Dirty Little Secret
Stiles Stilinski x FemReader
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.
