hi!! I was wondering if you could pls write a fanfic of sieun x reader pls, where he randomly snaps at her and says something hurtful, and then the reader leaves but gets captured by the union guys and sieun regrets what he said, could it please be angst to eventual fluff please, thank you 🤍
ˋ°•*⁀➷ ALL I NEED
He never said the words, but you felt them—in the way he showed up, hands trembling, heart breaking, and in the way he kissed you like a promise he was finally ready to keep.
Full fic, whc2, established relationship, hurt/comfort, reader gets kidnapped by the union, they make out in the end
This can be a part 2 to SCARS AND SOUVENIRS but it can be read as a stand-alone fic
Yeon Si-eun x gn! reader
wc: 5k+
tw: depictions of violence, death threats, and kidnapping
masterlist
“Si-eun, do you want to grab some food before we go home?”
Your voice was soft, casual, but laced with something warmer—something more intentional.
You barely glanced up from your phone as you spoke, lazily checking the time. The final bell had rung ten minutes ago. Most of the class had already filtered out, their chatter echoing faintly down the hallway as backpacks zipped and chairs scraped across the floor.
It was the first day at Eunjang High.
Orientation day. Which basically translates to: show up, get your name called, then sit around doing absolutely nothing.
And yet—there he was.
Yeon Si-eun, still hunched over his desk, furiously scribbling equations like he was trying to earn early admission to university. The late afternoon sun spilled across his notebook, casting warm stripes across the paper and his too-pale skin. You blinked at the sight of it. He looked almost sepia-toned, like a photo too old for this classroom.
You’d already packed up your things. Your bag hung loosely off your shoulder as you moved to the desk behind his, dropping onto the surface with a soft thud.
“Seriously?” you muttered, half to yourself. “You do know this is the part where people go home, right?” You tried to tease, it usually works.
But he didn’t look up. He didn’t laugh. He didn’t even grunt in acknowledgment. His pen scratched across the page like he was trying to outrun something…his own mind, maybe. You watched him for a moment, lips pressing into a line.
He wasn’t enjoying this school. That much was obvious. The students were loud, nosy, and way too touchy for someone like him. So far, you’d both stuck to yourselves. A team of two. Silent solidarity.
But even teammates needed breaks.
You slid off the desk and stepped around to the front of his. He still hadn’t looked up. Your eyes softened as you took in the tense slope of his shoulders, the tight set of his jaw.
Without a word, you reached out and gently placed your hand over his—his non-writing one. You felt the subtle twitch beneath your palm, but he didn’t pull away. That, at least, was something.
“Si-eun,” you said, gently, “you need a break. We can continue this at your apartment, okay? Loosen up a little. It’s day one. We don’t eve—”
“I’m not hungry.”
His voice cut through the warmth like ice. Low. Dismissive. Sharper than it needed to be.
You blinked, caught off guard.
He never used that tone with you.
Slowly, your eyes found his face, but he still wouldn’t meet yours. Just kept staring at the numbers in front of him like they offered him an escape hatch.
You didn’t let go of his hand. If anything, your fingers curled a little tighter around his.
“You haven’t eaten properly in days.”
That’s when he snapped.
“Stop watching me like I’m going to break.”
His voice wasn’t loud. But it landed like a punch.
“I’m fine,” he said, more forcefully now. “I don’t need you monitoring me every second.”
The sting hit quickly, but clean. You didn’t flinch. You just stared down at him, the lines of your expression softening—not in hurt, but in understanding. Like you were watching a wounded animal bare its teeth to hide a limp. The transition to the new school was hard, which is why you made sure you planted yourself beside Si-eun at all times.
Both of you cared deeply for each other.
“…Okay,” you said quietly.
Your fingers slipped from his. No dramatics. No accusations.
Just a quiet release.
You turned away and began to gather your things—slowly, methodically. As if giving him time to regret the words, though you knew he probably wouldn’t. Not yet.
“I’ll give you space, then,” you murmured, offering him a tired smile he never looked up to see.
And then you left.
No slamming door. No final look over your shoulder. Just your fading footsteps and the soft creak of the classroom door sliding close behind you.
And silence.
The silence lingered, thick and unmoving, settling into Si-eun’s chest like a lead weight he hadn’t realized he was already carrying. He stared at the door long after you left, your absence ringing louder than your voice ever did. He didn’t mean to snap. Not really. The words had come out before he could stop them—sharp, defensive, unkind. And now they echoed back at him like guilt in disguise.
He’d been on edge for days. Tense in his own skin, sleep slipping through his fingers like sand. You didn’t know why, and he didn’t want you to. He thought you both left all that behind—the bruises, the blood, threats of gangs in the halls.
But this school was no fresh start. If anything, it was a reminder. Eunjang High had long been a target. And now that the two of you had transferred in, people were watching. Waiting.
And Si-eun hated that.
He hated that you were being pulled into it again. That you were tied to his side like gravity. That every time you stood beside him—offering warmth, concern, loyalty—it painted a bigger bullseye on your back. You, always looking out for him. You, reaching for his hand even when he didn’t deserve it.
The thought that you might get hurt just for being close to him made something twist in his gut. And instead of protecting you, he pushed you away.
Again.
A few days had passed since that afternoon, and Si-eun was starting to realize just how much he hated how easy you were with him.
Not careless. Not naive. Just... forgiving. Too forgiving, maybe.
You didn’t argue. Didn’t demand a reason. You didn’t even raise your voice when he snapped. You simply accepted the distance like it was something natural, like you expected it from him. And that quiet understanding twisted something deep inside his chest.
He could still see you, always near, but just far enough.
You hadn’t disappeared. You still showed up to class, still passed by him in the halls. Still offered soft nods when your eyes met his, but your smile never quite reached your eyes anymore. You didn’t sit beside him. You stared out the window during lessons like you were somewhere else entirely. Your laughter, once a steady rhythm in his day, was gone. Swallowed by the silence he created.
And yet...
You waited.
Not obviously. Not desperately. But in the way you lingered a second longer when you passed by. In the way your gaze would flick toward the empty seat beside you before looking away. How you still brought an extra snack with you, placing it quietly on the corner of your desk, untouched until the bell rang.
As if holding onto the hope that maybe, just maybe, he’d take the seat next to you again.
You waited for him, even when he pushed you away.
And he didn’t know how to deal with that. Because you should’ve given up by now. Should’ve called him out, told him he was being cruel. But you didn’t
You were still you. Just... quieter now.
Si-eun hated it.
He missed your voice, your strange, unexpected questions. Missed your reckless midnight knocks on his door, the way you'd laugh as you fell onto his couch like it was yours. Most of all, he missed how alive things felt when you were close.
But more than anything, he hated that you made him feel like he was still worth waiting for. Even when he didn’t believe it himself.
He knew he wasn’t good with words. Your relationship had always lived in the quiet gestures. In the way you’d bring him snacks without asking, or how he’d automatically move to your side when you walked down a crowded hall.
Neither of you ever needed a confession to understand what you meant to each other.
Maybe that was why he never said anything when you stayed over at his apartment that night. Why he just held you in the dark, his fingers tracing soft, silent shapes across your back. Promises he couldn’t say aloud, but hoped you felt anyway.
He thought that was enough.
Now, he wasn’t so sure.
So here he was.
In his small kitchen, standing stiffly like a malfunctioning robot, facing an open bento box like it was about to judge him and his instant noodles cooking skills.
His phone was propped up against a mug, playing a YouTube tutorial titled “Adorable Bento Box Ideas That’ll Melt Hearts 💕”. The woman’s voice chirped instructions with impossible cheer, and Si-eun was trying his best not to throw the rice at the wall.
This had been his plan. His brilliant plan: make your favorite food, pack it cutely, and show up with an apology in the form of edible sincerity because knowing what you liked was the easy part.
Actually making it?
Not so much.
He’d woken up ridiculously early—before sunrise. His kitchen now looked like a battlefield. Rice grains stuck to his elbow. A carrot shaped like a heart had somehow ended up on the ceiling. At one point, he was seriously considering using tweezers to adjust the angle of the tamagoyaki.
He also made sure his mom and dad were already gone because he wouldn’t live another day if they found him cutting up sausages in the form of a tiny squid.
It had taken him over two hours to cook everything and another thirty painstaking minutes to assemble it all, hunched over the bento like he was defusing a bomb.
Each part was placed with surgical precision. He was so focused that he didn’t even realize he was holding his breath until the final cherry tomato was set in place.
He stepped back and stared at it.
It was… actually kind of cute.
Embarrassingly cute.
There were little food dividers and a bunny-shaped onigiri that looked vaguely judgmental, but—it was done. He wrapped the box in a cloth the color of your favorite hoodie and held it up, inspecting it like he had just handcrafted an engagement ring.
He was embarrassed. He was nervous. His hands smelled like soy sauce and regret.
But at the very least, it was his way of saying: I’m sorry. You matter to me. Please don’t leave.
“…If you don’t like this,” he muttered to himself, glaring at the rabbit-shaped rice, “I’m never cooking again.” He doesn’t mind retaking the CSATs over and over again, and he would honestly choose that over assembling another Bento box.
The rabbit offered no encouragement.
With what little time he had left, Si-eun threw on his uniform, still mentally reciting the bento checklist as he slipped the lunchbox into his bag. His heart sat awkwardly in his chest—heavy, nervous, hopeful. You’re going to like it, he told himself. Hopefully.
What was that saying again? The way to someone’s heart is through their stomach. It was clinging to it like it was gospel.
Once he got to school, he tried to act normal. Calm. Composed.
He failed miserably.
He kept glancing at the classroom door every time it opened, eyes flicking up with that small hope—maybe that’s you. But every time, it wasn’t. And with each passing minute, his focus cracked a little more. The textbook in front of him might as well have been blank. All he could think about was you. And what he’d say when you finally walked in.
Words weren’t really his thing. He knew that. But he was trying—especially with you. He figured if he couldn’t say everything, he could at least show it.
That bento box was his apology in full color. His awkward, hand-packed declaration that he was sorry for pushing you away. That you mattered more than he could say out loud.
The first week at Eunjang had been hell for him.
But he waited.
And waited.
The teacher had already started the lesson, and your seat was still empty. He told himself you were just late. Slept in, maybe. Took a detour. That was all.
By lunch, the nerves had curdled into something heavier—concern.
The bento had gone cold. He hadn’t touched it. It just sat on the edge of his desk, untouched and painfully neat, like it was mocking him. He checked his phone again.
Five messages. Two missed calls.
Nothing back.
And that wasn’t like you. Not at all.
You always replied—sometimes even before he hit “send.” You’d once told him you liked when he messaged first, that it made your heart race a little. But now?
Radio silence.
No typing bubble. No read receipts. No trace of you.
And that was when the worry turned into dread.
Something was wrong, and Si-eun knew it.
He didn’t hesitate.
His chair scraped loudly against the floor as he shoved it back, grabbing his bag with a sudden urgency that made heads turn. The teacher barely got out a concerned “Si-eun?” before he was already halfway out the door, not even sparing her a glance.
He didn’t care. Something was wrong.
He could feel it in his chest, tight and coiling like wire. His instincts were screaming, and he didn’t waste a second arguing with them. What if something had happened to you? What if his silence, his stubbornness, had cost him something he couldn’t fix?
He was already running before his mind could catch up with his legs. His bag bounced painfully against his shoulder, breath shallow as he tore through the school gates and down the familiar streets.
You always walked this way. This was your route. He scanned every corner, every alley, every crosswalk like he expected to see you just… standing there. Waiting.
But you weren’t.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. He yanked it out with shaky fingers—only to find an email notification. Not you. Not even close.
He kept running.
A thousand thoughts slammed into him at once. Maybe you’re sick. Maybe you forgot your phone. Maybe you’re just mad at him and avoiding him. Maybe you’re fine—
But no. No, it wasn’t just silence.
It was the wrong kind of silence.
By the time he reached your building, his shirt clung to his back with sweat. His pulse thundered in his ears. He took the stairs two at a time until he finally stood in front of your door—panting, eyes wide, heart clawing up his throat.
He raised his hand to knock.
But stopped.
The door… it was ajar. Barely.
His stomach dropped.
He called out your name, voice tight with fear, already knowing you wouldn’t answer.
He pushed the door open.
The air was too still. Too quiet. And your apartment—
Wrecked.
Not ransacked—but wrong. Your things were still here, scattered across the floor like there’d been a struggle. Couch cushions tossed, your bag overturned, books torn from shelves. It looked rushed. Violent.
He called out your name again, louder now, not caring if his voice cracked. Desperation and anxiety seeped into every word, his tone trembling with a frantic edge. He needed to see you, to find you anywhere.
His footsteps pounded over debris as his eyes darted wildly through each room. Bedroom—empty, eerily silent. Bathroom—no sign of you, just cold emptiness. Closet—open and untouched, as if waiting.
His breathing grew ragged, each inhale sharp and desperate. His throat constricted, the feeling of suffocation closing in like a vice.
Where were you?
What did they do to you?
He was sweating now, not from running, but from the sheer panic washing over him in waves. Every second felt like it was slipping through his fingers. His chest ached with the weight of a thousand what-ifs. This was his fault. If you were gone…if they took you—he—
Something in the air shifted.
A smell.
Faint… but sharp.
Smoke but not fire.
Cigarettes.
His stomach twisted as he followed it through the mess and into the dining area, where the smell was strongest.
There, on the table.
Two cigarette butts in an ashtray. One was already snuffed out. The other was still burning, smoke curling lazily into the air like a signature left behind.
Next to it was a torn scrap of paper. The edges were jagged, like it had been ripped from a notebook in a hurry. Scrawled across in messy, ink-blotted handwriting—
An address.
Si-eun’s hands trembled as he picked it up. The paper felt heavier than it should’ve. Like it was soaked in everything he feared.
They’d left it on purpose.
This wasn’t just a warning.
It was a message.
And he ran like hell.
Si-eun didn’t think—he couldn’t think.
The city blurred around him as he sprinted through alleyways and across intersections, ignoring horns, ignoring people shouting at him when he nearly collided into them. All he saw was that address. All he heard was the pounding of his own heart, louder than his footsteps, louder than the sickening silence of your absence.
When he reached the building, his breath hitched.
A warehouse—old, decaying, half its walls covered in flaking paint and rust. The chain-link fence around it sagged in places, barely holding up. It looked like it had been forgotten by time, but clearly, someone was still using it.
He could hear them before he even touched the door.
“Oh? I think loverboy’s finally here.”
A low laugh followed, thick with mockery and smoke.
Si-eun didn’t hesitate. He pushed the metal doors open so hard they groaned against their hinges, the sound sharp and jarring in the stillness of night.
Inside, the air was heavy with smoke and sweat and something worse—fear.
Two guys stood in the middle of the warehouse, cigarettes dangling from their lips like sneers. But all Si-eun saw was you.
You were on the ground.
Tied up.
Trembling like a cornered animal.
Your body was slumped, sweat dripping from your temple, your clothes stained with dirt and the grime of the concrete floor. A bruise—deep and angry—wrapped around your arm like a mark of violence, evidence of how roughly you’d been dragged here. You looked exhausted. Shaken.
But when your eyes found Si-eun, they lit up—not with hope exactly, but with something stronger.
Bravery.
Even in that state, even with your body shaking, your gaze held fire. Defiance. You had fought.
And the proof was all over them.
One of the guys had three red slashes down his forearm, still bleeding. The other kept flexing his jaw like it had been hit. Blood was caked beneath your fingernails, dried and cracking. You hadn’t made it easy for them. You refused to be just another victim.
“Damn,” the first one muttered, shaking out his wrist. “Fucker scratches like a damn wildcat.”
The other exhaled smoke through his nostrils, smirking at Si-eun.
“Yo, Yeon Si-eun!” he called, voice oily. “You ever teach your little lover some manners?”
They laughed again—low, grating, like nails on a chalkboard.
And all the while, they still smoked. The warehouse reeked of it. The stench clung to the air like poison. And every time they leaned in too close to your face, you flinched, recoiling like it physically hurt to breathe the same air as them.
Si-eun saw red.
His fists clenched at his sides, nails digging into his palms. Every cell in his body screamed to move, to destroy, to tear them apart for what they’d done to you, for every bruise, every tear, every second you spent afraid and alone.
He stepped forward, slow and controlled, but his eyes were deadly.
“You made a mistake,” he said, voice low.
The taller thug scoffed, cracking his knuckles.
“Yeah? And what’re you gonna do about it?”
Si-eun didn’t answer.
“You fucking mute?” One of them spat then suddenly—
One of them grabbed you.
Si-eun tensed.
Rough fingers tangled into your hair, yanking you up from the ground.
You screamed—not loud, not panicked, but sharp with pain. Your knees scraped along the concrete floor as the man dragged you forward like a ragdoll, forcing you upright. Your eyes met Si-eun’s, wide and desperate, your lips trembling as your bound hands tried in vain to brace yourself.
“Move again, and I’ll slit their damn throat right here,” the thug growled, pressing a bruised knuckle under your chin like a threat. You flinched. Si-eun’s body was frozen, but his eyes sharpened, calculating everything. Distance. Angles. Open hands. Breathing patterns.
“Oh, that got your attention,” the guy sneered. “You’re not that smart after all. This one’s gonna die because of you. That’s what you get for playing hero.”
Si-eun stepped forward.
“Let. Go.”
His voice didn’t shake. It was quiet and measured.
And suddenly, Si-eun moved.
No words. No hesitation.
His eyes had already scanned the room—the layout, the scattered crates, the exits, and most importantly, the distance between himself and them. His breathing slowed. He stepped lightly, measured, like a wire pulled taut but not yet snapped.
The taller one came at him first, cocky and sluggish—telegraphed. He shouted and rushed in, cigarette still dangling from his mouth.
A mistake.
Si-eun ducked under the wild swing, pivoting sharply on his heel, and drove his elbow straight into the guy’s solar plexus with brutal precision. The man doubled over with a choked grunt.
Si-eun didn’t hesitate. He grabbed the back of his head and slammed it down into his rising knee.
Once. Twice.
The guy crumpled like paper.
The second guy tossed you away, letting go of your hair, and reached for a metal pipe nearby, grabbing it with a grin.
“Let’s see how smart you are with your brains scattered all over the floor!”
He charged.
Si-eun grabbed a nearby broken chair leg from the ground.
They clashed.
Steel against wood. Splinters flew. The pipe clipped Si-eun’s shoulder, but he sidestepped, used the momentum against the guy, and kicked the side of his knee.
A sickening crack echoed.
The man screamed, stumbling—but Si-eun was already moving, crouching low and swinging the chair leg up, hard, across his jaw. The pipe clattered to the ground. Blood followed.
The man dropped.
Si-eun stood over him, chest heaving, the makeshift weapon still in his hand. The entire fight had taken maybe twenty seconds.
And now, silence.
The kind that rang too loudly in the aftermath.
Si-eun’s breath came out in shallow bursts, chest rising and falling as his adrenaline began to crash. But the second his eyes landed on you, everything else vanished—blood, bruises, pain—it all dulled beneath the sight of you curled on the cold floor, wrists bound, trembling, but alive.
He dropped to his knees beside you without hesitation.
Fingers shaking, bloodied knuckles scraping against the rope, he began untying the knots with silent urgency. You flinched when he brushed against your skin, but you didn’t pull away. Neither did he. His hands trembled more than yours did.
He was bruised—busted lip, a cut above his brow, his school shirt torn at the shoulder—but none of it mattered. Not to him. Not now.
Because you were here.
Alive.
And as soon as the last rope fell from your wrist, his thumbs moved instinctively to trace the angry marks the bindings left behind—his touch light, careful, reverent. His eyes flicked up to meet yours, wide with guilt, with something like disbelief. Like he wasn’t sure you were real, like he’d been holding his breath for days and finally just remembered how to exhale.
He whispered your name, like a prayer, like a plea, voice raw.
You didn’t let him finish.
“I know,” you said softly, hands reaching for him—one cupping his bruised cheek, the other tangling in his hair to bring him closer.
His lips parted. “I’m sor—”
“I know, Si-eun,” you repeated, firmer this time, but still gentle. “It’s okay.”
You leaned in, pressing your forehead to his, and the world finally stilled.
There were no more voices. No footsteps. No fire alarms in his chest. Just this—your foreheads pressed together, breath mingling, his hands cradling your arms, your touch cradling his heart. He closed his eyes, let his breathing slow until it matched yours. Steady. Real.
The tremble in his hands faded.
A long, quiet moment passed. Then, finally, he pulled back just enough to whisper, “Let’s go.”
You nodded.
He helped you to your feet, arm sliding carefully around your waist to steady you—but really, he just needed to keep holding you. Maybe to convince himself he hadn’t lost you. Maybe because, after everything, he finally understood he didn’t want to let you go.
And you let him.
The walk back to Si-eun’s apartment was quiet but not the heavy kind weighed down by tension, but the kind that felt like exhaling after being underwater too long. Each step together steadied your breath. Each glance exchanged without words said, a reassurance: You’re safe now. We’re safe now.
When he told you to stay with him for a while, you didn’t question it. Your place was a mess…trashed, torn apart, haunted by what had happened. It would take time to fix, and you didn’t want to be alone. So you just nodded. A small, quiet part of you even felt something like warmth stir in your chest at the thought of being near him again and this time, without silence hanging between you.
Now, here you were.
Si-eun sat in his desk chair, shirt sleeves rolled up, jaw set but not in his usual, guarded way. He was still. Almost calm. The first-aid kit lay open across the table beside you, its contents half-used, wrappers and gauze scattered like the remains of battle. You hovered in front of him, focused on his bruised and bloodied hands.
Your own injuries were minor—scrapes, bruises, things that would fade. But his… his told a story. You could see it in every split knuckle and raw cut: he hadn’t held back.
You dipped a clean towel in warm water and gently pressed it to the dried blood on his hand, dabbing carefully. He didn’t flinch—but you felt the way his fingers twitched beneath your touch.
Neither of you spoke.
The only sounds were the quiet hum of the desk lamp, the soft clink of the glass bottle of disinfectant, and your breath, steady and focused, like treating him was the only thing anchoring you to the present.
But Si-eun?
He wasn’t looking at the cuts or the gauze. He was looking at you.
The soft glow of the lamp painted you in gold. Your eyes furrowed in concentration, your lips slightly parted as you worked in silence. And somehow, the sight of you like this—so gentle, so here—made it easier to forget the sting of the alcohol on his open wounds.
You moved on to the deeper gash on his shoulder where the pipe had caught him. You reached for the antiseptic and paused, eyes flicking to his.
“This’ll sting,” you warned quietly.
He didn’t move. Didn’t even blink.
“I don’t mind,” he murmured.
And he meant it.
As long as it was your hands that held him.
Comfortable silence then settled between you two and then—
“Thank you,” he murmured suddenly.
You paused, hands still over the bandage. “For what?”
“For… waiting.” His voice was low. Rough. “Even when I pushed you away. You didn’t give up on me.”
You looked at him then. Really looked.
There was something in his expression that you rarely saw—guilt and gratitude, both bleeding through the soft lines of his face. His shoulders had dropped slightly, no longer held in the usual stiff tension. He wasn’t looking away anymore. He was letting you see him.
You smiled, small but sure. “I knew you’d come back.”
His throat bobbed as he swallowed, gaze dropping to your hands before flicking back up. “I didn’t think I deserved it.”
You moved closer without thinking, hands still resting lightly on his bandaged arm. “You don’t have to deserve me, Si-eun,” you said quietly. “You just have to let me stay.”
Something cracked behind his eyes. You didn’t need to hear the words to know he was saying yes. You already knew.
So you leaned in—soft, slow, and certain and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth. Not desperate. Not rushed. Just a quiet promise, folded between healing and the steady hum of light.
When you pulled back, his eyes were still closed for a moment. Then they opened, softer than you’d ever seen.
Then, as if suddenly remembering, Si-eun shifted. He leaned down, reaching beneath his desk to retrieve the bag he’d tossed aside earlier in all the panic.
From it, he pulled out the carefully wrapped bento box—its once-warm contents now cooled, a little out of place in the middle of the tender quiet between you. He stared at it for a second, lips parting slightly as if debating whether or not to give it to you.
It had gone cold. Maybe even a little stale. But it was still yours.
Or… he could just make another one. One that was warm. Perfect. Deserving.
“I was supposed to give you this earlier,” he said finally, placing it gently on his table like something fragile. Something precious.
You blinked, surprised. “Hm?”
He motioned toward the wrapped cloth. “Open it.”
You did. Carefully unwrapping it, your breath caught when the bento box came into view. Each part of the meal was neatly arranged—almost painfully meticulous. It was your favorite food. And though it had shifted slightly out of place, the effort still shone through: the little animal shapes, the colors, the thoughtfulness stitched into every grain of rice.
“…Si-eun,” you breathed, gaze flicking up to him, eyes wide with both awe and disbelief. “Did you make this?”
He scratched the back of his neck, ears burning red. “I followed a tutorial..but, yes.”
You stared at him. Then stared back at the food. Then back at him again.
Si-eun,” you repeated, this time in a tone that made him shift in his seat nervously. “I want to kiss you so hard that you’ll forget your name.”
He blinked.
Then let out a soft, breathy laugh—half disbelief, half relief. The tension cracked like glass between you, and the corners of his mouth tugged up in that rare, boyish smile you loved too much.
“Does that mean you like it?”
“Well, I can do more than kiss,” You teased while winking at him playfully. Already, you were lifting the chopsticks he included. “This is the best thing anyone’s made for me. Ever.”
“Wait—let me heat it for you—“
You quickly took a bite, not caring if the food had gone cold. It was still delicious and you showed your approval by dramatically humming.
Si-eun looked away, biting back a smile so big it made the cut on his lip sting. But he didn’t care. You were eating. You were smiling. And you were here.
Maybe that was enough.
“Oh my gosh—this is reallyyyy good,” you said between bites, savoring every piece like it was heaven-sent.
“Don’t talk while your mouth’s full,” Si-eun muttered, though his eyes betrayed him, watching you with that quiet fondness he never quite knew how to hide around you.
You looked up at him, grinning as you chewed. “Hmm… what can I do to repay my hero?”
He opened his mouth, about to insist he didn’t need anything. He never did, not from you—but then something flickered behind his eyes. A boldness rare and sudden.
“…Maybe that kiss?”
You paused for only a beat, then gently set the chopsticks aside. “Say less.”
In one swift, fluid motion, you leaned in—hands pressing lightly against his chest as you closed the distance. His hands found your waist like they were made for that space, holding you steady. Your breath mingled for just a second.
And then you kissed him.
It started slow, soft, his lips careful, almost reverent against yours. But the moment you deepened it, threading your fingers into the fabric of his shirt, he matched you—mouth parting, breath catching, body drawing nearer like gravity had taken over.
He exhaled shakily against your lips, one hand sliding up your back to cradle the nape of your neck, fingers threading through your hair as if grounding himself. The kiss turned heavier, lingering. More emotion than either of you had ever said aloud. Every tilt of his head, every pull of your body against his, told you exactly what he felt—what he couldn’t bring himself to say.
When you finally pulled away, lips still brushing, your foreheads pressed together, breath mingling in the warm quiet.
He didn’t speak. He didn’t have to.
You smiled softly, fingers grazing his jaw. “You forgot your name yet?”
Si-eun’s lips curved, just slightly. “No.”
You leaned in again—another kiss, gentler this time. A promise wrapped in warmth.
And as the soft hum of the night settled around you, you stayed close. Not quite speaking. Just breathing, kissing, laughing into each other’s skin, the weight of the past days slipping off your shoulders like shed armor.
The rest of the world could wait.
For now, it was just you and him—and the quiet, golden glow of something finally blooming.
an: Thank you for reading until the end!! I love Si-eun so muchh broo he’s so fine shyt 😭 comments and feedbacks are always appreciated!!
sugardaddy!matt/pornstar!matt hasn’t seen reader in weeks… he munches on her.
matt’s beard rubbed against your inner thighs, soaked in your sweet arousal. messy—sloppy, the sheets were an uncomfortable type of wet, but neither of you put a stop to it.
pleasure ripped through your entire body as you hit yet another orgasm. overstimulated, worn out, and fucked into oblivion by his tongue. you tugged on his hair, closing your thighs around his head; practically suffocating him. he held them apart, not even close to being done with you—his feast.
“keep ‘em open,” he mumbled against you, pulling away to spit on your sollen folds, letting out a rough noise at the sight. “fuck, look at her.”
instinctively, his hand slaps your cunt, pulling a squeal from your lips. matt grins at your reaction, kissing the sensation away. “my favorite fuckin’ pussy.”
he dives back in, closing his eyes and devouring your taste, his nose nudges your clit. with him laying on his stomach, his hips rut against the bed, giving his cock some relief. the feeling makes him moan into you, sending vibrations up your spine.
your back arches off the bed, though matt pins you down. “where you goin’? i’m not done yet.” he takes another release from you, and maybe another until he’s drenched with you all over his face. this was purely for his own pleasure.
You’re Beacon Hills High’s golden girl. Popular, polished, besties with Lydia, and secretly obsessed with the one boy no one else sees the appeal of - Stiles Stilinski. When a biology partnership forces you together, your carefully hidden crush spirals. One night, one assignment, and one very overwhelmed Stiles later, you finally get exactly what you’ve been fantasising about.
Warnings: sexual references, smut, kind of fade to black
———————————————————————
You were halfway through telling Lydia about the absolute dumpster fire that was yesterday’s physics quiz when the sharp crash of textbooks slamming onto linoleum echoed down the hallway. Lydia didn’t even flinch, but you did. Your head snapped toward the lockers, and there he was.
Stiles Stilinski. In all his lanky, chaotic, flannel-wearing, graphic-tee-underneath, frazzled glory.
He was kneeling on the floor, scrambling after a rainstorm of books and loose papers that had spilled from his locker like it personally hated him. His backpack was half unzipped, one shoelace untied, and even his buzzed hair somehow looked messy. In other words, he looked perfect.
You felt that familiar, shameful little kick of attraction deep in your stomach. The one you never admitted out loud, not even to Lydia. Especially not to Lydia.
Lydia arched an eyebrow when she caught the direction you were staring. “God,” she muttered under her breath, “how is he still alive with motor skills like that?”
You tried to play it cool, texting something on your phone that you would absolutely not remember typing later. “He’s…uh. He’s fine.”
“Fine as in ‘not dying,’ sure,” she said. “Fine as in ‘hot’? Absolutely not.”
Your face heated. You prayed Lydia didn’t notice. Across the hall, Stiles shoved the pile of disaster into his locker, missed completely, and dropped everything all over again. He let out a frustrated noise, cheeks pink, mumbling to himself.
You quickly looked away. You weren’t supposed to think he was cute. Not when everyone else saw him as the weird, awkward loser who talked too fast and tripped over air. But you did. God, you did. And you hated how much you wanted him.
You cleared your throat, forcing your voice steady. “Let’s just go. We’re gonna be late.”
Lydia linked her arm with yours. “Lord help the soul that ever hooks up with Stilinski,” she said casually, “He’d probably shove it in the wrong place.”
You laughed like that idea was hilarious. Like hooking up with Stiles wasn’t something you fantasised about at night.
———————————————————————
You were barely listening when your teacher announced partners for the semester project. A couple names, some groans, flipping pages. You were scrolling through your phone under the desk while you waited for your name to be called.
“Stilinski…and Y/L/N.”
Your head shot up. Stiles froze in his seat two rows over, eyes wide like someone had pointed a gun at him. He looked at you, startled, almost apologetic, and completely unaware of the way your pulse jumped.
You sat up straighter, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear like you didn’t care at all. Like your heart wasn’t slamming against your ribs. Lydia glanced at you from the next table. She was suspicious, and too perceptive for her own good.
You forced a shrug. “Ugh. Of course I get stuck with him.”
But inside? You were screaming. Absolutely thrilled.
Stiles awkwardly approached your table, nearly bumping into the chair behind him. “H-hey,” he said, voice cracking halfway through. “So…um. We’re partners.”
“Looks like it.” You crossed your legs slowly, pretending to be bored while you fought down a grin. “We’ll figure something out.”
His eyes flicked down to your legs, then up so fast you almost laughed. “Right. Yeah. Totally. I’m, uh, I’m good at biology. Well, not good. Medium. Like, average. But! I try hard.”
Lord help you, he was adorable. Too adorable. You smirked in amusement. “I’m sure we’ll make a great team.”
He visibly swallowed, and boy did you love the effect you had on him.
———————————————————————
At lunch, you spotted Stiles before he saw you. He was at his locker, muttering to himself as he rummaged through an avalanche of papers. His flannel was rumpled, his backpack was sliding off one shoulder, and he kept ruffling his buzzed hair in these nervous, distracted little motions that made you want to grab him by the collar and ruin him against the locker door.
This was perfect. You needed to get him alone, needed to get him into your room and on your bed and…Focus.
You walked straight up and touched his arm. He jumped like you’d tasered him.
“Shit! Oh, hi,” he sputtered, hand flying to his chest. “Sorry, I didn’t, uh, see…Hi.”
You slid your hand down his forearm slowly, casually, like you weren’t imagining how you’d be dragging it down his ribs later. “Relax,” you said gently, giving him your best smile. “You free to come over today? We should start the assignment.”
He blinked. Twice. Then a third time for good measure. “Today?” His voice cracked on the word. “At your house?”
You almost laughed. The way his brain short-circuited at the idea of being someplace as private as your bedroom? God, it made you want to drag him into the nearest storage cupboard and kiss him breathless.
He looked like someone had hit him with a frying pan. Like a very confused, startled, incredibly-cute, frying pan victim. You stepped closer. Close enough that he had to tilt his chin down just slightly to look at you. Close enough to let him know you were invading his personal space on purpose.
“Unless you’re busy,” you teased, voice dropping into something lower and sweeter. “But I figured getting a head start might be good.”
His mouth opened, closed, then opened again. He was goldfish-ing. “No, no! Oh my God, no, I’m not busy,” he blurted. “I’m, uh, I’m free. I’m completely free. Totally free. Like…aggressively free.”
You had to bite your lip hard to hold yourself back. This boy was going to kill you. “Good,” you murmured, leaning in just a little bit more. “I like a guy who’s…available.”
His eyes widened. You could practically see the thoughts hitting him one after another, like dominos falling. Does she mean that? Is she joking? She smells really good. Why is she so close? Do NOT look at her lips. Oh god, I looked at her lips.
He did. He absolutely did. And you let him. You loved it. “So,” you said softly, letting your fingers trail up the sleeve of his flannel before pulling back, “come over at five?”
He swallowed so hard you saw his throat bob. “Y-yeah. Yes. Five. I can do five. I’m, uh, very punctual. I can be earlier if you want earlier I can—”
“Five,” you repeated with a slow smile. “I want five.”
His ears turned pink. Deep pink. The kind of pink that told you he was fully imagining it - imagining being in your house, in your room, alone with you. Good. That was the goal.
You stepped backward, walking away with deliberate sway in your hips, and he watched. He tried not to, but he absolutely failed. Just before you disappeared around the corner, you glanced back over your shoulder.
“Don’t be late, Stiles.” You called back to him, and he looked like he was about to faint at just the sound of you getting his name right. He stood frozen, locker still hanging open, looking like he had just been both blessed and attacked.
You couldn’t wait for five o’clock.
———————————————————————
You had spent the entire hour before five obsessively checking your hair, your outfit, your bed, your perfume, everything. It wasn’t nerves, it was strategy. You wanted Stiles walking into your room and short-circuiting so hard he forgot how to blink.
When the doorbell rang at exactly 4:59, you smiled. Of course he was early. Adorable. Your parents were out until late. Everything was ready.
You opened the door, leaning one shoulder against the frame, a picture of effortless confidence. Stiles stood there gripping his backpack like it was a parachute and he’d just been thrown out of a helicopter.
His eyes dragged over you and stopped. Hard. “Oh,” he breathed. “Wow. I mean, hi. Hi. Sorry. Hi.”
You smirked. “Come in, Stiles.”
He obeyed instantly, like you’d flipped some internal switch. You led him up the stairs at a slow pace. Slow enough that he had no choice but to look at your legs, your hips, the casual sway you added just for him. And boy, did he look. He tried not to. But he did.
You closed your bedroom door behind you and paused, waiting for him to walk further inside before you.
He set his backpack down, clearing his throat. “S-so! Uh. Chapter five. Cell division. Pretty riveting stuff.”
You sat on the edge of your bed, crossing your legs, letting your already-short skirt ride just a little higher. “We can start there…if you want.”
Stiles sat in your desk chair like he was afraid it would bite him. He tugged at the strings of his hoodie, eyes darting everywhere but at you. You tilted your head. God, he was nervous. It was intoxicating.
He fumbled with the textbook. “Right, so, um, mitosis…”
You stretched out luxuriously on your side, fluffing your hair as your camisole lifted just enough to show a hint of stomach. “Stiles.”
“Mm?” His voice squeaked.
“You don’t have to pretend you’re not looking.”
He swallowed. Hard. “I wasn’t! I mean, I was, but I wasn’t…Looking is…sometimes it’s involuntary, like blinking, and, ah fuck.”
You laughed softly and patted the bed beside you. “Come sit over here. We’ll work better side by side.”
He hesitated, then stood and crossed the room like a man approaching a dangerous animal aware he might be devoured, but unsure if he minded. He sat beside you, leaving a polite gap. You closed that gap immediately, sitting up and sliding your thigh against his. His breath stuttered.
“Comfortable?” you asked, pretending innocence.
“Not even a little,” he whispered before he could stop himself.
Your smile grew. Good. You leaned over him to grab a pen from your nightstand, intentionally brushing your chest against his arm. Stiles went absolutely still, like you’d pressed a freeze button on him. When you sat back, your faces were incredibly close.
“Stiles,” you murmured, “why are you so nervous?”
He blinked rapidly. “Because you’re…You’re you. And we’re…we’re on your bed, in your room, and you’re wearing that and looking like that, and I’m…I’m a normal human man with, uh…organs.”
You snorted. “Organs?”
He covered his face with both hands. “Oh my God.”
You gently pulled his hands away. “I like when you ramble.”
“You do?” he said, completely thrown.
You nodded, voice dropping lower. “I like a lot of things about you.”
His cheeks flamed. “Name one.”
You leaned close enough that your lips almost brushed his ear. “Your smile. Or maybe it’s just your mouth in general.”
He made a helpless sound that was half choke and half whimper. That noise ignited something deep and hungry in you. You pulled back, watching his pupils blow wide. He was so into you. So flustered. So unbelievably, deliciously out of his depth. It drove you insane.
“Stiles,” you said softly, “do you know I’m flirting with you?”
He stared. “I…had suspicions?”
You bit back a smile. “No. I mean I am aggressively flirting with you.”
“You…are?”
You sighed dramatically, swinging a leg over his lap in one smooth movement, settling onto him with slow, deliberate pressure. His breath punched out of him. His hands shot to your hips like instinct.
You looked down at him, pinning him with your gaze. “Let me make it very, very clear.” You braced your hands against his shoulders, leaning in. “I want you, Stiles.”
A beat passed and his mouth fell open. “You…you do?”
You rolled your hips once, watching his eyes roll back just a little. “Yes,” you breathed. “I’ve wanted you, for a while.”
Stiles made another strangled noise. “You…? You want to…? To—”
“Hook up with you?” you finished for him. “Yeah. I do.”
His hands tightened on your waist. “Oh my God.”
You kissed him before he could spiral further. It was firm, slow, wanting. He gasped into your mouth, surprised but instantly responding, grabbing at you like he was afraid you’d vanish. He tasted like spearmint gum and he kissed like he’d fantasised about this just as much as you had. You shifted closer and he pulled you tighter. You nipped at his bottom lip and he let out a soft, desperate sound you felt in your core.
You broke the kiss only long enough to breathe against his mouth. “Lie down.”
He did. Instantly. You loved how obedient and responsive he was. You crawled over him, hair falling around your face, watching him pant beneath you, eyes wide, chest rising quickly. He looked wrecked already. Overwhelmed. Turned on out of his mind. You kissed down his neck, slow and lingering.
He arched under you. “Oh God! Okay! Oh, wow, yes!”
You smiled against his skin. “Sensitive, huh?”
“N-not usually,” he managed, “but you…holy shit!”
You rolled your hips down onto his again, and his head thumped back against your pillow, a helpless moan slipping out before he could catch it. “You like that?” you whispered.
“Yes,” he breathed, hands gripping your thigh, your waist, your back, anywhere he could touch. “Yes, fuck, yes.”
You kissed him again, though this time it was messier, deeper, and hungrier. He kissed back with enthusiasm that made your stomach flip, his hands skimming under your shirt, trembling but eager. You tugged off his hoodie, then his shirt. He made a nervous little sound, like he wasn’t sure what to do with his hands now that his brain was soup. You guided them to your hips.
“It’s okay,” you whispered. “Touch me.”
He did. Carefully at first. Then less carefully when you gasped. “Stiles,” you whispered, “I want you.”
He swallowed, eyes blown black. “I—I want you too. So much. You have no idea.”
“Oh,” you murmured, grinding down deliberately, “trust me. I do.”
What happened next was a blur of heat and breathless laughter, of him whispering your name like it meant something, of you scraping your nails over his buzzed hair and watching him fall apart under you. He was needy and sweet and overwhelmed in a way that made your whole body thrum.
And when you finally pulled him fully beneath you, skin to skin, his voice broke on a sound that made your stomach drop into your knees. “God, you’re perfect.”
You kissed him breathless for that one.
———————————————————————
The room smelled like you, and Stiles, heat and sweat and something musky that made your whole body hum like a live wire. You lay on your back, sheets beneath you rumpled, hair a complete disaster across the pillow. Your breathing was slow and heavy, every nerve ending relaxed in a way you hadn’t felt in…a while. And fuck, you were satisfied. More than satisfied.
Stiles was lying beside you, flat on his back, hands still half-curled in the air like he hadn’t figured out what to do with them after using them so very well on you. His chest rose and fell rapidly, his face bright red, wide eyes even wider than usual. He looked wrecked. Adorably, completely, wrecked.
You rolled your head to look at him. He immediately jolted like he’d been caught committing tax fraud. “I swear I don’t usually do that, like that. I mean I don’t usually do anything, actually, I’ve literally never…Well, I mean, I have hands, obviously, so technically I’ve done things but not with a real person who’s, uh, alive. Oh my God, please tell me to shut up. Why aren’t I shutting up?”
You laughed softly, still breathless. “Stiles.” He shut his mouth instantly. You propped yourself on one elbow and let your eyes glide over him, slow and deliberate. His cheeks turned even redder. “I liked it.”
He blinked. “You…what?”
“I liked it,” you repeated, leaning closer. “A lot.”
Stiles sat up too fast. Way too fast. So fast that he immediately fell off the side of your bed with a loud thump.
You dissolved into laughter. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” he wheezed from the floor. “Totally fine. Nothing damaged except my dignity. Actually no, that’s been gone for years.”
He scrambled upright as he tugged his pants back on, tripping over your backpack, then your laundry basket, then nearly launching your lamp off the nightstand trying to steady himself.
You watched him, chest warm, a stupid smile tugging your lips upward. He was so nervous. So messy. So wildly flustered. And you were obsessed with him. More than before. Way more than before. And honestly? You were impressed. Stiles Stilinski - anxious, fidgety, always-apologizing Stiles - had been extremely good with his hands. Not confident, exactly…but diligent. Intentional. Focused like he was trying to ace a final exam he’d studied for all year. You wanted more. Immediately, if possible.
Stiles was finally pulling on his shirt when you decided to test something. You slid a hand along his bare back, nails lightly dragging.
He choked on air. “You’re…uh…you’re gonna kill me,” he whispered, voice cracking. “Literally. I’m gonna die.”
You smirked. “I’ll be gentle.”
“No, see, that doesn’t help—”
Before you could tease him further, you heard a door open downstairs. There was the echo of voices and keys hitting the kitchen counter. Your parents were home.
Stiles went white. “Oh! Oh God! Oh no! Nope! Nope, absolutely not. I cannot be here, I should not be here, your parents will shoot me, your mom will throw holy water at me. Where are my shoes?!”
“They’re right there,” you laughed, pointing.
He grabbed them, tripped over your rug, caught himself on your dresser, sent two perfume bottles toppling, caught those mid-air, looked proud, then hit his head on your open dresser drawer. “OH THE PAIN!” he whisper-screamed.
You buried your face in your pillow, laughing so hard your stomach hurt. He pulled his hoodie over his head and the zipper got stuck on his shirt, trapping him. You had to sit up to help him. He thanked you like you’d rescued him from a burning building.
Downstairs, your dad’s voice called, “Honey? We’re home!”
Stiles froze again. “I have to go. I have to go right now.”
You stepped close, fingers hooking the front of his hoodie, pulling him down into a slow, warm kiss. He melted instantly, grip tightening on your waist. When you pulled back, his lips were parted, eyes wide, breath shaky.
“I want to do this again,” you whispered.
Stiles stared like he’d just witnessed a miracle. “Y-you do?”
“Definitely.”
He made a soft, overwhelmed sound. “I…I’ll text you. Or you text me. Or we could, uh, coordinate schedules. God, I’m so sweaty! Is it hot in here? It’s hot in here.”
“Stiles,” you whispered, amused, “go.”
He nodded vigorously, kissed you one more time - quick but desperate - and bolted for the stairs, trying to tiptoe but failing miserably.
Halfway down he whispered-shouted, “I LIKE YOU SO MUCH, THIS IS TERRIFYING.”
You smiled into your pillow again. Yeah, you needed more of him. Soon.
———————————————————————
You walked into school the next morning feeling different. Not outwardly different. You still looked like yourself, still had your perfect outfit and mascara and the confidence everyone expected from you. But inside? Inside you were warm. Glowing. Buzzing with the memory of the night before. Your body still hummed. Your brain still replayed his hands, his mouth, the way he’d looked at you like he couldn’t believe you were real.
And now, here he was. Stiles Stilinski, leaning against his locker, attempting (and failing) to open a granola bar without tearing it into shreds. His jacket was messier than usual, his hoodie slightly crooked, his shoelaces completely untied.
You couldn’t look away. Your eyes went straight to the faint red mark on his neck. The one you had put there. Heat curled through your stomach.
He spotted you before you could pretend you weren’t staring. His whole body froze like someone had hit the pause button. His eyes went wide, his face instantly flushed, and he accidentally crushed the granola bar in his hand. It exploded everywhere.
“Oh God, no! WHY? Why does food hate me,” he muttered, dropping to the floor trying to gather the crumbs.
Your lips curved into a smile you couldn’t hide. You walked toward him slowly, and he visibly panicked, eyes darting left-right-like he was calculating an escape route. “Morning,” you said, low and warm.
Stiles nearly fell backward. “M-morning. Hi. Hello. HOW are you?” He articulated each sound like he’d forgotten how English worked.
You bit back a laugh. “I’m fantastic.”
He swallowed, staring everywhere except at you. When he finally met your eyes, it lasted half a second before he looked away like you were the sun.
“See you around, Stiles.” You winked at him and started to walk away, making sure to add a sway into your hips that made your skirt rise.
He was freaking out, and you found it adorable. Dangerously adorable. You were still admiring him from your locker when Lydia suddenly appeared at your elbow like a stylish jump scare. “Why are you staring at Stilinski?”
You didn’t jump. You did not jump.
Lydia narrowed her eyes. “You flinched.”
Okay, maybe you flinched a little. “I didn’t.”
“You did,” she said. “And you’re staring at him.”
“I’m not,” you said too fast. Way too fast. “He’s just…being weird. As usual.”
She raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. Stiles glanced over and saw Lydia looking at him. He immediately dropped all his textbooks. All of them. It was like his body couldn’t handle being perceived by Lydia Martin.
Lydia frowned, confused. “What is with him today?”
You shrugged, trying to look disinterested when all you wanted to do was pull Stiles into an empty classroom and kiss him until he forgot his own name. “I have no idea,” you lied smoothly.
But Lydia wasn’t stupid. She followed your gaze back to Stiles, who was currently spinning in a circle because his backpack strap had gotten caught on his locker door and he didn’t realise it. “…something is off,” she muttered.
You forced a dramatic sigh. “Lydia, nothing’s off. He’s always like that.”
“Hm,” she hummed, unconvinced, and marched off.
Stiles looked relieved like he’d escaped a predator. You approached him again once Lydia was gone. He backed into his locker like you were cornering him. Like last night had short-circuited his entire nervous system.
“Oh shit,” he whispered, eyes flicking to your lips then away. “What are you doing? You’re still…you. And I’m still…me.”
You stepped closer, voice soft. “Is that a problem?”
Stiles made a noise that sounded like a dying kettle. “Not a problem. Just a…situation. A, uh, unique challenge.”
Your smile widened. “Stiles. Look at me.”
He did, for exactly one moment. And in that moment, his expression softened. It was almost reverent. Like he was remembering every second of last night. Like he wanted more but had no idea how to function now that he’d actually gotten you once.
Your chest tightened in a way you didn’t expect. But then you heard footsteps, and Stiles practically launched himself away from you like the hallway floor was lava.
“I CAN’T TALK TO PEOPLE RIGHT NOW,” he blurted, speed-walking down the hall.
You pressed your lips together to hide your grin. God, the way he panicked after hooking up with you was almost just as fun as the actual hooking up part.
———————————————————————
He didn’t look at you for the next two classes. Correction, he didn’t look at you directly. But he stared constantly. Through the gaps between books, around corners, over his shoulder, and in the reflection of classroom windows. Every time your eyes met his - accidentally - he spun away like a malfunctioning Roomba.
During lunch, Lydia kept watching the both of you suspiciously. After fourth period, you found Stiles at his locker again, pretending to look inside it even though it was almost empty. You walked past casually, brushing your fingers against his hand. Just a graze, lightning quick.
Stiles shivered. Full body. You slipped a folded piece of paper into his palm. He looked down at it like you’d handed him a live grenade. He unfolded it, then stared at it, swallowed hard, then looked up at you. He didn’t speak, he just nodded. And it wasn’t nervous. Not this time. This time it was hungry.
———————————————————————
You and Lydia sat on the bleachers like you always did, your skirts smoothed neatly beneath you, your bags dropped at your feet. Jackson and the rest of the team were running drills on the field, shouting, cursing, and sweating. It all should’ve had your attention. Jackson was objectively good to watch. Everyone knew that. But your eyes weren’t on Jackson. They were glued to Stiles.
There he was in full lacrosse gear that looked like it weighed more than his entire body. His helmet was slightly crooked, he kept adjusting his gloves like they were personally torturing him, and his stick handling was…well, abysmal.
“God,” Lydia scoffed, flipping her hair. “Stilinski and McCall are actual public embarrassments. I swear to God, watching them play is like watching baby giraffes try to walk for the first time.”
You snorted on instinct, but your eyes were glued to Stiles’ thighs as he sprinted. Jesus. Why were his legs that good? You followed the way the muscles in them tightened, how his jersey clung to his back, damp from sweat. At one point he pushed his helmet up to wipe his forehead, and you got a full view of his messy, sweat-mussed hair, cheeks flushed pink.
And all you could think of was how he’d looked the night before. Flushed. Breathless. Gorgeous. You crossed your legs tightly and tried to play it cool.
“Totally,” you said, even though your voice came out breathier than intended.
Lydia didn’t notice. She was too busy dissecting Jackson’s technique and muttering coaching tips he’d never hear. But you kept watching Stiles. Watching the way he stumbled and caught himself. Watching the way he laughed at something Scott said, chest heaving with exertion. Watching the way the uniform clung to places you’d had your hands on last night.
And all you could think was, God, I want him again. I want him pressed against me in that stupid uniform. I want him sweaty and breathless for an entirely different reason. He bent down to tie his shoe and you swallowed thickly. You were done for.
Lydia elbowed you lightly. “You’re zoning out. What are you even looking at?”
“Uh, Danny,” you lied quickly. “His…form.”
Lydia hummed. “Hm. Must be a new angle, because you are staring awfully far down the field.”
You forced a laugh, but your stomach twisted. You had to get out of here before she put anything together. When the coach finally blew the last whistle, the team started heading toward the locker rooms.
Lydia stood, brushing off her skirt. “Practice is over. Want a ride home?”
Your heart thumped. You heard yourself say, light and airy, “Oh, no, I’m gonna stay back and study.”
Lydia paused, her eyes narrowing into that terrifyingly observant Lydia Martin look. “With who?” she asked, voice sharp in that sweet way of hers.
You shrugged with practiced casualness. “Just by myself.”
Suspicion colored her whole face. “You’re acting weird.”
“I’m acting completely normal,” you insisted. “You’re the one who’s been strange today.”
Thankfully she didn’t push further. She just gave you that look, like she’d circle back later, and grabbed her bag. “You better text me later,” she warned, heels clicking away down the bleachers.
You exhaled shakily as she disappeared. Then you grabbed your own bag and slid quietly beneath the bleachers, stepping into the shadowed space underneath. The air smelled like grass and dirt and old metal. The sound of the team laughing somewhere near the locker rooms drifted through the field.
You waited exactly where you’d told him to meet you in the note you’d slipped into his hand earlier. Your heart fluttered with anticipation, nerves, and excitement. He’d come. You knew he would.
You leaned against one of the beams, pulse picking up at the thought of seeing him again. Of what you might end up doing to him if he let you. You bit your lip. God, you hoped he’d let you.
———————————————————————
You heard the footsteps before you saw him. They were fast, uneven, like he’d jogged the whole way from the locker room. Then Stiles appeared through the shadows.
His hair was damp and sticking up in ridiculous directions, clearly from a rushed shower. A few droplets still clung to his temples. He wore low basketball shorts slung loose on his hips and his lacrosse jersey, the fabric stretching deliciously across his shoulders. His cheeks were pink from the heat of the shower, or nerves.
“Hey,” he said, stopping short like he’d run face-first into an invisible wall. “I got your note. Obviously. Because I’m here. Uh, hi.”
You didn’t bother answering. You stepped forward and grabbed the front of his jersey, yanking him under the bleachers fully, into the shadows.
His breath caught. “W-wait, are we…? Are we doing this again?” he stammered.
“You took too long,” you whispered, and before he could reply, you kissed him. Hard.
Stiles made a startled noise against your mouth, like his brain short-circuited in real time. But then his hands were on your waist, hesitant at first, then gripping tighter when you deepened the kiss. His lips were warm, soft, a little desperate (he was always desperate) and you loved it.
You pressed him back against one of the metal beams, kissing him again and again, biting his bottom lip just to hear the sound he made when you did.
Stiles exhaled shakily. “You…you can’t just…God!”
“You smell good,” you murmured against his throat. “Fresh out of the shower?”
He nodded, dazed. “I ran. I didn’t want you waiting and thinking I ditched you. I would never ditch you. I mean, unless you wanted me to ditch you. In which case I—”
“Stiles,” you breathed, “shut up.”
You kissed him again, deeper this time, and he made a soft, helpless sound that lit you on fire. Your hands slid under his jersey, over warm skin and tense muscle. Stiles jolted, inhaling sharply.
“Oh my God,” he whispered. “I think I’m gonna have a heart attack.”
“Not today.” You tugged him closer by his waistband, feeling his breath hitch, watching the way his eyes went wide and dizzy. You loved how every thought he had showed right on his face. Panic, want, awe, panic again.
“I’ve been thinking about this all practice,” you said, voice low. “About you. In this stupid uniform.”
Stiles swallowed like he physically had to work moisture into his mouth. “Yeah? Because I-I’ve been thinking about last night.”
That heat shot straight through you. He was so painfully honest. So bad at hiding what he felt. So good at making you feel wanted without even trying. You kissed him again, dragging him by the wrist as you started walking. “Come on.”
“Where are we—“
You anticipated his question before he could finish and cut him off in a hurry. “To your car.”
Stiles nearly tripped over his own feet. “My car? Like, now?”
“Unless you want to stay out here,” you teased, pulling him past the last metal pillar and into the open. The parking lot was empty, with just his powder blue Jeep sitting alone, a far distance from the nearest light pole.
Stiles stopped dead. “We’re…we’re not seriously…?”
You didn’t let him finish. You pushed him back against the passenger door and kissed him again, hard enough that he gasped slightly. He was warm and flustered and breathing too fast, hands hovering uselessly like he didn’t know where to put them.
Then he finally settled them, one on your hip, one at the back of your neck, and kissed you back with a sudden confidence that made your knees weaken. “Back seat,” you breathed.
Stiles fumbled with the door handle. Dropped his keys, picked them up, then dropped them again.
“Jesus, Stiles,” you laughed softly, “you’re adorable.”
“That’s not…I’m not trying to be. I’m just…you’re—” He made a vaguely strangled sound and finally yanked the door open.
You climbed in first, pulling him by the jersey until he practically fell into the Jeep on top of you, laughing breathlessly as the door slammed shut behind him. His hands were steadier this time. His kisses deeper, more sure. Still clumsy in the way that made your heart ache, but better. So much better.
“Last night probably wasn’t the best,” he murmured, almost embarrassed. “But I paid attention. I can do that. I like doing that. Paying attention to you.”
That spark shot straight through your spine. You kissed him again, and the rest unfolded in a tangled rush of heat, hands, breathless laughter, soft curses, and the kind of desperate closeness you’d been thinking about all day. The windows fogged. The Jeep rocked just a little.
And Stiles - sweet, frantic, unbelievably good Stiles - was even better than he’d been the night before.
———————————————————————
The world settled slowly around you. Your breathing, your heartbeat, and the soft hum of the Jeep’s engine cooling. The windows were fogged so heavily you could barely see the field outside, and the air inside was warm and sweet and full of the lingering adrenaline between you.
Stiles lay half on top of you, half beside you, one arm braced awkwardly near your head, the other somewhere on the seat because he genuinely didn’t seem to know where to put it. His buzzed hair was a mess again. His cheeks were flushed. His breathing was uneven in that adorable ‘trying to pull myself together’ way.
“Wow,” he said softly, blinking at the ceiling of the Jeep like it had personally changed his life.
You laughed, brushing your fingers gently over his forehead. “Yeah. Wow.”
He swallowed, his eyes darting anywhere but yours. To your face, the window, the car ceiling, your lips, and then immediately away from your lips like they were radioactive.
“You…you keep doing that,” he mumbled.
“Doing what?” you teased, tracing your fingertips down the side of his neck.
“That.” His voice cracked. “Being…like this.”
“Like what?”
“Like, into me.” He said it like it was a foreign language.
You felt your chest warm. “Stiles. I literally climbed into your car to have my way with you until your windows steamed up.”
“Yeah, but, like, on purpose.” He sat up slightly. “That’s wild.”
You gently pulled him down for a soft, slow kiss. It was sweet and unhurried. The kind that made your stomach flip in a different way. Stiles melted into it, then immediately shot up again like he remembered something embarrassing.
“Oh my God. My car, my jersey, I probably smell like…like locker room death!”
“Relax,” you laughed, pushing lightly at his chest. “You smell good. And you look cute.”
He blushed all the way to his ears. “Cute?” He repeated it like it was a holy word.
“Very.”
He tried to get off the back seat gracefully. He failed spectacularly. His foot got caught in the strap of his duffel bag and he pitched sideways into the front seat console with a loud clunk.
“Ow, okay. No, I’m good, I’m good,” He scrambled up, knocking something else over. A water bottle rolled, hit the door, and fell onto the floor of the car.
You pressed a hand over your mouth to keep from laughing too loudly. “You okay?”
“I’m fine,” he said quickly, rubbing his elbow. “Totally fine. Not in pain. Definitely not in pain. I’m…I’m gonna drive you home now.”
“Okay,” you giggled, sliding out of the back seat.
You climbed into the passenger seat, still a little breathless, still a little flushed. Stiles started the Jeep, cleared the fogged windshield with his sleeve (somehow making it worse), and finally got the wipers to do their job.
He was still nervous. But something in him had shifted. There was a warmth now. A glow of confidence under all the fluster. He tapped the radio on. Fleetwood Mac filled the Jeep - ‘Dreams’ drifting softly through the speakers.
You blinked. “You like Fleetwood Mac?”
Stiles glanced at you, surprised. “Uh, obviously. I’m not a monster.”
You grinned. “I love them.”
His shoulders relaxed. “Yeah?”
“Especially their Rumours album.”
Stiles’ mouth slowly curved into a smile you hadn’t seen before. It was shy, but proud. “Okay hold on, wait, what else do you listen to?”
“Dad rock,” you admitted. “My parents raised me on classic rock and 80s hits.”
Stiles slapped the steering wheel lightly. “No. No way. I thought you were like, top forty hyperpop, or whatever Lydia listens to.”
“I mean I like that too,” you said. “But I love the old stuff.”
He turned down the music just a little. “Name your top three.”
“Bon Jovi, Nirvana, some Lana.”
Stiles’ jaw dropped. “Bon Jovi? You like Bon Jovi?”
You raised a brow. “You don’t?”
“Oh my god, this is insane!” he muttered, shaking his head dramatically. “You’re like a sleeper nerd.”
You burst out laughing. “A sleeper nerd?”
“Yes. A nerd hiding in a popular girl’s body. A stealth nerd.”
“I’m not a nerd,” you insisted, still laughing.
“Really?” Stiles shot you a sideways look. “Because that’s what they all say before I find out they know every line to Star Wars.”
You froze. Then raised a slow eyebrow. “Does it have to be every line?”
Stiles gasped. Loudly. “NO.”
You bit your lip. “Yes.”
He threw his head back against the headrest. “Oh my GOD. You like Star Wars! This is…this is huge! This is like discovering a new species.”
You shoved his shoulder playfully. “Shut up.”
“No, I mean it,” he grinned. “I had no idea you were secretly cool.”
“Secretly?”
“I mean, you’re hot,” he said immediately, then panicked. “I mean like, obviously, you know that. Everyone knows that. BUT you’re also secretly cool and kind of a nerd and it’s honestly messing with my brain.”
Your heart fluttered and you looked at him and for the first time, the crush in your chest didn’t feel like just lust. It felt like interest. Connection. Something warmer, deeper, and sweeter.
You smiled. “Maybe you just never bothered to get to know me.”
Stiles’ voice softened. “I’m getting to know you now.”
———————————————————————
Stiles practically burst through his front door when he got home.
“Hey son, how was prac—”
“CAN’T TALK, DAD!” he yelped, sprinting past Sheriff Stilinski like he was escaping a crime scene.
He bolted upstairs, slammed his bedroom door, and immediately collapsed face-first onto his bed with a loud, muffled groan. It was the groan of a man who had just gotten everything he ever wanted and had no clue how to emotionally process it.
He lay there for a good ten seconds, kicking his legs like an overwhelmed Victorian maiden, before ripping his phone out of his pocket. He dialed Scott and his best friend picked up on the third ring, sounding tired. “Dude, it’s almost nine. What’s up?”
Stiles inhaled like he needed fresh oxygen to speak. “SCOTT.”
“…Stiles?”
“SCOTT.”
“Why are you yelling?”
“She kissed me.”
There was a pause. “Who kissed you?”
“She kissed me.” Another pause.
“…Stiles, you need to use a name. Preferably a real one.”
Stiles sat up, eyes wide and wild as he told Scott your name. “You know, Lydia’s best friend. The girl who wears lip gloss that costs more than my monthly car insurance. The girl who sits two rows ahead of you in Econ. The girl who is - objectively - way too hot to be seen with someone who collects limited edition Star Wars socks.”
Scott blinked audibly through the phone. “She kissed you?”
“YES.”
Scott’s voice softened, warm and supportive. “That’s great, man!”
Stiles choked. “It…it gets better.”
“Oh.” Scott hesitated. “Uh, define ‘better.’”
“She kissed me under the bleachers.”
“Okay…”
“She dragged me to my car.”
“Uh-huh…”
“And then we…We…” He violently flailed one hand in the air, even though Scott couldn’t see him. “WE DID…THINGS, SCOTT.”
“Oh my God, Stiles.”
“WE DID THINGS TWICE. This was the second time it happened.”
Scott made a strangled noise. “STILES.”
Stiles threw himself backward onto his pillows, kicking his feet in the air like a flustered hamster. “And she likes Fleetwood Mac, Scott. Fleetwood. Freaking. Mac.”
“Okay, cool—”
“And STAR WARS.”
“Everyone likes Star Wars.”
“No, Scott. She knows the lines.” He sat up, deadly serious. “She’s a total sleeper nerd.”
Scott paused. “…Whoa.”
“RIGHT?” Stiles stood up, started pacing. “She’s, like, the hottest girl in school, and she’s secretly a nerd and she likes me and she keeps kissing me and I don’t…Scott, I don’t know what to do with ANY of this information.”
“Stiles, it sounds like she just…likes you.”
Stiles froze mid-pace. His brain short-circuited. “No,” he said immediately, too quickly, voice cracking. “I physically can’t deal with that. I’m not…nope. That’s not…I don’t—”
Scott sighed. “Dude. You’re gone.”
“Gone where?” Stiles asked, panicked.
“Gone. Like…crushing. Hard.”
Stiles’ mouth opened, closed, opened again. “I, no, I don’t…Okay, I like her but not like…I mean, okay, I do like her but that’s only because she smells really good and laughs at my jokes and is secretly a nerd and has really nice…well, everything.”
“Stiles,” Scott interrupted gently. “I can hear you blushing through the phone.”
“What if she wants to do this again? What if she wants it to be like a regular things?” Stiles collapsed back onto the bed again with a loud dramatic groan. “Oh my god, Scott. I’m going to die.”
“You’re not.”
“I am. I am catastrophically unprepared for this.”
“Just…talk to her,” Scott said. “Hang out. Be honest. You don’t have to freak out.”
“I DO have to freak out,” Stiles shot back, gripping his pillow like it was a flotation device. “Because she…Scott, she kissed me like she meant it.”
There was a smile in Scott’s voice when he answered. “Well…maybe she did.”
Stiles went silent, his heart thundering as eyes wide. “…Holy crap.”
———————————————————————
It happened slowly, then all at once. A pattern formed between you and Stiles. A rhythm. A secret life you lived only with him. What started as desperate kisses and rushed hookups - stolen moments after school, under bleachers, in dark corners - turned into something else entirely. It became routine. Comfortable. Addicting.
You started meeting up without even needing to plan it. You’d text ‘hey’, and he’d reply ‘on my way’, and within ten minutes he’d be at your doorstep, half-panicked, half-excited, always breathless.
Sometimes it was at your place, sneaking him up to your room while your parents were at work. Sometimes at his house, while his dad worked late and Stiles pretended to do homework. Other times it was the back seat of the Jeep on a back road off the highway, windows down, wind blowing through your hair while Stiles kissed you like he couldn’t believe you were real. Once, it was on a blanket in the preserve under a sky full of stars - a moment that surprised both of you with how soft it felt, how slow, how unhurried.
And slowly, something shifted. Because it wasn’t always physical. There were days you two didn’t hook up at all. Days where you just…hung out. You watched movies together. Old ones he loved, new ones you made him watch. You talked for hours, lying upside down on his bed or sprawled on your carpet, laughing about the stupidest things.
You listened to music together, trading songs and arguing about which album was best. Little by little, you began to crave his presence, not just his touch. And he started relaxing around you. Getting funnier. Goofier. More Stiles. Before you even realised it, you and Stiles weren’t just sneaking around anymore. You were seeing each other. You were becoming something. Even if neither of you said it out loud.
The night it shifted fully, you were in the preserve again. You’d driven with him into the trees until the path grew narrow and the canopy blocked out most of the sky. The Jeep sat in the clearing, engine off, crickets humming around you. The two of you climbed into the back seat automatically, the same way you always did, but something felt different immediately.
Stiles looked at you like he was trying to memorise you. Not like he was nervous you’d disappear. Not like he was overwhelmed. Just…struck.
“You okay?” you whispered, brushing his hair back without thinking.
“Yeah,” he breathed. “I just…I like being here. With you.”
Your chest tightened in a way that scared you and thrilled you at the same time. You leaned in to kiss him, expecting the usual rush of heat, urgency, the frantic rhythm the two of you always fell into.
But Stiles kissed you slower. Softer. Like he had all the time in the world. His hand slid into your hair, fingertips brushing your scalp gently, sending a warm shiver down your spine. His other hand rested on your waist, steady and sure, guiding you closer instead of pulling frantically.
His lips moved with yours in perfect, tender sync. You melted. It wasn’t the familiar wildfire of wanting him. It was something deeper. You pulled back slightly, breath shaky, eyes meeting his in the dim light.
“Stiles…” you whispered, not even knowing what you were about to say.
He touched your cheek, thumb tracing along your jawline like he couldn’t help it. “I know,” he said softly. “Me too.”
You kissed him again, your fingers sliding into the hair at the base of his neck as he moved with you, warm and gentle and so heartbreakingly present. It felt less like hooking up. More like falling.
Your bodies found each other naturally, slowly, hands exploring with intention instead of urgency. His kisses trailed along your jaw, down your neck, and for once you didn’t feel rushed, or hidden, or like you had to stifle your breathing. You felt seen.
Stiles paused only to look at you again with the kind of look you usually avoided out of fear it would reveal too much. This time, you held it. Your hands rested on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart. He covered your hand with his own, fingers lacing with yours without hesitation. You’d never held hands during…this. But now, it felt like the most intimate thing you’d ever done together.
Everything between you moved gently - warm breath, warm skin, warm hands - like you were synced without needing to talk. And when you came together, it wasn’t rushed or chaotic. It wasn’t about desperation or thrill anymore. It was emotional. Connected. Equal. It was the kind of closeness that made your eyes sting in a way you didn’t dare acknowledge.
Stiles held you afterward, his arms wrapping around you, your cheek resting on his chest. His heart was still beating a little too fast, but steadier than usual. He stroked your back absentmindedly, like he was touching you just to reassure himself you were still there. You swallowed hard, overwhelmed by how safe it felt.
He whispered, almost too softly to hear. “This…feels different, right?”
You nodded against him. “Yeah,” you whispered. “It does.”
Stiles exhaled, shaky but hopeful, and pressed a kiss to the top of your head. Neither of you said the word for it. Neither of you dared to. But you both knew, it wasn’t just hooking up anymore. Not even close.
————————————————————
You didn’t even notice Lydia watching you at first. You were at your locker between classes, still a little dazed from the night before. The memory of Stiles’ hands on your waist in the back of the Jeep occupied the forefront of your mind - the slow, aching kisses that had made your chest tighten in a way you weren’t prepared for. You were smiling at your books like a complete idiot when a manicured hand slammed the locker door shut right in front of your face.
You jumped. Lydia stood there with her arms crossed, hip cocked, eyebrows raised like she had just solved a murder case.
“So,” she said. “You want to tell me why you smell like men’s deodorant? Specifically cheap men’s deodorant?”
Your heart stopped. “I…what? Lydia, I do not. That’s insane.”
She scoffed. “You’re a good liar, but you’re not that good. You’ve been hooking up with someone, and I wanna know who. Spill the beans.”
“There’s no one, Lydia.” You insisted, shaking your head.
“I know there is, so why don’t you just tell me?” Lydia scoffed.
Your stomach flipped. You forced a laugh, tried to look casual. “Why would you even assume there is anyone.”
“Come on.” Lydia leaned closer, lowering her voice. “You disappeared for all of lunch last week and when you finally got to English, you had closet hair. I’ve never seen you going to the library to ‘study’ this much in your life. You never answer your phone late at night anymore, and you’re always busy but you’re never doing anything.”
You touched your hair automatically. Damn her. She missed nothing.
“So?” she continued to prod sharply, “Come on, it’s not like it’s Stilinski, right, so how bad can it be?”
You froze. Lydia watched your face, saw the reaction, and her eyes widened. “Oh. My god. No! Stilinski? You are!”
“Lydia—” you began.
“You’re hooking up with Stiles Stilinski?”
You looked away, cheeks burning, and that was answer enough.
Lydia blinked at you like you’d just told her you were dating a garden shovel. “Why? He’s…he’s Stiles.”
Something ugly twisted inside you. Embarrassment, yes, but anger too. Shame. And suddenly you were ashamed of being ashamed. You straightened slowly. “And what exactly is wrong with Stiles?”
Lydia opened her mouth. You didn’t let her. “No, seriously. Tell me. What’s wrong with liking someone who’s smart and funny and actually treats me like I matter?”
Lydia looked startled. “I didn’t mean—”
“Yes, you did.” Your voice trembled, but you didn’t care. “And I’m really tired of pretending I don’t care about him just because you and Jackson think he’s some kind of loser.”
Her face tightened. “I just…don’t want you to tank your social life for someone who—”
“Someone who what? Isn’t Jackson?” you shot back. “Newsflash, Lydia, I don’t want someone like Jackson.” She flinched. You felt the hit land but couldn’t stop now. “I like him,” you said, soft but firm. “I like Stiles and I’m not embarrassed about it. Not anymore.”
Lydia stared at you, but for once, she had no quick reply. You turned on your heel before she could form one.
Stiles was at the end of the hallway, rummaging in his backpack like he was fighting with it. Scott was beside him chatting. A few other students walked past. Normal scene. Totally ordinary. Except everything inside you was rushing and roaring. Stiles looked up and froze when he saw you marching straight toward him.
“Uh, hi?” he said, voice squeaking in that adorable Stiles way.
You didn’t even slow down. You grabbed the front of his shirt, pulled him down, and kissed him full on the mouth right there in the crowded hallway. A wave of gasps rippled across the student body. Someone even dropped a binder with a loud BANG!
Stiles made a shocked little noise against your lips, then melted. Hands grasping your waist, pulling you closer, kissing you back like he’d been starved for days. When you finally pulled away, Stiles blinked rapidly, dazed and breathless.
“Wh—what? What is happening?” he whispered.
“I’m not hiding us anymore,” you murmured, brushing your thumb over his cheek. “If you still want this.”
His swallow was audible. His eyes were so wide and warm and stunned. “If I still want this?” He gave a helplessly smitten laugh. “I’ve been in, like, a constant state of cardiac arrest over you for weeks.”
You grinned, grabbed his hand. “Good,” you said softly. “Come on.”
Still in shock, Stiles let you drag him away down the hall, past the staring students, past Lydia frozen with her mouth slightly open, past everything. You didn’t look back. And Stiles didn’t stop smiling.
————————————————————
By the time the afternoon bell rang, the entire school knew. You and Stiles had kissed. Not just kissed, but kissed kissed, in full view of a hallway full of gossips and amateur Instagram detectives. Everywhere you walked, people whispered.
“Wait, her? And Stiles?”
“How did that even happen?”
“Well, good for him.”
“Did she lose a bet?”
“No way, I think she actually likes him.”
You squeezed Stiles’ hand tighter every time someone stared too long. He squeezed back, though his ears had been pink since third period.
“Are you okay?” you murmured as you walked toward the exit.
He inhaled sharply. “I’m either fine or I’m dying. Hard to tell. But I’m definitely holding your hand so that’s…winning.”
You bumped his shoulder with a smile. “You’re adorable.”
He made a little strangled sound but didn’t let go. You were two steps from the doors when someone grabbed your elbow and tugged you aside.
Lydia.
Stiles blinked, startled and wary. “Uh, I can wait over there? Or, like…pretend to be invisible? Which is my specialty.”
“It’s fine,” you said quickly, but Lydia’s expression was unreadable.
Stiles hesitated, then moved a few feet away. He was close enough to keep an eye on you, far enough to give you space. You turned to Lydia, already bracing.
“If you’re going to tell me how big of a mistake this is—”
“I’m not,” she cut in.
You froze. Lydia folded her arms, not defensive, just…small. “I’m here to apologize.”
That shut you up completely. Lydia looked down at her shoes before meeting your eyes again. “I was awful earlier. Judgmental and and honestly? Really rude.”
You blinked, thrown off balance. This was not the ambush you were prepared for.
She exhaled shakily. “I think I reacted that way because…I didn’t understand. And maybe because I’ve never seen you choose someone based on how he makes you feel, instead of how he makes you look.”
Your irritation softened a fraction.
“And Stiles…” Lydia shrugged helplessly. “He’s not what I imagined for you. But that doesn’t mean he’s wrong for you.”Her voice gentled. “I see the way he looks at you. Like you hung the moon. And I saw the way you looked at him today.” Lydia’s lips curved in a small, sad smile. “No one’s ever had you look that soft.”
Heat pricked the backs of your eyes unexpectedly.
“I’m sorry,” she said again, sincere and quiet.
You exhaled slowly, the tension leaving your shoulders. “I love you, Lydia. But you were being a bitch.”
Lydia nodded. “I know.”
“But,” you added, “I forgive you.”
That earned the faintest relieved smile. Lydia squeezed your hand. “Just…don’t get hurt, okay?”
“I won’t,” you said, and you meant it. You stepped away from her and walked back toward Stiles.
He perked up immediately, like a golden retriever waiting for permission to wag his tail. “Everything okay?” he asked softly.
“Yeah,” you said, threading your fingers through his again. “Everything’s perfect.”
His grin lit up his whole face as you pulled him with you out into the parking lot. The two of you no longer a secret, no longer hiding, and no longer pretending this was anything less than real.
