock. It flooded you. A violent, invasive surge that tore through your body with a force so overwhelming your brain couldn’t process it properly. Your muscles locked instantly, every nerve firing at once, misfiring, overloading—your body no longer yours.
The pain wasn’t just pain. It was everywhere. A searing, blinding intensity that felt like it was crawling under your skin, threading through your veins, wrapping around your spine and squeezing—Your jaw clenched so hard it hurt. Your vision blew out white at the edges, flickering violently like a broken light. You couldn’t breathe. Not because you forgot—but because your body wouldn’t let you. A strangled sound tore from your throat, something between a gasp and a scream, cut short by the current still surging through you. Your thoughts fragmented.
Let go.
You tried. God, you tried to let go but your muscles wouldn’t listen. Your fingers were locked in place, gripping the bars like they had fused there, your entire body trembling violently as the electricity tore through you again—
And again—
And again—
Time stretched. Warped. Every second dragged. And distantly—You felt it. Your brain. Struggling. Overheating. Like something inside your skull was flickering in and out, struggling to keep up with the overload. Your vision blurred completely now, edges melting into nothing, the world collapsing into sound and sensation and pain. You were gone.
For Stiles— Everything slowed. He saw it. All of it. The exact second your hand touched the gate. The way your body went rigid. The way your head snapped back, mouth opening in a sound he couldn’t hear over the rush of blood pounding in his ears.
“No—no, no, no” The words fell out of him, breathless, broken. The electricity surged through you, lighting you up in a way that made his stomach drop so violently it felt like he might throw up right there— then you were lifted. Thrown back like you weighed nothing. Your body slammed against the wall with a sickening crack before dropping. Hard.
Still. You were too still. Too quiet. Too—Not moving.
Stiles didn’t think. Didn’t process. Didn’t breathe. One second Theo was in front of him—talking, planning, saying something that didn’t matter—and the next—
“Move!” Stiles shoved him so hard it sent him stumbling back, his entire body already moving before his brain could catch up. Nothing else existed anymore. Not the plan. Not Lydia. Not the building. Just you. On the floor. He dropped to his knees beside you so fast it jarred through his bones, hands already reaching for you—your face, your shoulders, your neck—checking, searching, you were still warm.
“Hey—hey—no, no, no—” his voice cracked violently, completely unsteady as he lifted your head into his lap, fingers shaking as they brushed over your cheeks, your jaw, your hair. “Hey, come on—come on, you don’t get to do this, okay? You don’t get to just—just—”
Your eyes were closed. Your chest— He couldn’t tell.
“Y/n Breathe,” he whispered urgently, leaning over you, his forehead nearly pressing against yours as his voice broke. “Come on, breathe, I know you can hear me—just—just breathe, okay? Please—please—”
His hands were trembling so badly he could barely keep them steady against your face. Instinct took over before logic could catch up.
“Don’t do this,” he choked, panic bleeding through every word. “Don’t you dare do this to me, you hear me?” Your body twitched. A sharp, involuntary jerk, your muscles still reacting, electricity still echoing through you in small, violent pulses. And it made his stomach drop even further.
“SCOTT!” Stiles shouted, voice tearing out of him. “Scott?!, Malia?! I need you now someone- PLEASE!” But he didn’t look away. Couldn’t. His entire world was sitting in his lap, barely conscious, barely there—
“Hey,” he pleaded again, softer now, voice wrecked, thumb brushing under your eye as if he could coax you back. “Hey, come on… open your eyes. Just—just look at me, okay? That’s all you have to do. Just—look at me.”
Your lashes fluttered. Barely. Stiles sucked in a sharp, broken breath.
“There we go—yeah, yeah, that’s it,” he rushed, his voice shaking as your eyes cracked open. “Stay with me y/n. Don’t—don’t check out on me now—”
“Stiles…” your voice was barely there, rough, strained, like it hurt to even speak, your mouth was starting to pool with blood.
“I don’t understand, why were you here on this side of the building… this wasn’t part of the plan!?” he demanded, the panic still seeping into every word despite himself.
You blinked slowly, disoriented. “You have no business asking me that question… why are you here on this side of the building?”
‘I came for you’ He didn’t say it.
“Now is not the time for your sarcasm and sass” he shook his head instead, voice unsteady.
“There’s always time for sarcasm”you choked weakly.
His hands—shaking, traitorous—found yours, rubbing warmth back into your fingers like he could undo what just happened, like he could erase the seconds where he thought—
“You’re pretty annoying” he muttered, voice rough, uneven as he tried to keep you awake.
You let out the faintest breath of a laugh. “Oh my god… you think I’m pretty Stilinski?”
“And that’s the annoying part” he shot back automatically. But his grip didn’t loosen. Didn’t even consider it. Your body was still twitching beneath him, small, residual shocks running through you, your consciousness slipping in and out like it couldn’t settle.
“Hey—no, no—stay with me,” he said briskly as your eyes started to drift again, terror flaring. “Don’t—don’t do that. Not right now. You can pass out later, okay? You can sleep for like twelve hours, I’ll even let you use my special pillow, just—not right now.” His voice split again.
“You don’t get to leave me like this” he whispered as he carefully, urgently, slid one arm under your knees and the other behind your back, lifting you up like you might crumble if he wasn’t cautious. Your body jerked weakly in his arms, another small shake running through you, your head falling slightly against his shoulder.
You let out a loud sob, one that was followed by your uncontrollable cries.
“I know it hurts, I know,” he murmured quickly, pulling you closer instinctively, one hand coming up to cradle the back of your head. “I’ve got you sweetheart. I’ve got you, okay? You’re fine. You’re fine.”
You weren’t.
He knew that. He needed you to hear it anyway.
“Scott!” he called out again, louder now, already moving toward the exit. “We’re done! Get Lydia out—we’re done!” There was no hesitation. No discussion. He adjusted his hold when your body convulsed again, his grip tightening just slightly, his thumb brushing absently against your arm like he needed constant reassurance you were still there.
“Stay with me,” he muttered again, softer now, begging. “Just stay with me a little longer.” Your fingers trembled weakly against his shirt. And he held onto that. Held onto you. All the way back to the jeep.
Number 5: The Argument That Meant Too Much
Something was building, like the walls themselves were waiting for something to snap. Outside, the wind dragged low through Beacon Hills, carrying that hollow, unnatural sound that had started creeping into everything lately—the kind that reminded you just how easily people could vanish now.
Ghost Riders. People disappearing, gone without a trace. And you weren’t going to sit back and let that happen to Stiles. Which was exactly why Stiles was pacing like he was trying to outrun his own thoughts.
“You’re going to get yourself killed this time,” Stiles snapped, voice sharp, fraying at the edges in a way that told you this wasn’t just anger. “You are most definitely not coming.”
“Oh, that’s so incredibly rich coming from you.” You let out a sharp, disbelieving laugh, folding your arms over your chest as you leaned back against the table behind you.
“This isn’t about me.”
“It’s always about you when you’re acting like this!”
“Acting like what?” he fired back immediately, turning on you, his frustration visible now in the tight set of his jaw, the way his hands flexed at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them.
“Like you’re the only one allowed to care!” you shot back, stepping forward without thinking, your voice rising. “Like you’re the only one who gets to decide who’s in danger and who isn’t.”
“That’s not what I’m doing—”
“That’s exactly what you’re doing,” you cut in, your patience snapping. “You don’t get to make that call for me, Stiles.”
He dragged a hand through his hair, sharper this time, like it physically hurt.
“Why do I always have to be the rational one?” you continued, the frustration spilling over now, but something else creeping in underneath it—something tighter, something more fragile. “Why do I always have to stand back and watch you run headfirst into something insane while I just sit here and hope you come back?”
“You don’t have to—”
“I also want to be irrational every once in a while!” you snapped, your voice cracking just slightly. “I want to help. I want to be there. I want to do something.” You took a breath— And it caught. Just for a second. Small. Barely noticeable. But Stiles saw it. He always saw it now.
“You can’t even go ten minutes without your hands shaking,” he said before he could stop himself, the words sharper than he meant them to be, edged with fear. “You think I haven’t noticed the tremors? You think I don’t see the way you—”
You froze. Because that hit somewhere you didn’t want it to.
“That’s not—” you started, but your voice faltered, and you hated that it did. Because it was true. Your body hadn’t been the same since Eichen.
Sometimes your fingers started to shake when you were still. Sometimes your heart stopped out of nowhere. Sometimes your body felt like it lagged half a second behind your brain. You refused to let that define you, in fact you tried to ignore it.
“That was one time,” you said instead, forcing your voice steady. “I’m fine.”
“You are not fine,” Stiles said immediately, stepping closer, his voice lower now but more intense. “You haven’t been fine since Eichen house”
“You don’t get to say that,” you snapped, something defensive flashing across your face. “You don’t get to decide that for me.”
“I’m not deciding anything, I’m seeing it,” he shot back, frustration and fear tangling together. “You think I don’t notice when you go quiet? Or when you freeze up for a second like your body just checks out on you? C’mon don’t underestimate our friendship like that”
Your jaw clenched. Because he was right. And you despised that he was right. You and Stiles had rarely fought in the whole eleven years that the two of you had been best friends so when you did, it was serious.
“I was trying to save Lydia!” you declared, grasping for something solid.
“And you almost got yourself killed doing it!” he snapped, louder now, his voice cracking on the last word. “You weren’t breathing. You weren’t moving. I thought—four weeks y/n, you were in hospital for four weeks!” He stopped. Swallowed it down.
“This isn’t the same” you said, quieter now, but stubborn.
“No, it’s worse” he muttered. “Because now I know what it looks like when you don’t come back right away.”
“You think this is easy for me?” you questioned, your voice softer now, but heavier, like something was finally slipping through. “You think that I enjoy standing there watching you put yourself in danger over and over again?”
He stilled. That—he hadn’t expected.
“You think I don’t see it either?” you continued, stepping closer again, your frustration shifting into something sharper, more exposed. “The way you run toward things without thinking? The way you act like you’re expendable?”
“I don’t—”
“You do,” you cut in, your voice tightening. “I can’t stand it.” Stiles blinked at you like he was trying to catch up, like the conversation had suddenly shifted into something he didn’t recognise.
“I hate that you think you’re the one who has to fix everything,” you added, quieter now, but more intense. “I hate that you don’t even consider what happens if something goes wrong. What if the ghost riders take you? What happens if I can’t remember you???”
“What happens, if I forget everything Stiles Stilinski?”
He stared at you. Really stared this time. This wasn’t just you being stubborn. This wasn’t just you pushing back. This was something else. Something deeper.
“You could get hurt,” you said, and there it was—your voice catching, just slightly, but enough. “Or worse. And then what? I just move on? Pretend that doesn’t—”
You stopped yourself. Oh the way your words had stumbled. The way your composure had cracked just enough to let something real slip through.
And it surprised him. You were never the one who broke first. You were the steady one. The one who held everything together. But right now—You looked frightened.
For him.
The room went still. Stiles didn’t know what to do with that. Didn’t know what to do with the way your voice broke when you said it. Didn’t know what to do with the way you were looking at him like—Like losing him would shatter you into tiny pieces. This wasn’t just frustration.
This wasn’t just fear. This was—
Love.
“You will get a headache if you think too hard” he deflected, the sarcasm weaker this time, rougher, like it didn’t quite land the way it usually did.
“I’m just thinking about all the times I want to strangle you.” You stared at him, unimpressed, but softer now.
“What’s stopping you?” he shot back automatically, clinging to the familiar rhythm.
“The law, I guess.”you tutted out. There was a pause. Your hand fluttered slightly at your side again. Stiles noticed. Of course he did.
“You annoy me terribly y/n, but you’re my best friend”
“Oh please,” you added, quieter now. “I’m not nearly as annoying as I could be.” You tried to change the topic of conversation so he wouldn’t notice your nervous tics.
Stiles looked at you then. Really looked. The tension in your shoulders. At the way your voice had shifted. At the way you had just—Protected him.
You met his gaze.
“I just- I need to know that you’ll be okay, for certain”he pleaded.
“I will be”you nodded quickly.
He shook his head. “That’s not good enough.”
“What do you want me to say, Stiles?” you asked, almost tired now. “That nothing’s going to happen? Because that’s not how it works.”
“I know,” he muttered.
“Can you promise me that you’ll be okay?”you shot back, eager for a response.
“I don’t know” He stopped. That wasn’t what you wanted. Not really. But neither of you said anything else. And just like that— It ended. Not resolved. Not fixed.
Just… buried.
Like everything else between you.
The One Time He Didn’t
Lydia’s room was warm. Not just physically—but in that cozy, lived-in way that came from too many blankets, too many bodies piled onto one bed, and the low hum of a show playing in the background that none of you were really paying full attention to anymore.
You were sprawled across the edge of the bed, half tangled in the duvet, your head resting near Malia’s legs while Lydia sat propped up against the headboard, remote in hand, completely in control of the room like always. The glow from the TV flickered across the walls, shadows dancing lazily as the episode reached whatever dramatic peak Lydia had insisted you had to stay awake for.
You were barely holding on. Eyes heavy. Body still not fully your own some days. But comfortable. Safe. Your phone buzzed and the sound cut through the room sharply, out of place against the background noise. You frowned slightly, shifting just enough to grab it from where it rested beside you, the screen lighting up your face in the dim room.
Scott.
“Scott?”
There was wind on the other end. And movement. Faint but also loud music in the background.
“Hey Y/N, I am so sorry but I’m gonna need you to come get Stiles please” Scott said, slightly breathless, his voice strained in a way that immediately had you sitting up straighter.
Your brows knitted together. “What—what do you mean? Where are you? Is he okay?”
“He’s—he’s drunk” Scott admitted, like it was both obvious and also not the main problem. “Like, really drunk. I’m on the bike tonight, I would but I can’t take him, and he definitely can’t drive.”
You were already moving. Already swinging your legs off the bed, pushing yourself up despite the faint protest in your muscles.
“I’m coming, give me twenty minutes” you said immediately, not even questioning it.mYou hung up before Scott could say anything else, already reaching for your hoodie, your car keys, your shoes—movements automatic, muscle memory, like you’d done this a hundred times before.
“Where are you going? It’s just getting to the good bit” Lydia questioned, sitting up as she paused the show, her tone laced with mild annoyance but her eyes already sharper, already reading the shift in you.
“There is a princess in distress,” you said, voice tired but amused, tugging your hoodie over your head as you moved quickly around the room. “And I must go and save her.”
Malia huffed from the bed, rolling onto her side with a look that said she’d already figured it out before you even finished the sentence.
“Stiles.”
“Weren’t they at a party tonight?” Lydia asked, though it wasn’t really a question. She already knew the answer.
“Indeed they were” you replied, grabbing your keys from the dresser. Lydia’s gaze lingered on you for a moment too long before she tilted her head slightly, something knowing settling into her expression.
“Why won’t you just tell him already?”
You froze. Only for a second. You turned slowly, forcing a confused expression onto your face like you hadn’t just been called out with terrifying accuracy.
“Tell him what?”
Lydia raised an eyebrow.
“You know what” she accused, voice calm, deliberate, like she was giving you one last chance to not play dumb.
“Do I even want to ask what?” you deflected, grabbing your bag and slinging it over your shoulder, avoiding her gaze now.
“That you’re in love with the boy,”Malia joined in from the bed, completely unbothered, like she was commenting on the weather. “Like Notebook, Titanic, deep in love with Stiles Stilinski” she added.
You choked. Actually choked. On air. On nothing. On the truth sitting too close to the surface.
“I—what—no—” you sputtered, completely losing your usual composure for a second, your brain scrambling to catch up. “That’s—dramatic. That’s incredibly dramatic.”
Malia blinked at you, unimpressed. “It’s accurate.”
“It is not” you shot back immediately, your voice just a little too cutting.
“You got up before Scott even finished his sentence,” she interjected as she bit her finger nail.
That made you pause. Just slightly.
“You didn’t ask where he was properly,” she continued. “You didn’t ask if someone else could get him. You didn’t hesitate.”
Your grip tightened slightly around your keys. Silence stretched for a second too long. You exhaled, shaking your head like you could physically push the conversation away.
“He’s my best friend,” you said finally, softer now, more controlled. “He needs help.”
“That’s not all it is, and you know it” Lydia replied gently. You didn’t answer. If you let yourself say it out loud—It would become real. And real meant everything would change.
“You look at him like you’d physically rip someone apart if they hurt him,” she added bluntly. Malia shifted slightly on the bed, propping herself up on one elbow, her gaze fixed on you.
You swallowed.
“I look at all of you like that,” you said, quieter now, but not entirely convincing.
“Not like that”Lydia said.
“I don’t have time for this,” you said with a finality that cut the conversation short as you moved toward the door. Lydia’s expression eased just slightly.
You paused at the door for half a second. Then you left.
Before they could say anything else.
-
The party was that kind of loud that blurred into one constant noise—music thumping through the walls, voices overlapping, laughter spilling into the night air like nothing in the world mattered. Stiles hated it tonight. Usually he could work with it—talk over it, joke through it, exist somewhere in the chaos without thinking too hard. However tonight— No matter how loud it got, it didn’t drown you out.
“You good?” Scott asked again, watching him carefully as Stiles braced himself against the side of the house now, red cup dangling loosely from his fingers.
“I’m fantastic,” Stiles responded, nodding like that proved something. “Never been better. Thriving. Emotionally stable.”
Scott didn’t even react to that one. Stiles took another drink anyway. It burned. He welcomed it. It dulled everything. Or at least it tried to.
“I can’t do this” he muttered under his breath, staring down at the ground like it might give him an answer.
Scott sighed softly beside him. “Yeah. I know.”
“I thought—” Stiles huffed out a breath, scrubbing a hand over his face. “I thought if I just got out, if I just… tried to move on or whatever—” He gestured vaguely toward the house behind them, where people were laughing and dancing and living like nothing hurt.
“It’d be easier,” he finished. Scott didn’t say anything. They both knew it wouldn’t be. Stiles let his head fall back against the wall, eyes closing briefly. It didn’t matter where he went. Who he talked to. How much he drank. It always came back to you. Always. And he was tired. Tired of fighting it. Tired of pretending it was something he could just switch off. Tired of acting like you weren’t… everything to him. Scott shifted beside him, pulling his phone out.
“I’m calling her.”
“Don’t—” Stiles’ eyes snapped open. Scott was already dialing. Stiles let out a long, defeated breath, tipping his head back again, staring up at the sky like it might offer him an escape route. You weren’t something he could avoid. You weren’t something he could replace. You weren’t something he could lose, either. He didn’t want to.
“She’s coming” Scott responded a minute later.
Stiles didn’t answer. He just let his head fall forward slightly, exhaling slowly. Of course you were, you always showed up.
Scott spotted you first trying to weave in and out of the crowd, giving you a small hug as you entered the garden. “He’s out here.”
You stepped outside fully, the cool night air hitting your skin as the noise of the party dulled behind you, your eyes scanning the yard until— Ah. There. Leaning against the side of the house. Messy. Slightly swaying. His brown hair was falling over his face from the lack of hair gel. You loved it when he had his hair like that.
“Stiles?”you called. His head turned. His face dropped. Not in disappointment. Not in frustration. Just… something else. His pupils dilated.
“There’s my girl” he said. It slipped out easily. Naturally. It belonged there.
“I leave you alone for one night,” you said, trying to keep your tone light, even as something about him felt… different. “And this is what happens.”
“I tried”he mumbled, pushing himself off the wall just enough to stand a little straighter.
You frowned slightly. “Tried what, drugs? I hope not Stilinski, I will tell your father”
He shook his head, like the question didn’t matter. “Doesn’t matter,” he said quietly, eyes still on you like he couldn’t quite look away. “You’re here now.” And there it was again. That feeling.
You stepped closer, reaching for his arm. He leaned into you immediately. No hesitation. Like it was instinct.
“I missed you” he added, mellow this time, his words slurring.
You blinked. “…You saw me this morning.”
“Yeah,” he nodded, completely serious. “Missed you then too.”
Your lips pressed together slightly, fighting the smile that threatened.
“You’re very pretty, you know that?” he hummed out suddenly, squinting at you like he was trying to focus through the blur.
You huffed a quiet breath. “Okay… that’s new.”
“No, it’s not,” he frowned slightly. “You’ve always been pretty. Like… unfairly pretty. It’s actually a problem.”
“A problem?”
“Yeah,” he nodded. “Makes it hard to… think. Function. Be normal.”
You shook your head, trying to brush it off, even though your chest had exploded again.
“Come on,” you said, shifting his arm over your shoulder. “Let’s get you home.”
“Okay” he agreed easily. He didn’t pull away. He stayed closer.
“You smell nice” he murmured after a moment, his head dipping slightly closer.
“…We’re not doing this” you said, even as your grip on him tightened just a little.
“We are” he insisted softly. “I’m appreciating.”
“You’re drunk.”
“I’m observant.”
The noise from inside hit you all at once. Music pounding through the floor, bass vibrating up through your shoes, voices overlapping into something indistinguishable, bodies moving too close, too fast, too much. It pressed in on you. Stiles leaned into you like you’re the only thing keeping him upright. Which, realistically, you were.
“Okay” you muttered under your breath, tightening your grip on him as you start guiding him through the crowd. “We’re getting you out of here before you decide to adopt someone or start a fight.”
“I would win a fight” he mumbled into your shoulder, his words slightly slurred but confident in a way that would almost be convincing if he wasn’t currently tripping over his own feet.
“You absolutely would not.”
“I would,” he insisted, lifting his head just enough to look at you, brows furrowing like this is a deeply important point. “I have instincts.”
“Hey—Stiles?” A voice cut through the noise. You barely glanced over before you felt it—A girl. Standing too close. Smiling like she’d been waiting for an opportunity all night. Her hand brushed his arm lightly. Stiles didn’t even fully register it at first. His weight was still leaning into you, his head tipped slightly toward yours like he’d already settled there.
Your body shifted subtly, just enough to step slightly in front of him, your hand tightened on his sleeve, pulling him closer into your space without making it obvious. Your eyes flickered over to her— Calm. Steady. But unmistakably firm. A silent no. It wasn’t not aggressive. It was just… final. She hesitated. Then her smile faltered slightly, her hand dropping as she stepped back.
“Never mind” she muttered, disappearing back into the crowd.
Something warm spread across his face. Almost dazed.
“Did you just—” he started, then stopped, like he couldn’t quite piece the sentence together.
“No” you denied quickly, not even looking at him.
“…Okay,” he murmured. He was smiling. Just a little. Because even through the haze of alcohol— He felt it. That little jealous streak you had. He liked it.
—
You kept moving. But the noise didn’t ease. If anything, it got worse. The music spiked suddenly, bass hitting harder, lights flashing just a little too bright. Your fingers twitched again. Longer this time. Your jaw clenched slightly, your breathing shifting just enough that it’s not quite steady anymore.
“Oh, look at the stars! … so beautiful!” he slurred, pointing dramatically upward. You didn’t even look.
“We’re inside” you sighed automatically, hauling his arm more securely over your shoulder as he nearly veered off course. “Those are lights.”
“I am way too sober for this,” you added under your breath. Just get outside. Just a little further—
“Hey.” Stiles’ voice cut through everything. Closer. Quieter. You didn’t realise you’ve slowed until he shifted slightly beside you, trying—trying—to straighten up. His posture wobbled, but he tried again anyway.
“Hey,” he repeated, softer this time, his hand coming up—unsteady—to lightly catch your wrist.
“…What?”
“You’re doing that thing” he pouted sympathetically, squinting slightly like he’s trying to focus properly.
“I’m not doing anything.” Your stomach dropped.
“You are” he insists, his voice still soft, still slurred, but more aware than it should be. “Your hands… they’re—”
“I’m fine” you quickly shrugged it off.
“You’re not,” he murmured .
“You can barely stand up,” you deflected, shifting his arm back over your shoulder, grounding yourself in the familiar weight of him. “You don’t get to assess my condition right now.”
“I can multitask” he mumbled.
“You cannot multitask.”
“I’m doing it right now.”
“You’re leaning on me.”
“I’m emotionally supporting you,” he corrected.
You huffed a quiet breath despite yourself. Everything quiets. Enough that your shoulders dropped slightly, your breathing evening out just a fraction. Stiles exhales like he’s been holding his breath too.
“Wow” he mutters. “That was… a lot.”
“That’s because you decided to get blackout drunk in a crowded house.”
“I was trying to be fun.”
“You were trying to forget everything”you sympathised. With everything going on…The ghost riders, wondering if you were all going graduate, or everything you’d all been through, Allison dying, Isaac leaving. You hadn’t really stopped and just lived like teenagers.
He paused. Then shrugs slightly.
“Same thing.”
You don’t argue.
You started to guide him down the driveway.
“You look almost as pretty as the moon,” he says suddenly, his gaze dropping back down to you—and staying there. Unfocused. But steady.
“That’s a street lamp”you replied blankly, holding back a laugh, a small smile dancing on your lips.
“And you’re almost as pretty”
“Almost, wow, you’re a charmer”
“I try.”
“You fail.”
“I succeed in other ways.”
“Name one.”
He paused. Thinking.
“…I’m tall?”
“You’re leaning.”
“Temporarily.”
You shake your head, but your grip on him tightens slightly as he stumbles again.
“You’re very chatty tonight aren’t you”you hummed out.
“Y’know i would literally die for you y/n” he announced suddenly, loudly, like it’s a declaration meant for the entire street.
“Okay,” you say slowly. “I would like you to be a bit less dramatic.”
“I’m not being dramatic” he insisted, turning his head just enough to look at you again, his voice softer now. “I’m being honest.”
And something about that— The way he says it. It lingered. So you look away. If you let yourself sit in that moment— You might have said something you can’t take back.
Stiles leant against the passenger door as you unlock it, watching you like you’re doing something fascinating, something he doesn’t want to miss.
“You’re very efficient,” he murmured
“Get in the car Stilinski”
“I was complimenting you.”
“Sorry uh-get in the car, efficiently?”
He grinned faintly at that, but listens, ducking into the seat with only minimal resistance—which, honestly, is a win.
You shut the door, circling around to the driver’s side, taking a steadying breath before you get in. You sit there.
Hands on the wheel.
“You okay?” he asked. You glanced over. He’s watching you again. Soft. Present. A little too aware.
“I should be asking you that” you deflect, starting the engine.
“I’m great,” he says immediately. “I’m having a fantastic time being kidnapped.”
“I’m not kidnapping you Mieczyslaw.”
“Feels like kidnapping.”
“Scott asked me to come get you.”
“I don’t remember that.”
“Shocker.”
He hummed quietly, settling back into the seat as you pulled away, the streetlights passing in soft flashes across his face.
“You always come get me,” he says after a moment, like it means something. Your grip tightens slightly on the wheel.
“Yeah,” you say, keeping your tone light. “Well, Someone has to make sure you don’t accidentally join a cult or something.”
“I wouldn’t join a cult.”
“You absolutely would join a cult.”
-
When you pulled up outside his house, The lights are off. No surprise there. You knew his dad wasn’t home. You shift the car into park, glancing over at him.
“Alright,” you say, unbuckling. “Let’s get you inside before you—”
He patted his pockets down. Once. Twice.
“…Huh.”
“Stiles.” You already knew.
“I don’t have my keys.”
“Of course you don’t.” You closed your eyes for a second.
“I had them earlier,” he says, frowning like this is a genuine mystery. “I think. Maybe. Possibly.”
“You lost them.”
“I misplaced them.”
“You lost them.”
“Temporarily misplaced.”
You stared at him. He stared back.
“I could sleep on the porch.”
“…Okay,” you sigh, running a hand over your face before winding down the window. “You’re not sleeping on the porch.”
“I could make it work.”
“You’d wake up with the raccoons.”
“I like raccoons.”
“Stiles.” You gave him a knowing look.
“Okay, yeah, no, I don’t like raccoons that much.”
“Come on,” you turn the keys, starting the ignition. “You’re staying at mine.” He didn’t argue. Doesn’t question it. Stiles nodded slightly, like that was always going to be the answer.
“Put your seatbelt back on please”you instruct him.
“Yes miss” his eyes struggling to stay open as he salutes you.
The drive back is quieter. Not silent. Just… softer. Stiles doesn’t talk as much now. Doesn’t ramble. He just sits there, head tipped slightly toward the window, eyes half-lidded but not fully closed. Every now and then, you catch him looking at you.
When you eventually pulled up outside your house—Nothing feels strange. This part was almost routine. Familiar. You’d done this a hundred times before. Late nights researching, the painfully early mornings after the late nights researching. Star Wars movie marathons that turned into sleepovers without either of you planning them. It was normal. It had always been normal.
“Alright,” you smile quietly, turning off the engine. “Let’s get you inside.”
He nodded, pushing the door open with a little more coordination this time, but still leaning on you the second he’s upright. You walked him up to the door, unlocking it quickly, stepping inside first before guiding him in after you. The house was quiet. Still. Safe. Your parents were away celebrating their anniversary but they would have no problem with Stiles crashing for the night.
It happened so casually that you almost miss it. One second you’re moving around your room, flicking the light on low, already halfway through your usual routine—grabbing a blanket, setting up the sofa, making sure he didn’t fall asleep in a position that was going to ruin his spine— And the next— He was sitting on your bed. Right in the middle of it.
Your steps faltered slightly. He’s sat on your bed before, of course he had . You’d both ended up there during the late nights, mid-conversations, half asleep and too tired to move. He was looking at you with those soft, unfocused, almost pleased eyes, like he had just made a very good decision.
“You missed” you said slowly, nodding toward the door. “The sofa is… very much out there.”
“I like it here.” He disagreed. Slow. Warm. Completely unbothered.
“That’s my bed.”
“I’m aware,” he says, nodding seriously like that changed absolutely nothing.
You stared at him for a second. He just… kept smiling. Like a kid who knew he was getting away with something. You could tell him to get up, steer him back to the sofa like you always do, keep things exactly where they’d always been. But instead— You turned away. Because he looked comfortable, and he looked like he wants to stay. You didn’t want to push him away.
“Okay,” you agreed, like this wasn’t a big deal, like your heart didn’t just skip slightly in your chest. “Fine. Temporary bed privileges. Don’t let it get to your head.”
“Stay there,” you added. “And don’t fall asleep yet.”
“No promises.”
“Stiles.”
“I’m awake,” he insisted, even though his voice softened at the edges. You pulled open a drawer, rummaging through it until you found an old t-shirt—something soft, oversized, something he’d worn before. He was still watching you. Eyes following you like you were the most interesting thing in the room.
“You spilled something on yourself,” you shook your head lightly, holding the shirt out to him to break whatever that look is doing to you. “You need to change.”
-
You didn’t mean to fall asleep, you told yourself that you wouldn’t . You sat on the edge of the bed, just for a second—just long enough to make sure he was settled, just long enough to make sure his breathing stayed even, just long enough to let your thoughts slow down from everything that night had been.
The quiet doesn’t help. Your hand rested loosely near his on the duvet. Your head dipped slightly.
And somewhere between one breath and the next— You were gone.
Stiles woke up slowly and gradually, not all at once. Like the world was easing back into focus instead of crashing into him like it usually did after a night like that. There was a moment where he didn’t move, trying the piece together the events of last night.
He then noticed the warmth beside him. The soft, steady rhythm of breathing that wasn’t his. You were curled slightly on your side, closer than you probably meant to be, your hair spilling across the pillow, a few strands falling messily across your face. Peaceful.
This felt like something he wasn’t supposed to have. His hand lifted slightly. Hesitating. Then moves anyway. Carefully. Gently.
His fingers brushed against your cheek, slow, cautious, like he was testing whether you’re real. You didn’t stir. So he tucked a loose strand of your hair behind your ear, his touch feather-light, his breath catching slightly when you shifted just enough to lean into it without even realising.
And he smiled. Unguarded. Like he wasn’t not trying to hide it for once. Like he wasn’t trying to push his feelings for you down or explain it away or pretend it was something it’s not. There was no one here to see it. No one to call him out or tease him. No one to make him overthink it. Even if it was just for a second.
-
Morning came too fast. Stiles woke up again, this time you were gone. The space beside him was cold. Empty. Wrong. He sat up immediately, ignoring the hangover that was about to hit him like a tonne of bricks, heart kicking into something sharp and sudden, his brain scrambled to catch up.
“Y/N?” he called out, voice still rough with sleep. He pushed himself off the bed too quickly, stumbling slightly as he moved toward the door, panic creeping in before he could stop it.
“Y/N?” louder this time. Still nothing. He checked the hallway. The living room. The bathroom. What if you had left? What if he said something—did something—ruined something—embarrassed himself”
“Y/N?” He ran a hand through his hair, pacing slightly, his thoughts spiralling faster than he could control.
Upstairs— You stepped out of the bathroom, towel still in your hands, frowning slightly when you glanced toward your room. The door was open. The bed—Empty. Your stomach dropped.
“Stiles?” you called out, stepping forward quickly. Nothing.
You moved faster now, checking the hallway, your chest tightening with every second that passed.
Because what if— What if he woke up and left? What if he regretted staying? What if—
You both turned the corner at the same time. Crashing straight into each other in the kitchen.
“—AH!”
“—WHAT THE—!”
You both jumped back immediately, hands flying up defensively, hearts racing from the sudden collision. Voices at the highest pitch.
“Oh my god—!” you breathed out, clutching your chest. “What is wrong with you?!”
“What’s wrong with me?! No- What is wrong with you?!” Stiles shoots back, equally startled, his hand pressed to his chest like he was trying to keep his heart from jumping out.
“I live here!”
“You disappeared!”
“I went to the bathroom!”
“I checked the bathroom!”
“I was upstairs!”
“I checked upstairs!”
“You clearly didn’t!”
You blink. “I didn’t leave.”
“I thought you did.”
“I wouldn’t just—leave you.”
There’s a beat.
Too quiet.
Too close.
“I love you.”
“What.”
“I’m in love with you.”
“Stiles—”
“I didn’t mean to say it like that,” he rushed, hands coming up slightly, like he was trying to catch the words mid-air and shove them right back into his mouth. “I mean—I did mean it, obviously, that’s not—great wording—but I wasn’t planning to just—drop it in the kitchen like some kind of emotional grenade—”
“Stop—stop talking.”
He stopped. Immediately.
Your chest was rising and falling quicker, he could see it. Your eyes were as wide as they could get. You stared at him, like you were trying to figure out if this was real, or some sort of dream, or a cruel prank.
“If this is because you’re drunk—”
“I’m not drunk” he says quickly and certainly.
“You were drunk.”
“I was drunk, yes” he corrects, stepping closer without even realising it. “I am currently… significantly less drunk and still very much in love with you.”
Your breath catches.
“That’s not—” you shook your head slightly, trying to piece together something that made sense. “You don’t just—wake up and decide that.”
“I didn’t,” he says, not even hesitating. “I decided it freshman year. The night that Scott scratched you.”
“Freshman year, four years ago?!” you blurt, the words ripping out of you before you can stop them.
“I’ve been trying not to.”
You swallow. Your heart was pounding now, your thoughts were tripping over each other, because that meant—That meant everything. Every moment. Every joke. Every argument. Every time he stood a little too close, every time he looked at you like he was about to say something and didn’t. Every glance. Every time you thought you imagined it.
You didn’t.
Neither of you speak. Because there’s nothing left to hide behind. Stiles exhaled slowly, like he’s already gone too far to stop now. Like there’s no point pulling it back. No hesitation. Just… truth.
He said it like it was fact, like it was as simple as breathing. Your lips parted slightly, but nothing comes out.
“Loving you is the easiest thing I’ve ever done y/n” he continued, not wanting to leave anything unsaid.
“In fact…” he rubbed the back of his neck, his voice rougher now, like the words are harder to hold onto, “I think it’s kinda fucked up that you’re the only one I could ever love this way.”
You stopped trying to understand it as he’s just standing there— Waiting. Tense. Nervous in a way you had never seen before. Like this was the one thing he didn’t know how to talk his way out of.
Your eyes sting before you can stop it. Tears gathering, slipping over before you could wipe them away in time.
Not just because he loves you. But because— He’d always loved you. And you’d always loved him.
“God…” you whispered, letting out a shaky breath, a small, broken laugh slipping through. “We’re actually so stupid.”
Stiles started to shift his weight around like he didn’t know whether to step closer or stay exactly where he was. “That’s… not the worst reaction I was expecting.” He stood completely still, he knew whatever you said next was going to decide everything.
“I’m gonna need you to kiss me.. like right now, Stilinski,” you muttered, It came out quiet. Almost under your breath. Like you weren’t even planning to say it out loud.
He didn’t react. Just blinked once.
“…What?”
You don’t repeat it. You don’t move. You just look at him—Eyes still glassy, cheeks damp, expression soft but certain. It hits him. His eyes widened in realisation, you didn’t say it. But you didn’t have to. Everything clicked together all at once.
“You—” he started, but the words fell apart before they could fully form. Because he gets it. He gets it.
The second he does—He moves. Fast. Crossing the space between you like he was done waiting, like he was done thinking, like he wasn’t going to risk losing this moment to hesitation. His hands came up, cupping your face instantly, like he needed to hold you there, like he needed to make sure you didn’t disappear.
Your breath caught in your throat but you didn’t pull away. Not even slightly.
And then he kissed you.
Like he didn’t know how not to. It was immediate. All the love that you had for each other finally had somewhere to go. No second guessing. It was just you and him. His grip was warm against your cheeks, steady, grounding, his thumbs brushing over them just slightly like he can’t help it.
You kissed him back just as hard. Because you’d been waiting too. Your hands clutched onto his checkered shirt pulling him closer like there was still distance between you when there wasn’t any, like you needed him closer anyway. Your breaths were uneven, mixing in the space between you.
“Girlfriend?”He mumbled in between planting small kisses around your face.
“Girlfriend.”you nodded agreeing, as a chuckle slipped out here and there. Your hand was still in his.
Something in his chest loosens at that—just slightly. Enough for the corner of his mouth to twitch, like he doesn’t quite know what to do with all of this feeling of excitement sitting in his ribs.
So, of course— He deflects. A breath leaves him, shaky, half a laugh.
“Thank God your standards are so low…” he mutters, glancing down for a second before looking back at you, softer now, quieter, “or I never would’ve had a chance with you.”
The joke wrapped around something painfully honest, but this time, he doesn’t look away after. Your fingers shifted in his, tightening slightly, like you’re testing it. Like you’re making sure he’s real too.
Beep. Beep.
The sound cuts straight through the moment.
You both froze. Stiles blinked.
“…what?”
Beep. Beep.
Your brows pulled together. “Is that—”
“My Jeep?” he finished, already frowning. Another beep, louder this time.
You both turned towards the door at the same time, confusion breaking through whatever soft, fragile thing had just settled between you.
“Did you—?” you start.
“I didn’t—no—why would I—You picked me up last night?” Stiles was already moving, dragging you with him without even realizing, your hands still linked as he pulled the front door open.
You rushed outside and there they were.
Leaning casually against the jeep like they owned it. Keys dangling from Scott’s fingers. Smug doesn’t even begin to cover it.
Scott and Lydia. Stiles stopped dead.
“…how did you even get those?”
Scott doesn’t answer straight away, Lydia turns to Scott expecting an answer.
His eyes drop to your hands—still intertwined, still holding on like neither of you has remembered to let go, and then his mouth curved. Slow. Knowing. Insufferable.
“Oh, don’t mind us,” he says lightly, pushing himself off the jeep, spinning the keys once around his finger. “I just love watching two idiots finally realize what everyone already knew.”
“Twenty dollars please”Lydia held out her hand and Scott rolled his eyes as he fumbled around in his pockets.
“—Dude,” Stiles snapped immediately, tightening his grip on your hand instead of letting go, “what the hell—give me my keys!”
Scott just grinned wider, taking a step back, fully enjoying this.
“No, no, continue,” he gestured between the two of you, “this is—this is great. Really cute. Super subtle, by the way. Hand-holding? Didn’t see that coming at all.”
“Scott—”
“Years” Scott cut in, pointing at him. “We have been waiting years for this.”
Stiles groaned, dragging a hand over his face with his free hand.
“Oh my God, can you not—for like, five minutes?”
“Four years and all you got was twenty dollars, that’s poor from you Lydia Martin”you shook your head unimpressed.
