ImagineThis&Imagine That

Buckle in this is a long one.

Number 1-The first time Stiles hid his feelings.

It wasn’t dramatic. That’s the worst part. No lightning strike. No music swelling in the background like the universe itself was nudging him in the ribs saying, hey idiot, this is it.

Werewolves were real, his best friend was one. Nothing made sense anymore. And yet— you were still there.

The night felt wrong around the two of you. Not just dark—wrong. Like the air itself was too tight in Stiles’ lungs, like every sound was enhanced. Branches snapped somewhere too close. The distant echo of something that might be Scott—or might not be Scott anymore.

“Scott!” Stiles shouted, voice cracking slightly as a figure disappeared into the trees. No answer. Of course no answer. Because this was insane. Because werewolves weren’t supposed to be real and yet here Stiles and y/n were—running through the Preserve in the middle of the night chasing their best friend who might just rip someone apart if they didn’t find him first.

“You see anything?” he called out to you, pivoting on the spot—

You were a little ahead of him now, pushing through branches without hesitation, like fear was something you decided not to entertain tonight. Your hair was already a mess, leaves caught in it, your breathing uneven but determined.

“Nothing,” you called back shaking your head, but you didn’t slow down. “He definitely came this way though—I heard something.”

Stiles swore under his breath and followed you immediately. He should have told you to stay back or even at home. He should have told you that this was too dangerous, that you shouldn’t be there, that this wasn’t your fight. But the words never came out.

The honest truth was… he didn’t want you anywhere else.

You had both found Scott eventually. Or something close to Scott. There was a moment—a split second—where everything went still. Scott stood in the clearing, shoulders tensed, back turned, breathing too heavy, too animal.

“Scott…” Stiles tried, softer this time, holding a hand out to support his friend.

You stepped forward before he could stop you.

“Hey,” you offered gently, like you were talking to someone who hadn’t just become something out of a nightmare. “It’s just us.”

Scott turned, and everything went wrong way too quickly. One second you’re stood there, calm, steady—The next, Scott lunged forwards before you could even blink.

“Move!” Stiles boomed over at you, trying to get to you in time—but you didn’t move fast enough. Neither did he.

You hit the ground hard, breath knocked out of you as claws caught your shoulder, not deep enough to be lethal, but enough to sting, enough to bleed.

“Hey! HEY!” Stiles yelled, grabbing Scott, pulling him back with more strength than he knew he had. “Scott, it’s us! It’s me!”

There was a struggle. A blur of movement. Scott shoved him off, bolting into the trees once again, gone before either of you could react, a cloud of silence crashed in after him. Stiles didn’t even realise he was moving until he was on his knees next to you.

“Hey—hey—are you—” his voice stumbled over itself, hands hovering like he didn’t know where to touch, what to fix first.

You let out a breath that turned into a shaky laugh whilst you were mumbling out profanities.

Your shoulder was burning, dirt was smudged across your skin, hair completely wrecked, sticking out in every direction like you had run headfirst into chaos and decided to stay there. There was blood. Not a lot. But enough to make Stiles’ face turn ghostly pale.

“You’re bleeding,” his voice cracked slightly, like you didn’t know.

“Wow, Stilinski, really earning that detective title tonight, nothing gets past you huh” And there it was. That stupid, sarcastic tone. That you-ness. Even now in a moment of crisis.

You pushed yourself up slightly, wincing, brushing dirt off your hands like this was just another inconvenience, like this night wasn’t completely bonkers.

Stiles just… gawped at you. The fear. The adrenaline. The wind still echoing through the trees. All of it faded. And it was just you. You, sat there in the middle of the woods, scratched up and messy and breathing a little too hard—but still cracking jokes, still looking at him like he was something steady to hold onto. And something hit him.

Hard. Not gentle. Not subtle. It crashed into him like a epiphany he should have had a long time ago. This was it. This. You. Covered in dirt. Injured. Still choosing to run into danger with him instead of away from it. He had feelings for you. What?-

“Oh,” Stiles breathed, his mouth falling into a small ‘O’ as his brain re-wired in front of you.

You tilted your head slightly. “What?”

He didn’t answer. Because how was he supposed to explain this? How was he supposed to tell you that somewhere between shouting your name in the dark and watching you hit the ground, something inside him shifted into place in a way that made everything else feel… irrelevant?

That he was looking at you right then and there—and he knew.. He knew.

“I—uh—” he scrambled, forced himself to look away, grabbing onto something normal, something safe. “We should—clean that up. Probably. Before you, you know, scar dramatically and then blame me forever.”

You snorted softly. “Bold of you to assume I won’t blame you anyway.” And you reached for him. Not even thinking about it. Your hand brushed his wrist as you steadied yourself, balancing yourself on him like it was instinct.

Stiles froze for half a second. Your touch— It had always been there. But now it felt different, suddenly now it meant something. Now it was something. That terrified him more than the werewolf currently running loose in the woods. So he did what he had always done. He leant into the familiar.

“Yeah, okay, that’s fair” he muttered, helping you up, keeping his grip on you for just a second longer than necessary before letting go. You were still looking at him like he was just Stiles. Just your best friend. Not the idiot who had just realised that he’d always been completely, hopelessly—

He swallowed hard, he’d rather have you in his life as his best friend as opposed to not having you in his life at all.

So he buried those feelings deep down.

Like it had never happened.

Number 2-The Crash Reunion

There was a quiet understanding that things weren’t the same anymore after Jackson had left for London—Scott and Allison carefully avoided each other, something broken lingering between them that no one quite knew how to fix. Stiles was driving. Talking. Rambling. Filling the silence like he always did. Scott was only half-listening, staring out the window, his thoughts lost entirely when they pulled up at a red light.

A car rolled up beside them. Stiles knew that you were back before he even saw you. Lydia’s car. Stiles glanced over without thinking. Sure enough there you were In the back seat. You were laughing—really laughing this time, head tipped back slightly, one hand resting against the seat as you leaned forward between Lydia and Allison like you belonged right there in the middle of everything.

Stiles suddenly forgot how to function. Because he hadn’t seen this version of you yet. Not fully. Not like this. The moon hitting your face just right, catching on to your skin, your hair, the curve of your smile. The idea of you consuming him all over again.

You turned your head and saw him. Everything softened. Your expression shifted instantly, like some invisible thread had tugged you toward him without you even realising it. You leaned slightly toward the window, tapping lightly against the glass with your knuckle.

Stiles rolled his window down without thinking. Your smile widened. There was that feeling again. That lock in his lungs. The light was still red. Too long. Not long enough. He didn’t know which. Then it happened. The sound came out of nowhere. A violent crash of glass and metal and something too sudden to process. The deer hit Lydia’s windshield with a force that made everything lurch—

“Shit—!” Stiles didn’t need to think. Neither did Scott. The door of the jeep was open before the car had even fully stopped. The two boys were already moving. Already running. Already there. Your door was yanked open so fast it nearly rebounded.

“Are you okay?” he demanded, breath uneven, hands already on you—your shoulders, your arms, your face—checking, searching, making sure that you weren’t hurt. Scott checked Allison and Lydia from head to toe as they tried to catch their breaths after the unified scream you had all just let out.

You blinked at him wide-eyed, stunned, adrenaline still catching up.

“I—yeah—I think—Stiles—”

“You’re okay” he muttered, more to himself than to you, he needed to hear it out loud to believe it. Your hand came up, instinctively wrapping around his wrist.

“Stiles.” Softer this time. He stilled. Finally looked at you properly. You were little shaken, a little breathless. But okay. A soft laugh escaped your throat, one that said you couldn’t believe this was happening. That sound did something to him.

Lydia’s worried voice carried across the road first, sharp and alert. Then Allison’s softer voice, quieter than it used to be—like something had dimmed after everything with Scott.

Stiles did the only thing he knew how to do. He stepped back to give you some room. Put space where he didn’t want there to be any. Stiles didn’t expect it to effect him like that. He moved back slightly to lean against Lydia’s car , mid-rant to Scott about how nothing can ever be straight forwards in Beacon Hills. Your best friend stalled with his words as his eyes wandered back over to you, his eyes never leaving you as you gave the girls a reassuring hug.

You looked the same. That’s what got him. Same face. Same eyes. Same you. But also… not.

There was something different in the way you held yourself, you had grown into your own skin over the summer. Going to France with Allison had given you something you hadn’t had before—confidence, maybe. Or maybe you had always had it, and now it just… showed. You laughed at something Lydia said, tucking your hair behind your ears.

“Dude” Scott said slowly, following his gaze.

“I’m fine” Stiles said immediately, the crack in his voice betraying him. He was not fine.

“So, did you miss me then?” you asked as you approached the two, nudging his shoulder like no time had passed at all. Greeting him properly after what had just happened.

And Stiles—who had spent the entire summer trying not to think about you like that, or miss you like that, trying not to replay every little moment—grinned like nothing had changed.

“Obviously not” he said.

And ignored the way his heart was trying to claw its way out of his body.

Number 3: The Jealousy He Pretended Wasn’t There

“Tell me why Isaac specifically wants her help again?” Stiles mumbled, as he pressed his forehead against the inside of his locker hoping that maybe the cold metal would knock some sense back into him. Stiles was going to kill Isaac. Not actually. Probably. But the thought was very… present.

He could hear the two of you. That was the problem. Not clearly— but just enough. Your laugh echoing faintly down the hall, light and easy in a way that made him nervous. Scott shifted beside him, leaning casually against the lockers like this was a normal conversation and not the beginning of Stiles losing his mind.

“They’re just talking”Scott offered, far too calm for someone witnessing this slow mental breakdown in real time.

“I have eyes. I can see,” Stiles muttered, slamming his locker shut harder than necessary before crossing his arms tightly over his chest, like physically holding himself together. Scott followed his line of sight. And yeah—there you were.

Fumbling around with the lockers, one shoulder relaxed, head tilted slightly as you listened to Isaac. There was something easy about the way you stood there, comfortable, like this wasn’t new.

Stiles didn’t like that. Didn’t like that at all.

“You look like you want to explode his head”Scott said, not even bothering to hide the amusement creeping into his voice.

“I’m trying to”Stiles replied flatly. Isaac was standing way too close. That was the issue. Not the talking. Not the laughing. The distance, or lack of it.

Isaac stood casually against the locker beside you, one arm braced above your shoulder, not quite boxing you in—but close enough that it made Stiles’ jaw tighten. And then you laughed again. That laugh. That specific one. The one that came out when you weren’t even trying, when something genuinely amused you.

Stiles swallowed hard. That was his. Not in a possessive way. He wasn’t like that. It was just… historical. He had earned that laugh. He knew how to pull it out of you when no one else could. He knew the exact tone to use, the exact timing, the exact look to get that reaction.

So why was Isaac—

“I’m not jealous,” Stiles decided quickly, like he needed to get ahead of the accusation before Scott could even think it. “I’m being absolutely reasonable.” Scott didn’t say anything. Which somehow made it worse.

“Man, he is basically undressing her with his eyes,” Stiles continued, voice dropping lower, more irritated with every word. “He always does that.”

“Stiles—”

“Isaac doesn’t seem just friendly with her.”

Because that’s what this was, right? Friendly. That’s all you and Isaac were. It had to be. Because anything else— Stiles’ body shivered at the thought so sharply it almost knocked the breath out of him. He watched as Isaac said something quieter this time, you rolling your eyes in response.

Your hand came up absentmindedly, lightly pushing his arm away with a small, unimpressed shake of your head.

“Don’t you have better things to do, like avoiding the full moon?” you said, voice laced with that familiar annoyance you only used when someone was toeing the line.

Isaac smirked, completely unfazed. “Not really. You’re kind of my favorite distraction.”

Stiles’ fists curled up into balls by his sides, something ugly twisted low in his stomach. Not anger. Something worse. Something quieter.

“See?” Stiles muttered to Scott, gesturing vaguely in your direction. “That’s not normal. That’s not—he doesn’t talk to people like that unless—”

“Unless what?” Scott asked carefully.

Stiles opened his mouth. Closed it again. He didn’t have an answer he was willing to say out loud. Instead, he dragged a hand down his face, exhaling sharply.

“Forget it.” But he didn’t forget it. He kept watching. Watched the way you rolled your eyes at Isaac but didn’t walk away. Watched the way Isaac leaned in again, softer this time, like he was trying to keep your attention.

“Why don’t you just tell her how you feel?” Scott mumbled next to Stiles.

“Nope, not another word from you McCall”Stiles warned, holding his pointed finger up.

“I think you would be pleasantly surprised by her rea-“ Scott opened his mouth again, knowingly.

“Not another word”Stiles interrupted his best friend not wanting to hear the end of his sentence.

Stiles wanted to walk over there. He wanted to hold your hand, pull you away, drag you back into his orbit where things made sense again. Where you were his again. Not in the way his brain tried to immediately reject—but in the way things had always been. You and him. Side by side. Close. Untouchable by anyone else. But he didn’t move. You looked… okay. You looked like you were choosing to be there.

He bumped into you by your locker later that afternoon after class, alone this time. Which should have made things easier. It didn’t.

“Be honest,” Stiles started, leaning casually against the locker next to yours like this was a normal conversation and not something he’d been overthinking for the past forty minutes. “Is he uh-funnier than me?”

You didn’t need to turn around to see that it was Stiles, a small smile started to play on your lips, you didn’t even have to look up at first, shoving a book into your bag with a quiet content hum.

“Everyone’s funnier than you” you lied, completely deadpan.

Stiles scoffed. “Wow. Okay. Rude. Inaccurate, but rude.”

You glanced at him then, a smirk tugging at the corner of your mouth like you were trying not to give him the satisfaction. God, he hated it.

“You were smiling at him” Stiles said, like it meant something. Like it should mean something.

You blinked, genuinely confused. “Yeah? That’s what you do in a conversation. You smile.”

“Not like that.” He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair, already regretting opening his mouth. “Forget it. It’s stupid.”

You studied him now properly. Your head tilted slightly, eyes narrowing just enough to make his stomach churn.

“…You’re annoyed.”

“Nope” he said too quickly.

“You so are.”

“I’m not.”

“You totally are”you insisted, stepping a little closer, searching his face in a way that made it impossible to hide behind sarcasm. “What’s the problem? Who has upset you today?”you questioned.

He hesitated. Just for a minute, everything sat right there. All of it. The jealousy. The confusion. The way his ribs felt too tight every time a male got too close to you. The way he didn’t know what to do with it.

“You just—” he started, then stopped, frustrated. “You don’t have to help him, y’know.”

Your expression shifted slightly. “It’s a full moon, Stiles.”

“I know that.”

“Then you know what happens if he doesn’t stay in control, they all need help tonight and if you haven’t noticed the pack has been spread quite thin recently.”

“I do,” he snapped, then immediately softened, dragging a hand down his face. “I thi—look, there are other people who could help him”

“Interesting point, like who?”

He didn’t answer. Honestly, he didn’t want anyone helping Isaac, he didn’t trust him. Especially not with you.

“You’re acting weirder than usual, I’m concerned” you said quietly.

“I’m not.”

“You are, let me take your temperature or something”

“I’m not, I’m fine!” he protested , voice rising slightly before he forced it back down.

Silence settled between the two of you and you ogled at him for a second longer than necessary. Stiles thought you might see it. Really see it. See past the sarcasm, past the deflection, past the irritation. See the truth sitting right underneath it all. But then you exhaled, shaking your head slightly. Rolling your eyes like he was just being grumpy. Like this was just Stiles being Stiles.

And everything stayed exactly the same.

Even though—

For him— Nothing felt the same at all.

“I think that you’re the funniest human on this earth Stiles Stilinski, nobody could ever compete with you”your voice lowered into a gentle hushed tone that only he could hear as you squeezed his hand. Sending chills up his spine.

“Now eat something before you pass out, you get all moody when you’re hungry”you flashed him a loving goodbye grin as he peered down at his hands where your hands sat seconds earlier. All that remained was his favourite chocolate bar.

He tried to fight back the small smile that was creeping onto his face.

Number 4: The fear that nearly broke him

The plan was already falling apart.

Not in a loud, obvious way—in the quiet, insidious way where nothing quite lined up anymore, where every step felt just slightly off, the building itself was shifting beneath your feet and swallowing the edges of your control.

Eichen House didn’t feel like somewhere you could win.

It felt like somewhere you all survived—if all of you were lucky enough. The air was thick, sterile but somehow still suffocating, humming faintly with something electrical and gas, like the walls themselves were alive and watching.

But then you saw her. The girl you had all come for, the reason why you were at Eichen house in the first place.

“Lydia—” The name left your lips before you even realised you’d spoken. Down the corridor, under flickering fluorescent lights that buzzed overhead like dying insects, two orderlies were dragging her—your Lydia—half-limp, her body barely responsive, her head lolling slightly with each step she wasn’t fully there. Something in your head snapped so fast it didn’t even feel like a decision. You ran, more like sprinted. Your trainers hit the floor hard, echoing down the corridor, breath catching somewhere between panic and adrenaline as your entire focus narrowed down to one thing—her.

“Hey!” your voice rang out, sharper now, louder, desperate. “Leave her alone you creeps!”

They didn’t stop. Didn’t even hesitate. And that was it. That was all it took. You pushed harder, faster, closing the distance between you and them—and then—

The gate. It came into your peripheral vision too late. Metal bars. Thick. Industrial. Locked. A barrier, your brain didn’t process it as one. Lydia was right there, you could still reach her. Because you were so close—

Your hand lifted instinctively, fingers stretching toward the bars, and in that fraction of a second— Everything sharpened. The cold air against your skin. The faint hum in the walls, louder now, vibrating through your bones in a way that should have warned you. Your pulse hammering in your ears, too fast, too loud. Your thoughts flickering—not fully forming, but there—Something’s wrong.

Behind you— “Y/N DON’T!”

Stiles. His voice cut through everything. Sharp and panicked and a little too late.

“Don’t touch the—”

Your fingers closed around the metal. And for one suspended, impossible second—There was nothing. No pain. No sound. Just a strange, hollow stillness—like the world had inhaled and forgotten how to breathe. Then it hit. Not like a shock. It flooded you. A violent, invasive surge that tore through your body with a force so overwhelming your brain couldn’t process it properly. Your muscles locked instantly, every nerve firing at once, misfiring, overloading—your body no longer yours.

The pain wasn’t just pain. It was everywhere. A searing, blinding intensity that felt like it was crawling under your skin, threading through your veins, wrapping around your spine and squeezing—Your jaw clenched so hard it hurt. Your vision blew out white at the edges, flickering violently like a broken light. You couldn’t breathe. Not because you forgot—but because your body wouldn’t let you. A strangled sound tore from your throat, something between a gasp and a scream, cut short by the current still surging through you. Your thoughts fragmented.

Let go.

You tried. God, you tried to let go but your muscles wouldn’t listen. Your fingers were locked in place, gripping the bars like they had fused there, your entire body trembling violently as the electricity tore through you again—

And again—

And again—

Time stretched. Warped. Every second dragged. And distantly—You felt it. Your brain. Struggling. Overheating. Like something inside your skull was flickering in and out, struggling to keep up with the overload. Your vision blurred completely now, edges melting into nothing, the world collapsing into sound and sensation and pain. You were gone.

For Stiles— Everything slowed. He saw it. All of it. The exact second your hand touched the gate. The way your body went rigid. The way your head snapped back, mouth opening in a sound he couldn’t hear over the rush of blood pounding in his ears.

“No—no, no, no” The words fell out of him, breathless, broken. The electricity surged through you, lighting you up in a way that made his stomach drop so violently it felt like he might throw up right there— then you were lifted. Thrown back like you weighed nothing. Your body slammed against the wall with a sickening crack before dropping. Hard.

Still. You were too still. Too quiet. Too—Not moving.

Stiles didn’t think. Didn’t process. Didn’t breathe. One second Theo was in front of him—talking, planning, saying something that didn’t matter—and the next—

“Move!” Stiles shoved him so hard it sent him stumbling back, his entire body already moving before his brain could catch up. Nothing else existed anymore. Not the plan. Not Lydia. Not the building. Just you. On the floor. He dropped to his knees beside you so fast it jarred through his bones, hands already reaching for you—your face, your shoulders, your neck—checking, searching, you were still warm.

“Hey—hey—no, no, no—” his voice cracked violently, completely unsteady as he lifted your head into his lap, fingers shaking as they brushed over your cheeks, your jaw, your hair. “Hey, come on—come on, you don’t get to do this, okay? You don’t get to just—just—”

Your eyes were closed. Your chest— He couldn’t tell.

“Y/n Breathe,” he whispered urgently, leaning over you, his forehead nearly pressing against yours as his voice broke. “Come on, breathe, I know you can hear me—just—just breathe, okay? Please—please—”

His hands were trembling so badly he could barely keep them steady against your face. Instinct took over before logic could catch up.

“Don’t do this,” he choked, panic bleeding through every word. “Don’t you dare do this to me, you hear me?” Your body twitched. A sharp, involuntary jerk, your muscles still reacting, electricity still echoing through you in small, violent pulses. And it made his stomach drop even further.

“SCOTT!” Stiles shouted, voice tearing out of him. “Scott?!, Malia?! I need you now someone- PLEASE!” But he didn’t look away. Couldn’t. His entire world was sitting in his lap, barely conscious, barely there—

“Hey,” he pleaded again, softer now, voice wrecked, thumb brushing under your eye as if he could coax you back. “Hey, come on… open your eyes. Just—just look at me, okay? That’s all you have to do. Just—look at me.”

Your lashes fluttered. Barely. Stiles sucked in a sharp, broken breath.

“There we go—yeah, yeah, that’s it,” he rushed, his voice shaking as your eyes cracked open. “Stay with me y/n. Don’t—don’t check out on me now—”

“Stiles…” your voice was barely there, rough, strained, like it hurt to even speak, your mouth was starting to pool with blood.

“I don’t understand, why were you here on this side of the building… this wasn’t part of the plan!?” he demanded, the panic still seeping into every word despite himself.

You blinked slowly, disoriented. “You have no business asking me that question… why are you here on this side of the building?”

‘I came for you’ He didn’t say it.

“Now is not the time for your sarcasm and sass” he shook his head instead, voice unsteady.

“There’s always time for sarcasm”you choked weakly.

His hands—shaking, traitorous—found yours, rubbing warmth back into your fingers like he could undo what just happened, like he could erase the seconds where he thought—

“You’re pretty annoying” he muttered, voice rough, uneven as he tried to keep you awake.

You let out the faintest breath of a laugh. “Oh my god… you think I’m pretty Stilinski?”

“And that’s the annoying part” he shot back automatically. But his grip didn’t loosen. Didn’t even consider it. Your body was still twitching beneath him, small, residual shocks running through you, your consciousness slipping in and out like it couldn’t settle.

“Hey—no, no—stay with me,” he said briskly as your eyes started to drift again, terror flaring. “Don’t—don’t do that. Not right now. You can pass out later, okay? You can sleep for like twelve hours, I’ll even let you use my special pillow, just—not right now.” His voice split again.

“You don’t get to leave me like this” he whispered as he carefully, urgently, slid one arm under your knees and the other behind your back, lifting you up like you might crumble if he wasn’t cautious. Your body jerked weakly in his arms, another small shake running through you, your head falling slightly against his shoulder.

You let out a loud sob, one that was followed by your uncontrollable cries.

“I know it hurts, I know,” he murmured quickly, pulling you closer instinctively, one hand coming up to cradle the back of your head. “I’ve got you sweetheart. I’ve got you, okay? You’re fine. You’re fine.”

You weren’t.

He knew that. He needed you to hear it anyway.

“Scott!” he called out again, louder now, already moving toward the exit. “We’re done! Get Lydia out—we’re done!” There was no hesitation. No discussion. He adjusted his hold when your body convulsed again, his grip tightening just slightly, his thumb brushing absently against your arm like he needed constant reassurance you were still there.

“Stay with me,” he muttered again, softer now, begging. “Just stay with me a little longer.” Your fingers trembled weakly against his shirt. And he held onto that. Held onto you. All the way back to the jeep.

Number 5: The Argument That Meant Too Much

Something was building, like the walls themselves were waiting for something to snap. Outside, the wind dragged low through Beacon Hills, carrying that hollow, unnatural sound that had started creeping into everything lately—the kind that reminded you just how easily people could vanish now.

Ghost Riders. People disappearing, gone without a trace. And you weren’t going to sit back and let that happen to Stiles. Which was exactly why Stiles was pacing like he was trying to outrun his own thoughts.

“You’re going to get yourself killed this time,” Stiles snapped, voice sharp, fraying at the edges in a way that told you this wasn’t just anger. “You are most definitely not coming.”

“Oh, that’s so incredibly rich coming from you.” You let out a sharp, disbelieving laugh, folding your arms over your chest as you leaned back against the table behind you.

“This isn’t about me.”

“It’s always about you when you’re acting like this!”

“Acting like what?” he fired back immediately, turning on you, his frustration visible now in the tight set of his jaw, the way his hands flexed at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them.

“Like you’re the only one allowed to care!” you shot back, stepping forward without thinking, your voice rising. “Like you’re the only one who gets to decide who’s in danger and who isn’t.”

“That’s not what I’m doing—”

“That’s exactly what you’re doing,” you cut in, your patience snapping. “You don’t get to make that call for me, Stiles.”

He dragged a hand through his hair, sharper this time, like it physically hurt.

“Why do I always have to be the rational one?” you continued, the frustration spilling over now, but something else creeping in underneath it—something tighter, something more fragile. “Why do I always have to stand back and watch you run headfirst into something insane while I just sit here and hope you come back?”

“You don’t have to—”

“I also want to be irrational every once in a while!” you snapped, your voice cracking just slightly. “I want to help. I want to be there. I want to do something.” You took a breath— And it caught. Just for a second. Small. Barely noticeable. But Stiles saw it. He always saw it now.

“You can’t even go ten minutes without your hands shaking,” he said before he could stop himself, the words sharper than he meant them to be, edged with fear. “You think I haven’t noticed the tremors? You think I don’t see the way you—”

You froze. Because that hit somewhere you didn’t want it to.

“That’s not—” you started, but your voice faltered, and you hated that it did. Because it was true. Your body hadn’t been the same since Eichen.

Sometimes your fingers started to shake when you were still. Sometimes your heart stopped out of nowhere. Sometimes your body felt like it lagged half a second behind your brain. You refused to let that define you, in fact you tried to ignore it.

“That was one time,” you said instead, forcing your voice steady. “I’m fine.”

“You are not fine,” Stiles said immediately, stepping closer, his voice lower now but more intense. “You haven’t been fine since Eichen house”

“You don’t get to say that,” you snapped, something defensive flashing across your face. “You don’t get to decide that for me.”

“I’m not deciding anything, I’m seeing it,” he shot back, frustration and fear tangling together. “You think I don’t notice when you go quiet? Or when you freeze up for a second like your body just checks out on you? C’mon don’t underestimate our friendship like that”

Your jaw clenched. Because he was right. And you despised that he was right. You and Stiles had rarely fought in the whole eleven years that the two of you had been best friends so when you did, it was serious.

“I was trying to save Lydia!” you declared, grasping for something solid.

“And you almost got yourself killed doing it!” he snapped, louder now, his voice cracking on the last word. “You weren’t breathing. You weren’t moving. I thought—four weeks y/n, you were in hospital for four weeks!” He stopped. Swallowed it down.

“This isn’t the same” you said, quieter now, but stubborn.

“No, it’s worse” he muttered. “Because now I know what it looks like when you don’t come back right away.”

“You think this is easy for me?” you questioned, your voice softer now, but heavier, like something was finally slipping through. “You think that I enjoy standing there watching you put yourself in danger over and over again?”

He stilled. That—he hadn’t expected.

“You think I don’t see it either?” you continued, stepping closer again, your frustration shifting into something sharper, more exposed. “The way you run toward things without thinking? The way you act like you’re expendable?”

“I don’t—”

“You do,” you cut in, your voice tightening. “I can’t stand it.” Stiles blinked at you like he was trying to catch up, like the conversation had suddenly shifted into something he didn’t recognise.

“I hate that you think you’re the one who has to fix everything,” you added, quieter now, but more intense. “I hate that you don’t even consider what happens if something goes wrong. What if the ghost riders take you? What happens if I can’t remember you???”

“What happens, if I forget everything Stiles Stilinski?”

He stared at you. Really stared this time. This wasn’t just you being stubborn. This wasn’t just you pushing back. This was something else. Something deeper.

“You could get hurt,” you said, and there it was—your voice catching, just slightly, but enough. “Or worse. And then what? I just move on? Pretend that doesn’t—”

You stopped yourself. Oh the way your words had stumbled. The way your composure had cracked just enough to let something real slip through.

And it surprised him. You were never the one who broke first. You were the steady one. The one who held everything together. But right now—You looked frightened.

For him.

The room went still. Stiles didn’t know what to do with that. Didn’t know what to do with the way your voice broke when you said it. Didn’t know what to do with the way you were looking at him like—Like losing him would shatter you into tiny pieces. This wasn’t just frustration.

This wasn’t just fear. This was—

Love.

“You will get a headache if you think too hard” he deflected, the sarcasm weaker this time, rougher, like it didn’t quite land the way it usually did.

“I’m just thinking about all the times I want to strangle you.” You stared at him, unimpressed, but softer now.

“What’s stopping you?” he shot back automatically, clinging to the familiar rhythm.

“The law, I guess.”you tutted out. There was a pause. Your hand fluttered slightly at your side again. Stiles noticed. Of course he did.

“You annoy me terribly y/n, but you’re my best friend”

“Oh please,” you added, quieter now. “I’m not nearly as annoying as I could be.” You tried to change the topic of conversation so he wouldn’t notice your nervous tics.

Stiles looked at you then. Really looked. The tension in your shoulders. At the way your voice had shifted. At the way you had just—Protected him.

You met his gaze.

“I just- I need to know that you’ll be okay, for certain”he pleaded.

“I will be”you nodded quickly.

He shook his head. “That’s not good enough.”

“What do you want me to say, Stiles?” you asked, almost tired now. “That nothing’s going to happen? Because that’s not how it works.”

“I know,” he muttered.

“Can you promise me that you’ll be okay?”you shot back, eager for a response.

“I don’t know” He stopped. That wasn’t what you wanted. Not really. But neither of you said anything else. And just like that— It ended. Not resolved. Not fixed.

Just… buried.

Like everything else between you.

The One Time He Didn’t

Lydia’s room was warm. Not just physically—but in that cozy, lived-in way that came from too many blankets, too many bodies piled onto one bed, and the low hum of a show playing in the background that none of you were really paying full attention to anymore.

You were sprawled across the edge of the bed, half tangled in the duvet, your head resting near Malia’s legs while Lydia sat propped up against the headboard, remote in hand, completely in control of the room like always. The glow from the TV flickered across the walls, shadows dancing lazily as the episode reached whatever dramatic peak Lydia had insisted you had to stay awake for.

You were barely holding on. Eyes heavy. Body still not fully your own some days. But comfortable. Safe. Your phone buzzed and the sound cut through the room sharply, out of place against the background noise. You frowned slightly, shifting just enough to grab it from where it rested beside you, the screen lighting up your face in the dim room.

Scott.

“Scott?”

There was wind on the other end. And movement. Faint but also loud music in the background.

“Hey Y/N, I am so sorry but I’m gonna need you to come get Stiles please” Scott said, slightly breathless, his voice strained in a way that immediately had you sitting up straighter.

Your brows knitted together. “What—what do you mean? Where are you? Is he okay?”

“He’s—he’s drunk” Scott admitted, like it was both obvious and also not the main problem. “Like, really drunk. I’m on the bike tonight, I would but I can’t take him, and he definitely can’t drive.”

You were already moving. Already swinging your legs off the bed, pushing yourself up despite the faint protest in your muscles.

“I’m coming, give me twenty minutes” you said immediately, not even questioning it.mYou hung up before Scott could say anything else, already reaching for your hoodie, your car keys, your shoes—movements automatic, muscle memory, like you’d done this a hundred times before.

“Where are you going? It’s just getting to the good bit” Lydia questioned, sitting up as she paused the show, her tone laced with mild annoyance but her eyes already sharper, already reading the shift in you.

“There is a princess in distress,” you said, voice tired but amused, tugging your hoodie over your head as you moved quickly around the room. “And I must go and save her.”

Malia huffed from the bed, rolling onto her side with a look that said she’d already figured it out before you even finished the sentence.

“Stiles.”

“Weren’t they at a party tonight?” Lydia asked, though it wasn’t really a question. She already knew the answer.

“Indeed they were” you replied, grabbing your keys from the dresser. Lydia’s gaze lingered on you for a moment too long before she tilted her head slightly, something knowing settling into her expression.

“Why won’t you just tell him already?”

You froze. Only for a second. You turned slowly, forcing a confused expression onto your face like you hadn’t just been called out with terrifying accuracy.

“Tell him what?”

Lydia raised an eyebrow.

“You know what” she accused, voice calm, deliberate, like she was giving you one last chance to not play dumb.

“Do I even want to ask what?” you deflected, grabbing your bag and slinging it over your shoulder, avoiding her gaze now.

“That you’re in love with the boy,”Malia joined in from the bed, completely unbothered, like she was commenting on the weather. “Like Notebook, Titanic, deep in love with Stiles Stilinski” she added.

You choked. Actually choked. On air. On nothing. On the truth sitting too close to the surface.

“I—what—no—” you sputtered, completely losing your usual composure for a second, your brain scrambling to catch up. “That’s—dramatic. That’s incredibly dramatic.”

Malia blinked at you, unimpressed. “It’s accurate.”

“It is not” you shot back immediately, your voice just a little too cutting.

“You got up before Scott even finished his sentence,” she interjected as she bit her finger nail.

That made you pause. Just slightly.

“You didn’t ask where he was properly,” she continued. “You didn’t ask if someone else could get him. You didn’t hesitate.”

Your grip tightened slightly around your keys. Silence stretched for a second too long. You exhaled, shaking your head like you could physically push the conversation away.

“He’s my best friend,” you said finally, softer now, more controlled. “He needs help.”

“That’s not all it is, and you know it” Lydia replied gently. You didn’t answer. If you let yourself say it out loud—It would become real. And real meant everything would change.

“You look at him like you’d physically rip someone apart if they hurt him,” she added bluntly. Malia shifted slightly on the bed, propping herself up on one elbow, her gaze fixed on you.

You swallowed.

“I look at all of you like that,” you said, quieter now, but not entirely convincing.

“Not like that”Lydia said.

“I don’t have time for this,” you said with a finality that cut the conversation short as you moved toward the door. Lydia’s expression eased just slightly.

You paused at the door for half a second. Then you left.

Before they could say anything else.

-

The party was that kind of loud that blurred into one constant noise—music thumping through the walls, voices overlapping, laughter spilling into the night air like nothing in the world mattered. Stiles hated it tonight. Usually he could work with it—talk over it, joke through it, exist somewhere in the chaos without thinking too hard. However tonight— No matter how loud it got, it didn’t drown you out.

“You good?” Scott asked again, watching him carefully as Stiles braced himself against the side of the house now, red cup dangling loosely from his fingers.

“I’m fantastic,” Stiles responded, nodding like that proved something. “Never been better. Thriving. Emotionally stable.”

Scott didn’t even react to that one. Stiles took another drink anyway. It burned. He welcomed it. It dulled everything. Or at least it tried to.

“I can’t do this” he muttered under his breath, staring down at the ground like it might give him an answer.

Scott sighed softly beside him. “Yeah. I know.”

“I thought—” Stiles huffed out a breath, scrubbing a hand over his face. “I thought if I just got out, if I just… tried to move on or whatever—” He gestured vaguely toward the house behind them, where people were laughing and dancing and living like nothing hurt.

“It’d be easier,” he finished. Scott didn’t say anything. They both knew it wouldn’t be. Stiles let his head fall back against the wall, eyes closing briefly. It didn’t matter where he went. Who he talked to. How much he drank. It always came back to you. Always. And he was tired. Tired of fighting it. Tired of pretending it was something he could just switch off. Tired of acting like you weren’t… everything to him. Scott shifted beside him, pulling his phone out.

“I’m calling her.”

“Don’t—” Stiles’ eyes snapped open. Scott was already dialing. Stiles let out a long, defeated breath, tipping his head back again, staring up at the sky like it might offer him an escape route. You weren’t something he could avoid. You weren’t something he could replace. You weren’t something he could lose, either. He didn’t want to.

“She’s coming” Scott responded a minute later.

Stiles didn’t answer. He just let his head fall forward slightly, exhaling slowly. Of course you were, you always showed up.

Scott spotted you first trying to weave in and out of the crowd, giving you a small hug as you entered the garden. “He’s out here.”

You stepped outside fully, the cool night air hitting your skin as the noise of the party dulled behind you, your eyes scanning the yard until— Ah. There. Leaning against the side of the house. Messy. Slightly swaying. His brown hair was falling over his face from the lack of hair gel. You loved it when he had his hair like that.

“Stiles?”you called. His head turned. His face dropped. Not in disappointment. Not in frustration. Just… something else. His pupils dilated.

“There’s my girl” he said. It slipped out easily. Naturally. It belonged there.

“I leave you alone for one night,” you said, trying to keep your tone light, even as something about him felt… different. “And this is what happens.”

“I tried”he mumbled, pushing himself off the wall just enough to stand a little straighter.

You frowned slightly. “Tried what, drugs? I hope not Stilinski, I will tell your father”

He shook his head, like the question didn’t matter. “Doesn’t matter,” he said quietly, eyes still on you like he couldn’t quite look away. “You’re here now.” And there it was again. That feeling.

You stepped closer, reaching for his arm. He leaned into you immediately. No hesitation. Like it was instinct.

“I missed you” he added, mellow this time, his words slurring.

You blinked. “…You saw me this morning.”

“Yeah,” he nodded, completely serious. “Missed you then too.”

Your lips pressed together slightly, fighting the smile that threatened.

“You’re very pretty, you know that?” he hummed out suddenly, squinting at you like he was trying to focus through the blur.

You huffed a quiet breath. “Okay… that’s new.”

“No, it’s not,” he frowned slightly. “You’ve always been pretty. Like… unfairly pretty. It’s actually a problem.”

“A problem?”

“Yeah,” he nodded. “Makes it hard to… think. Function. Be normal.”

You shook your head, trying to brush it off, even though your chest had exploded again.

“Come on,” you said, shifting his arm over your shoulder. “Let’s get you home.”

“Okay” he agreed easily. He didn’t pull away. He stayed closer.

“You smell nice” he murmured after a moment, his head dipping slightly closer.

“…We’re not doing this” you said, even as your grip on him tightened just a little.

“We are” he insisted softly. “I’m appreciating.”

“You’re drunk.”

“I’m observant.”

The noise from inside hit you all at once. Music pounding through the floor, bass vibrating up through your shoes, voices overlapping into something indistinguishable, bodies moving too close, too fast, too much. It pressed in on you. Stiles leaned into you like you’re the only thing keeping him upright. Which, realistically, you were.

“Okay” you muttered under your breath, tightening your grip on him as you start guiding him through the crowd. “We’re getting you out of here before you decide to adopt someone or start a fight.”

“I would win a fight” he mumbled into your shoulder, his words slightly slurred but confident in a way that would almost be convincing if he wasn’t currently tripping over his own feet.

“You absolutely would not.”

“I would,” he insisted, lifting his head just enough to look at you, brows furrowing like this is a deeply important point. “I have instincts.”

“Hey—Stiles?” A voice cut through the noise. You barely glanced over before you felt it—A girl. Standing too close. Smiling like she’d been waiting for an opportunity all night. Her hand brushed his arm lightly. Stiles didn’t even fully register it at first. His weight was still leaning into you, his head tipped slightly toward yours like he’d already settled there.

Your body shifted subtly, just enough to step slightly in front of him, your hand tightened on his sleeve, pulling him closer into your space without making it obvious. Your eyes flickered over to her— Calm. Steady. But unmistakably firm. A silent no. It wasn’t not aggressive. It was just… final. She hesitated. Then her smile faltered slightly, her hand dropping as she stepped back.

“Never mind” she muttered, disappearing back into the crowd.

Something warm spread across his face. Almost dazed.

“Did you just—” he started, then stopped, like he couldn’t quite piece the sentence together.

“No” you denied quickly, not even looking at him.

“…Okay,” he murmured. He was smiling. Just a little. Because even through the haze of alcohol— He felt it. That little jealous streak you had. He liked it.

—

You kept moving. But the noise didn’t ease. If anything, it got worse. The music spiked suddenly, bass hitting harder, lights flashing just a little too bright. Your fingers twitched again. Longer this time. Your jaw clenched slightly, your breathing shifting just enough that it’s not quite steady anymore.

“Oh, look at the stars! … so beautiful!” he slurred, pointing dramatically upward. You didn’t even look.

“We’re inside” you sighed automatically, hauling his arm more securely over your shoulder as he nearly veered off course. “Those are lights.”

“I am way too sober for this,” you added under your breath. Just get outside. Just a little further—

“Hey.” Stiles’ voice cut through everything. Closer. Quieter. You didn’t realise you’ve slowed until he shifted slightly beside you, trying—trying—to straighten up. His posture wobbled, but he tried again anyway.

“Hey,” he repeated, softer this time, his hand coming up—unsteady—to lightly catch your wrist.

“…What?”

“You’re doing that thing” he pouted sympathetically, squinting slightly like he’s trying to focus properly.

“I’m not doing anything.” Your stomach dropped.

“You are” he insists, his voice still soft, still slurred, but more aware than it should be. “Your hands… they’re—”

“I’m fine” you quickly shrugged it off.

“You’re not,” he murmured .

“You can barely stand up,” you deflected, shifting his arm back over your shoulder, grounding yourself in the familiar weight of him. “You don’t get to assess my condition right now.”

“I can multitask” he mumbled.

“You cannot multitask.”

“I’m doing it right now.”

“You’re leaning on me.”

“I’m emotionally supporting you,” he corrected.

You huffed a quiet breath despite yourself. Everything quiets. Enough that your shoulders dropped slightly, your breathing evening out just a fraction. Stiles exhales like he’s been holding his breath too.

“Wow” he mutters. “That was… a lot.”

“That’s because you decided to get blackout drunk in a crowded house.”

“I was trying to be fun.”

“You were trying to forget everything”you sympathised. With everything going on…The ghost riders, wondering if you were all going graduate, or everything you’d all been through, Allison dying, Isaac leaving. You hadn’t really stopped and just lived like teenagers.

He paused. Then shrugs slightly.

“Same thing.”

You don’t argue.

You started to guide him down the driveway.

“You look almost as pretty as the moon,” he says suddenly, his gaze dropping back down to you—and staying there. Unfocused. But steady.

“That’s a street lamp”you replied blankly, holding back a laugh, a small smile dancing on your lips.

“And you’re almost as pretty”

“Almost, wow, you’re a charmer”

“I try.”

“You fail.”

“I succeed in other ways.”

“Name one.”

He paused. Thinking.

“…I’m tall?”

“You’re leaning.”

“Temporarily.”

You shake your head, but your grip on him tightens slightly as he stumbles again.

“You’re very chatty tonight aren’t you”you hummed out.

“Y’know i would literally die for you y/n” he announced suddenly, loudly, like it’s a declaration meant for the entire street.

“Okay,” you say slowly. “I would like you to be a bit less dramatic.”

“I’m not being dramatic” he insisted, turning his head just enough to look at you again, his voice softer now. “I’m being honest.”

And something about that— The way he says it. It lingered. So you look away. If you let yourself sit in that moment— You might have said something you can’t take back.

Stiles leant against the passenger door as you unlock it, watching you like you’re doing something fascinating, something he doesn’t want to miss.

“You’re very efficient,” he murmured

“Get in the car Stilinski”

“I was complimenting you.”

“Sorry uh-get in the car, efficiently?”

He grinned faintly at that, but listens, ducking into the seat with only minimal resistance—which, honestly, is a win.

You shut the door, circling around to the driver’s side, taking a steadying breath before you get in. You sit there.

Hands on the wheel.

“You okay?” he asked. You glanced over. He’s watching you again. Soft. Present. A little too aware.

“I should be asking you that” you deflect, starting the engine.

“I’m great,” he says immediately. “I’m having a fantastic time being kidnapped.”

“I’m not kidnapping you Mieczyslaw.”

“Feels like kidnapping.”

“Scott asked me to come get you.”

“I don’t remember that.”

“Shocker.”

He hummed quietly, settling back into the seat as you pulled away, the streetlights passing in soft flashes across his face.

“You always come get me,” he says after a moment, like it means something. Your grip tightens slightly on the wheel.

“Yeah,” you say, keeping your tone light. “Well, Someone has to make sure you don’t accidentally join a cult or something.”

“I wouldn’t join a cult.”

“You absolutely would join a cult.”

-

When you pulled up outside his house, The lights are off. No surprise there. You knew his dad wasn’t home. You shift the car into park, glancing over at him.

“Alright,” you say, unbuckling. “Let’s get you inside before you—”

He patted his pockets down. Once. Twice.

“…Huh.”

“Stiles.” You already knew.

“I don’t have my keys.”

“Of course you don’t.” You closed your eyes for a second.

“I had them earlier,” he says, frowning like this is a genuine mystery. “I think. Maybe. Possibly.”

“You lost them.”

“I misplaced them.”

“You lost them.”

“Temporarily misplaced.”

You stared at him. He stared back.

“I could sleep on the porch.”

“…Okay,” you sigh, running a hand over your face before winding down the window. “You’re not sleeping on the porch.”

“I could make it work.”

“You’d wake up with the raccoons.”

“I like raccoons.”

“Stiles.” You gave him a knowing look.

“Okay, yeah, no, I don’t like raccoons that much.”

“Come on,” you turn the keys, starting the ignition. “You’re staying at mine.” He didn’t argue. Doesn’t question it. Stiles nodded slightly, like that was always going to be the answer.

“Put your seatbelt back on please”you instruct him.

“Yes miss” his eyes struggling to stay open as he salutes you.

The drive back is quieter. Not silent. Just… softer. Stiles doesn’t talk as much now. Doesn’t ramble. He just sits there, head tipped slightly toward the window, eyes half-lidded but not fully closed. Every now and then, you catch him looking at you.

When you eventually pulled up outside your house—Nothing feels strange. This part was almost routine. Familiar. You’d done this a hundred times before. Late nights researching, the painfully early mornings after the late nights researching. Star Wars movie marathons that turned into sleepovers without either of you planning them. It was normal. It had always been normal.

“Alright,” you smile quietly, turning off the engine. “Let’s get you inside.”

He nodded, pushing the door open with a little more coordination this time, but still leaning on you the second he’s upright. You walked him up to the door, unlocking it quickly, stepping inside first before guiding him in after you. The house was quiet. Still. Safe. Your parents were away celebrating their anniversary but they would have no problem with Stiles crashing for the night.

It happened so casually that you almost miss it. One second you’re moving around your room, flicking the light on low, already halfway through your usual routine—grabbing a blanket, setting up the sofa, making sure he didn’t fall asleep in a position that was going to ruin his spine— And the next— He was sitting on your bed. Right in the middle of it.

Your steps faltered slightly. He’s sat on your bed before, of course he had . You’d both ended up there during the late nights, mid-conversations, half asleep and too tired to move. He was looking at you with those soft, unfocused, almost pleased eyes, like he had just made a very good decision.

“You missed” you said slowly, nodding toward the door. “The sofa is… very much out there.”

“I like it here.” He disagreed. Slow. Warm. Completely unbothered.

“That’s my bed.”

“I’m aware,” he says, nodding seriously like that changed absolutely nothing.

You stared at him for a second. He just… kept smiling. Like a kid who knew he was getting away with something. You could tell him to get up, steer him back to the sofa like you always do, keep things exactly where they’d always been. But instead— You turned away. Because he looked comfortable, and he looked like he wants to stay. You didn’t want to push him away.

“Okay,” you agreed, like this wasn’t a big deal, like your heart didn’t just skip slightly in your chest. “Fine. Temporary bed privileges. Don’t let it get to your head.”

“Stay there,” you added. “And don’t fall asleep yet.”

“No promises.”

“Stiles.”

“I’m awake,” he insisted, even though his voice softened at the edges. You pulled open a drawer, rummaging through it until you found an old t-shirt—something soft, oversized, something he’d worn before. He was still watching you. Eyes following you like you were the most interesting thing in the room.

“You spilled something on yourself,” you shook your head lightly, holding the shirt out to him to break whatever that look is doing to you. “You need to change.”

-

You didn’t mean to fall asleep, you told yourself that you wouldn’t . You sat on the edge of the bed, just for a second—just long enough to make sure he was settled, just long enough to make sure his breathing stayed even, just long enough to let your thoughts slow down from everything that night had been.

The quiet doesn’t help. Your hand rested loosely near his on the duvet. Your head dipped slightly.

And somewhere between one breath and the next— You were gone.

Stiles woke up slowly and gradually, not all at once. Like the world was easing back into focus instead of crashing into him like it usually did after a night like that. There was a moment where he didn’t move, trying the piece together the events of last night.

He then noticed the warmth beside him. The soft, steady rhythm of breathing that wasn’t his. You were curled slightly on your side, closer than you probably meant to be, your hair spilling across the pillow, a few strands falling messily across your face. Peaceful.

This felt like something he wasn’t supposed to have. His hand lifted slightly. Hesitating. Then moves anyway. Carefully. Gently.

His fingers brushed against your cheek, slow, cautious, like he was testing whether you’re real. You didn’t stir. So he tucked a loose strand of your hair behind your ear, his touch feather-light, his breath catching slightly when you shifted just enough to lean into it without even realising.

And he smiled. Unguarded. Like he wasn’t not trying to hide it for once. Like he wasn’t trying to push his feelings for you down or explain it away or pretend it was something it’s not. There was no one here to see it. No one to call him out or tease him. No one to make him overthink it. Even if it was just for a second.

-

Morning came too fast. Stiles woke up again, this time you were gone. The space beside him was cold. Empty. Wrong. He sat up immediately, ignoring the hangover that was about to hit him like a tonne of bricks, heart kicking into something sharp and sudden, his brain scrambled to catch up.

“Y/N?” he called out, voice still rough with sleep. He pushed himself off the bed too quickly, stumbling slightly as he moved toward the door, panic creeping in before he could stop it.

“Y/N?” louder this time. Still nothing. He checked the hallway. The living room. The bathroom. What if you had left? What if he said something—did something—ruined something—embarrassed himself”

“Y/N?” He ran a hand through his hair, pacing slightly, his thoughts spiralling faster than he could control.

Upstairs— You stepped out of the bathroom, towel still in your hands, frowning slightly when you glanced toward your room. The door was open. The bed—Empty. Your stomach dropped.

“Stiles?” you called out, stepping forward quickly. Nothing.

You moved faster now, checking the hallway, your chest tightening with every second that passed.

Because what if— What if he woke up and left? What if he regretted staying? What if—

You both turned the corner at the same time. Crashing straight into each other in the kitchen.

“—AH!”

“—WHAT THE—!”

You both jumped back immediately, hands flying up defensively, hearts racing from the sudden collision. Voices at the highest pitch.

“Oh my god—!” you breathed out, clutching your chest. “What is wrong with you?!”

“What’s wrong with me?! No- What is wrong with you?!” Stiles shoots back, equally startled, his hand pressed to his chest like he was trying to keep his heart from jumping out.

“I live here!”

“You disappeared!”

“I went to the bathroom!”

“I checked the bathroom!”

“I was upstairs!”

“I checked upstairs!”

“You clearly didn’t!”

You blink. “I didn’t leave.”

“I thought you did.”

“I wouldn’t just—leave you.”

There’s a beat.

Too quiet.

Too close.

“I love you.”

“What.”

“I’m in love with you.”

“Stiles—”

“I didn’t mean to say it like that,” he rushed, hands coming up slightly, like he was trying to catch the words mid-air and shove them right back into his mouth. “I mean—I did mean it, obviously, that’s not—great wording—but I wasn’t planning to just—drop it in the kitchen like some kind of emotional grenade—”

“Stop—stop talking.”

He stopped. Immediately.

Your chest was rising and falling quicker, he could see it. Your eyes were as wide as they could get. You stared at him, like you were trying to figure out if this was real, or some sort of dream, or a cruel prank.

“If this is because you’re drunk—”

“I’m not drunk” he says quickly and certainly.

“You were drunk.”

“I was drunk, yes” he corrects, stepping closer without even realising it. “I am currently… significantly less drunk and still very much in love with you.”

Your breath catches.

“That’s not—” you shook your head slightly, trying to piece together something that made sense. “You don’t just—wake up and decide that.”

“I didn’t,” he says, not even hesitating. “I decided it freshman year. The night that Scott scratched you.”

“Freshman year, four years ago?!” you blurt, the words ripping out of you before you can stop them.

“I’ve been trying not to.”

You swallow. Your heart was pounding now, your thoughts were tripping over each other, because that meant—That meant everything. Every moment. Every joke. Every argument. Every time he stood a little too close, every time he looked at you like he was about to say something and didn’t. Every glance. Every time you thought you imagined it.

You didn’t.

Neither of you speak. Because there’s nothing left to hide behind. Stiles exhaled slowly, like he’s already gone too far to stop now. Like there’s no point pulling it back. No hesitation. Just… truth.

He said it like it was fact, like it was as simple as breathing. Your lips parted slightly, but nothing comes out.

“Loving you is the easiest thing I’ve ever done y/n” he continued, not wanting to leave anything unsaid.

“In fact…” he rubbed the back of his neck, his voice rougher now, like the words are harder to hold onto, “I think it’s kinda fucked up that you’re the only one I could ever love this way.”

You stopped trying to understand it as he’s just standing there— Waiting. Tense. Nervous in a way you had never seen before. Like this was the one thing he didn’t know how to talk his way out of.

Your eyes sting before you can stop it. Tears gathering, slipping over before you could wipe them away in time.

Not just because he loves you. But because— He’d always loved you. And you’d always loved him.

“God…” you whispered, letting out a shaky breath, a small, broken laugh slipping through. “We’re actually so stupid.”

Stiles started to shift his weight around like he didn’t know whether to step closer or stay exactly where he was. “That’s… not the worst reaction I was expecting.” He stood completely still, he knew whatever you said next was going to decide everything.

“I’m gonna need you to kiss me.. like right now, Stilinski,” you muttered, It came out quiet. Almost under your breath. Like you weren’t even planning to say it out loud.

He didn’t react. Just blinked once.

“…What?”

You don’t repeat it. You don’t move. You just look at him—Eyes still glassy, cheeks damp, expression soft but certain. It hits him. His eyes widened in realisation, you didn’t say it. But you didn’t have to. Everything clicked together all at once.

“You—” he started, but the words fell apart before they could fully form. Because he gets it. He gets it.

The second he does—He moves. Fast. Crossing the space between you like he was done waiting, like he was done thinking, like he wasn’t going to risk losing this moment to hesitation. His hands came up, cupping your face instantly, like he needed to hold you there, like he needed to make sure you didn’t disappear.

Your breath caught in your throat but you didn’t pull away. Not even slightly.

And then he kissed you.

Like he didn’t know how not to. It was immediate. All the love that you had for each other finally had somewhere to go. No second guessing. It was just you and him. His grip was warm against your cheeks, steady, grounding, his thumbs brushing over them just slightly like he can’t help it.

You kissed him back just as hard. Because you’d been waiting too. Your hands clutched onto his checkered shirt pulling him closer like there was still distance between you when there wasn’t any, like you needed him closer anyway. Your breaths were uneven, mixing in the space between you.

“Girlfriend?”He mumbled in between planting small kisses around your face.

“Girlfriend.”you nodded agreeing, as a chuckle slipped out here and there. Your hand was still in his.

Something in his chest loosens at that—just slightly. Enough for the corner of his mouth to twitch, like he doesn’t quite know what to do with all of this feeling of excitement sitting in his ribs.

So, of course— He deflects. A breath leaves him, shaky, half a laugh.

“Thank God your standards are so low…” he mutters, glancing down for a second before looking back at you, softer now, quieter, “or I never would’ve had a chance with you.”

The joke wrapped around something painfully honest, but this time, he doesn’t look away after. Your fingers shifted in his, tightening slightly, like you’re testing it. Like you’re making sure he’s real too.

Beep. Beep.

The sound cuts straight through the moment.

You both froze. Stiles blinked.

“…what?”

Beep. Beep.

Your brows pulled together. “Is that—”

“My Jeep?” he finished, already frowning. Another beep, louder this time.

You both turned towards the door at the same time, confusion breaking through whatever soft, fragile thing had just settled between you.

“Did you—?” you start.

“I didn’t—no—why would I—You picked me up last night?” Stiles was already moving, dragging you with him without even realizing, your hands still linked as he pulled the front door open.

You rushed outside and there they were.

Leaning casually against the jeep like they owned it. Keys dangling from Scott’s fingers. Smug doesn’t even begin to cover it.

Scott and Lydia. Stiles stopped dead.

“…how did you even get those?”

Scott doesn’t answer straight away, Lydia turns to Scott expecting an answer.

His eyes drop to your hands—still intertwined, still holding on like neither of you has remembered to let go, and then his mouth curved. Slow. Knowing. Insufferable.

“Oh, don’t mind us,” he says lightly, pushing himself off the jeep, spinning the keys once around his finger. “I just love watching two idiots finally realize what everyone already knew.”

“Twenty dollars please”Lydia held out her hand and Scott rolled his eyes as he fumbled around in his pockets.

“—Dude,” Stiles snapped immediately, tightening his grip on your hand instead of letting go, “what the hell—give me my keys!”

Scott just grinned wider, taking a step back, fully enjoying this.

“No, no, continue,” he gestured between the two of you, “this is—this is great. Really cute. Super subtle, by the way. Hand-holding? Didn’t see that coming at all.”

“Scott—”

“Years” Scott cut in, pointing at him. “We have been waiting years for this.”

Stiles groaned, dragging a hand over his face with his free hand.

“Oh my God, can you not—for like, five minutes?”

Part 1 of 2

‘And I know I might mess you up’

The party had that golden, careless glow that only the Kooks could pull off — laughter too loud, music too expensive, everything just a little too good to be real.

The lights dripped from the balcony like honey, the air thick with salt and smoke.

Rafe leaned against one of the deck posts, a drink sweating in his hand. The collar of his shirt hung open, his hair pushed back but already falling loose from the heat. He wasn’t really part of the party — he never was anymore. He just existed inside it, like a ghost haunting something he used to enjoy.

Then he saw you.

Y/n Y/l/n

The one girl on the island who’d never been impressed by him — not when he had money, not when he had charm, not when he tried. You used to call him out on it, smirk sharp as glass and eyes that said don’t start what you can’t finish.

He hadn’t seen you in months.

But the second you stepped into the light, it felt like no time had passed at all.

You were in a black tank top and denim shorts, your hair curled from the humidity, a few strands sticking to the side of your face. You were barefooted typical, dancing near the firepit, laughing at something JJ had said. Your bracelets clicked together every time you moved your arms, catching the light like sparks.

And God — you looked happy.

That’s what undid him.

He wasn’t used to seeing things that pure anymore. Not after months of smoke and powder and sleepless nights pretending he didn’t hate himself.

His chest tightened — a feeling so sharp he had to shift his weight, pretend he wasn’t staring. But he couldn’t look away.

You were everything he wasn’t. Still alive. Still laughing. Still light.

And for a split second, he hated you for it — or maybe hated himself for wanting to touch something that clean.

The lyrics from the music dropped through his mind, like the music itself was taunting him: He exhaled, rough.

Dragged a hand through his hair.

The muscles in his jaw flexed as he swallowed hard, trying to steady his breathing. But it wasn’t you he’d ruin.

It was you that was ruining him.

Every smile. Every movement. Every piece of you that reminded him of who he used to be before he started breaking things for sport. Before he started breaking everything in his path.

His jaw tightened. His throat shifted as he swallowed.

There was a faint tremor in his hand when he lowered it from his hair. He muttered something under his breath — a curse, maybe, or your name. It didn’t matter. No one could hear him.

For a second, you turned. You had felt it — that heat crawling up your spine, the sense of eyes on you.

Your gazes met. It was quick. But it was enough.

Your laughter faded. Your expression flickered — surprise, then something colder. Recognition. Disappointment. Maybe a little pity.

He looked away too fast.

Ran his hand over his mouth like he could wipe the look off his face. The music swelled. You went back to dancing.

He went back to pretending he didn’t care. But it was too late.

The damage was already done —because you’d looked at him like he wasn’t worth the air he breathed, and for reasons he couldn’t explain, it made him want to be better and worse all at once.

You were the ghost of every good thing he’d ever known.

Rafe pushed off the railing, set his drink down untouched, and disappeared into the dark —because if he stayed, he wasn’t sure what he’d do.

‘Hating me ain’t gon get you love’

The docks slept under the heat of the North Carolina night, heavy and still except for the whisper of water lapping against wood. Boats shifted softly in their slips, their hulls sighing with each small wave. Somewhere out beyond the marsh, thunder cracked — distant but coming closer.

JJ stood at the edge of the dock, running his hand along the worn fiberglass of an old boat.

“There she be,” he turned to you with a grin. “Hey, girl. A 1983 Formula 402 SR1. The Phantom.”

You clicked your tongue, a small smile escaping your lips. “Mm-hm.”

“The first boat to make the run to Bermuda in under sixteen hours,” he went on, his enthusiasm bouncing off the dark water. “Forty years old! Forty. And still the fastest thing Kildare’s ever seen.”

You tilted your head, unimpressed. “Mmm, I don’t know J, It’s kind of a junker.” Your words teased him.

JJ clutched his chest theatrically. “Really? She’s right there, y/n— she can hear you.” His grin widened as he ran his hands along the paintwork. “Let’s just put it this way. You would not be smokin’ weed right now if she never existed, okay?”

You laughed softly, shaking your head. “I just hope it runs.”

“Oh, she’ll run all right,” he said, patting the side of the boat. “Faster than any cutters the boys in blue got—”

The sound of a motorcycle ripped through the air. Tires screeched against the gravel.

JJ straightened as you took a step to stand next to him. “Pope. Finally.”

Pope jogged down the dock. “Hey there. What’s goin’ on?”

Before you could answer, another voice — smooth, familiar, dangerous — cut through the humid night.

“How you guys doin’?”

Rafe.

And Barry, whistling low behind him.

Your blood went cold. Rafe’s smirk curled slow and mean as he approached, gun glinting at his side. “Well, well…” He cocked it casually, the sound sharp in the dark. “See, don’t think I forgot about me and you on the side of the road,” he said to JJ. “I’m here because I want my motherfuckin’ money.”

“JJ!” You breathed out as you stepped in front of him.

Rafe and that gaze of his found you, steady, too calm. “Where’s John B?”

Your heart slammed in your chest. “I don’t know!”

JJ pushed Barry to the side trying to get closer to you as Rafe closed in.

Barry chuckled, stepping closer. “Stay down, boy,” he warned JJ. JJ tensed, eyes darting to yours.

Your voice shook with anger. “I really wish you wouldn’t do that”you said, shoving Barry’s arm away from JJ.

“I know what you did,” you hissed at Rafe.

He blinked. “What?”

“You murdered Peterkin.”

The air went silent. Barry shifted uncomfortably.

Rafe’s jaw flexed, eyes darkening as he took a step towards you. His voice lowering. He’d hoped you would never find out.

“Don’t you ever say those fuckin’ words again,” he snarled. “Understand y/n, you aren’t involved in this”

“Or what?” You shot back, breath uneven.

“I don’t have time for this, where’s John B?” Rafe barked.

“I don’t know!”

“Where’s John B, huh?”

“I said I don’t know!”you hissed.

Barry moved suddenly and quickly, crossing the deck in two strides and wrapping a hand around your throat.

“Hey! Don’t touch her!” JJ yelled, lunging forward, but Barry shoved him back easily.

You choked, feet lifting from the ground, your fingers clawing uselessly at Barry’s wrist. The pressure was unbearable. Your lungs screamed for air as your necklace cut into your skin.

Rafe froze.

It hit him all at once — the sound of you struggling, the red blooming under Barry’s grip, the look of panic in your eyes.

Something cracked inside him.

“Put her down, Barry”he said, voice low but shaking.

Barry didn’t even flinch.

Your face was turning red now, mouth open, desperate for breath.

Rafe’s composure snapped.

“I said let her the fuck go, Barry!” The words tore through the dock like a gunshot.

Barry dropped let you go like it was nothing, you collapsed onto the planks, coughing, gasping, one hand clutching your throat. JJ was at your side instantly, pulling you close, shielding you with his body.

Rafe didn’t move — too busy staring at the two of you on the floor.

His chest rose and fell hard, his own breathing uneven as he watched you fight for air. He didn’t notice Pope until it was too late.

“Pope! Kick it!” JJ shouted.

Pope lunged, tackling Rafe to the ground. The gun skidded across the dock.

They fought — fists, knees, curses.

Rafe grunted, trying to roll free, but Pope’s rage had no direction except him.

“Pope!” You croaked, still coughing.

“Okay, Pope—”JJ’s eyebrows furrowed

“Pope, that’s good! Stop!”you continued as you watched him punch Rafe over and over again, your heart rate started to pick up again just after managing to steady it.

Your voice broke. “He’s had enough, Pope!”

“Snap out of it, man!” JJ shouted, seeing how uncomfortable you were getting.

“Stop, Pope!” You cried, reaching for Pope’s arm. “That’s too much! Come on! Stop, Pope!”

The dock echoed with the thuds of fists and the sound of gasping, choking, anger.

“Look at me!” JJ yelled, gripping Pope’s shoulders.

Pope finally froze, chest heaving, eyes wide. The sound of his own breath filled the space where violence had been.

You pressed her palm to your throat, still trembling. “Shit. Oh, shit.”

JJ looked between all of you — Rafe on the deck, Pope shaking, Your face streaked with tears and salt.

He grabbed your arm gently. “Okay, we gotta go. We gotta go.”You hesitated for a moment, staring over at Rafe’s lifeless body-torn between helping him and clearing off.

Rafe lay there on the dock, coughing blood, blinking up at the empty sky — and for a split second, before the pain set in, all he could think about was the look on your face.

The hate in your eyes.

The fear.

The fact that he’d caused both.

‘Ain’t nobody gon set you up’

The knock came first — a polite, almost delicate tap that felt out of place in a house this haunted by guns and greed.

“He’s ready” the housekeeper murmured.

The door creaked open.

Inside, Rafe Cameron stood near a sideboard, the morning light spilling through high windows. Dust caught in the air like glitter. He was dressed too neatly for captivity — shirt open at the collar, sleeves rolled to his forearms — but his eyes betrayed the sleepless nights and months of chaos.

A bell chimed somewhere deeper in the mansion, followed by the faint clink of a glass. Rafe poured himself a drink, because that’s what he did when he didn’t know what else to do.

He heard footsteps. He didn’t look up right away — expecting one of Singh’s guards.

Then a voice he hadn’t heard in months.

A voice he thought he’d never hear again.

“What the actual fuck is going on?”your mouth fell open slightly as you stood still.

He turned.

And his breath left him.

Red dress, tied at the waist. Your hair longer, darker, glinting gold where the sunlight caught it. There was a faint bruise near your temple — healed, but still visible and fresh — and it hit him like a punch.

You’d changed. Not softer — sharper. Older. Stronger.

You looked like you had survived something he’d barely begun to understand.

The last time you’d seen him he’d been half-feral, soaked and shouting on a dock. Now he looked different somehow, but the same fury and desperation still flickered in his eyes. When those eyes found you, everything in his face shifted — disbelief, relief, guilt, something softer he couldn’t hide.

Rafe blinked once, the glass halfway to his lips.

“Uh… excuse me?”

You froze mid-step, her pulse hammering in her throat. Her fingers twitched at her sides; the urge to turn and walk out was overwhelming.

Time seemed to drag.

For a second you thought you were imagining it — that your mind had conjured you out of exhaustion or fear. The blood drained from your face. Your heartbeat roared in you ears.

It couldn’t be.

But it was.

His hair was longer now, sun-browned at the edges; his face sharper, hollower, but his eyes… they were the same. That same impossible blue that used to unsettle you— too sharp, too alive.

And now they were locked on you.

He didn’t move at first. Neither did you.

The only sound was the slow creak of the ceiling fan and the faint hiss of wind through the shutters.

Your throat felt dry. The room tilted, just slightly, like a bad dream you couldn’t shake yourself from.

You blinked, but he was still there.

You folded your arms. “No. I just knew you and Ward were behind this shit.”

He frowned, a little too quickly. “What are you talking about? You trying to weasel in on my deal, is this a set up?”

Your brows lifted. “Your deals are boring. And you are insane. Get over yourself, Rafe.”

“Of course they would use you to set me up”he murmured to himself as his jaw twitched.

“I’m being serious, y/n. Did JJ send you, or did you get caught up in this yourself?” He sighed, voice softening despite himself. “God, you are so reckless — too reckless.”

You scoffed. “A stupid deal — is that really what’s going on? I’m being held captive and you’re the one I’m stuck with over a stupid deal?!”the volume of your voice got louder.

“Lucky you” he muttered under his breath.

From behind a desk, a low, amused chuckle broke the tension.

“I wondered if your little reunion would cause sparks, you know,” Singh said, stepping forward like a man hosting a dinner party instead of an abduction. The two of your heads snapped over to the far corner of the room- had this man been there the whole time?!

Rafe stiffened. “Who are you?”

“Me?” Singh smiled, spreading his hands. “My name is Carlos Singh. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Cameron. And Ms. Y/L/N, I do apologize for the rough tactics in bringing you here.”

You stuck your middle finger up in response.

Rafe’s gaze flicked back to the faint mark on your temple , it seems as though once he’d noticed one he found them all, bruises on your arms, your legs— and his stomach knotted.

“Rough tactics?” His tone dropped low, dangerous. He couldn’t stop his eyes from drifting to you every few minutes, trying to assess your injuries.

“Yes, Mr. Cameron, false pretenses,” Singh replied smoothly. “But the ends justify the means, I’m afraid. Sit down.”

Rafe didn’t move. His hand flexed slightly at his side, knuckles whitening. Singh’s guards shifted behind him.

You, always the pragmatist, dropped into a chair with a dramatic sigh. “You heard the man, Rafe. Sit before they tase you or whatever.”

He shot you a look — one part warning, one part are you serious right now? — but sat anyway.

Singh smiled thinly. “We have a lot to talk about.”

You crossed your legs, leaning back like you owned the place. “Why are we here?”

“Well, Ms. Y/L/N, Mr. Cameron,” Singh said, pacing behind his desk, “we share certain interests, you know. Objectives.”

Rafe’s patience was already thinning. “Is this not about the cross?”

“It is,” Singh said, eyes gleaming. “Tangentially, yes. But it’s also about something much, much bigger. By orders of magnitude… the completion of a grand quest.”

Your eyes glazed over halfway through.

He launched into a monologue about conquistadors, gold, tribes, and El Dorado. Rafe stared blankly at him for a full thirty seconds before cutting a look at you.

He bit back a grin.

“Do you not care for history Y/n”Singh addressed you.

When Singh finally paused for breath, you leaned forward. “I’m more of an art person.”

Rafe groaned audibly.

“I didn’t listen to a word you said, okay?” You added, unapologetic.

Singh blinked at you, clearly thrown.

Rafe sighed. “How much you gonna keep philosophizing, man?”

Singh gave a dry laugh. “You are direct, aren’t you, Mr. Cameron?”

“What do you need from me?” Rafe said. “From us?”

“I’ve come to believe,” Singh said, eyes glinting, “that you and your friends are in possession of something that can help me get what I want.”

You tilted your head. “Which is?”

“An old manuscript,” Singh replied smoothly. “A diary, actually.”

You sat back, letting that sink in. Rafe watched you — really watched you — the way your brow furrowed when you were thinking, the way your foot tapped under the table. You were furious, beautiful, impossible.

The door shut behind the two of you with a heavy click, as one of the man’s guards signalled for him. He briefly nodded before leaving the room drenched in silence suddenly. The muffled sound of guards pacing in the hallway faded until it was just the faint buzz of the jungle and the creak of the ceiling fan above them.

Rafe stayed sitting for a moment, elbows on his knees, watching you.

He hadn’t seen you in months.

Not since the dock.

Not since Barry’s hand had wrapped around your throat while he froze, too stunned, too furious, too late.

He just couldn’t stop staring.

“What?” You looked up sharply.

He blinked, caught. “Nothin’.”

You rolled your eyes, arms folding across your chest. “What do you mean nothing, Rafe? Something would be nice, since you think you know fucking everything.”

His mouth twitched — a tiny, reluctant smile.

“Staring is not going to help, so quit,” you added, your voice cool but not cruel.

He leaned back, still studying you despite the warning.

“Your head,” he said finally, voice low.

Your brow furrowed. “What?”

He nodded toward the fresh mark near your temple. “Your head.”

“I’m fine,” you muttered.

He didn’t believe you.

You looked tougher, sure — but he could still see the flash of fear that used to haunt your dreams when things got bad. He’d memorized it once.

There was a pause, then a quiet sigh. “You sure?”

“Rafe” you said sharply. “I said I’m fine.”

He raised his hands in mock surrender. “Alright. Message received.”

Silence hung between the two of you again — thick, uncomfortable, the kind that made every breath feel too loud. Rafe shifted in his chair, elbows on his knees, eyes flicking between you and the locked door.

“So” he said finally. “How’ve you been?”

You blinked at him. “Seriously?”

“What?”

“You think this is a catch-up?”

He smirked, trying to ease the tension. “Just making conversation.”

“I’m literally being held hostage,” you said, dry as sandpaper. “But sure, let’s chat.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” he said under his breath.

Your brow furrowed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’re sitting there like you’re bored, not kidnapped.”

You tilted your head, unimpressed. “Yeah, well we both know I cope with trauma better than you.”

Rafe let out a low laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, that’s one word for it.”

The lock clicked, and the heavy door swung inward again.

Carlos Singh stepped back into the room, his expression polite and measured — the kind of calm that only made everything feel more dangerous. Behind him, the guards re-took their posts by the doorway, rifles at ease but ready.

Rafe straightened slightly in his chair; you didn’t bother. You only looked up long enough to glare at Singh before sinking back again, your wrists still bound.

Singh clasped his hands behind his back, his tone smooth as silk.

“You two are helping me.”

You let out a short breath through your nose. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Rafe snorted. “This is ridiculous. I don’t know anything about a diary.”

Singh’s dark eyes flicked between them. “But how else could you have learned that the cross was on the Royal Merchant?”

Rafe drew in a slow breath, jaw tightening. “Look, I want to help you, but I can’t.”

Singh’s smile thinned. “I was hoping you wouldn’t say that, you know. Because unfortunately, I don’t believe you.”

He circled the table like a lecturer pacing before a class, each step unhurried, deliberate.

“You and your friend here couldn’t have found the cross without it.”

Your head snapped up. “Oh, yeah…no. He’s not my friend.”

Rafe scoffed softly, the sound half-amused, half-offended, but he didn’t argue.

Singh chuckled under his breath. “We can’t all be friends, you know.”

You rolled your eyes, exhaling hard. “Look, this is ridiculous. Okay? I’m out.” You pushed back in your chair, rope scraping against the arms.

Rafe gestured with one bound hand. “I don’t know anything about a diary, okay? So…”

Singh turned on him, that too-pleasant smile returning. “Do I look like a fool to you, Mr. Cameron?”

Rafe’s voice dropped a note lower, edged with irritation. “Do I look like a fool to you?”

“You have the cross. She and her friends had the cross at one point.” For a moment, silence stretched between you both. Then Singh’s gaze sharpened.

Rafe’s eyes cut sideways to you. His expression changed — slow, narrow, dangerous — a look that said, Oh, really?

Your lips parted in an annoyed sigh. You rolled your eyes, shoulders lifting in a shrug as if to say, It’s complicated, then looked away, pouting slightly to hide the tension tightening your jaw.

Before you knew it you were being marched out of the study under the low hum of ceiling fans and the gleam of Singh’s too-perfect mansion. The corridors smelled faintly of tobacco and sea air; a portrait-lined maze of wealth that seemed to mock them with every step.

Singh led the way, hands clasped neatly behind his back, his voice smooth and polite — the kind of calm that made your skin crawl.

“Enjoy the grounds during your stay,” he said as they reached the base of the grand staircase. His shoes clicked against the marble. “I must warn you, though… I’m not a man of infinite patience. You have one day.”

Rafe slowed slightly, eyes narrowing, but the guards nudged him forward with the barrels of their rifles.

Singh smiled over his shoulder. “Go to the window for a little demonstration. I think you’ll enjoy it, you know.”

You glanced at Rafe as you were herded up the steps. His jaw was tight, shoulders coiled with restless energy, the same barely-contained fury you had seen a hundred times before. You kept her distance, wrists still bound where the ropes joined together. Let’s just say you had put up a hell of a fight on the way to his mansion.

The stairs creaked faintly beneath their feet. Through the high windows, the jungle shimmered in the heat, wild and green. Somewhere outside, a bird screamed — sharp and distant, like a warning.

Neither of you spoke.

You didn’t need to.

The guards stopped at a tall wooden door near the end of the hallway. The metal latch rattled open, and one of them shoved Rafe forward first, then you after him.

The door slammed.

“Hey!” Rafe barked, spinning toward it. He ran to the heavy frame and slammed his fist against the wood. “Hey!”

You were already beside him, grabbing the knob and rattling it hard. “Hey!”

“It’s locked,” Rafe muttered, trying the handle again.

You shot him a glare. “Well, no shit.”

He turned, about to argue, but the sound from outside froze you both.

Engines.

Shouts.

A vehicle approaching fast down the long gravel drive.

“Who the hell is that guy?” Rafe muttered, stepping toward the open window.

You peered past him, your heart skipping. “I know him. It’s Jimmy Portis. He was trying to help me.”

Below, through the window, two guards dragged a man across the courtyard — hands bound, shirt torn, struggling and shouting.

“Get off me, man! I didn’t do nothing, man!” Portis yelled, voice breaking.

The guards spoke quickly, their accents thick, one cocking his gun.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa—” Rafe started, hands gripping the sill.

Then a single shot cracked the air.

You gasped, stumbling back. Rafe moved fast —it was instinct — pulling you in against him, one hand covering your eyes before you could see the rest.

Your body went rigid, breath catching. You could still smell the gunpowder drifting through the open window.

The echo of the gunshot rolled away into the jungle.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. Just your breathing — yours shallow and quick, his uneven, ragged.

Rafe’s voice came rough, low. “This diary.”

You blinked up at him, dazed.

He stepped back, running a hand through his hair, pacing. “Hey, no bullshit. Don’t bullshit me, okay?” His voice was shaking now, half anger, half desperation. “Do you have it?”

“Rafe—”

“Y/n?”

Your throat felt dry. You swallowed, forcing the word out.

“No.”

The silence that followed was deafening — the kind that carried too much truth.

Rafe’s eyes searched yours, every line of suspicion and fear carved deep into his face. He wanted to believe you. He almost did. But the part of him that had forgotten how to trust — the part that had learned to see betrayal everywhere — couldn’t let it go that easily.

You turned away first, gripping the window frame until her knuckles went white. The ropes slowly cutting off your blood circulation.

Outside, the jungle buzzed on, indifferent.

Inside, the walls seemed to close in.

The tension in the room had curdled into something sharp and fragile. The hum of insects outside was deafening, filling the silence between them like static.

The music — if it could even be called that — had stopped hours ago. The mansion felt too quiet now.

Just birds outside, their chirps cutting through the thick, humid air.

You moved toward the window, fingers tracing the wooden frame before you started knocking.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Your voice came out low, urgent.

“Hey! Hey. I need to talk to Mr. Singh.” You knocked again, harder this time.

“Hey! Go get Mr. Singh.”

Rafe turned from where he’d been pacing near the bed, his voice sharp. “What are you doing?”

You ignored him, still calling through the glass. “Hey, you! I need to talk to Mr. Singh!”

He moved quickly, crossing the room in two strides. “Shut up. Shut up. Shut up, what are you doing?!”

You spun on him, eyes flashing. “Like I owe you an explanation.”

“Think for a second!” Rafe hissed, glancing toward the door like someone might be listening. “Y/n, what are you doing?”

“Don’t talk to me!” You snapped, shoving his chest when he tried to reach for your wrist.

Your breath came fast, uneven. You turned away, staring blankly through the glass, shoulders rising and falling.

He watched you — really watched you— the defiance, the exhaustion, the way your bravado was cracking at the edges.

“You’re lying about this diary thing,” he said finally, voice low. “I know you. You know where it is.”

You didn’t turn. “No, I don’t. And no — you don’t know me.”

He smirked, humourless. “You don’t?”

You shot him a glare over your shoulder. “You wish.”

He exhaled through his nose as he took three quick strides towards you, gently grabbing your arms. “Okay, listen, I wouldn’t tell me either.”

“Hey!” You barked, as he spun you to face him again.

“But he’s never gonna believe we don’t know something, alright?” he said, stepping closer, frustration bleeding into desperation.

Your mouth opened, ready to bite back—but then you felt his hands. He wasn’t restraining you. He was untying you.

The rough scrape of the rope against your skin stilled you completely. His fingers were careful—gentle, even—as he worked the knot loose, the heat of his touch ghosting against your wrist.

Your mouth fell open slightly, caught off guard by the sudden shift.

“Rafe, what are you—”

“Shh.” His voice dropped, low and coaxing. “Just… hold still.”

The lamp flickered. The sound of the rope sliding free filled the space between them.

He leaned closer, eyes flicking up to yours as the last knot loosened. “You kept pulling against it, you’ll tear your skin open,” he said quietly.

There was no mockery in his tone, no coldness—just that disarming softness he rarely let anyone hear.

You just shook your head, eyes unfocused. You walked to the bed, sitting heavily at the edge. Your hands trembled slightly in her lap.

Your voice was small when it came out. “Singh killed that…” you trailed off, eyes far away.

Rafe’s tone softened again instantly. “Hey. You. Look at me.”

You didn’t. Your breathing picked up again, fast, shallow.

“Look around,” he said, crouching in front of her. “Y/n.” His voice cracked on your name. “I’m the only friend you got.”

The words hung there, heavier than either of you expected. And for a moment — just a flicker — your eyes met his.

That’s when the memory hit him.

The last time you had looked at him like that.

Before all of this.

⸻

It was a late summer night on Figure Eight. The kind of night that hummed with crickets and salt air and the faint thump of music from a house party down the road.

You were barefoot, your hair sticking to the back of her neck, laughter spilling out of you in a way Rafe had never heard before — unguarded, real.

You were sitting on the hood of his truck, parked on the dunes overlooking the sound. A cheap bottle of rum sat between the two of you, half empty.

“You’re staring,” you said, eyes on the water.

He blinked. “No, I’m not.”

“You are.”

“Maybe you’re just paranoid.”

You turned to him, a grin spreading across your face. “You get real defensive when you’re caught, paranoid is your middle name.”

He laughed, low and genuine. “Caught doing what?”

“Whatever it is you do,” you said, waving a hand in his direction. “Looking at people like you’re trying to figure out what’s wrong with them.”

He tilted his head, smirking. “Maybe I’m just trying to figure out what’s right with you.”

You blinked — the smile faltered, just a little — then you laughed it off, leaning back on you hands. “God, you sound like every rich boy in this zip code.”

“Yeah, but I mean it.”

You looked at him then, really looked — and he felt it, that tiny shift in the air. The kind that changes everything without anyone noticing until it’s too late.

Rafe smirked, shaking his head. “You ever stop talking?”

“Nope,” you said easily, popping the ‘p’ as you tilted the bottle toward him. “Not when the conversation’s boring.”

He took the bottle, your fingers brushing. It was nothing, really — a blink of contact. But something inside him stalled anyway.

You didn’t notice. You were already looking back at the water, humming softly to yourself, feet nudging a line in the sand. The moonlight caught on your hair, and for a second, you looked like you belonged to the night itself — untouchable, careless, free.

He looked at you then — and he felt it, that tiny shift in the air. The kind that changes everything without anyone noticing until it’s too late.

You grinned suddenly, still staring at the horizon. “When this is all over, I’m getting out of this town,” you said. “No plans. No map. Just gone.”

Rafe leaned back against the windshield, watching your silhouette against the sky.

“Yeah?” he asked quietly.

“Yeah.” Youbsmiled, the kind that made him forget to breathe. “Figure Eight’s too small for people like us.”

He almost asked what you meant by us.

But you were already laughing again, tossing your hair over your shoulder, completely unaware that he’d stopped hearing the waves — that the sound of your voice had drowned out everything else.

‘I ain’t even gon sweat you love’

The hot afternoon pressed heavy over Figure Eight, thick with salt air and the hum of crickets. The Cameron house glowed faintly from the inside — golden light spilling through the wide windows, brushing against the wraparound porch like a lie pretending to be home.

You stood at the edge of the driveway beside JJ, your fists balled at your sides. JJ’s grip on your arm was firm, trying to pull you back toward the bikes, but you wouldn’t move.

Your voice broke through the still air — sharp, furious, trembling.

“You’re a murderer, Rafe!”

It echoed up the front of the house, bouncing off the white columns, slamming through the open balcony doors.

From the second floor, Rafe appeared. Shirt undone, hair mussed, face shadowed in the lamplight. For a second, he didn’t move — just stood there, frozen in the doorway, eyes locking on you like he wasn’t sure you were real.

JJ tugged at your arm again. “Y/n, come on, let’s go—”

But you ripped free, your glare fixed on the boy above. “You think hiding in your daddy’s mansion makes you better? You think you get to walk away from everything you’ve done?”

Rafe’s jaw tightened. He didn’t shout back. He didn’t even blink.

He just stood there, staring down at you — the same girl who’d once sat on the hood of his truck laughing under the stars.

Your words hit harder than any punch he’d ever taken.

Murderer.

The front door slammed open below — a voice shouting for you to leave, Ward’s security stepping forward. JJ grabbed your arm again, pulling you back toward the bikes.

“Y/n” he hissed. “Come on, now.”

Your voice wavered but didn’t break. “You’ll pay for it, Rafe! I swear to God, you will!”

And then you were gone — the roar of JJ’s bike cutting through the still night, leaving the air thick with exhaust and silence.

Rafe stayed there on the balcony long after the noise faded.

The echo of your voice still ringing in his head.

The word murderer still burning in his chest.

He braced his hands on the railing, breathing hard, eyes on the empty driveway.

“Don’t sweat it,” he muttered under his breath, jaw clenching. “Don’t sweat it, man.”

But his reflection in the glass behind him didn’t look convinced.

His chest ached — not from guilt, not even from fear — but because it was you that said it.

And no one else’s opinion had ever mattered.

He dragged a hand through his hair, pacing once before forcing himself back inside.

“Don’t sweat it,” he whispered again, the words hollow now.

But the truth was bleeding through, quiet and merciless.

‘And we’ll never be friends like this’

He could live with everyone hating him. He did without thought.

Everyone except you.

The air in Singh’s room had gone still again — sunlight bleeding softly through the lace curtains, dust floating in the gold haze. The distant sound of the sea mixed with the faint ticking of an old ceiling fan, slow and rhythmic, like the whole house was holding its breath.

You sat hunched at the edge of the bed, arms wrapped around your knees. Your hair fell forward, catching the light in thin, trembling strands. You weren’t crying — you didn’t cry anymore — but the stillness around you felt like the kind that comes after a storm.

Rafe hesitated a few feet away, watching you. His chest ached with words he didn’t know how to say. For once, he didn’t try to fill the silence with excuses. He just breathed, slow and heavy, and stepped closer.

He dropped to a crouch in front of you— not close enough to touch, but close enough that you could feel the warmth of him, the uneven rhythm of his breathing.

“Y/n…”

Your gaze stayed on the floor.

He reached out instinctively, his hand hovering just above your knee — fingers trembling, desperate to bridge the space but terrified of breaking whatever fragile peace existed between them. Your hand lifted slowly in front of you silently asking him for that space. He stopped himself, exhaling hard as he continued to sink to the floor in front of you.

“Hey,” he said quietly, his voice cracking around the word. “I’m right here, okay?”

When you didn’t answer, he held both hands up slowly, palms out, a silent promise that he wouldn’t cross your boundaries. That he wasn’t here to take, or demand, or fix. Just to be.

His knees hit the floor fully this time, jeans brushing against the carpet as he settled in front of you. The motion broke something in the air — something raw and human and unguarded.

“Look at me” he whispered.

You did — reluctantly, at first. But when your eyes finally met his, the world seemed to narrow to just that.

Rafe’s eyes glistened, his breath shallow. He wanted to reach for you again, but instead he let his hands hover between them, caught somewhere between apology and surrender.

The tension hummed, thick and fragile.

Your pulse fluttered beneath your skin. His throat bobbed as he swallowed.

Neither of them spoke for a long moment. They didn’t have to — everything was there, wordless and heavy, suspended between them like smoke.

And then he smiled, soft and broken. “You don’t have to forgive me,” he said quietly. “I just… need you to know I’m trying.”

Your eyes flickered, your lips parting like you might answer — but nothing came out.

So he stayed there, still kneeling, still holding his hands up like you were something sacred.

It wasn’t friendship anymore. It wasn’t forgiveness either. It was something messy and fragile that neither of you could name — the ghost of what you had been and the ache of what they could never be again.

He swallowed, voice hoarse.

“You’re gonna have to talk to me at some point. Okay?”

Your head lifted slowly, eyes cold and tired. “Do I have to remind you of everything you’ve done?”

He exhaled through his nose, jaw tightening.

“You killed Peterkin. Do you remember that? And everything you’ve put Sarah through?”

Rafe flinched like each word hit him square in the chest. “Peterkin — I was protecting my father, okay? I did what I had to, so… don’t. I’m as much a victim as she is.”

Your face twisted into disbelief; you gave him a look that said you can’t possibly mean that.

He noticed. “No? Think about it. Okay? What did I get from shooting Peterkin, huh? Nothing. Okay? I had nothing against her. I mean, I— I— I liked her.” His words stumbled, his composure cracking. “You think I wanted to make that choice, huh? What I did was a gift from me to my father… and I got screwed because of it, okay? So don’t get that look when I say I’m a victim, all right?”

Your gaze softened, just barely.

“I am!” Rafe insisted, voice breaking. “I will admit, though… what I did to Sarah — what I tried to do, um…” He stopped, chest rising unevenly. “What I tried to do to Sarah, I admit that was wrong. I know that. All right? So you don’t have to remind me.”

His voice cracked fully this time. The next sound was a sob, harsh and raw.

You froze. Your throat tightened, eyes darting away, because the sight of him crying did something to you and you didn’t want to feel it. You looked down at your hands, pretending not to notice the sound of him trying to breathe.

Rafe pressed his palms to his face, shaking his head. “Oh God.” He hit himself lightly on the side of the face, voice low and trembling. “She was family. I should’ve never touched her, you know? I should’ve never touched her, but… I just lose control in moments like that, and I don’t know what happened.” He dragged a breath through his teeth. “I’m trying. I’m trying to get better.”

Something in his voice cracked open the space between them. You stood, slowly, like you wasn’t sure what you were doing until you were already doing it.

You took a careful step toward him. Your voice was quiet, steady despite the mess in your chest. You kneeled in front of him so that the two of you were level. Equal.

“You gotta hold it together, Rafe.”

He looked up at you through red-rimmed eyes. “Okay.”

“It doesn’t matter,” he said after a long beat, voice shaking but firm. “All I’m saying is… I’m not the bad guy you think I am, okay? But even if I was — even if I was just, like, bad Rafe Cameron or something…” He sniffled, trying to pull himself together. “You got no choice. You may not want to trust me, okay, but I’m your best bet.”

He tried to smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“Look,” he said, forcing his voice back to something solid. “I got a boat that can get us off the island, okay? But first, we gotta get out of here — and it’s better if we work together. C’mon. You know we work well together.”

You didn’t answer right away.

Instead, you looked at him — really looked — and saw the boy buried under the wreckage of the man he’d become. The rumble of an engine outside broke the silence.

You both turned to the window. Rafe moved beside you, standing close enough that you could feel the warmth of his arm against yours.

Outside, dust curled up from the driveway.

Voices echoed — guards shouting, a truck door slamming.

“They’re leaving?” Rafe murmured.

Your eyes narrowed, tracking the movement below. “They’re going to find John B.”

Your voice lowered, almost a whisper. “And your sister.”

Rafe’s jaw clenched, eyes still on the horizon.

Neither of you moved.

The sunlight framed them both in gold — enemies, allies, something completely different— and for a moment too long, Rafe let his eyes drift to the side of your face. The curve of your jaw. The shadow of your lashes. The way you didn’t flinch anymore.

He didn’t dare speak.

Because whatever you were now — it wasn’t friends.

And you’d never be that again. Night swallowed the compound in a wash of shadow and flame. Smoke curled up from the back gardens, a distraction Rafe had set minutes earlier — just enough chaos to make the guards scatter.

“Now,” he hissed.

You didn’t hesitate. You ran.

Both of your footsteps pounded against the stone path, the flickering torchlight strobing across your faces. The air smelled like gunpowder and salt; behind you, someone shouted in Spanish.

Rafe caught your wrist as they rounded a corner, tugging you back against the wall. His chest was heaving, eyes darting toward the open stretch ahead. He made sure not to hold on too hard as your wrists were sore.

“Two guards,” he whispered. “Wait till they—”

Before he could finish, you darted out first, slipping through the shadows like instinct itself. Rafe swore under his breath and followed, his hand finding yours as you sprinted toward the docks.

The contact was electric — sudden, grounding, almost desperate. His grip wasn’t forceful, just firm enough to say I’m not letting go until we’re safe.

“Go, go, go!” he shouted, half-laughing through the adrenaline.

You burst through the last gate, the moonlit docks stretching ahead. The boat bobbed at the edge of the pier — his boat, the one he’d stashed weeks ago in case everything went to hell.

You stumbled onto the deck first, grabbing the railing for balance. Rafe jumped in behind you, scanning the shoreline as searchlights swept over the trees.

“Untie it!” he barked, rushing to the engine.

You hesitated. Your breath was sharp and shallow. The chaos, the dark, the smell of oil and seawater — it all pressed in too tight.

“Y/n”

“Don’t!” You snapped, stepping back.

He froze. “What?”

Your voice cracked. “How do I know you’re not gonna kill me and leave?!”

His expression twisted, disbelief and hurt colliding in his chest. “You think I’d do that to you?”

“I don’t know, Rafe! You— you’ve killed people before!”

He flinched, taking a step closer even as you raised a hand to keep him back. His voice broke — low, raw, shaking.

“I may hurt people,” he said, eyes burning into hers. “But I would never—ever—hurt you. I couldn’t.”

The words hit the air like a confession, louder than the waves crashing against the hull. For a moment, you saw the truth in his face — not the killer, not the chaos — just the boy who’d once sat beside you under the stars and promised you the world.

Your breath caught. Your fingers tightened around the edge of the console.

And then — you moved.

In one swift motion, you slammed her hand down on the ignition. The boat lurched forward. Rafe stumbled, reaching for you—

You shoved him hard.

The sound of the splash echoed through the night.

Water sprayed up the side of the boat, and when you looked back, Rafe was in the water, thrashing to stay afloat — eyes wide, hair slicked against his face, disbelief cutting through every feature.

For a heartbeat, you just stared at each other.

Then you turned the wheel, tears stinging your eyes as you throttled the engine.

The boat shot forward, slicing through the dark water. The distance between them widened — but your chest ached like you’d left something behind you’d never get back. You had betrayed him, and you had betrayed your own morals.

Rafe dragged himself up onto the dock, coughing up saltwater, his shirt clinging to his skin. He watched the boat disappear into the horizon, jaw tight, heart pounding.

He’d meant it when he said he couldn’t hurt you.

He just hadn’t realised how much you could hurt him.

‘God couldn’t forgive like this’

The bell above the shop door chimed.

It was late afternoon; sunlight filtered through the salt-streaked windows in long, dusty rays, catching the glint of boards stacked along the wall. The place smelled like wax, sea air, and faint coconut sunscreen — all the things Rafe hadn’t smelled in months.

You were restocking a shelf near the counter, sleeves rolled up, hair pinned out of your face. You heard the door but didn’t turn. “We’re closed in five” you called, distracted.

The silence that followed made you look up.

Rafe stood just inside the doorway.

Tanned, tense, his shirt rumpled like he’d driven here without stopping. For a moment he didn’t speak — just stared at you as though he wasn’t sure you was real.

“Hey, y/n”he offered you a sickly, friendly smile.

Your whole body went rigid. You blinked once, twice, as if trying to process that the ghost in front of you had actually walked in. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Rafe Cameron stood in the doorway — sunburnt, worn out, and trying too hard to look casual. The shadows cut sharp lines across his face, but his eyes stayed locked on you.

“Can I help you?”You forced your voice to steady.

“I don’t know, can you?”He smirked faintly, like he couldn’t help himself.

You set the tape down. “What are you doing here?”

“Uh, yeah.” He glanced around at the shop — the boards, the counter, the salt-stained glass. “What, you don’t think I’m just a customer coming to shop at my local surf and bait store?”

Her brows raised. “No? Rafe, you always have ulterior motives.”

“I’m just looking for my sister,” he said, tone shifting, almost defensive.

“She doesn’t want to see you, Rafe.”

“Well, she’s my sister, okay?” he shot back. “I can come have a little chat with her if I want.”

You crossed your arms, unmoved.

He exhaled through his nose, trying to sound nonchalant. “Oh, it was a really… really nice performance yesterday at the break.”

You frowned.

“Kie gave it up for those turtles,” he went on, forcing a laugh. “Super fun to watch. It was awesome.”

“Rafe”Shan said flatly. “Just spit it out. What do you want?”

He hesitated, tongue pressing against his cheek, then gestured vaguely at the racks of boards. “You know this place is on the chopping block, right?”

“You don’t say.” Your tone dripped sarcasm. “Let me guess — you’re behind that or something?”

“I… I could be,” he admitted with a half-smile, “but no. It’s not me.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Well,” he said, taking a small step closer, “I came to give you a heads-up, actually. You know, to try to do you a solid, to try to be a good brother, and I… I wanna be better for you.”

You scoffed. “Bullshit. You don’t give a fuck what I think about you, I left you for dead pretty much”

His jaw clenched. “I’ve got you snapping at me as I’m trying to help, as usual. And you guys — you always wonder why you end up at the bottom of the food chain. It’s sad.”

“Again, Rafe — what do you want? You’re wasting my time.”

He sighed, reaching into his pocket. “I want you to take this.”

He slid a small business card across the counter. His fingers brushed the edge of yours — a spark of memory, sharp and unwelcome.

“It’s my business card,” he said. “Tell Sarah to hit me up. Or you — hit me up. I think I can help.”

Your lips twitched, unimpressed. “Mmm.”

Rafe’s eyes lingered on you, his voice lowering. “You really did me wrong, y/n.”

You blinked, stunned for half a second. “Did I?”

“Yeah,” he said quietly, something wounded flickering behind his tone. “But I forgive you. We’re good. I always forgive you.” His gaze softened. “I’m not your enemy. I’m on your side. I’ve always been on your side — not theirs, but yours.”

You frowned, your voice quieter now. “What are you talking about?”

Rafe didn’t answer right away. His jaw flexed, eyes still fixed on you— the weight of every memory between you hanging unspoken in the air.

Outside, the tide crashed against the shore.

Inside, the silence between you was louder than either could stand.

Rafe’s voice cut through the quiet.

“Don’t.” Your hand froze on the lock.

He stepped closer, voice low but trembling with that edge that meant he was barely holding it together.

“You don’t get it, y/n. I’m trying to save you”

You turned, disbelief flashing across your face. “Save me? You nearly destroyed everything I care about.”

He laughed under his breath, bitter and small. “Yeah? And yet you still look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you remember,” he snapped. “Like part of you still knows I would’ve done anything for you.”

You shook your head. “You’re delusional.”

He took another step, hands flexing at his sides. “You chose the wrong side, y/n. You think they’d have done the same for you? You think JJ or John B give a damn what happens to you once you stop being useful?”

“Don’t you dare talk about them.”

“I will,” he shot back. “Because I was the one who thought about protecting you. Every damn time. And you—you made it so damn hard.”

Your throat tightened; you tried to speak, but he kept going.

“You don’t think I’ve tried to kill it off? Whatever this is?” His voice cracked, sharp and breathless. “I’ve tried, y/n. God, I’ve tried. But every few months, you just—” he gestured helplessly “—you show up again. A glimpse. A voice. A name someone drops and suddenly you’re in my head all over again.”

You swallowed, eyes glistening. “Rafe, stop—”

“No!” he barked, louder than he meant to. The bell over the door rattled. “You think I wanted this? You think I haven’t tried to feel something for the girls on my side, the ones I’m supposed to want?” He laughed once, harsh. “They don’t even come close to you.”

Your breath hitched, the words hanging between the two of you like smoke.

He stepped closer until only a few inches separated them, his tone breaking down to something raw.

“It kills me, y/n. It kills me that after everything I’ve done, you don’t trust me.”

“You’ve given me every reason not to,” you whispered.

“Yeah,” he said, voice barely above a breath. “And I still can’t stop trying to fix it”

For a long second, neither moved. The air seemed to hum between you—grief, anger, longing—all twisted into something neither of you could name.

Then you reached behind you, unlatched the door. The bell chimed softly.

“You should go”you said.

Rafe’s jaw worked, eyes flicking to the door and back to you. He wanted to argue, to beg, to stay.

Outside, gulls cried over the water.

Inside, you pressed a hand to your chest, trying to slow the ache that wouldn’t leave, as Rafe Cameron himself hesitated before leaving you alone with everything to think about.

‘Way I really went in like this’

The sky split open above the boat that you were all crammed onto.

Rain came down in sheets, hard and relentless, drumming against the deck until the sound drowned everything else out. Lightning flashed — blinding white — and then the world fell into chaos.

Electricity crackled, sputtered, and died.

An alarm wailed through the cabin. The radar blinked once, twice, then went black.

“No, no, no,” Pope grunted, gripping the wheel. “Shit, I’m flying blind!”

The radar gave a last desperate beep-beep-beep, and then — silence.

“I can’t steer!” Pope shouted.

Somewhere below deck, Rafe’s voice rose above the storm, hoarse and furious.

“Hey! I’m down here! What are you doing?”

Cleo groaned, clutching the railing as another wave slammed the side of the boat.

JJ stumbled toward you, water sloshing around your ankles. “You okay?”

“Mm-hmm, just a little scared” you breathed, soaked to the skin, hair plastered to your face. “You okay?”

“I think so.”

Another crash of thunder. The entire boat shuddered. The deck tilted violently; you all grabbed onto anything you could reach.

Cleo shouted, “This storm is crazy, man!”

“Come on!” Pope yelled, fighting the wheel. “Grab on to something!”

Sarah’s voice cut through the wind. “Did you see the size of those swells?!”

And then — Rafe again. Louder this time. Desperate.

“Hey! Assholes! Cut me loose, come on!”

You froze mid-motion. It was his voice.

Through the chaos, through the rain, it hit you like a physical blow — the sound you had tried for months to forget. The one that lived in the corners of your dreams.

“Hey! Get me out of here!” He sounded terrified. Rafe was tied up somewhere below deck — a prisoner, left to die if the boat went under.

Your chest tightened. Your pulse thudded in your ears.

“Y/n!” JJ’s voice cut through the noise. You’d already started untying yourself as the water rose. “Hey!”

Cleo grabbed your arm. “No! No!”

“Do not let him out” Pope barked, eyes wide.

Your voice cracked. “He’s gonna drown! I can’t— I can’t let him drown!”

“We have to” you insisted, moving for the hatch. “I have to!”

Another wave slammed the hull; thunder rolled across the sky.

“Cut me loose!”

“Y/n!” JJ yelled out to you, but you were already climbing down, rain dripping off your chin, heart pounding so hard you could barely hear yourself think.

“Guys! Come on!”

You stumbled into the lower deck — half-flooded, half-dark with the red light flickering on and off— and there he was. Rafe Cameron.

Soaked, wild-eyed, wrists bound, fighting the ropes like a man already halfway to drowning.

“Coming!” You gasped, wading through the rising water.

“I’m not going to leave you like this,” you said, teeth chattering, fumbling for the knots.

“You- you came for me?” His protests halted for a minute, like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing in front of him.

“Don’t make me regret this,” you muttered, sawing through the rope with shaking hands.

Another flash — thunder shook the walls — and suddenly he was free.

Rafe lunged forward, grabbing you instinctively as another wave crashed into the hull. His arms wrapped around your waist, steadying you both against the impact of the water as your foot slipped, sending you under the wave. He used all of the strength he had left to lift you above the surface, your hands looping around his neck as the water levers got higher and higher.

“Let’s go”he breathed, holding you tight as the water you had swallowed choked you.

You stumbled toward the ladder together, slipping, grunting, soaked.

“You good?” he panted, both arms still wrapped around you, the two of you noticed how close you had gotten.

“Yeah”you panted out trying to catch your breath.

He looked at you then, rain dripping from his hair, eyes burning even through the dark. A half-smirk tugged at his mouth. “I knew it.”

You blinked, breathless. “Now’s not the time. Please shut up.”

He laughed — short, breathless, relieved — and for a moment, between thunder and chaos, it almost felt like you weren’t enemies anymore.

“You saved my life”Rafe uttered out, shaking his head.

“I guess I owed you one”you coughed out as you held your chest.

Lightning lit your faces. The storm screamed on.

Part 1

The air was cold. Sharp. Too quiet.

You didn’t notice at first. Not when your trainers hit the pavement. Not when you tugged your hood up over your headphones to block out the wind. Not even when your bag, heavy with post-gym weights, thudded against your spine with each step.

The music in your ears was loud—deep bass, a distorted melody that made your bones vibrate. Aggressive. Hypnotic music that made you space out into your thoughts as you walked.

You stopped when you saw it. Your car that sat pretty in the deserted car park. Your flat tire… No—slashed.

You stood there for a beat. Head tilted. Breath curling in the air. Something wasn’t right. You’d just had your tires re-done.

You reached up slowly, pausing the track with a single finger tap on your headphone cord. The silence that followed was deafening.

Taking your phone out of your pocket, thumb hovering as unease crept up your spine. You called Stiles—because of course you did. Because if something felt wrong, he was always your first call.

No answer.

One ring. Two. Straight to voicemail.

“Stiles, hey, it’s me—call me back. Something’s… off” you muttered, already scanning your surroundings.

You spun on your heel, eyes flickering around the dimly lit car park—each looming light above casted long, twitching shadows across the cracked asphalt. Nothing. No footsteps. No breath. But your skin was crawling.

Calming your breathing, steadying each inhale like you were bracing for something. Slower. Quieter. Your heartbeat began to settle, your senses sharpening with it. If there was a sound—even the smallest shift—you’d hear it. You were human but you had learnt from your friends in every aspect.

And then—

Wind.

Not the kind that comes with a breeze. This was a movement. A shift. Something behind you.

Your gut dropped—and your reflexes took over.

Before you could even see what it was you spun your whole body, swinging the weight-packed backpack behind you with everything you had.

CRACK.

Direct hit.

Donovan’s face twisted mid-lunge. The force knocked him sideways onto the floor with a meaty crunch, teeth flying—blood spraying from his shattered nose.

You stumbled backwards a little accidentally turning your back music on, it began to blare in your ears and you just stared, your eyes wide with adrenaline and fear.

He looked up at you. Blood smeared across his jaw. And he smiled. Rows of fangs. Too many teeth. Too many mouths.

Your lip curled. “Oh, hell fucking no.”

Donovan launched. This time, faster. Feral.

You were faster.

He swiped at you with elongated claws, tearing through your sleeve and slicing your arm, but you gritted your teeth and moved with it.

You dropped low, twisted out of his reach, and flicked your wrist— Your blade slid clean from its hiding place in your sleeve. Silver. Sharp. Familiar.

You slashed out— And sliced through his thigh. Blood sprayed. He screamed, stumbling, snarling like a beast.

You didn’t wait. One small slip up and that would be the end of you.

You slammed your shoulder into his chest and used the weight of your backpack to knock him back again, the metal inside clanking with the impact.

He crashed into a dumpster. Hard.

You bled from your arm. Your lip was busted. But your eyes? Steady. You stared blankly at Donovan as he struggled to rise, one leg bleeding, nose broken, the gleam of hunger still in his eyes.

And suddenly— You weren’t in the car park anymore.

You were back at the station. Behind the Sheriff’s desk. Watching the moment everything should’ve been taken more seriously.

INT. SHERIFF’S STATION – HOLDING CELL – FLASHBACK

Stiles stood next to Scott near the cell, his arms folded those brown eyes flickering back and forth around the room. You twirled around on the computer chair and shuffled your way over towards the boys.

“Ohhh, I should’ve got a haircut.”Sheriff Stilinski adjusted his shirt in the mirror.

“Well, you know, someone your age should be happy you still have hair to cut!”Stiles grinned.

“I think you look great.” Scott smiled politely.

“Well, thank you, son-I-should-have-had!”Stiles dad nodded, pointing over in Scott’s direction.

You perched on the edge of your chair, twirled a pen between your fingers, watching the whole thing unfold with amused eyes.

“If I knew you were going on a date, Sheriff, I’d have at least brought cologne. Maybe something that says ‘stable father figure, but also emotionally available”you wriggled your eyebrows at Noah.

“Oh thanks y/n, what the hell am I doing kids? This is a terrible idea.” The Sheriff groaned.

“What? Dad. Dad, it’s one date, okay? The town of Beacon Hills won’t implode while you’re out with one woman.”Stiles interjected.

“Or man…”Stiles added quickly, his voice trailing away.

“It’s a woman, Stiles.”His dad deadpanned.

“Okay…”his son ran his hands through his hair.

“A very beautiful woman.”Noah smiled proudly.

“What beautiful woman, by the way…?”you narrowed your eyebrows. Intrigued.

“None of your business. Either of you, why can’t you just be like Scott- no questions just answers”Sheriff Stilinski waved the two of you away.

Just as you were about to protest all four of your necks snapped towards the doors as they swung open. Chaos entered the room.

“I want to know.” You recognised the voice, a boy from your school. The group turned as Donovan, in cuffs, was led into the room by Deputies Parrish and Clark, along with his lawyer, Mr. Stewart.

“I’ll be blunt—it’s not what I was hoping for. But, the DA’s offer is still pretty reasonable…” Mr.Stewart shook his head firmly.

“What’s ‘reasonable?”Donovans eyes flickered around the room quickly taking in everyone as you all stared.

“Talk in the van, guys. Let’s go.”Deputy Clark ordered.

“No! Just tell me! What’s ‘reasonable?!’”Donovan resisted getting agitated by the second.

“Mr. Stewart, are we going to have trouble with your client?”Deputy Parrish reached for his belt.

“No, Deputy.” Donovan’s lawyer tried to calm the situation. He turned to the boy in cuffs “They want you for three to five. So, why don’t we get in the van and discuss a plea bargain that gets you out in two?”he offered.

“Stilinski! STILINSKI! I’m going to kill you!” Donovan’s eyes fixated on Sheriff Stilinski like a wolf locked onto prey. He was furious.

You stood from your seat instinctively and stood next to Stiles, your mouth settling into a firm scowl at his threats towards the Sheriff.

“Donovan, if you think that shocks me, remember it was well-documented in your Anger Expression Inventory.”Stilinski responded calm and unimpressed.

“Deputies, escort the prisoner out.”he added sternly.

“I’m not angry, like I’m gonna throw a brick through your window—I’m angry, like I’m going to find you, I’m going to get a knife, and I’m going to stab you with it until you’re dead. And when you look at me and you ask, ‘Why?’… remember right now. Because this is why. “Donovan strained against his cuffs, voice growing darker.

A moment of silence passed after his outburst.

“Wow, that was awesome. That was great. Can we do one more? Give us another one, maybe like Christopher Walken this time, you know? Okay, you know what? It’s fine. You’ll have plenty of time to work on it when you’re in your tiny, little cell. You know… just stuck there… forever.”Stiles broke the silence with a mocking smile, taunting Donovan and as he should have because he threatened his father.

You let out a small involuntary laugh. It wasn’t loud. But it was real. Honest. Sharp around the edges. Just one dry chuckle that escaped before you could stop it. Your mouth slapping over your mouth quickly.

Donovan’s head snapped toward you.

Your face didn’t shift—still calm. But you could feel Stiles glance at you—eyes flicking sideways. That single laugh from you had done more damage than a dozen insults. You’d tipped Donovan over the edge.

“I’ll remember that laugh when I gut you alive”Donovan seethed directing his rage at you.

“Get him out of here!”Sheriff snapped before Donovan could continue and within seconds Donovan was gone, the sounds of his angry yells disappeared down the corridor with him.

“What the hell’s an Anger Expression Inventory?”Scott asked curiously, lifting the mood slightly.

“It’s a test you take when you’re applying to become a deputy.”Stiles answered with folded arms.

“That guy wanted to be a cop?”Mccall asked surprised.

“At least now, he’s getting the full law enforcement experience…”Stiles let out a sigh.

For a moment, the room was quiet again. Stiles turned to look at you.

His voice was low, no witty remarks for once, just concern.

“You okay?”he mumbled, his voice raspy. You blinked—like you were just snapping out of something.

“Yeah. I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be?” Your tone was cool, too fast to be casual. Stiles studied you for a second longer, but said nothing.

Just nodded once. Quietly.

-

Donovan dragged himself up off the dumpster, blood slick down his leg, teeth stained red—but he was still standing.

Barely. You shifted your stance, chest heaving, blood soaking through your sleeve.

Your fingers tightened— But your knife was gone.

Your heart stuttered. You looked down. Nothing.

Not at your feet. Not beside you. Gone.

You spun, scanning the dark asphalt, breath catching.

“What now, Huh?” Behind you, Donovan let out a ragged breath—and grinned.

He stepped forward, and something in his posture shifted. His back straightened, his breathing slowed.

His veins pulsed black under his skin. His mouth split wider—rows of fangs gleaming under the streetlight. He was powering up. Fully transforming.

You had seconds. No time. No weapon.

But your hand reached instinctively to the cracked pavement—and landed on something solid. A brick. You gripped it in both hands, blood dripping from your fingertips. And you stood tall.

“Come on!”you roared. Your scream ripped through the car park like a war cry, echoing off the walls, raw and filled with something deeper than fear.

Donovan hesitated—just for a second. You didn’t. You charged. He lunged. The brick collided with his temple with a sickening crack. He reeled backward, and you hit him again—swinging with both hands, screaming through gritted teeth.

Donovan hit the pavement hard. But he was still breathing. Still twitching.

And then—you saw it in his eyes. He wasn’t done, he would heal easil. He wasn’t beaten. Because this fight? It wasn’t about you. You were just a starter.

But it was more than that. He didn’t come to kill you. Not really. He came to use you—to bleed you out on a dirty car park floor as a message. A warning. A knife to someone else’s heart.

You stumbled forward, breath ragged, and spotted your phone lying face-down near the wall. You rushed to it, sliding on your knees as you snatched it up.

Your bloody fingers fumbled on the screen as you tried to unlock it—already swiping to call Stiles—And then you turned around.

And Donovan was gone. Vanished. No blood trail. No footsteps. Nothing.

Your stomach dropped. No. No, no, no—He hadn’t run away. He wasn’t retreating. He was going after Stiles. It was about Stiles and his father.

Your phone trembled in your grip as you pressed call again. Voicemail. Straight through.

You lowered it and stared at the screen like you could force it to ring back. Like if you stood still long enough, he’d answer with some snarky “What now?” and everything would reset.

But he didn’t. And your tires were slashed. No getaway. No shortcut. No wheels.

You stood in the middle of the the car park, blood drying on your arm, your breath misting in the night air as the reality hit you—You were on your own.

And you had no time.

You gritted your teeth and turned toward the road, leaving your car and your backpack behind, your hoodie sticking to your back with sweat and blood.

You knew where Stiles was. You always knew. The school.

You didn’t hesitate. You ran. Not a jog. Not a panicked shuffle. You sprinted like hell was chasing you. Streetlights passed in a blur. Your phone stayed clutched in your hand, still calling, still going to voicemail, over and over.

Every step was a beat of desperation.

“Pick up, Stiles—come on.”

Your legs burned. Your lungs screamed. But you didn’t slow down. Because you weren’t running from something anymore. You were running to him.

And nothing—not blood loss, not fear, not the sting in your muscles—was going to stop you. Not until you reached him.

The entrance doors were wide open. That was the first thing you noticed when you reached the school, breath heaving, blood on your sleeves, heart racing like it wanted to break your ribs.

Roscoe sat abandoned in the lot, driver’s side open, headlights still on, casting long beams into the parking lot like a spotlight over an empty stage.

You skidded to a halt, your trainers crunching glass near the front entrance. “Stiles…” you breathed.

Then you saw it—the blood. A small trail. Smudged across the pavement leading all the way inside. You gripped your side, adrenaline forcing your feet forward, and bolted into the school.

The silence was overwhelming. Halls echoing only with your shallow breathing. Lights flickering overhead.

You followed the trail, heart pounding. Then—a crash. And somewhere in the distance, a scream—

“AHHH!” Stiles.

You moved faster now. Knife gone. Still bleeding. But more dangerous than ever. Your footsteps were silent as you moved past lockers and through a corridor into the library. You turned the corner—

And practically slammed into him.

Stiles clutched your arms. Hard. Eyes wide, wild, and grateful. He held onto you like you were the only thing tethering him to reality.

“Thank fuck, why didn’t you answer your phone!?” you hissed in a whisper-yell, breathless.

Stiles blinked. “I—I was fixing my Jeep. It was on silent.”

You gawped at him. “I’ve had quite a mare with this guy,” you panted, still catching your breath.

His brows knit together as he took you in—blood on your lip, bruises blooming across your cheek, your sleeves torn.

“Yeah,” he muttered, stunned. “I can tell.” His eyes drifted up.

Without a word, he gently lifted the bloodied headphones off your head, his thumb brushing your temple. You had honestly forgotten you were still wearing them.

“You’re hurt”Stiles mumbled assessing your current state.

You blinked. “Well, shit.” Stiles just stared at you.

Wide-eyed. Barely breathing. Like he couldn’t believe you were real and standing there.

“You came all the way here?” he asked, his voice low as you both began tiptoeing through the darkened library, side by side.

“On foot?” he added, shocked.

“He slashed my tires I had no choice”you whispered back, scanning the shadows. “And he can totally pay for them.”

Stiles trailed behind you, blood drying on his shirt, limping slightly. He looked at you like you were insane.

“You ran here on foot… to die with me?” he repeated, voice rising slightly.

You shoved his arm without looking. “Yes. Now shhh before you get us caught. Also, we’re not going to die, don’t say that”you hissed.

He opened his mouth to argue— Stiles was bleeding from his shoulder, limping and pale, his back pressed to the wood. You were next to him, knuckles scraped, ribs aching, your hoodie torn and stained with dried blood.

You could hear Donovan’s footsteps pacing on the other side of the shelves, his breathing heavy and uneven.

“I hate to say it, Stilinski… but we’re gonna have to split up.”you whispered up at your best friend.

“Absolutely no way.”he shook his head violently. You glanced at him. Your voice stayed low, but firm.

“One of us is gonna have to distract him.”you schemed.

“Yeah, and I vote neither.”Stiles shot back with no hesitation. You cracked the faintest smile.

“You dropped your phone…”Donovan’s voice rang out from across the shelves. Mocking. Loud.

You froze. He was holding it. You could hear the buttons clicking in his hands.

“It’s Y/N. Should I text her back? Oh wait… she can’t—she’s been held up.”the troubled boy sang out. He laughed.

You didn’t move. But your lips twitched. He didn’t know. He didn’t know you were here. You gave Stiles a tiny nod. He exhaled silently.

“You don’t really know who I am, do you, Stiles?”Donovans voice grew darker. His voice moved closer.

“Maybe you heard about my father… Did your dad ever tell you about him? About the time he was still a deputy, and how his partner got caught in a shootout?”

You and Stiles didn’t move. Just breathed. Quiet and fast.

“Did he tell you a bullet shattered my dad’s T-9 vertebra? Went straight through his spinal cord. Know what that means? Means everything below the waist? Useless. Not just the legs.”

“I bet he told you some of it. But I bet he left out the part where he was sitting in a car calling for backup while my dad went in alone.”

“Too scared. Too much of a frightened little bitch to go in after him.” Stiles winced—shoulders tensing, jaw locked.

“Or do scared little bitches not tell their little bitch sons about their failures?” Donovan was really angry.

“About how they put their partner in a wheelchair for the rest of his life?”

You reached over gently, placing your hand on Stiles’ arm. Just once. Just enough to say don’t listen to him.

“Don’t worry, Stiles. I’m not gonna kill you…”

Stiles looked at you, wide-eyed.

“I’m just gonna eat your legs!”

The shelves rattled. He was getting closer.

“I’ll go left. You take the wrench and go right.”you mumbled trying to keep your voice light.

“I hate this plan.”Stiles groaned.

“I know.”you pouted sympathetically. And then—you moved.

You shifted your weight slightly behind the bookshelf, and your phone slipped from your pocket. It hit the ground screen-down with a dull thud.

The screen lit up faintly—your thumb must have hit something on the way down. You didn’t notice. Too busy holding your breath as Donovan’s voice crept closer. But behind you, a small glow illuminated the floor.

Your phone had landed on the Emergency Call screen.

A quiet buzz. Then a voice.

“Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?”A dispatcher’s voice came through. You didn’t hear it. Neither did Stiles.

You were both frozen, eyes trained on the shadow flickering at the edge of the shelves.

“Nine-one-one, please state your emergency.” The volume was low—just barely audible. But it was on.

“You’ve reached nine-one-one. This line is for emergencies only. If you do not have an emergency, please hang up.”the voice repeated.

Donovan was still talking, still pacing, still boasting about Stiles’ father and his legs and all the things he was going to rip off Stiles.

Behind your foot, your phone continued:

“Want me to send a car out? What’s the address?”A deputy took over the radio.

“It’s the school. Beacon Hills High.”The dispatcher responded firmly.

A pause.

“Let’s see if we got a car in the area…”the deputy answered. Donovan’s footsteps were getting faster.

He was locked in on Stiles now—bleeding, limping, cornered. And still he came.

You moved before you could think. You sprinted from behind the shelf, leapt forward, and launched yourself onto Donovan’s back.

He staggered under your weight, howling as you brought your fist down on his head with everything you had—once, twice, three times.

“STILES! CHECK THE EXITS!” you yelled, legs locked around Donovan’s torso as he bucked and snarled.

Stiles scrambled up from the floor, wincing as he clutched his side. He bolted to the far doors, throwing his weight against them—locked.

“They’re not opening!” he called back, voice cracking with panic.

Donovan let out a monstrous growl and flung you off his back like a rag doll.

You hit the floor hard, bones cracking but still you rolled, staggered to your feet, and ran—drawing Donovan away. Keep him busy. Just keep him away from Stiles.

You ducked behind the shelves, then bolted toward the towering construction scaffolding still set up in the corner of the library for renovations.

Your shoes slammed against metal as you climbed, two steps at a time, blood from your temple dripping onto the bars below. Donovan followed.

Stiles watched, helpless, from the floor.

“Y/N!” he choked, eyes wide, chest heaving.

Donovan was right below you—climbing, snarling, lamprey fangs glinting.

Stiles darted to the nearby tool cart, throwing tools out of the way until his hand gripped something— A key.

The scaffolding key. His eyes flicked upward.

“To your left, baby!” he yelled.

Your head snapped toward him. That word—baby—cut through the chaos like lightning. You almost didn’t register what he meant.

Almost. But then—you saw it.

A rusted key. Holding the upper level of scaffolding in place. You reached for it, hand slick with blood, just as Stiles hurled the key upward.

You caught it. Fumbling. Shaking. But you caught it.

The key slid into place. You turned it. CLICK. The scaffolding groaned—metal screeching as it gave way. And in that split second, Stiles was already moving.

He ran straight toward Donovan—who looked up just in time to see you unlock the drop.

A scream. A crash.

Pounds of metal braces fell from above, slamming into Donovan’s back, knocking him to the ground. But it wasn’t over yet.

Donovan rose to his feet—bloodied, cracked, furious.

And that’s when Stiles lunged, using all his weight to slam Donovan forwards—right into a jagged metal brace jutting from the wreckage.

It impaled him through the torso.

Donovan gasped—one last sound, one last breath—and then he was still.

The library went silent. Stiles staggered back, panting. You climbed down, limbs trembling, adrenaline fading into ache.

Except for the soft crackling of settling metal and the rasp of your breaths in the thick air. You and Stiles stood completely still. Side by side. Wide-eyed. Dust-covered. Cuts and bruises burned across your skin, but you barely felt them.

Your chest rose and fell sharply, lungs trying to keep up, hearts still thudding from the chaos.

Across from you—Donovan’s body lay slumped in the wreckage. Twisted. Bloody. Still. You couldn’t look away. Neither could Stiles.

It was like your brains were trying to catch up with your bodies. Trying to understand what had just happened. What you’d both done. What you’d both had to do.

Your fingers twitched slightly.

And that’s when you noticed it— You were holding Stiles’ hand.

Somehow, somewhere in the madness, your hands had found each other. Gripping tight. Unmoving. You turned to look at him. And Stiles was already looking at you.

His face was unreadable. Like he was cycling through every emotion at once—shock, guilt, fear, disbelief.

Maybe even something else. Your lips parted, but no sound came out. And then—he moved.

He stepped in fast and pulled you against him, arms locking around your body like he couldn’t stand even an inch of space between you.

The second he touched you— You broke. Your knees buckled, and he caught you. The sobs came fast—ugly and guttural and real. You buried your face in his shoulder, shaking in his hold.

Because you had just killed someone.

And worse— You had both almost died. You were covered in blood, but alive.

Because of him. Because of each other. And in that moment, standing in the debris of survival and destruction— All you could do was hold on.

The distant wail of sirens cracked the silence. First one. Then two. You both froze. Stiles looked over your shoulder toward the broken library doors. The flashing lights hadn’t arrived yet—but they would. Fast.

“Shit” he muttered, fingers tightening around yours. “We have to go.”

“Surely we can’t just leave him there?” You were still catching your breath, body vibrating with shock, but when he tugged, you followed. Your converse scuffed the tile floor as he pulled you into a sprint.

“Where are we going?”you asked, half-panicked, half-dazed, your fingers still locked tightly in his.

“Away” Stiles shot back over his shoulder. Helpful.

“Oh, great. That clears everything up,” you quipped, stumbling slightly as he sped up. “Any chance we walk away and just tell them what it was, I don’t know—self-defense?”

“There’s two of us,” he replied quickly, weaving through the hallway, “and one very, very dead him.”

You blinked. “…Good point.”

The doors of the school were just ahead now. Roscoe sat like a beacon in the parking lot—beaten, dented, lights still on.

Your heart was pounding. Your hand was sweating in his. Your brain was short-circuiting.

And still— “Baby?” you said, breathless, almost without thinking.

Stiles glanced back at you, confused. “What?”

You swallowed. “You called me baby. Back there. Before we—”

His ears went red instantly not knowing what to say. Because now wasn’t the right time to tell you how he really felt. You raised an eyebrow even as you ran.

He practically crashed into the door, yanked it open, and looked at you, deadly serious now. “Y/N… we don’t tell anyone about this.”

You stared at him, chest heaving. “That’s gonna be kind of difficult considering I don’t have my phone anymore and I’m pretty sure the place is riddled with our DNA.”

He blinked. “Shit. Okay. Okay, we’ll worry about that later. Right now, we just need to get the hell out of here.”

You slid into the passenger seat, heart still rattling against your ribs.

“What if we explain it to Scott?” you offered, even though you already knew the answer. Stiles shook his head hard, shoving the key into the ignition.

“Scott is the last person who should know about this,” he said, his voice sharp now, but not angry—scared. “You know him. He won’t forgive it. Not from me. Not from you.”

“I’m doing this to protect you” he said. His voice cracked slightly. You looked over at him, softer now.

Your voice matched his. “And I’m doing this to protect you.” That stunned silence settled again—for one long breath. Then he nodded, face pale, jaw tight.

“Okay. Perfect. Great. So… perfect reason for us to just never talk about this again.”

He opened the passenger door for you, then slammed his own shut, gripping the steering wheel with white knuckles.

“Just me and you, okay?” His voice trembled now. “Just me and you.”

You stared out the windshield, the sound of sirens closer now, echoing like a countdown. You nodded slowly, still in that numb, blinking haze.

“Just me and you,” you echoed, eyes unfocused, voice flat as the gravity of it all finally started to land. And with that, the jeep roared to life.

OUTSIDE THE SHERIFF’S STATION – NIGHT

The wind kicked up. Streetlights flickered overhead. The kind of night that already felt like a bad idea. You were leaning against the Jeep, arms crossed, watching Stiles pace around in front of you like he was solving the whole damn supernatural world on his own again.

“You do realize you’re not going in there alone right?”you hummed out, picking at the cuticles on your nails.

“It’s just a quick in-and-out.”Stiles continued to pace.

“That’s what you said last time. And you ended up locked in a vault with a were-jaguar and a pissed off Peter Hale”you noted, the tone of your voice getting higher like you knew it all.

“I can handle Eichen House”he answered, holding up one finger as he spun on his heel to face you.

“Can you handle a psychotic orderly and a banshee psychic link you don’t understand? Also let’s not talk about the last time you were at Eichen house”you referred back to the whole ‘Nogitsune’ era. Absolute nightmare.

He sighed. He really sighed, like it physically pained him to admit he didn’t want you there—but needed you anyway.

“Can you be any more annoying?”Stiles huffed out.

“Sure. Want me to show you?”you raised your eyebrow daringly.

He started to grin. You matched it. Neither of you say it out loud, but you’d always been better together—chaotic, reckless, smart… but better.

He nodded toward the passenger side of the Jeep as he sucked his bottom lip under his teeth.

“Okay my little fiend, get in before I change my mind”Stiles swung his keys around his finger.

“You won’t”You sighed, jumping into the passengers side.

“Just a thought Stilinski-We can’t just go in and demand to check out their files cabinet. But maybe… there’s someone inside who wants to make a little extra cash”A metaphorical lightbulb popped up above your head.

He popped the glove compartment open and pulled out a wad of bills, folded and ready. You raised your eyebrows curiously.

“Wow. You actually planned for this, great minds think alike I suppose” You laugh under your breath, shaking your head, there’s warmth there. Comfort. Familiarity.

EICHEN HOUSE PARKING LOT – MOMENTS LATER

Stiles drummed his fingers against the steering wheel, restless energy rolling off him in waves.

You knew where his head was-where it always was as of late.

Lydia. Malia. He had a dilemma on his hands.

And he was doing a really bad job pretending he didn’t.

You’d watched it unfold quietly, in half-finished sentences and the way he stared too long at his phone when it buzzed. He never talked about it—not to you. Not really. But you’d seen the signs. The hesitation. The quiet guilt. The way his voice always changed when either of their names came up.

Malia was the now. The girl who made sense in a world that rarely did. She didn’t ask questions. She didn’t overthink things. She acted first, felt second. That worked for him… for a while.

And Lydia—well, Lydia was the forever. At least, that’s what you’d always assumed. The girl he’d wanted for years. Smart, radiant, untouchable. She’d grown closer to him recently. Trusted him. And maybe that meant something.

But it wasn’t your place to ask. Because you were neither of them.

Lydia and Stiles had spent most of the day holed up in his bedroom full of dust and genius, trying to crack a code that her dead grandmother left behind. You hadn’t been there, but you’d heard all about it when you’d arrived at the sheriff’s station. Stiles had been buzzing when he showed you the list. Names of the already dead—suicides, all linked back to this Eichen.

You both sat in the Jeep, headlights off. Silence building. Tension settled low in your stomach—not just from where you’re going, but from how often he looked at you like he was trying to say something but he never did.

“You’re doing that thing again”you interrupted his thoughts.

“What thing?”Stiles responded quickly, not looking over at you.

“Staring like you’re about to say something and then pretending you didn’t”You answered.

He finally looked up at you, and it’s soft. Honest. But still not enough.

“Remind me again why I keep you around?”his eyebrow raised slightly.

“Moral support. Emotional labor. I remember your Starbucks order”you grinned.

“Right. The holy trifecta.”Stilinski nodded.

“Still think this is a good idea?”you asked honestly.

“Absolutely not. But since Lydia’s at her grandma’s lake house trying to figure out how a banshee left clues in her death tape collection… this is what we’ve got”Stiles shut off his ignition.

You both hopped out, standing shoulder-to-shoulder in the dark. Somewhere inside, danger was waiting. But so was the truth neither of you were ready to face.

As you walked toward the entrance, your hands grazed. Without thinking, they found each other. His fingers closing around yours.

Neither of you let go.

EICHEN HOUSE – INTAKE LOBBY – NIGHT

The moment you stepped inside, the air shifted-sterile, cold, thick with history you didn’t want to know. The buzz of fluorescent lights was too loud. Somewhere in the building, someone was screaming.

You didn’t flinch. Neither did Stiles because the two of you had danced this dance before.

“Good vibes in here as usual. Real welcoming.” You whispered.

“Right, I was going to book us in for a spa day here”Stiles offered you a half smile.

He walked ahead to sign the fake visitor log. You trailed behind, trying not to focus on the nurses, the cameras, the smell of bleach.

When he glanced back, you’re already staring at him. You glanced away way too quickly.

“So. What’s the plan? Talk to a dead girl? Flirt with danger? Accidentally piss off a banshee?”you continue, trying to hide your fear with a little small talk.

“I didn’t bring you to flirt with danger-who is he anyway?”Stiles muttered, a small frown evident on his face.

“Yeah, you brought me because I’m your emotional support human”you corrected him.

That stung more than you meant it to. He didn’t respond, just handed you a visitor badge. Your fingers touch as he passed it over—brief but electric.

It’s always like that lately. Lately as in the past two years but who was counting- you were. And it never meant anything anyway.

Because he has Malia. Because he had previously loved Lydia. Because you were just Y/N. The best friend. The girl who was too late.

EICHEN HOUSE – BRUNSKI’S OFFICE – NIGHT

The office looked like it hadn’t seen a cleaning supply—or a conscience—in about a decade. The light flickered overhead. A cheap fan rattled on the desk. It smelt like burnt coffee and bad choices.

Brunski leant back in his chair, twirling a key ring between two fingers like he’s doing you both a favor.

“A thousand”Brunski grunted.

“A thousand dollars? To use one little key to open one little file room? Are you out of your mind?” You could feel Stiles flaring up next to you.

“When you get the keys, you make the price” Brunski shrugged cooly.

“Right. You actually think we have that kind of money?”Stiles snapped.

“I know you don’t—if you did, Daddy Sheriff would’ve paid the bill by now” You tensed up at the odd mans words. No one speaks on Sheriff Stilinski in that way.

That landed sharp. Stiles stiffened up beside you. You feel his breath hitch, but he doesn’t say anything.

Then Brunski turned to you.

And the way he did it made something in your chest go cold.

It wasn’t just a glance—it was measured. His eyes lingered too long, dropped just enough to make your skin crawl. It wasn’t curiosity. It was control. He looked at you like he knew you didn’t belong here, like he wanted to remind you exactly who held the power in this room.

Your spine straightened, jaw tightening, but you didn’t flinch.

From beside you, Stiles froze. Subtle, but sudden. His arms dropped to his sides, fists just slightly clenched. His gaze flicked from Brunski to you—then back again, harder now. Sharper. The teasing edge he always wore had evaporated, replaced by something colder.

He saw it. The way Brunski looked at you. And he hated it. He shifted half a step closer to you—not obvious, but enough. A barrier. A warning.

“That’s why I’m talking to her”Brunski noticed Stiles’ anger rising and smiled wider.

You sighed, already regretting this entire field trip, and dug into your coat pocket.

“I have eight hundred”you offered with a roll of your eyes.

There’s a pause. Stiles slowly turned his head toward you like you just pulled a live ferret out of your hoodie.

“Where did you get that from?”Stiles muttered, stunned. You had also been prepared.

You shrugged without looking at him.

“Saving it for a rainy day. And from where I’m standing pretty fucking wet out there tonight”you glanced up at the window and the lightening struck against a tree outside as if on queue.

Stiles made a noise somewhere between a laugh and an “are you serious right now?”—but Brunski just grinned like he’s already counted the cash in his head.

“That’ll do. Follow me”Brunski ordered.

He stood slowly, his keys jingling in hand as he unlocked a drawer and grabbed what he needed. You exchanged a glance with Stiles—one full of unspoken “keep your eyes open.” He didn’t say a word, but when you followed Brunski out the door, he made sure to fall in step between you and the man with the keys.

Just in case.

The hallway was narrow and dimly lit, the kind of space that made you instinctively walk closer together. Brunski led a few paces ahead, keys jingling with every smug step.

You walked shoulder-to-shoulder with Stiles, arms brushing, footsteps echoing off tile and metal.

Just before you rounded the corner, you pulled your phone from your pocket, checking the signal. One bar. Fading.

“You wanna text Lydia or Malia? Let them know you’re alive before we’re completely off the grid?”you asked casually shoving your phone back into your pocket.

You didn’t look at him when you said it. You meant it to sound offhanded, practical. You weren’t sure if it came out that way.

Stiles didn’t answer right away. You finally glanced sideways. He was already looking at you.

Not with guilt. Not with hesitation. Just this quiet, open-eyed kind of certainty.

“No”Stiles replied softly, no need for explanation.

And somehow, that one word landed heavier than anything he could’ve said. He didn’t need to check in with Lydia. He didn’t feel the urge to text Malia. Not right now.

Because the one person he needed to be with—the one he trusted to be next to him when everything went to shit—was already walking beside him.

Your heart was louder than your footsteps now.

EICHEN HOUSE – FILE ROOM

The door creaked open on rusted hinges as Brunski unlocked it with exaggerated slowness, like he thought he was granting you access to some top-secret vault.

The walls were lined with dusty cabinets, each drawer stuffed with the kind of secrets Beacon Hills likes to bury. Old patient files, faded labels, and the soft mechanical click of Brunski unlocking the drawer echo in the quiet.

“Good?” He gestured lazily at the open drawer and stepped aside.

“Yeah. We can help ourselves”Stiles waved him away as he started to go through the files.

You and Stiles knelt beside the drawer. He flipped through names and folders, sorting through the deaths Lydia had flagged—every suicide Lorraine Martin tracked. You hovered behind him, scanning with him, heart pounding faster with every file.

“Uh, Y/N, you got the list?”he turned towards you quickly.

You handed him the folded Deadpool list Lydia cracked earlier. He unfolded it—then suddenly stills.

“Y/N… why did you write more names on here?”Stiles sighed as if this was one of your many pranks.

You blinked confused and slightly startled. “I didn’t write anything”

“This is your handwriting”Stiles held up the list in front of you, almost waving it around.

“Okay, first of all, why would I do that Second—that’s not my handwriting… That’s Lydia’s handwriting”you stepped closer, squinting at the paper.

“Why would she write our names?”Stiles voice grew quieter as he stared at it.

You went completely still. Then—

“It was the tapes, wasn’t it?”Brunski’s voice rang out from behind you both.

Before you can even react—

ZAP.

A sharp scream ripped from your throat as the taser hit your ribs. Your whole body seized, pain exploding through your spine as you collapsed to the floor.

“STILES—“you gasped.

“HEY!” Stiles boomed, trying to take in the situation but only focusing on your body.

ZAP.

Brunski slammed the taser into Stiles’ chest. He dropped groaning, twitching as he hit the ground beside you.

You could barely move, muscles twitching involuntarily as your vision swam. The file cabinet loomed above you, still half open. Stiles groaned and turned his head to look at you managing to hold out his hand desperately trying to reach you.

And then—

“Your turn, sweetheart”The corrupt orderly stood over you. He raised the taser again, humming like this is all just part of his night shift.

Everything goes black.

AN HOUR LATER

You came to slowly—like surfacing from a nightmare you can’t quite remember. Your head was pounding. Your vision was unfocused. Everything ached.

The first thing you registered was the cold. The floor beneath you was concrete—hard, unforgiving, biting through your clothes and into your spine. Your hands are pulled tightly behind you, wrists bound by leather restraints, secured to a thick metal pole. Your legs are folded awkwardly beneath you, tingling from lack of circulation.

And you’re not alone.

Your back is pressed against someone else’s along with an uncomfortable metal pole, someone solid, warm, breathing fast.

Stiles.

“Y/N? Please tell me that’s you”you hear his voice and it’s groggy filled with a panicked undertone.

“Nope. Just the ghost of Beacon Hills sarcasm past”you replied dryly.

“Thank God. You’re okay. You are okay, right? Like, full sentences? Blinking? Breathing?” He let out a breath that’s more like a laugh strangled in relief.

“If I say yes, do I get untied?”you asked, peering around the dark room trying to get a grip of your surroundings.

“No, but I might stop hyperventilating”Stiles replied.

You shifted again, testing your arms. Leather restraints bite into your wrists, tight and unforgiving.

“Where are we?”you questioned.

“Back room. Concrete floor. Some kind of weird… medical cart thing in the corner. Also, bad lighting. Classic villain lair stuff”Stiles breathed out unevenly.

“So like, exactly how I pictured dying with you. Just less snacks”you tried to joke, your voice slipping a fraction.

“Hey. Don’t joke like that” His voice changed. It’s still Stiles, but lower. Scared. Like the idea of something happening to you isn’t a punchline—it’s the nightmare.

“I shouldn’t’ve brought you. I should’ve made Lydia come. Or—anyone who didn’t get tasered because I thought bribing a psychopath was a solid plan”Stiles kicked himself.

“You didn’t make me come. I chose this, remember and it was half my idea too?”you reassured him, your voice lowering to match his.

“Yeah, well… I’m never letting you choose again”Stiles murmured to himself.

You both go quiet, sitting there with your backs pressed together, breathing in the same silence. You can’t see him, but you can feel the constant little movements—the way he’s testing his wrists, trying to get a glimpse of you, trying to do something.

And behind you, Stiles’ thoughts were unraveling.

His hands ached from fighting the restraints, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t stop. Not when you were hurt. Not when you’re this close and still out of reach.

His brain was moving a mile a minute—running through every worst-case scenario he’d ever imagined. What if Brunski comes back and doesn’t stop at a taser this time? What if you were already too late? What if—

What if he’d just told you?

That was the loudest thought.

It crashed into him like a punch to the chest.

What if he hadn’t spent all that time chasing Lydia’s ghost? What if he hadn’t buried himself in something safe with Malia? What if he’d just looked at you—really looked—and said what he’d always been too much of a coward to admit?

That he noticed everything.

That you were the one who never left. The one who kept showing up. Who laughed when no one else could. Who knew how to calm him down with a single look. Who somehow always knew when he needed you—without him having to say a word.

You.

And now you were tied to a pole in the middle of a nightmare, and all he could do is sit here and hate himself for how long it took him to figure it out. For wasting time.

For not choosing you first.

His fingers twitched behind the restraints, aching for yours.

He didn’t say it. Not yet. But God, he wanted to.

And beside him, still tethered to the same cold metal and the same dangerous silence—you breathed. Alive. Brave. Still you.

And that was the only thing keeping him together.

Screams echoed somewhere down the corridor—desperate, hollow cries bounced off the walls of Eichen House.

“Help us! Somebody, help!” Your voice joined them, your throat raw, fear cutting through the sarcasm you usually wore like armor.

From behind you, Stiles’ voice came, low and tight with panic barely masked by cynicism. “Y/N, there’s a lot of people screaming for help in a place like this. I don’t think anyone’s listening.”

You didn’t answer right away, breath shaking as the leather restraints bit into your wrists.

“Well,” you finally muttered, “I’m open to better ideas… because, if you didn’t notice, all of those suicides Lorraine Martin tracked? They were murders.”

There was a pause, heavy with realization. Then Stiles’ voice again, quieter now, like the pieces had clicked together. “That’s why she left the message… the files. Everything.”

“She predicted her own death,” You said, your voice thinning. “She knew Lydia would figure it out. That’s why she gave it to her.”

But a new voice cut through the air before you could say anything else—smooth and too calm.

“Once Lydia were able to predict her own,” Brunski said, stepping into the light like he’d been waiting for his cue.

Your stomach turned. Stiles stiffened behind you.

“But they weren’t murders,” Brunski continued, slowly pacing closer, voice disturbingly casual. “I’m not some serial killer like Ted Bundy, going around cutting up college girls.”

“No” Stiles snapped, his voice tight with rage. “You’re just an Angel of Death.”

Brunski chuckled under his breath. “I don’t think you understand my level of commitment to my work here, Stiles.”

He crouched now, eyeing you both with cool detachment. The taser hung loose in his hand again, like a toy.

“There are people here who don’t simply need treatment,” he said calmly. “They need release. I helped them. I helped Lorraine.”

Behind you, Stiles barely breathed. But your voice came first—barely above a whisper.

“You killed her.”

“I helped her,” Brunski corrected gently, as if that made it better.

He tilted his head at you then, almost intrigued. “And now… you can help me. Because there’s something about it that’s always bothered me.”

Your chest rose and fell too fast, heart thudding against the bone like it was trying to break free. Brunski was still crouched in front of you, staring at you like you were the final piece of some sick puzzle only he could see.

You swallowed hard, trying to keep your voice steady.

“I can’t help you,” you said, voice flat, but barely above a whisper. “I’m not a banshee.”

He didn’t react.

“I’m not what you think I am,” you added, a little sharper now. “You’ve got the wrong girl.”

Brunski tilted his head slowly, a thin, amused smile creeping across his face like he found that adorable.

“But you hum,” he said, like it proved something. “Loud. Even when you’re not speaking.”

Your spine pressed tighter against the pole, trying to inch away even though you had nowhere to go. Behind you, you could feel Stiles pulling against his restraints harder, sharper—silent, desperate.

“That doesn’t mean anything,”you said quickly. “I’m not psychic, I don’t hear voices, I don’t scream when people die—I’m not Lydia.”You began to grow impatient.

Brunski’s smile widened just a little. “No,” he murmured. “But you’re still useful sometimes… the wrong girl turns out to be the right one.”

The words echoed off the walls, sticky and cruel, and landed hard in the pit of Stiles’ stomach.

Sometimes Useful.

That’s what Brunski saw when he looked at you. Not a person. Not her. Just another means to an end. Another name. Another body.

And Stiles hated it. Hated the way this man was speaking to you. Hated that you had to sit there and listen to it. Hated that you couldn’t see the way his whole body pulled tight behind you, like if he just strained hard enough against the restraints, he could break them. Could get between you and Brunski. Like he could stop this.

But then came the second part.

The wrong girl turns out to be the right one.

Brunski said it like it was meant to taunt you. Like he thought he was clever. But to Stiles, it hit somewhere deeper.

Because that’s exactly how you saw yourself, isn’t it? The wrong girl.

You thought you were the one he never looked at the way he looked at Lydia. The one he overlooked when Malia came along. You thought you were safe to stand beside him, to be his best friend. But you were wrong.

Because in that moment—right there, in the flickering light of a nightmare—Stiles knew. You were the right one. You always had been. You were the girl who made his heart race and his world tilt.

Behind you, Stiles struggled again, harder this time. “Get away from her.” He seethed. Brunski didn’t move.

You held your breath and stared him down, doing everything you could to hide the shaking in your voice.

“I’m just human,” you said lips trembling, voice cracking “There’s nothing special about me”

The words hung in the air, broken and raw. For a second, it was dead silent. Then behind you—Stiles snapped. Not in a loud, dramatic way. Not with panic or sarcasm or one of his usual half-panicked rants. It was quiet.

Steady. Painful.

“Y/N…” he breathed, like saying your name alone hurt. “Don’t say that. Ever again.”

You felt his back tense against yours, felt the way his breath caught like it physically hurt him to hear you believe that.

“You are,” he said. “You’re—God, you’re so special.”

You were never a placeholder. You were it.

And the fact that it took a sadistic orderly’s taunt to make him see that? That made his stomach twist with guilt—and love.

Real, gut-punching love.

The kind that doesn’t need fanfare. The kind that builds quietly. Over years. Through every glance, every moment and conversation, every time your hand found his in the dark without meaning to.

Then, behind you, Stiles moved.

Not loudly. Not desperately. Just enough.

You felt the tug of his arms shifting, the leather straps creaking as he twisted his wrists, straining until his fingers brushed yours behind the pole.

And then—he found your hand.

He didn’t grip it at first. He just touched it. Like he was making sure it was real. Like he needed the connection as badly as he needed air.

A voice sliced through it—mocking, too loud in the stillness.

“Aw,” Brunski drawled from somewhere behind the light, his footsteps slow and deliberate. “That’s awfully sweet.”

You flinched, and Stiles’ hand tensed instantly in yours.

“But you know what’s not sweet?” Brunski continued, his tone turning cold beneath the sugar. “The fact that Lydia’s not here.”

He moved into view, smile stretched thin and bitter.

“I needed Lydia. I needed her, and instead…” He gestured lazily at you, like you were an unfortunate stand-in.

You didn’t say anything. But your jaw clenched.

“Now,” he said, taking a step closer, voice dropping, “You’re going to have to listen—human or not.”

“Touch her,” he said, voice low and shaking, “and I swear to God—” Behind you, Stiles twisted again in his restraints.

The click of the tape recorder was deceptively quiet.

Your breath caught in your throat the second you heard it.

The static buzzed to life, followed by a soft, trembling voice—one you recognized from Lydia’s memories, from photographs and silence and the unspoken pain that lingered behind your friend’s eyes.

Lorraine Martin.

“What are you…? Brunski, what are you doing?”Your entire body stiffened at the sound of Lydia’s grandmother.

“No,” you whispered. “No, no, no…” But it was already playing.

“Don’t worry, Lorraine,” Brunski’s voice crooned through the crackling audio. “It’s going to be all right… You’re just going to have a little trouble breathing…”

Stiles reacted instantly. You felt him jolt against the pole, heard the panic in his voice.

“Y/N,” he said, trying to steady himself even as the horror grew in his chest. “Y/N, look at me. Don’t listen, okay? Don’t listen to it. Just focus on my voice.”

“Hey, turn it off!” Stiles yelled, jerking violently against the restraints.

His voice echoed through the restraint room, cutting through the suffocating sound of Lorraine Martin’s dying voice still playing over the crackling tape recorder. He twisted hard, metal and leather groaning against his wrists.

“Turn it off!”

He didn’t see it coming.

Brunski swung with no warning, no hesitation.

The punch landed hard against Stiles’ cheek, snapping his head sideways with a sickening thud. His body sagged briefly against the pole, stunned.

“STOP!” you screamed, the word tearing from your throat like a sob. “Don’t—don’t hurt him!”

Your voice cracked. It came out too loud, too raw. But you didn’t care. You twisted toward the sound of him groaning, straining in your own restraints, tears still streaking down your cheeks from the tape.

You couldn’t. You couldn’t not hear it.

Your chest began to heave as the recording continued, every second sinking like glass into your skin.

“Just block it out,” Stiles begged. “Block it out. Just… stay with me. Please.”

But you were already crying. You didn’t realize how hard until the first sob escaped your lips—sharp, ugly, helpless. Your face crumpled as the tears came fast and hot, streaking down your cheeks like they couldn’t get out fast enough.

This wasn’t supposed to be yours to hear.

It was Lydia’s. And it would have killed her.

“Please,” Lorraine’s voice begged through the speaker. “Don’t…”

Brunski leaned closer, whispering now, savoring the moment.

“Here it is,” he murmured. “The part I never understood…” He pressed his finger harder on the tape recorder, like he could slow time.

“Just Listen.”

“Please… don’t hurt her…” Lorraine’s voice—barely audible, choked with tears—crackled through again.

“Don’t hurt who?”Brunski’s voice came next, soft, cruel, curious.

A beat of silence. Then Lorraine’s answer, soft as breath.

“Ariel…”

You let out a broken cry. The name hit like a punch. You squeezed your eyes shut, chest caving in around the sound.

Lydia had been a little girl.

You remembered the story. The mermaid books. The nickname. How Lorraine had called her Ariel when no one else did. This wasn’t just a murder.

It was a goodbye.

And you had heard every second of it. A part of you was grateful that Lydia wasn’t the one listening to the horror.

And now, bound and sobbing in the dark, you weren’t sure you’d ever be able to forget the sound of Lorraine’s last breath.

The tape clicked off. And then—nothing. Silence.

A silence so thick it pressed in around you, like the whole room had collapsed inward, like even the air couldn’t bear to move anymore.

You stared at the wall in front of you, barely seeing it. The edges of your vision blurred. Your mouth was dry. Your chest felt too heavy to rise and fall, but somehow, your body still remembered how to breathe.

You couldn’t cry anymore. You were emptied out. Paralyzed.

The echo of Lorraine’s voice still rang in your skull, soft and strangled, whispering Ariel… like she was still there, still dying, over and over again. You knew Lydia wasn’t here—but somehow, it still felt like you were breaking for her. Carrying the weight of a grief that didn’t belong to you—but now, never would leave you either.

You didn’t even realize you were shaking until you felt it.

His thumb. Rubbing gently over the back of your hand.

A subtle movement.

He didn’t say anything. He didn’t ask if you were okay—because you weren’t. And he wasn’t either.

But his thumb kept moving, back and forth, anchoring you to something that wasn’t horror.

You blinked slowly, still staring into nothing.

And then Brunski’s voice slid through the silence, jarring and casual—like he hadn’t just forced you to relive someone’s murder.

“We get a lot of teenagers trying to break into our drug cabinets,” he said, stepping back toward the medical tray. Your head didn’t turn. Your muscles wouldn’t move.

“Most of the time,” he added, as if it were some inside joke, “they don’t succeed.”

You felt Stiles’ grip tense just slightly in your hand. You knew he was watching Brunski now—waiting.

“But you two…” Brunski trailed off, tapping a syringe between his fingers. “You look pretty clever to me.”

Brunski was humming now.

Not a song. Just a sound. A low, tuneless hum that curled under your skin and made your stomach churn.

“I’ll admit, Stiles,” he said, picking up the syringe from the tray with practiced ease, “I don’t have any unusual talents like Lydia…”

He turned it slowly in his fingers, admiring the way the liquid shimmered inside.

“But somehow, I just knew we were gonna get a chance to do this again.” Again?

Stiles jumped behind you, his whole body pulling forward like he could somehow throw himself between you and Brunski.

“No. No. No—”

The panic in his voice shot straight through you. Then Brunski lunged. You didn’t even have time to scream.

The needle pierced the side of your neck, sharp and sudden, a sting of pain exploding down your throat. Your breath caught. Your limbs went stiff. The sensation was cold and burning all at once—like poison wrapped in ice.

Your eyes widened as your body betrayed you.

“NO!” Stiles roared.

You couldn’t see him. But you felt the fury, the helplessness in his voice. The sheer desperation that came from watching the one person he couldn’t lose—being hurt right in front of him.

Brunski held the plunger steady, thumb twitching over it like he was savoring the moment.

You gasped. Your body began to tilt—

“DROP IT!”

The shout cracked through the room like a gunshot. Suddenly Brunski froze.

“Take your thumb off that needle,” came the voice again, calm and commanding, “and slowly withdraw it from her neck.”

You didn’t have to turn your head to know who it was.

Parrish.

His voice was steady. His gun was raised. Brunski’s fingers hovered.

Your heart thudded so loudly you could barely hear anything else—except Stiles still murmuring your name behind you like a prayer.

For a second, no one moved. And then Brunski—sneering, defeated—lifted his hand away.

“Young deputy…” Brunski rasped, eyeing Parrish’s gun with a pathetic smirk. “You’re just a kid. I bet you’ve never even fired a—”

The shot rang out before he could finish the sentence.

The crack of the gun echoed through the tiled room, deafening. You flinched, the sound ripping through your already-frayed nerves as Brunski’s body jolted backward from the impact.

He hit the wall hard, sliding down in a boneless heap, a red stain already spreading across his chest. Parrish didn’t lower the gun. Not yet.

The room went silent again—except for your breathing. Sharp, ragged. Stiles was behind you, still bound, but you felt the same tension in his posture, like the shot hadn’t fully landed until he knew you were safe.

Brunski didn’t move again. You didn’t feel sorry. You felt… nothing. Just the faint sting in your neck, the heaviness in your limbs, and the echo of Lorraine’s voice still rattling in your skull.

“He… he killed Lorraine,” you said, your voice trembling as you stared at Brunski’s slumped body. “He was using Meredith. Manipulating her.”

“He used her to create the Deadpool—” Stiles added sharply.

“—And he killed her when she tried to help us,” you finished, your throat tightening.

Brunski let out a weak, gurgling laugh, coughing as blood stained the corner of his mouth.

“You… You think it was me?” he rasped. “That I was controlling her?”

“Idiots… She was controlling me.” His head lolled against the wall, voice fading to something bitter and thin.

Before the words could fully sink in, someone at the edge of the room finished cutting Stiles free.

The second his wrists were loose, he dropped to his knees beside you.

His hands were everywhere in a rush—hovering at your face, brushing gently over your arms, checking your pulse at your neck like he didn’t trust his eyes. You could see the worry in every line of his face, how shaken he was even trying to hold it together for you.

“Hey,” he said, voice hushed and rough. “You okay? Did he—did he hurt you anywhere else?”

You nodded, still slightly dazed, and he let out a breath that sounded more like a release than relief.

His thumb swept instinctively across your cheek, catching a dried tear. He didn’t say anything else. He didn’t need to.

Then Meredith spoke from the doorway, soft and composed.

“No…”

Your heads turned in unison.

She stood quietly, like she’d always been there, like she belonged in the silence.

“And… he wasn’t on my list,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “But he was a bad person.”

And just like that, everything you thought you knew shifted again.

BEACON HILLS MEMORIAL HOSPITAL

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, the sterile quiet of the ER broken only by the soft rustle of curtains and the low beeping of distant monitors. You sat on the edge of the hospital cot, knuckles resting in your lap, the nurse’s voice barely registering as she ticked off vitals and asked about the soreness in your neck.

You kept nodding. Kept pretending you were listening.

But your mind was still back there—in that room, in that chair, tied up next to Stiles with fear rattling in your bones. The sound of Lorraine Martin’s final breath still hadn’t left your ears.

Or the sound of Stiles screaming your name.

You hadn’t looked at him much since they brought you in. He was across the hall, behind another thin curtain. You could hear bits of conversation though—his sarcasm filtering through, even while Melissa tried to pin him down.

Across the hallway, thin curtains separated you, but you could still make out the sound of his voice.

“I’m completely and totally fine,” he was saying.

Melissa McCall didn’t hesitate. “Uh-uh-uh. You completely and totally have a concussion, Stiles. Lie back down. The doctor said you’re not leaving without a CT scan.”

Stiles groaned. “We still haven’t paid for the last one.”

You could almost picture Melissa’s face from the tone of her voice. Firm, unimpressed.

“Oh no, no, no. Meredith is at the station. Your dad said it could take some time, but he will get her to talk.”

There was a pause. You imagined Stiles looking toward the door, the hallway, maybe even your room.

Melissa’s voice softened slightly. “Even if I let you go… what would you do?”

You heard him exhale. “Okay, fine. Can you do me one little favor?”

“Anything.”

“Can you get me a tape player?”

There was a pause.

“Like… cassettes?” she asked.

“Yes. Tapes.”

“I’ll see what I can do…”

“Okay, tapes though, please.”

“Cassettes.”

You let out the faintest breath of a laugh at the absurdity, but it vanished almost immediately. Then his phone buzzed. And you went still.

You couldn’t hear what Malia was saying, not from this distance, but the low, familiar cadence of her voice drifted faintly from his room. You recognized it instantly.

You didn’t need to hear the words. You already knew them. Of course she’d call.

They were together. Official or not, it didn’t really matter.

And he answered. No hesitation. Just… answered.

You sat there, unmoving, blinking hard at the floor tiles. Something small and cold settled in your chest—something that had been building for a while. You couldn’t name it, but you didn’t have to.

Stiles slumped back against the pillows, still dizzy, still wired, still trying to piece everything together.

He could still hear her—Y/N—in the back of his mind. Her voice cracking. Her fingers shaking in his, both of them tied to that damn pole. He had told her she was special. It had just… slipped out.

“Hey.”Stiles uttered out, holding his phone to his ear.

Malia’s voice was scratchy. Tired. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” he lied, pressing the phone harder to his ear. “I’m fine.”

“You were at Eichen House. That place is—” She stopped herself. “What happened?”

Stiles closed his eyes. Where would he even start? With the part where he almost watched Y/N die? With the part where he realized she was never supposed to be there in the first place, and yet somehow she was the one who held it all together?

“It was… bad,” he said finally. “But we got what we needed.”

Silence buzzed on the other end. Then, “Is she okay?”

His chest tightened. “Yeah. She’s okay.”

Another pause. Malia wasn’t the type to press, but he could feel the question hovering. The question she wouldn’t ask, and the one he wouldn’t answer.

He rubbed a hand over his face.

“I’ll call you later, okay?” he mumbled.

“Okay,” she said simply. “I’m glad you’re alright.”

“Yeah. You too.” He ended the call.

And for a long moment, he just sat there, staring at the door. Not at where Melissa had gone. But at the hallway.

At the room across from his.

One minute he was staring at the closed door, and the next he was pulling the IV cuff off his finger, ignoring the dull pulse in his skull as he swung his legs over the side of the bed. The room tilted—briefly—but he blinked past it, steadying himself with one hand on the wall.

They’d told him not to get up. To stay put. Concussion. Possible internal trauma. CT scan pending. But you were in the room across the hall.

And he needed to see you.

Not later. Not after more chaos. Now.

The hallway was too quiet. A few nurses moved between rooms, distracted, clipboards in hand. No one stopped him.

He hovered in your doorway for a moment. You were perched on the edge of the hospital bed, a sweatshirt pulled on over your gown, eyes unfocused as you stared down at your hands.

“You always get the bigger room.” You didn’t notice him until he spoke.

Your head snapped up.

He looked pale. Tired. A hospital bracelet still dangled from his wrist, and his hair was a total mess, but he was standing—barefoot, slightly hunched like the floor might fall out from under him.

You blinked. “You’re not supposed to be up.”

“Yeah, well,” he said, stepping in and pulling the curtain slightly behind him, “I’m not great at listening.”

You gave him a look. “You have a literal head injury.”

He shrugged, and the corner of his mouth tugged up—barely. “I’ve had worse.”

There was a beat of silence between you. A thick, buzzing quiet that said too much and not enough.

You spoke first, soft and dry. “I figured Malia called, she tried to ring me too but my phone died.”

His eyes flickered, just briefly. “Yeah. She did.”

“Good”You nodded slowly, like you’d already prepared yourself for the answer.

Stiles shifted his weight from one foot to the other, then sat beside you carefully, wincing slightly.

“I couldn’t stay in that room,” he admitted. “Not without knowing you were okay.”

You glanced at him sideways, heart thudding in your chest.

“I’m fine,” you said quietly. “You’re the one who nearly got his face bashed in.”

He gave a half-laugh, half-sigh. “So, you do admit you care about my face.”

You rolled your eyes, but your lips twitched.

It was familiar, that teasing rhythm between you. Comfortable. But underneath it, something else trembled. Something too big for either of you to name just yet.

You didn’t speak for a while after that.

He just sat there, beside you, his shoulder barely brushing yours. And neither of you moved.

Because sometimes, it wasn’t about saying anything.

It was just about being there.

Melissa found him hovering near the nurses’ station again, rubbing at the bruise on his temple.

“I didn’t find a tape player,” she said, offering a half-smile, “but I found someone looking for you.”

He turned, just as Malia approached. She looked unharmed, a little scuffed maybe, but composed in that way only Malia could be—like she hadn’t almost burned alive the night before.

“You almost got killed,” she said.

Stiles tried to smile, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I heard you almost got killed.”

“You okay?”she asked ignoring his statement.

He shrugged. “Brunski punched me in the face. Turns out, he was a serial killer.”

Her lips barely twitched. “Makes sense.”

“Yeah…” he muttered, glancing down the hallway—and then he stopped mid-thought.

The door to your hospital room was cracked open.

And stepping through it, with that same lazy walk and tailored coat, was Isaac Lahey.

Fresh off a transatlantic flight. France hadn’t changed him much—still tall, still brooding, still effortless in that annoyingly charming way. He carried a small duffel bag, slung over one shoulder, and in his other hand, a paper cup of something steaming—maybe coffee. He hesitated just outside your room, knocked once on the frame, and slipped inside.

Stiles’ stomach turned, slow and hollow.

“What about you?” he asked absently. “Are you okay?”

“We almost got set on fire.”

“Everyone okay?”his gaze flickered to Malia.

“Basically.”

He nodded, distracted.

“You okay?” she asked again, but her voice had changed.

He didn’t answer right away.

“You keep looking at her room, I just went in to see her she’s doing okay you don’t need to worry”she said, not unkindly. She was your friend too.

Stiles blinked, dragged his eyes away.

“You always do worry about her”she added. Her tone wasn’t bitter. Just tired.

He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

“I’ve always kind of known,” Malia said softly. “Even before we were… whatever we were.”

Stiles turned toward her fully now, guilt rising to his throat.

“I never meant to—”

“I know you didn’t,” she cut in gently. “You were trying. So was I.” He didn’t deny it.

“I’m sorry”he murmured.

“You don’t have to be,” she said, and she meant it. “We were what we needed to be. But we’re not it.”

He nodded. “No. We’re not.”

She took a step back. “I’m gonna go.”

“You don’t have to,” he offered. But it was automatic, there was no weight to his words

“I should.” He didn’t stop her.

And she didn’t look back.

As soon as she disappeared around the corner, his eyes went straight to your room again. The door had closed, but the image was burned into his brain—Isaac’s smile, your face lighting up, the way you leaned toward each other like no time had passed.

And for the first time in a long time, Stiles wasn’t afraid of monsters or lists or nightmares. He was afraid he was too late.

You weren’t expecting the knock.

And you definitely weren’t expecting the tall, soft-footed silhouette that stepped through your hospital room door, wearing a familiar coat and that faint, crooked smirk you hadn’t seen in months.

“Hey,” Isaac said. Your heart stalled.

“Isaac?”

You blinked, as if he might disappear if you looked too hard. “What are you—how—?”

“I got on the first flight I could when I heard what happened.”

He crossed the room slowly, setting a paper cup of coffee on your tray table. “I talked to Scott last night. He didn’t give details, but when I heard Eichen House and your name in the same sentence…” His jaw clenched slightly. “I didn’t want to wait.”

Your fingers curled into the blanket.

“I’m fine,” you said automatically, though you didn’t sound convincing even to yourself.

Isaac gave you a look—flat and unimpressed. “I didn’t cross three time zones for fine, Y/N, I wasn’t going to sit back and do nothing.”

You gave a small shake of your head, something bitter curling in your throat. “You shouldn’t have come.”

“Why?” he asked, brows pulling together. “Because I care about you?”

“No,” you snapped, a little too quickly. Then, softer, “Because it’s not safe here. There’s a Deadpool, Isaac. Supernaturals are being hunted and killed. You’re a werewolf—if they know you’re back, you could be on it now. You need to go.”

“I know about the Deadpool,” he said quietly, folding his arms. “I know everything. Scott filled me in. Brunski, the tapes, Meredith… you. I’m not staying long.”

You looked up at him. “Then why come at all?”

His eyes met yours, unwavering. “Because I had to see you, I see you as family after everything that happened with Allison. And because I came to ask you something.”

You hesitated, suddenly unsure where this was going.

“I have a flight back tomorrow morning,” Isaac said carefully. “And I want you to come back to France with me.”

Your stomach flipped.

“What?”

“Not forever,” he clarified. “Just… for a while. A break. Get out of Beacon Hills, out of all this death and trauma. I think you need that. I know you do.”

You stood there frozen, eyes wide, your mouth slightly open—but no words came.

And then—

“You want her to go where?” The voice cracked across the room like a whip.

You turned toward the door.

Stiles stood there, arms braced against the frame, like he’d been leaning there longer than you realized. His eyes locked on Isaac, jaw set, disbelief burning behind every syllable.

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out.

Stiles stepped into the room, not looking at you—only at him.

“France?” he said again, voice lower now. “You’re asking her to leave?”

Isaac didn’t flinch. “I’m offering her peace.”

“Right,” Stiles scoffed. “Because running away from everything solves so much.”

“I’m not running,” Isaac said calmly. “I’m giving her a choice.”

“And what—you’re the better option?” Stiles stepped closer, eyes flashing. “Is that what this is?”

“Stiles,” you said, finally finding your voice.

He looked at you then — really looked — and for a second, you forgot how to breathe. There was something behind his eyes you couldn’t name. Not yet.

You turned back to Isaac. And without a word, you stepped toward him and wrapped your arms around him.

He exhaled, arms curling around your back like second nature, holding you just tight enough to say everything he didn’t say aloud.

When you pulled away, your hand lingered on his forearm.

“Thank you,” you said softly. “For coming. For always showing up when you don’t have to.”

“But?” he asked, already hearing it in your voice.

You offered a small, sad smile. “But I can’t go. Not right now. I can’t leave everyone”

Isaac nodded, no bitterness in his expression — just something quiet and knowing. “I figured you’d say that.”

He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small bouquet — clumsy and hospital-gift-shop cheap, but thoughtful.

“I brought these,” he said, holding them out. “Forgot flowers are supposed to be for people who are actually injured.”

You rolled your eyes but took them anyway. “I was injured.”

He smirked. “Barely.” Then he backed up, toward the door.

“I’m going to see Scott before I head out. My flight’s in the morning.” His eyes flicked briefly to Stiles. “You can still change your mind.”

And with that, Isaac left — The room felt heavier once he was gone.

You looked down at the flowers for a second too long.

Just you and Stiles now and more silence than either of you knew what to do with.

You adjusted the flowers on your tray table, fingers tugging at the crinkled wrapper. Across the room, Stiles hadn’t moved. He just stood there, watching you like he was bracing for something.

“Don’t go to France,” he said suddenly. You looked up, startled.

“I’m not going to,” you muttered, your voice softer than you expected. He nodded once… then fidgeted, like his mouth was moving faster than his brain.

“I mean—if you are going, I’ll pack a bag too,” he added quickly.

You raised an eyebrow. “I don’t think Isaac was offering you a ticket.”

He placed a hand on his chest with mock offense. “Is it because I don’t like his scarf?”

“It’s because you don’t like him.”you replied dryly.

“I have reason to.”

“And what’s that reason?”

Stiles paused for just a second too long. “I don’t know. He’s too nice to you.”

You shot him a look. “God forbid I deserve someone being nice to me.”

“I’m nice to you,” he muttered.

“You threw a Sour Patch Kid at me for saying The Empire Strikes Back is overrated.”

“And I’d do it again.”

You rolled your eyes, but the smile on your face was already winning. The ease between you both was always there, ready to snap back into place no matter how long or how messy things got.

Then something tugged in your memory, and your smile faded just slightly.

“How’s Malia?” you asked gently. “I bet she’s worried sick about you.”

Stiles inhaled sharply through his teeth. “Not quite.”

Your head tilted. “Elaborate.”

“We broke up,” he said, voice quieter now.

You blinked. “Wait—you and Malia broke up?! When?!”

“Just now.”

Your eyes widened. “Like—just now as in outside this door just now?”

He nodded, scratching the back of his neck. “Yeah. Kind of mid-hallway, post-concussion, pre-jealous-fit-of-rage moment.”

You stared at him. “That’s not just now. That’s literally now.”

“Time is relative,” he muttered. You threw a pillow at him.

But as the laughter faded, a quiet settled again.

“And you’re okay?” you asked, the warmth in your voice dipping just enough to show the worry you couldn’t hide.

Stiles looked at you — really looked — and it hit you like a punch to the chest. His eyes were sincere, honest in a way that always knocked the breath out of your lungs.

“I will be,” he said. “I think I already am.”

You were about to nod, to move on — but then something nagged at you.

Your eyes narrowed. “What did you mean… pre-jealous-fit-of-rage?”

Stiles’ eyes went comically wide. “Wha—what? You really don’t see it?” he stammered, suddenly very interested in the tiles on the floor.

“See what?” you pressed, head tilting slightly, eyes narrowing in suspicion.

Stiles opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

“You know,” he said, waving a vague hand between you and the door. “The whole… France… Isaac… scarf-wearing… soft-talking thing.”

You stared at him. “That’s not an answer.”

He stopped pacing, face twisting like you’d just asked him to solve quantum physics on a napkin.

“What—you’re telling me you really don’t see it?!” he nearly shouted.

You blinked. “See what, Mieczyslaw?!”

He froze. The silence between you stretched taut.

Then— “That I’m so fucking in love with you?!”

The words dropped between you like a pin in a silent room. Sharp. Sudden. Unmistakable. Everything stopped.

But you… you just sat there. Absolutely still. No sarcastic retort. No teasing quip. Just a slow realization crashing over you like a wave.

Stiles was frozen, eyes wide, chest rising and falling too fast. He looked like he’d just set the whole room on fire and wasn’t sure whether to run or apologize for the smoke.

But you didn’t say anything.

You just stared at him, heart pounding like it was trying to speak for you, blood rushing in your ears louder than any of the chaos Beacon Hills had ever thrown at you.

And then you stood.

You crossed the space between you before he could open his mouth again, before he could spiral into one of his thousand-word explanations. And you kissed him.

No warning. No buildup. Just hands cupping his face, lips finding his with every ounce of clarity and certainty you hadn’t been able to put into words.

His breath caught—stunned, frozen for a beat.

Then his hands found your waist, like they’d been waiting forever, and he kissed you back like something had snapped inside him. Like all those years of friendship and late-night conversations and aching, aching almosts had finally, finally broken loose.

When the kiss ended, you didn’t move far. Just enough to breathe again — barely.

“Okay… either I just kissed you, or I blacked out and hallucinated the best moment of my life.” Foreheads still pressed together, Stiles was the first to speak, voice hushed and stunned.

You huffed a laugh. “If you passed out mid-confession and I still kissed you, that says a lot about me.”

He pulled back just slightly to look at you — disheveled, dazed, and definitely overwhelmed. “You did kiss me though, right? I didn’t dream it?”

You shrugged. “Guess you’ll never know.”

His eyes widened. “Y/N.”

“Okay, okay,” you grinned, rolling your eyes. “Yes. I kissed you. Congratulations on surviving your emotional meltdown.”

“That was not a meltdown. That was a passionate declaration.”

“You shouted. Loudly.”

“You said my actual name,” he shot back. “I had to go dramatic.”

You went quiet for a beat, but your voice was softer when you added, “You deserved it. I only reserve ‘Mieczyslaw’ for emergencies.”

“Well, next time I have a near-death experience and a life-ruining secret, I’ll try to make it a bit more subtle.”

You smiled, and the room felt warmer somehow.

“You know,” you added, tilting your head, “you’ve kind of ruined my five-year streak of pretending I didn’t want to kiss you.”

He smirked, that lopsided grin making a return. “Please. I’ve been pining so dramatically I should’ve been cast in a Regency-era tragedy.”

You laughed, leaning into him again.

“We’re disasters,” you said.

Part 1 - Part 3

No one moved. Not at first. Then—

“What the fuck did you just do?” Stefan’s voice cut through the silence, sharp, horrified. Damon didn’t answer. He just kept holding you.

“Damon—what did you do?” Stefan yelled stepping forward now, eyes wide, chest rising and falling with disbelief.

“She was dying,” Damon said, voice low and unwavering. “I saved her.”

“You turned her!” Stefan snapped. “You made that choice for her.”

“She didn’t have time to choose,” Damon snapped back, still cradling you like you were glass. “She wouldn’t have made it another minute. I had to—”

“No. No, you wanted to.” Stefan’s voice cracked, anger and sorrow bubbling beneath the surface. “You said it yourself—you were being selfish.”

“I care about her” Damon said, louder now, rising slightly to meet his brother’s glare. “What was I supposed to do? Let her die in my arms knowing we could stop it?”

Stefan looked away, jaw tight. Because he knew that feeling. Too well. Across the room, Caroline stood frozen, hand covering her mouth.

Bonnie’s fingers were clenched into fists, torn between understanding and heartbreak. She’d watched too many people cross that line—watched too many change. Elena stepped closer, voice soft but shaky. “She’s going to wake up… in transition.”

Damon nodded.

“She’ll have to choose,” Bonnie said quietly. “Complete the transition… or die for good”

“She didn’t ask for this” Stefan muttered, almost to himself.

“No,” Damon agreed, finally looking down at you again. “But she earned it don’t you think? After buying us time?” There was another pause.

A heavy silence full of disbelief, fear… and awe.

Because lying there in Damon’s arms, blood on your lips, your heartbeat gone—You didn’t look helpless. You looked inevitable.

Damon tightened his grip around you, still cradling your limp body as your skin began to cool, your veins now carrying his blood.

His eyes burned, jaw locked, heart pounding against a chest that had once been numb to this kind of fear. He looked down at you like you were a match he was terrified to strike, but couldn’t let burn out.

Then, quietly, more to himself than anyone else, he whispered: “It won’t be long before Sybil comes back, I give us a couple of days max”

The group turned toward him.

“We go into hiding for a while,” Damon said firmly, standing now, lifting you easily into his arms. “Give Y/N a chance to adjust before she comes for her.”

Bonnie’s voice cracked, her arms folded tight across her chest. “And what if… what if she doesn’t want to live like this?” Damon’s face darkened.

He didn’t answer. Instead, his jaw ticked, and his grip on you tightened instinctively.

“You can’t force her,” Caroline added softly, but firmly. “Damon, she didn’t get to choose.”

“She’s going to hate you for this” Enzo muttered, stepping back, the weight of truth behind his voice.

But Damon didn’t flinch.

Didn’t look up.

Didn’t say a word.

He turned away, eyes flicking briefly toward Stefan—one final look, almost like a goodbye.

And then, without another breath, Damon vanished. Gone.

Supernaturally fast, a blur of grief and need and love all wrapped into one man sprinting into the night with the woman he couldn’t lose—even if it meant she’d never forgive him.

He didn’t know what would happen when you woke. Didn’t know if you’d scream, cry, shove him away. But he knew one thing: Sybil wasn’t going to have you.

And the only place safe enough for you now was a location only a few people on earth even knew existed.

The old boarding house ruins in the woods. What remained of a Salvatore family hideaway—rewired, sealed, Bennett spelled shut. A place forgotten.

The place only the Mystic Falls Six ever used when the war got too loud.

He arrived at the Salvatore family hideaway in seconds, hidden behind overgrown brush and old glamour spells—secrets buried deep, untouched by time. It was one of the few places in the world that had never been touched by the chaos of Mystic Falls.

But it wasn’t enough. Not now. Not with Sybil still out there.

By the time Damon laid you gently down on a dusty velvet chaise, he already knew. She’d come looking. And she’d find this place eventually. Bonnie appeared not long after—spellbook in one hand, fury in her eyes. The air around her crackled with raw magic and barely contained grief.

“I’m not here to argue,” she said, voice tight.

Damon looked up at her, still kneeling beside your unconscious body.

“I know,” he replied. “But I’m not risking her. She’s our friend”

Bonnie glanced at you—still as stone, eyes closed, blood on your temple—and her face softened just a little. Then she exhaled, stepped forward, and slammed her hand against the wall.

The runes pulsed. A new lock clicked into place—stronger, older magic. Protection layered like armor.

“No one gets in,” she said. “Not even Sybil.”

Damon nodded, barely able to form a thank you. But it still wasn’t enough.

He stayed just long enough to make sure the spell held—then vanished again, you still in his arms.

He took you to the only place left where he knew how to breathe—the house he hated as much as he loved. The Salvatore mansion. But not upstairs.

He took you underneath. To the underground wing built beneath the original foundation—sealed off, soundproofed, hidden from all but a few. A room tucked away from conflict. Quiet. Still.

He laid you in the bed like you were sleeping—not dead, not in transition—just sleeping. You looked peaceful. Too peaceful. Your lips were stained red, your brow still furrowed faintly from the fight, your pulse completely silent.

He sat in a chair by your bedside, elbows on his knees, fingers knotted together so tightly they turned white.

And then he just watched. Hours passed. Then more. He didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

But he kept watch.

Morning filtered in through the narrow, barred windows high in the walls—soft gold light brushing over stone and silence. Damon hadn’t slept.

He hadn’t moved from the chair, either.

He sat with his fingers loosely intertwined in his hair, head bowed, gaze fixed on you like if he looked away, you might vanish. Your fingers had twitched once during the night, barely.

And then— It happened.

You gasped.

A loud, sharp, awful inhale—like someone being pulled out of deep water. Your body jolted upright, spine arching, eyes wide and wild.

You were alive. Or something close to it.

You choked on the breath, clutching at your chest as your senses overloaded. The taste of blood on your tongue. The burn in your throat. The dizzying sharpness of the room—every sound, every smell, everything was too much.

Damon was on his feet in an instant.

“Hey, hey—it’s okay,” he said quickly, hands up, voice steady but low. “You’re okay. You’re alright.” You turned to him, eyes glassy, chest heaving.

And you knew.

Before he said a word. Before he stepped forward. Before you even really looked at yourself—you knew.

It was in the way the air burned in your throat like fire and ash. The way your skin felt too tight, too sensitive, like the world was pressing in from every direction. It was in the stillness inside you—the wrong kind of silence.

Your heart wasn’t beating.

And Damon… Damon was standing just feet away, looking at you like you were breaking him in real time.

He didn’t have to say it.

Because something about the way he stood—rigid but careful, like he didn’t know if you’d scream or shatter—told you everything.

Your fingers curled against the sheets. They didn’t feel like yours.

The entire room felt off, like a stage set under lights too bright. You stared at him, breath sharp and uneven, The silence stretched between you—until you couldn’t hold it anymore. Your breath hitched.

Once. Twice. And then the tears came.

Quiet at first. Barely noticeable. But then they shook your whole body—heaving sobs you tried to swallow down, hands trembling in your lap, jaw clenched so tightly it hurt.

Damon stepped forward instinctively.

“Don’t,” you warned through clenched teeth, voice cracking. “Don’t come near me.”

“Y/N…” he said softly, like your name might anchor you.

You laughed—a bitter, broken sound. Then you looked up at him with tears in your eyes and fire in your voice.

You blinked, confused, frowning faintly as your gaze dropped to your hand resting in your lap. And there it was.

A silver ring. Set with a small black stone. Simple. Familiar. Your breath caught in your throat. He’d put it on you.

At some point—after—he’d slipped the daylight ring onto your finger, silent, thoughtful, prepared. Your chest tightened.

He hadn’t just made the decision to turn you. He’d made sure you’d stay.

“What the fuck is wrong with you, Damon?”

He flinched.

“Was doing this to Caroline not enough, you had to do it to your best friend too?” You stood abruptly, staggering slightly. “You turned me into a plaything? That it?! Some twisted immortality fantasy that you will throw away once you get bored?”

His face twisted in guilt. “That’s not, you were going to die-

“You should have let me” You reached down and ripped the daylight ring from your finger. The second it left your skin, your body flinched—sunlight searing a red-hot sting along your arm. You hissed, dropping the ring to the floor.

“Shit—” Damon blurred forward, grabbing your hand, pulling it back into the shade, the ring already in his other hand.

“Let go of me,” you snapped, yanking your arm free, face streaked with tears and fury. You’d come back to save him and he had killed you. Your emotions clouding your judgement. Smart Y/n would have known that he’d done this to keep you alive.

But then— Everything went still. Your shoulders lowered. Your breathing evened.

The emotion… dropped. Just like that. Your face emptied. And your eyes—red-rimmed and glassy only seconds ago—went cold. Utterly still.

Damon stepped back, eyes wide. “Y/N?”

You tilted your head slightly, wiped the tears from your cheek like they were a minor inconvenience.

He blinked. “How did you… how did you do that?!”

You stared at him, deadpan. “I lost my mortality, not my brain cells, I’ve watched all of you do it a million times it’s not hard” -Oh you were going to be a piece of work.

His heart cracked somewhere deep in his chest.

Because you were standing in front of him.

Alive. Immortal. And gone.

-4 years earlier-

It wasn’t some grand gesture.

It wasn’t one of the nights he saved your life or swaggered into a room with that crooked smirk and a glass of bourbon in his hand.

It was a Tuesday. Late spring. Quiet.

The group had holed up in the Salvatore library during yet another town crisis. Elena was pacing, Stefan was flipping through grimoires, Bonnie was meditating with her eyes closed, and Damon—

Damon was sitting next to you on the floor.

Not on a couch. Not in his usual overdramatic lean against the fireplace.

Just… next to you. Legs stretched out, boots scuffed. A book open in his hands. Nothing supernatural. Just a dog-eared copy of something he claimed was “tolerable.”

And for a minute, everything was still.

He looked… tired. Not broken. Just quiet.

And then, without looking at you, he reached into the bowl of popcorn you’d made earlier and picked out every single burnt piece. Set them on a napkin beside you.

Said nothing.

Didn’t even glance your way. Like it was a reflex.

And for some reason, that tiny thing—that nothing moment—hit like a brick to the chest.

Because it wasn’t about the popcorn.

It was the way he knew you hated the burnt ones. The way he listened even when he acted like he didn’t. The way he sat beside you like it was normal, like you belonged there, even if he didn’t say it.

You looked at him, really looked at him, and your heart did something reckless. It chose him.

Right then. Right there. In the middle of a quiet crisis and a half-lit room.

But you kept it to herself. Because girls like you didn’t end up with guys like him.

He liked bold. Tragic. Dangerous. The kind of love that burned cities to the ground.

And you? You was just his best friend. The girl he had become close to due to circumstances.

So you smiled, tucked the moment away, and said nothing. Not a word.

It hadn’t been a crush. Not even close.

Damon had been aimlessly flirting with you for years—and he didn’t even realize how deep he was until it was too late.

It started as harmless teasing. Little jabs. Sarcastic quips. He flirted with everyone, right? So why would you take it seriously?

Except… he wasn’t like that with anyone else. Not really.

He remembered the way you’d roll your eyes when he said something smug, and how he’d smirk like it was a game only the two of you played. The way he always seemed to find a reason to sit next to you at group meetings, to walk you to your car even when you weren’t in danger, to notice when you was too quiet and offer you a drink you didn’t ask for.

It was the way you saw through him, didn’t buy into his charm, but somehow still believed he was worth something underneath it. The way you called him out when he was being an ass, but never looked at him like a monster. You were insanely smart, not like most humans.

You’d always thought he was joking.

That all the lingering looks and sly compliments were just Damon being Damon.

But he wasn’t trying to charm you. He wasn’t trying to toy with you. He was yearning.

He was wrapped around your finger and too much of a coward to admit it—because you were human. Normal. His best friend. And he told himself he’d ruin you if he let it be more than that.

So instead of saying anything real, he kept the jokes going. And you always laughed. Told him to shut up. Never once realizing he meant it. Every single word.

And now, as he stood across the room watching you stare past him, your emotions shut off, your humanity stripped away—

He wondered if it would’ve made a difference.

If he’d just told her back then.

-

“Why did you turn it off?” he finally asked, voice low, hoarse.

Y/N didn’t flinch. You didn’t blink. Damon’s breath hitched, just slightly.

You tilted your head. “The whole Elena saga must’ve finally run dry, huh? So you found the next best thing, someone stuck with you for eternity. The easy one. The safe one- also I’m fucking starving.”

“Y/N,” he warned softly, eyes flicking with something close to panic. “That’s not—”

“Did you know I was in love with you”you asked flatly. “You definitely knew it. For years. And you let it hang there like a safety net. You let me orbit you and you knew that I would run back to mystic falls to save you, you knew that I would die trying”

You stepped closer now, slowly, like you were just testing the way your new body moved.

“And when it came down to it, when you had the choice—you didn’t let me die. Not because you couldn’t live without me. But because you couldn’t stand being alone because I’m the only one who ever tolerated you”

Damon flinched like you’d slapped him.

“Little naive human y/n, looking up to this GOD” Your expression didn’t change. Your voice didn’t rise. That was the worst part. You weren’t angry. You just… wasn’t.

No emotion. No heartbreak. No pain.

Just truth spoken in the vacuum of numbness.

“You didn’t do this out of love or mercy”you added, finally. Damon’s hands curled into fists at his sides, but his voice, when it came, was barely a whisper.

“You don’t mean that.”

“I do,” you said, without hesitation. “And the worst part is? I don’t even care if it’s true anymore.”

You turned your back on him, like the conversation didn’t matter. Like he didn’t matter.

You were halfway to the door when you stopped weakly, eyes on the sunlight pouring through the cracks in the stone wall. Damon hadn’t moved.

Your voice broke the silence—dry, factual.

“So either I feed…” you turned slightly, gaze hollow, “or I kill myself.”

Damon stiffened. The words hit the air like stone on glass—shattering everything soft between you.

Y/N wasn’t trying to get a reaction. You weren’t threatening. You were just stating the terms. The two options laid out in front of you like some sick equation.

“Don’t say it like that,” Damon said, almost immediately, his voice low and frayed. “It’s not that simple.”

“It is that simple,” you said flatly. “This is the part where I either accept what you did, or I end it. That’s how this works, right?”

Your eyes met his then—steady, detached. And that’s when Damon really saw it.

That flicker behind your eyes—the part that used to fight, used to care, used to burn. Gone.

He took a step forward. “You still have time. You can turn it back on, Y/N. Feel it. Feel everything.”

“I don’t want to.” The words were quiet. Unapologetic.

“You’re scared,” he said, trying—desperate to reach you.“You’re pushing it down because you don’t want to face what this means. But you don’t have to do it alone. Let me help you.”

You laughed once. Cold. Sharp.

“You did help me,” you said. “You helped me die.”

And for the first time in decades, Damon felt helpless.

Because this wasn’t a fight. It was a funeral. And you hadn’t even left the room yet.

You were almost to the door when Damon stepped in front of her—fast, but not aggressive. Just there, blocking your path with eyes that had burned through centuries and were now glassed over with something far more terrifying than rage.

Love.

“You asked why I did it,” he said quietly, voice low but shaking under the weight of what he’d never said. “And I’m going to tell you. Not because I think it’ll change anything. But because if I don’t say it now, I never will.”

Y/N didn’t look at him. Didn’t flinch. But you didn’t walk away, either. So he kept going.

“I did it because I have loved you in every way a man can love a woman—quietly, selfishly, from a distance, and with every goddamn piece of myself I didn’t think I still had.” Your eyes flicked to his, just barely.

Encouraged, he stepped closer.

“You were never the backup plan. Never the girl in the wings. You were the one I turned to without thinking. The one I trusted without asking why. And somewhere along the line, I started looking at you like you were already mine—even when I knew I had no right to. So yes you are right I knew you would come back for us and I knew you wouldn’t survive it that’s why I was so angry earlier”

His voice broke, just a little.

“I didn’t turn you because I wanted to keep you. I turned you because the thought of a world where you no longer existed—where we would wake up and you wouldn’t be anywhere—was more than I could bear.”

She blinked. Her jaw clenched.

“I know what I took from you. And I will regret it for the rest of my life, if you ask me to. But don’t you ever think it was boredom. Or loneliness. Or convenience.”

He stepped forward again, close enough to feel your breath.

“I did it because I love you. Because I am in love with you. And if I had a thousand lifetimes to live, I would fall in love with you every single time.” A beat of silence passed.

You looked at him—really looked at him. And for just a moment, her lips parted like she might speak.

But instead… you dropped your gaze.

And Damon braced himself for what would come next.

The numbness remained—your expression unreadable, your heart locked behind a wall even you didn’t want to face.

Damon stared at you for a long moment, his jaw clenching. Then—

He reached into the drawer beside the bed. Pulled out an old box of matches.

And struck one.

The tiny flame flickered to life, dancing between his fingers.

“If you really want to die,” he said quietly, calmly, “then let’s go.”

Y/N’s eyes snapped to him, sharp and cold. “What the hell are you doing?”

“If you want to burn” he continued, stepping closer, holding the flame just inches from his skin, “then we’ll burn.”

The fire danced in his dark eyes, his voice unwavering.

“If you’re done, if you want to end it, then fine. I want to, too. Right here. Right now. Just say the word.”

She stared at him, unmoving

“You think I care about eternity without you in it?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper. “You think I’d survive that? If you want out—really want out—then I’m not letting you do it alone.”

The match burned lower, creeping toward his fingers.

“I will burn with you.” His eyes never left hers. The match hissed, flame licking dangerously close.

And something shifted in her. A twitch in her lip. A tear that broke loose without permission. A tremble in her jaw that betrayed the storm just beneath the surface.

Her voice cracked, barely audible.

“Damon…”

He dropped the match.

Snuffed it out with his boot.

Then stepped forward and gently—so gently—reached for her face.

“You don’t really want to die,” he whispered. “You just don’t want to feel what this is, but I’d rather take your life and give it back to you instead of letting Sybil take it”

And you crumbled. Her body stiffened. Just for a second.

Damon’s hand was on your cheek, warm and steady. His eyes—unflinching. Honest. Unapologetically open.

And then— It hit you. All at once.

Like drowning in reverse.

Your breath caught in your throat, sharp and guttural. You stumbled back a step, clutching at your chest as if something inside you had just torn open.

The tears came before the sound.

Heavy. Hot. Relentless.

You gasped—once, twice—then sank to your knees as a sob ripped through your chest, the force of it breaking something loose inside you.

“I didn’t want this—” you choked, eyes squeezing shut, hands fisting in your own shirt like you could physically hold yourself together. “I didn’t ask for any of this—you took it.”

Damon was there in a second, dropping to his knees in front of her, but not touching you. Not yet.

“You took it from me,” you cried, voice shaking, furious and broken and real.

“I know,” he said, pain thick in his throat. “I know I did.”

“I was ready to die, I had already mentally prepared for it”you whispered, tears streaking down her face. It shattered him. Not because you said it. But because it was true.

And he could see it—etched in every tremble, every tear, every breath you dragged into your lungs like it hurt to feel again.

You finally looked up at him, eyes raw and red.

“You ruined everything,” you said. And he nodded.

“I did.” And then you leaned into him—a sob escaping your lips as he caught you, held you, wrapped his arms around your shaking frame like it was the only thing keeping them both from falling apart.

No words. No promises. Just the weight of what they both had done—pressed into the space between them.

Because love like this didn’t come without destruction.

And now, at last, you were alive enough to feel every piece of it. It had been hours. The underground room was still. No fire. No yelling. No tears.

Just two people sitting on the floor, leaning against the side of the bed in silence.

Your head rested on his shoulder now, eyes red, breath calm, but your body still tense—like you weren’t sure how to relax in your own skin yet.

Damon hadn’t moved in a while. He didn’t want to. And he wasn’t going to risk saying the wrong thing—not yet.

Y/N shifted slightly beside him. Your voice was hoarse when you finally spoke.

“So this is it?”

He turned his head slightly, watching your profile in the dim light. “What is?”

“This,” you said, gesturing to yourself. The forever thing. The hunger. The ring. The nightmares. The everything.”

He hesitated.

Then nodded. “Yeah. Pretty much.”

A pause.

You looked down at the daylight ring on your finger. Turned it once. Loosely.

“I don’t know how to live like this-well I know how I just don’t want to”

“I’ll show you,” he said simply. Your eyes flicked up to him. Not moved by romance. Just… tired.

“You think you can fix what you broke?” You asked, no bite in it. Just honest.

“No,” he said, after a beat. “But I can try to make it matter.” Another pause. Your gaze softened. Slightly.

“You don’t get to save me twice, Damon,” you said quietly. “You got your one, we are even now”

He smiled—tired, but warm. “Then I’ll just have to be really annoying and keep trying anyway.”

A ghost of a smile tugged at your lips.

It didn’t last. But it was there.

And for the first time since you opened your eyes, the world didn’t feel like it was ending.

Not quite.

-The Next 24 Hours-

The first few hours were the worst. The hunger hit hard. Violent. All-consuming. You nearly collapsed in the hallway just trying to stand.

Damon didn’t say anything. He just caught you, handed you a chilled blood bag from the fridge, and looked away while you drank—because the first time always felt like shame.

And you hated it.

You hated how quickly your body adjusted. Hated the way your hearing sharpened, how the smell of pine outside the window overwhelmed you. Hated how easy it was to feel alive again in all the wrong ways.

But you did it. You drank. You survived.

You didn’t cry again. By morning, you were sitting on the porch. Surrounded by Bonnie’s protection spell.

The sun was out, and the ring on your finger kept you safe—but it didn’t make you feel human. It just made you feel wrong in daylight. Damon handed you coffee.

“You know this won’t do anything for me anymore, right?” You muttered, eyeing the mug.

“Yeah,” he said. “But it used to. So I figured… muscle memory.”

You took a sip anyway. Out of habit. Out of nostalgia. Out of spite. You sat in silence a while.

And then—without looking at him, without any weight behind it—you said: “We’re never going to be together.”

Damon didn’t respond right away. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t argue.

He just stared straight ahead.

“You changed me,” you continued, voice even. “You made that decision for me. And yes I’m still here. But I don’t forgive you. And I don’t know if I ever will. I’m tethered to you now but I wont become your property- not like the other girls, we have never been like that before and it won’t start now”

He nodded once. “I know.”

“So whatever you think this is… whatever you want it to become—it won’t now.” You finally turned your head to him.

And Damon looked at you, really looked at you-the dark circles under your eyes, the ring on your finger, the blood still drying at the collar of your hoodie, and the tiny crack in your voice you probably didn’t even hear.

He gave a soft, almost bitter smile.

“Are you saying we could have been together before?” he said.

Damon shrugged, taking a long sip of his own coffee. “Look y/n you can hate me. You probably should. But deep down you know—you and I? We’ve always been heading here. Whether I made the call or you did.”

You scoffed. “You really think that?”

He looked at you with all the calm, quiet certainty of a man who had seen lifetimes pass and still only ever chosen one person.

“I know that.”

Y/N didn’t say anything. Didn’t argue.

But you didn’t walk away, either.

And Damon knew—this wasn’t the end. He just had to have patience.

It was just the beginning of something far more complicated. Something real. The front door creaked open slowly as Damon stepped aside, letting you enter first.

You scanned the room with unreadable eyes.

Everyone was already there—Bonnie, Stefan, Caroline, Elena, Enzo. They all went still when they saw you. It was like the air changed.

No one said anything at first.

Y/N crossed the threshold, arms folded tight, the daylight ring a faint gleam on your finger. Your voice breaking the silence.

“So… this is the part where you all pretend not to be horrified?”you mumbled.

Bonnie stood slowly. “We’re not horrified.”

“You should be,” you said, expression flat. “I am.”

Caroline looked like she wanted to cry. “You’re alive.”

“Not the word I’d use,”you muttered.

Elena took a step forward. “We didn’t know Damon was going to—”

“Turn me?” Y/N snapped, your voice sharp but exhausted. “Yeah. Join the club.” No one moved. Except Damon.

He hadn’t left your side since you’d come back. Now, he reached out—not to touch your, just enough to remind you he was there. You didn’t look at him.

“You don’t have to do this,” Stefan said carefully. “If you want space—”

“I don’t want space,” you cut in. “I want honesty. From all of you. Because every single one of you has treated me like I was breakable since day one. Like I didn’t belong in this supernatural world. And now, guess what? I am supernatural, I am a part of this world. I’m fucking stuck in it”you spat bitterly.

The house slowly came back to life.

No one really knew what to say around you yet—you were sharper now, colder, but still you. There was a distance in your eyes, though. Like you were still adjusting to the volume being turned all the way up on existence.

Later that day, in the study, you reached for a blood bag Damon had set aside for you. But your hands were still unsteady. Not from fear—just the sheer newness of everything. Your fingers trembled slightly as she tried to open it.

Before Damon could even move, Stefan stepped forward.

“Here,” he said gently, taking it from your shaking hands. “You just twist the cap—like this.” Y/N watched, eyes narrowed faintly, more curious than anything as your fingers brushed his accidentally.

“Thanks,” you said, your voice low.

But Damon… froze. Just for a second. Watching Stefan as he guided you slightly. Something clenched in his chest, the way you accepted Stefan’s help.

He crossed his arms, leaning back against the bookshelf, jaw tight.

“I had it,” he muttered under his breath.

You looked up. “Sorry?”

“Nothing,” Damon said, plastering on a crooked smile. “Just… didn’t realize we were doing the mentor-brother thing again.”

Stefan shot him a look. “She’s adjusting. I’m helping.”

“Of course you are,” Damon said, his voice light, but something darker just underneath. “You always have a thing for helping the newly turned.”

“Damon,” you warned, not unkindly—more like you were tired already.

Stefan stepped back, hands up in mock surrender. “You know what? I’ll let the guy who killed her take it from here.” You didn’t flinch at that. But Damon did.

Still, you grabbed the blood bag from Stefan with a nod and twisted the cap yourself. You took another sip. Then wiped your mouth with the back of your hand and stared up blankly up at Damon.

And he stared right back. His jaw tensed. His eyes dragged over you like he was trying to memorize this version of you, like maybe if he stared hard enough, he’d see the girl you were before.

But all he saw was darkness. A black sports bra, low-rise but insanely baggy tracksuit bottoms clinging to your hips like a dare. Your lips darker and more full, stained from feeding. Your hair was sharp and styled. Nothing about you was soft anymore. You were beautiful. Lethal.

You licked a drop of blood from your thumb, slow and unbothered.

“What?” you asked flatly, cocking a brow at Damon. “Is this not the aesthetic you imagined when you decided to kill me?” The words were meant to sting—and they did.

But Damon didn’t flinch.

His voice was low. Rough. But Stefan did something else entirely. He watched you. Not with pity. Not with shock.

With fascination.

There was a flicker in his eyes—something between curiosity and caution. The kind of look he used to give when someone turned and spiraled. But this wasn’t a spiral. It was like you were meant to be a vampire in this life, you had taken it in your stride, knowing what to do and when, knowing what you shouldn’t do.

You were in control.

And Stefan couldn’t look away noticing that your intelligence had carried over into the afterlife. You caught him staring and held it.

“Staring’s rude,” you said, voice smooth. “Unless you’re going to buy me dinner.” Stefan blinked, caught off guard for a second. Damon, standing off to the side, visibly tensed.

“More of this preferably”you nodded, You held up the half-empty blood bag like it was a glass of wine.

“What is it? Squirrel? Jenny from down the street?”

Stefan laughed under his breath—genuine, low, and a little stunned.

“No,” he said. “Not Jenny, not human” Your lips curved, eyes glinting.

“Well, whatever it was, it tastes expensive.”

Stefan just kept looking at you. Like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. The confidence. The sarcasm. The cool ease with which you carried the weight of your death and rebirth like it was a pair of designer heels. Compared to your previous bumbling self.

You weren’t cracking under it like everyone else had done. You were owning it.

And Damon saw everything.

He saw the look in Stefan’s eyes—the admiration, the curiosity, that specific kind of awe Stefan got when he saw someone pull themselves together after the worst had hit. Damon had worn that look before.

Too many times.

He pushed off the wall, stormed across the room, and grabbed Stefan roughly by the shoulder.

“We’re not doing this again, not with her”

Stefan blinked. “Doing what?”

Damon dragged him into the hallway, the door slamming shut behind them.

“I swear to god, Stefan,” Damon hissed, voice low and dangerous, “we are not going down this road again.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“You know exactly what I’m talking about,” Damon snapped. “I see the look on your face. The same look you had with Elena. And Katherine before that.”

Stefan scoffed. “It’s not the same.”

“The hell it’s not.” A tense pause.

Damon’s chest was heaving slightly. Not from exhaustion—but rage. Panic. Jealousy.

“She just died, Stefan,” he said, quieter now. “She just came back. She’s angry. She hates me. And you—you’re already hovering, like it’s your job to fix her.”

“You’re forgetting I was friends with her first”Stefan seethed, his jaw tightened. “So what? You think I’m not allowed to care about her?”

Damon stepped in closer, eyes blazing.

“No. I think you’re not allowed to fall in love with her.”Stefan didn’t answer.

Part 2

You were supposed to be gone for one week, ONE week to sort your shit out. To better yourself and learn something new. You lacked in strength, speed, immortality and supernatural coolness but you had the smarts, you had all the plans, you were the one that always had the answers.

Seven days. One hundred and sixty-eight hours. Apparently, just enough time for your hometown to go straight to supernatural hell. Again.

Your phone buzzed before you could fully step foot in New York.

Bonnie: “Don’t come home. It’s not safe.”

Naturally, you got off the plane, grabbed a coffee, and came straight back.

You returned to a ghost town. Elena’s house—trashed. The Salvatore mansion—eerily silent. Blood—splattered across the driveway like a warning. It didn’t take long to figure out that whatever had gone down, it was bad. And you were the only one around.

A rush of fear curled around your chest like a vice, your legs buckling slightly as the realization sunk in: You had to do something.

The thought followed you like a ghost as you moved through the empty Salvatore house without hesitation, your footsteps echoing down the hallways. You were supposed to be in New York. Getting a break from Mystic Falls chaos. Getting a break from this. But your friends—your family—were in trouble.

And what were you? The comic relief? The emotional support human? The one they hugged before running off into battle?

“What is this, hmm? A sacrifice is what it is,” you muttered to yourself, storming down the stairs into the Salvatore cellar throwing a tantrum. “Little Y/N versus literal demons.”your pitch got higher as you mimicked Damon Salvatore’s voice.

You yanked open the weapons room and stared at the vast arsenal laid out like a vampire-hunting showroom.

“A joke, is what this is”you muttered again, shaking your head as you clumsily started grabbing things at random—a stake launcher, a flask of vervain, some kind of dagger that glowed faintly under the flickering light.

You nearly dropped a crossbow on your foot.

“Great. Let’s arm the human. Let’s just hand her all the sharp, deadly, probably cursed objects. What could possibly go wrong”

Still, your fingers trembled with purpose now. You’d seen enough of these things in use. Hell, you’d patched enough people up after using them.

You grabbed a bag off a shelf and stuffed it full with anything that looked remotely useful. Stakes. Salt. Herbs. A flashlight. A couple vials that smelled like burnt sage and bad decisions.

Then out of the corner of your eye you spotted the glint of keys on Damon’s desk.

You swiped them up after a second of deliberation. “I’m taking this too,” you mumbled, spinning them around your finger before stopping and staring blankly at them.

“I’ve been waiting to do this”you grinned.

The car roared to life, the familiar purr of Damon’s Camaro vibrating under your hands like it was encouraging you—like it was reminding you whose friend you were.

Y/N, the human. But you weren’t just the human anymore. Damn you were their lifeline.

And if no one else was coming to save the day, it would have to be you. Even if you were scared. Even if your hands were shaking and sweating. Even if you weren’t sure what the hell you were about to walk into.

The roads were still dead. Mystic Falls—silent.

But now you had a destination: the tunnels beneath the town. You hadn’t been down there in over a year. Last time, Caroline got trapped for two hours and nearly set the place on fire trying to get out. Classic Mystic Falls memory.

The thing that twisted your gut the most though? You knew.

A week ago, you’d overheard it—just some late-night planning in Caroline’s kitchen, voices low like they didn’t want to wake you. Bonnie had mentioned a strange energy pulsing through the tunnels, something dark. Damon had called it “siren-level spooky,” and Stefan said they’d check it out once they cleared out the armory vault.

At that point you were half-packed for New York, stressed and distracted. You’d shrugged it off and waved them goodbye the next morning.

And now here you were, trudging through the old Lockwood cellar entrance with a duffel bag of weapons, cursing your own ignorance.

The air was colder down here. Damp. Rotten.

The tunnels groaned around you as you moved deeper, flashlight trembling slightly in your grip. The walls were slick with moisture, lined with cracked stone and remnants of old supernatural battles. Every step echoed back at you like a warning.

You paused at a crossroads—three paths branching out in different directions. The air grew colder toward the left. That was enough of a sign for you.

Your boots crunched against the ground, dirt giving way to uneven stone, your breath shallow with anticipation. You didn’t call out their names. You knew better. Whatever had them—whatever was doing this—would hear you before they ever could.

After a few more steps, you found an old outcropping—an alcove where the Salvatore brothers used to stash things they didn’t want others finding. It was barely more than a dent in the tunnel wall, but it was dry, and more importantly, quiet.

You knelt, setting down your duffel and reaching inside.

The book you’d taken from the Salvatore study was older than most of the furniture in the house. Bound in leather, its title had long since faded. You’d grabbed it on a whim—half because it looked ominous, half because Damon had once slapped Stefan’s hand away from it and muttered, “That’s not for bedtime reading.”

Now seemed like the right time to crack it open.

You flipped through the yellowed pages by flashlight, eyes scanning centuries-old notes. Demon lore. Occult bloodlines. Witch curses.

And then—there it was.

Siren: A creature of ancient myth, weaponizing song and thought to control the mind. Capable of psychic possession. Draws power from secrecy and emotional vulnerability.

Your mouth dried as you read.

“Once claimed by a siren, the victim’s sense of reality and self will deteriorate rapidly. The link is rarely broken—unless the anchor is severed or the siren is weakened emotionally or physically, often through triggers of their past.”

You blinked.

“Emotional triggers”you whispered. “Guilt. Memories. Regret…Or death”

You looked up at the tunnels surrounding you, snapping the book shut, jaw tightening.

“Okay,” you said aloud to yourself, standing. “Let’s see if I can talk some sense into a siren and save six supernatural idiots without dying.”

You stuffed the book back into your bag and clicked off the flashlight for a moment, letting the darkness settle around you.

And you took the next step forward—into the depths of the tunnel.

You crept deeper into the tunnels, steps careful, heartbeat hammering in your ears. The air was thicker now—like the darkness itself was pressing against your skin. You kept one hand on the wall, the other clutching the hilt of the knife hidden in your coat sleeve.

Your flashlight had died five minutes ago, and now you moved by touch and instinct alone.

Then—bang.

Your shoulder slammed into the corner of a stone wall. You hissed through your teeth and fumbled for your backup light. The beam flickered to life, shaky in your grasp—and landed directly on the wall inches from you.

Damon.

His hands flew up, gripping your arms to steady you just as you jolted back in alarm.

“What the fuck, Y/N?” he seethed, eyes wild. His voice was low and sharp, more annoyed than relieved.

You tensed, your fingers flexing slightly toward the blade. “Are you Damon-Damon,” you asked, voice measured, “or are you Sybil Damon?”

His grip tightened for just a beat, and he gave you that signature half-glare, half-scoff that told you exactly who you were dealing with.

“What the fuck do you think?” he bit out.

“Oh, so normal Damon,” you deadpanned, eyes narrowing as you shook his hands off. “Great. That’s real cute, swearing at the person who showed up to save your ass.”

You lifted the flashlight, sweeping it quickly around the space. Your beam caught the others—Bonnie, Caroline, Stefan, Elena, Enzo—all clustered together like they’d just woken up from a shared dream. Confused. Tense. Alive.

Stefan rushed over the moment he saw you. “What are you doing here?!”

“Good question, actually,” you shot back, giving him a sharp look. “Better question: what the hell are you all doing here? Empty town. Just cryptic siren radio silence.”

Caroline blinked, stepping closer. “You shouldn’t be here—it’s not safe.”

“Well, no shit Caroline”you snapped. “There’s a mind-controlling sea witch running a damn psychological torture circus down here, and you all volunteered as tribute.”

Bonnie’s expression softened. “Y/N, how did you even know—”

“I overheard you,” you cut her off. “The night before I left. You said something about strange energy in the tunnels. I thought it was just another Mystic Falls side quest. Figured you’d handle it.”

A low clang echoed through the tunnel—metal scraping stone. Everyone froze.

Your head snapped toward the sound. Damon reacted faster.

He hissed out profanities before grabbing your shoulders and shoving you backward into the dark.

You stumbled blindly, hands scrabbling across the rough wall for balance. Your fingers found the strap of the duffel bag and clutched it to your chest as you ducked behind a collapsed portion of the tunnel. Heart in your throat. Breath caught. Silent.

Footsteps clicked into the space.

The shadows clung to you like second skin as you held your breath, body tense and still behind the jagged tunnel wall. You could see her now—Sybil, sauntering between your friends like a queen admiring her broken court.

No one moved. Damon’s jaw clenched, Caroline looked ready to snap, and Bonnie’s hands twitched at her sides like she was fighting against an invisible leash.

“I hate dragging things out, truly,” she began, voice echoing off the stone, melodic and mocking all at once. “But it’s necessary. I have to be precise. The darkness inside each of you—that’s what I need. The trauma, the guilt, the regret… It ripens the soul. Gives it flavor.”

Your stomach turned.

“You think I just toy with you for fun?” she asked, smirking. “Well, yes. But also—I’m harvesting. That’s the part you always forget. The devil wants souls, not just stories. And he only takes the rotten ones.”

Stefan flinched at that, his face twisting.

“Oh, Stefan,” Sybil cooed. “You’re practically a buffet. And Damon, you… you are absolutely brimming with centuries of delicious self-hate. I could dine on you alone.”

Damon didn’t respond, but his fists curled at his sides.

You stayed still, barely breathing. Your fingers slowly inched toward the zipper on the duffel bag in your lap, trying to open it without a sound. Every little pull of metal felt like a gunshot in the silence. You winced, teeth gritting as the bag gave way millimetre by millimetre.

From where he stood, Damon’s eyes flicked to the shadows—and he saw you.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t react. But inside, he was praying—praying you weren’t about to do something reckless and stupid. Because you were smart. You were supposed to stay hidden. You were supposed to let them handle it.

Sybil’s voice pulled his attention back.

“You know why this works?” she continued, slowly pacing in front of them. “Because all of you qualify. You’ve all killed. You’ve all crossed that line, made that choice, shed that blood. Whether it was for love, revenge, rage—it doesn’t matter. A kill is a kill.”

She paused, a wicked little smile curling on her lips.

And then, in one reckless, breathless moment—

You moved.

No thinking. No strategy or plan. Just a rush of adrenaline and rage burning in your chest as your boots scraped against the stone floor. You sprinted forward from the shadows and launched yourself at her, blade in hand, teeth clenched with a scream caught in your throat.

She didn’t see you coming until it was too late.

You crashed onto her back, stabbing down with everything you had—blade sinking into her shoulder with a satisfying, sickening crunch.

Sybil shrieked.

The sound was inhuman, like glass shattering in a hurricane.

She spun violently, her hand shooting up and wrapping around your throat like a vice. In a blink, she lifted you off the ground, rage bleeding from her eyes as you choked out for air.

“You stupid child—” And then she threw you.

Your body slammed against the wall with a gut-wrenching crack, the air knocked clean from your lungs. You crumpled to the ground, landing hard next to your duffel bag, vision going fuzzy at the edges.

Pain thundered through your ribs. Your head spun.

“Y/N!” Stefan’s voice was raw—his control, his apathy, gone.

Caroline surged forward, screaming your name, but an invisible force yanked her back. Bonnie’s hands glowed faintly, shaking as she tried to summon something, anything, but her magic stuttered under Sybil’s tether.

Sybil stepped away from where she’d thrown you, brushing the blood from her shoulder with a grimace.

She turned back to your friends, slow and mocking, arms outstretched like she was giving a performance.

“You used a human, really?” she scoffed. “That was your grand plan? Send the fragile one in to stab the siren?”

She let out a cold, musical laugh.

“Smart, I suppose,” she added, “since I can’t use her soul. Too clean. Not corrupted. She doesn’t belong to me. But really—a human? That was your weapon?”

She glanced down at you, bleeding and barely upright, then smirked.

You didn’t answer. Not yet.

“I expected more from the great defenders of Mystic Falls.”

Your limbs weren’t listening. Your ribs screamed. Your head swam. But your hand found the edge of the duffel bag. Shaking fingers brushed the zipper.

“She is pretty I suppose”Sybil offered as you scoffed, blood splattering out of your mouth.

Sybil stepped closer again, looming now, blood still dripping from the wound in her shoulder—but her confidence had returned.

“I should’ve harvested you the second you walked back into this town,” she said, voice venom-sweet.

And then you looked up at her, eyes defiant despite the pain, mouth curled into a bloodied, breathless smirk.

“I’m like really hard to schedule,” you rasped, coughing once. “Busy week.” You reached weakly toward the bag.

Your hand brushed the zipper of the bag.

“I suppose you have to use humour to make up for the fact that you are nothing amongst the supernatural”Sybil wrapped her hands around your throat once more as you let out a squeal.

Your hand, trembling and slick with your own blood, barely gripped the edge of the duffel bag.

“I’ve heard,” Sybil began as she took another step forward, her voice like silk laced with steel, “that you’re supposed to be one of the most intelligent people to reside in Mystic Falls.”

She crouched, inches from your face now.

“I am immortal,” she whispered, fingers curling slowly around your throat, tightening. “Obviously, you’re not that smart if you tried to kill me”

Your vision began to blur again, black at the edges, her grip stealing the air from your lungs. But then—faintly, just beyond the ringing in your ears—you heard it.

Bells.

Faint. Distant. Like an echo from somewhere deep in your memory.

Bonnie’s voice came back to you suddenly—weeks ago, in Elena’s kitchen.

“If you ring the Maxwell bell eleven times with hellfire at its core, it can destroy a siren. It’s what almost killed Sybil last time.”

Eleven rings.

You didn’t have a bell. But you had rage. And a bag full of weapons. And a window.

Your fingers dug desperately into the duffel. Sybil leaned in, her breath brushing your cheek.

“Say goodnight, Y/N.”

Your hand closed around something solid—cold and curved.

You yanked it free.

And then you struck. Pushing it towards her with a yell that took more air from you.

The blade—vervain-coated and carved with runes Bonnie had once told you were “just in case”—sank into her chest with a sickening crunch.

Her eyes went wide.

Before she could scream, you twisted the knife, yanked your free hand up—and plunged it into her chest.

There was a moment of total, suspended silence.

And then her body jerked once. Her hand fell from your throat.

And you ripped her heart clean from her chest.

Sybil crumpled to the ground at your feet, lifeless.

Her heart, still faintly glowing with some kind of siren energy, pulsed once in your blood-soaked hand—then went still.

The tunnel was quiet. Completely, impossibly quiet.

All that could be heard was the sound of your shallow, ragged breathing as you sat up slowly, shaking, drenched in blood—your own and hers.

Your friends were frozen in place, no longer tethered, no longer fogged—but too stunned to speak.

Elena stepped forward slowly, her eyes wide with disbelief.

“Wh—what did you just do?” she whispered.

You looked down at the heart in your hand. Then back at her.

And with a dazed, breathless insane laugh, you said:“Brought us some time.”

Damon had watched it all unfold.

Frozen at first—not by Sybil’s power anymore, but by the sight of you.

You, throwing your body forward with nothing but instinct and fury.

You, stabbing a siren like you’d done it a hundred times.

You, ripping out her heart with your bare hands.

And now… you sat there, slumped and bloody, Sybil’s heart still gripped in your hand, your chest heaving with every shallow breath.

His own heart thudded painfully in his chest.

You weren’t the same.

You weren’t the human girl he’d teased and protected and rolled his eyes at when you tried to get involved.

You weren’t fragile anymore.

You were soaked in blood—yours and someone else’s. Your eyes distant. Your shoulders trembling. You looked like something straight out of a myth.

And you had never looked more powerful. More dangerous. More real.

He moved before he could think, feet pounding across the tunnel floor.

“Y/N!” His voice cracked with something desperate.

You barely turned your head before he was kneeling in front of you, his hands on your face, then your shoulders, like he couldn’t decide what to check first. His eyes darted over your wounds, the blood on your neck, your scraped palms, your trembling fingers still curled around a dead woman’s heart

“Are you okay? Are you—Jesus, what were you thinking—” He couldn’t even finish the sentence. His hands stilled on your cheeks, and then his forehead dropped to yours, breath ragged. “You idiot. You stupid—brilliant—beautiful—idiot.”

Behind you, the rest of the group just stared.

Caroline blinked like she hadn’t fully processed it. Stefan’s mouth was slightly open, speechless for once in his life. Bonnie’s hand was covering her mouth.

Elena took a small, stunned step forward, eyes flicking between Sybil’s body and the blood dripping from your fingers.

You looked at all of them—still dazed, your face pale beneath the smears of red—and then you grinned, weak but wicked.

“How embarrassing for you guys, huh?” you rasped. “Lil’ old me… saving your asses.”

Silence. Then a choked laugh from Bonnie.

Caroline blinked again, still stunned. “You ripped out her heart.”

“She threw me against a wall,” you muttered. “Kinda rude.”

Damon let out a sound—half laugh, half broken breath—and wrapped his arms around you without warning, pulling you against his chest, like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to shake you or never let go again.

“You’re not pure anymore,” he said, voice low, his lips brushing the side of your head. “You killed someone which means that when Sybil returns then you’re the first person she’s coming for.”

You closed your eyes.

“I know, that’s why we need to go and ring that fucking bell”

And he pulled back just enough to look at you again—really look at you. You swayed slightly in his arms, the adrenaline wearing off fast, the pain catching up quicker. The world tilted sideways as the blood loss finally demanded your attention.

“Y/N—hey, hey—no.” Damon’s voice broke as he caught you before you hit the ground fully.

“I’m just—literally gonna have a nap, that’s all that was a lot of work y’know” you mumbled, slurring slightly, trying to wave him off with a weak flick of your bloodied hand. “You’re overreacting”

“Yeah, no napping for you,” he muttered, breath shaky as he pulled you tighter against his chest. “Me and you have things to talk about—serious things.”

“Go on then,” you breathed out, a faint grin tugging at your lips as your hand gripped tighter onto his arm. “I’m listening.”

But you weren’t. Not really.

Your eyes fluttered closed again, exhaustion dragging at your limbs like anchors. And Damon froze.

He looked down at you—his best friend, the human girl who somehow survived in a world built for monsters. The one who always rolled her eyes at danger but never ran from it. The one he teased, protected, pretended not to care too deeply about. The one he pushed to the sidelines because she wasn’t like them.

But here you were—covered in blood, bruised and shaking—and you had saved them. Not with magic. Not with immortality. Not with some grand supernatural ability. You saved them because you were you.

And for the first time, as he cradled you in the stillness, it hit him like a punch to the chest.

He’d been falling in love with you this entire time.

Not because you were powerful. But because you weren’t.

Because you were the most human thing in his entire world—and you chose to stay, to fight, to bleed for people who had constantly underestimated you. For him.

His jaw clenched as he stared down at you, heart pounding like it was trying to claw its way out of his chest. His thumb gently brushed the blood off your cheek, lingering there like he didn’t want to pull away.

“Y/N,” he whispered, softer now. “You don’t even know what you mean to me.”

Your fingers twitched against his jacket.

And even half-conscious, you smirked again.

“Is this one of those dramatic vampire declarations about how I’m your best friend and will be forever? Because I am very into those.”you replied lightly.

Damon didn’t laugh this time.

Instead, he bit into his wrist hard—his breath shaky as his fangs tore into his skin, blood pooling fast. And as he brought it to your lips, eyes locked on your face like it was the only thing keeping him upright, he murmured—almost like it wasn’t meant to be heard:

“No,” he said quietly, his voice thick, breaking around the edges. “This is one of those dramatic vampire declarations about how you’re my best friend… and I’m in love with you.”

“So now,” he whispered, his thumb brushing gently over your cheek, “I’m going to be selfish.”

You were fading fast, and he could feel it—your heart still beating, but weaker by the second, your eyelids fluttering as you tried to stay with him, drinking up the blood from his wrist.

His hand moved from your cheek to cradle the back of your neck, gaze locking on yours, the panic in his eyes softening into something achingly intimate.

“I’m so sorry, forgive me”he whispered.

And then—

Snap.

A clean, gentle motion.

Your body went limp in his arms.

For a moment, the tunnel was silent again. Not from peace—but from the weight of what he had just done.

Damon pulled you closer, pressing his forehead against yours. His hands trembled as they held you, rocking you slightly like that might keep your soul anchored long enough to come back.

He’d taken your life to save it.

And now all he could do was wait—for the choice you hadn’t had the time to make.

Part two- Isaac Lahey

There was a knock at the door.

Not a polite one.

Three rapid-fire taps, a pause, then two more — the exact knock pattern Stiles had been using since you were both ten and thought you needed a secret code for everything.

You sighed and shuffled across the living room, one hand tugging your too-large hoodie tighter around your bandaged ribs.

When you pulled the door open, there he was.

Stiles Stilinski, standing on your porch with two overstuffed grocery bags, a sheepish grin, and his hair sticking up in a way that said he’d definitely lost a battle with his Jeep’s air vents.

“You” he said dramatically, pointing straight at you accusingly.

“Me?”you asked confused as to what you had done.

Stiles tutted pushing past you before you could speak, “You are officially on house arrest.”

You raised a brow. “House arrest?”

“Yep,” he said, dropping the bags onto your kitchen counter with a heavy thud. “By order of me. Sheriff’s son. That’s gotta mean something.”

“It means nothing to me, plus I can’t be on house arrest what about Lydia she needs help and hold on isn’t Derek hale running around turning teenagers into werewolves!?” you asked, crossing your arms carefully so you didn’t pull on your side too much.

“You exist. You’re reckless. You almost got turned into werewolf sushi two weeks ago. Lydia does need help yes, but you have already helped enough so leave that to us and also the Derek Hale thing-totally a conversation for later”he tried to change the subject quickly knowing you had many questions.

You smirked, leaning against the doorframe. “You are so odd sometimes Stilinski”

“Says the girl who ran straight at a supernatural serial killer with no weapon and a very questionable plan.”

“It was a solid plan!” you protested.

“You screamed”he interjected.

“Solid ish plan?”you offered.

Stiles threw his hands up. “Exactly my point! Hence—house arrest. Which includes,” he said, excitedly pulling items from the bags, “movies, junk food, and no emotionally and physically damaging supernatural activity for at least—” he checked an invisible watch, “—twelve hours.”

You laughed, a real one this time. A little cracked around the edges, but it made his shoulders drop a little, the tension easing out of him like he hadn’t realized how tight it was.

He set a tub of ice cream down with a flourish. “I also brought ice cream. Because I’m a great nurse. And a better best friend.”

“You’re a disaster,” you said fondly, grabbing a spoon from the drawer.

“No, we are both disasters”he said easily, nudging your hip with his.

The casual words hung in the air for a second too long.

You caught his eye.

He looked away first, suddenly way too interested in reorganizing your fridge.

Maybe healing wasn’t just about the stitches and the bruises.

Maybe it was this too—standing in a messy kitchen, with someone who made you feel like everything wasn’t completely broken yet.

-

The hallway smelled like cheap bleach and high school nerves.

You were finally off crutches — mostly. Your limp was still obvious, but you ditched them at your locker and refused to look back. If you could survive getting slashed open by a psychotic alpha, you could survive this.

“You sure you should be walking that much?” came a voice behind you — breathless, rushed, worried.

You turned and grinned.

Stiles Stilinski was there, backpack half-zipped, shirt sleeves shoved up, hair sticking up like he’d sprinted across the parking lot to catch you.

You leaned back casually against your locker. “Gonna start carrying my books for me too, Stilinski?”

He flushed immediately, glancing down at your bag like he was about two seconds from actually offering. “If you want. I mean, I can. I could—I could carry you, if you need. Like a—like a… backpack but for people?”

You snorted. “I’m good, thanks.”

“Right, right,” he mumbled, shouldering his bag again and somehow managing to smack himself in the face with one of the straps. “Totally cool. Normal. Fine.”

You hid your smile as you started walking toward class.

He fell into step beside you, trying very hard not to hover but failing miserably.

Ever since the night of the Winter Formal — ever since Peter’s claws had torn into you — Stiles had been… different. Still sarcastic. Still quick with a joke. But around you?

He was all nervous hands, red ears, and tangled words.

And he couldn’t stop looking at you.

Every time you winced slightly.

Every time you adjusted your sweatshirt to hide the healing scars.

Every time you laughed like you meant it.

He noticed. He noticed everything. More than usual.

You slid into your usual seat near the back, sighing quietly as you stretched your leg out to ease the pressure off your side.

Stiles started toward the seat next to you—

—but someone beat him to it.

Isaac Lahey.

He dropped into the chair beside you, setting his worn backpack down with a soft thud. His movements were careful, almost too careful — like he was trying not to draw attention.

You blinked.

Isaac Lahey had never so much as looked at you before this year.

“Hey,” he said, voice low, almost cautious.

You blinked in surprise.

Isaac Lahey didn’t talk to you. Or anyone, really.

Not until now.

“You doing okay?” he asked, flicking a quick glance to your side, then your face.

“Yeah,” you said slowly, a little wary but polite. “Healing.”

Isaac smiled — small and almost apologetic. “Good. You… looked rough for a while.”

You huffed a short laugh. “Oh, thanks Lahey.”

At that exact moment, a chair scraped loudly against the floor.

You turned your head and found Stiles.

He was dropping into the seat directly on your left, clutching his notebook a little too tightly, the front of his sneakers practically bouncing against the floor.

He gave you a wide, almost manic grin that screamed everything’s fine, totally normal, I definitely didn’t just sprint across the room to sit next to you, please don’t notice how bad I am at breathing right now.

You smirked, biting your lip to hold back a laugh.

Stiles shifted in his seat like he couldn’t quite get comfortable, shooting a tight, sideways glare past you at Isaac.

Isaac, oblivious (or pretending to be), just smiled a little more and leaned a bit closer to you to whisper, “If you need someone to help carry your stuff… I’m around.”

From your left, Stiles made a wheeze-sputter noise that he tried (badly) to cover with a cough.

You barely kept it together, giving Isaac a polite nod, then tapping your pen against your notebook to hide your grin.

The entire class passed in a weird, hilarious tension bubble:

• Isaac subtly trying to make conversation when the teacher wasn’t looking.

• Stiles dropping his pencil twice, his notebook once, and almost elbowing you in the ribs when he tried to lean back coolly and missed the chair support entirely.

By the time the bell rand you were practically burning feeling Stiles eyes in the side of your face.

You gathered your things, letting Isaac head out first with a casual, “See you around.”

As you stepped into the hallway, Stiles right beside you, you didn’t even have to say anything.

You just turned your head slightly, caught his eye—

—and he was already looking at you.

Both of you raised your eyebrows almost at the same time.

“Bitten?”Stiles uttered out.

“Totally bitten”you agreed.

Stiles nodded once, almost imperceptibly, the corners of his mouth twitching in that way he always got when he was hiding panic under sarcasm.

You smirked, bumping your shoulder gently into his as you walked.

He bumped you back, just a little too carefully, like he was still terrified of hurting you.

You didn’t say it out loud. You didn’t need to.

You both knew exactly what Isaac Lahey was now.

And Stiles, judging by the way he kept glancing sideways at you like he wanted to chain you to his side for protection, was absolutely not okay with it.

The hallway buzzed with the usual noise — lockers slamming, sneakers squeaking, the heavy drone of bored teenagers.

You and Stiles walked side by side, your bag slung lightly over one shoulder, his bouncing awkwardly against his hip.

He slowed his steps naturally, unconsciously matching your slower, limping pace, never commenting on it, just being there like it was the most normal thing in the world.

“What makes you so sure he’s been bitten?” you asked, glancing sideways at him.

Stiles raised his eyebrows dramatically. “What makes you so sure, Stilinski?” you teased, bumping your hip lightly into his.

He huffed, pretending to be offended.

“Okay, theory time,” he said, launching into it with all the energy of someone who definitely spent way too long thinking about this.

“Isaac Lahey stares at you. Like, all the time. Literally for years. He’s just been, I don’t know, creepily lurking over in the corner—”

He paused, waving his hands vaguely around his own neck.

“—in his stupid scarf.”

You let out a soft, amused snort.

“Anyways!” Stiles said louder, pointing a finger at you like you were on trial, “he didn’t have the confidence before to just walk up to you and talk to you.”

You slowed slightly as you reached your locker, eyebrows pulling together.

“What do you mean… staring?” you asked, genuinely confused, your hand tightening on your strap.

Stiles stopped too, spinning around to face you fully, walking backward a few steps like it physically hurt him that you didn’t already know this.

“C’mon, Y/N, you’ve never noticed?!”

You shook your head, blinking at him, utterly bewildered.

He stared at you like you’d just told him you didn’t know the sky was blue.

“Seriously?!”

He threw his arms up.

“The kid looked like he was trying to memorize your soul with his eyeballs every time you walked into a room!”

You opened your mouth to argue, but he steamrolled ahead, pointing at you again like he was listing official government evidence.

“Stop interrupting me! Anyways—that, and paired with the fact that he walked in today wearing a brand new Derek Hale™ approved leather jacket—”

he mimed air quotes furiously,

“—means he’s officially one of Derek’s glorious, broody little wolf cubs.”

“He was totally listening to our conversation in the corridor too what was that comment about holding your bag, he wasn’t even nearby when we were at your locker”Stiles explained.

“How do you know that?”you questioned raising an eyebrow.

“Well for one I’d notice that fucking scarf from a mile away- I mean what is that all about?”Stiles grew red in the face a fraction.

You laughed under your breath, unable to help it.

“I also have many theories-“ You began to explain as You and Stiles reached your next class. Stiles leaned against the locker next to yours like he hadn’t been doing that exact move since you were twelve — arms folded, expression cocky but still buzzing with that barely-contained worry just beneath the surface.

You started to spin your combination when the hallway noise shifted — just slightly.

Conversations paused. A few heads turned.

You glanced up instinctively — and there she was.

Erica Reyes. But not the Erica you remembered.

Gone was the girl who barely spoke, who kept her hair pinned back and her shoulders hunched, always half-hiding behind hoodies and lockers.

Now she walked like she owned the hallway.

Hair curled. Leather jacket zipped just enough to be intimidating. Boots that clicked like punctuation.

And confidence — radiating off her like static.

Stiles actually choked a little. “What the—”

You blinked. “Is that… Erica?”

He stared, eyebrows climbing so high they were practically in his hairline.

“She looks… different,” you muttered.

Stiles coughed into his hand. “Different? She looks like she walked off the set of The Craft and onto a Vogue cover.”

“Bitten, definitely fucking bitten”you whispered, shell shocked.

“She used to faint during PE,” he whispered like it was confidential government info. “She once panicked doing a chin-up. One.”

You leaned slightly out into the hallway Stiles following your actions seconds later, watching her glide past like she wasn’t even aware people were staring. Like she didn’t care.

But then — she glanced sideways. Just for a second.

Right at you.

And she smirked.

It wasn’t cruel.

Just… knowing.

Like she was in on something you weren’t yet.

“Why’d she look at you like that”Stiles murmured his mouth settling into a firm line.

“Me? I thought she was looking at you like that”you murmured back, your face matching his expression.

“Me? Why would she be looking at me like that?”Stiles eyes turned from curiousness to confusion.

“I don’t know, maybe because she has a raging crush on you”you answered quickly.

“What?! No way”he shook his head.

“C’mon Stiles, you’ve never noticed?”your mouth fell open slightly.

He shook his head, blinking at you, utterly bewildered.

Before you could fill Stiles in there was another shift in the atmosphere.

Isaac.

Rounding the corner minutes behind Erica, wearing that brand-new leather jacket, looking more like a threat than a background character.

He scanned the hallway — and his eyes landed right on you.

This time, you felt it.

The look.

Stiles stiffened next to you like a drawn bowstring.

“Here we go,” he muttered.

Isaac walked up slowly, all calm eyes and quiet confidence. “Hey,” he said, voice soft. “You dropped something.”

You looked down—

He held out a pen. Yours. Must’ve fallen from your bag.

You took it. “Uh-Thanks. It’s always nice to have an extra pen”You offered him a small smile, gently taking it out of his hands.

Stiles’ pupils flickered between the two of you, as the exchanged lingered, Isaac holding on slightly as you took the pen from his grasp. The werewolf effect had settled in that dazzling, mysterious and broody effect that was working on you slightly.

“What’s with the scarf?”Stiles coughed out cutting the moment short. Earning glances from both you and Isaac. You pushed the pen into your pocket.

Isaac gave the faintest shrug “It’s literally December”, then looked back at you. “I’ll see you around, Y/N.”

You nodded once, and he walked away.

Stiles didn’t speak for a second.

Stiles turned to face you fully, serious now. “I don’t trust that guy, not even for a second”

-

Lunchtime rolled around and the four of you had taken over your usual table — the one slightly off to the side, where it was just quiet enough to talk without someone breathing down your neck.

Scott was mid-rant about Derek, Allison was picking at a salad like it had personally offended her, and you were trying not to laugh as Stiles attempted (and failed) to open a bag of chips with one hand while also gesturing wildly with the other.

“…I’m just saying,” he said through clenched teeth, tugging at the seal like it owed him money, “if Derek’s suddenly giving out bites like Oprah gives out cars, we’re gonna need a better system. Like a list. Or an application process.”

You snorted. “With references?”

“-Exactly,” he shot back, pointing at you with half a chip.

Scott rolled his eyes. “You two realize none of this is helpful, right?”

“It’s therapeutic,” you and Stiles said in sync, exchanging a quick glance that lingered a little too long.

Allison raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

Then—

SLAP.

A hand slammed down on the table so hard it made Stiles drop his chips again.

“What in the holy hell is that?” Lydia Martin snapped, voice pitched somewhere between disgust and horror.

All four of you jumped.

She was standing at the end of the table, eyes wide, lips parted in shock as she pointed across the cafeteria.

You followed her gaze.

Erica was strutting between tables like she didn’t even know people were staring. Eyeliner sharp, heels hitting the floor like punctuation marks. And yes — the leather jacket was still making its appearance.

You blinked.

Then looked back at Lydia.

“You’ve only just seen?” you said dryly, raising a brow. She shot you a look that screamed obviously not. You and Lydia had gotten significantly closer since the whole ‘you kinda saved her life thing’.

After the Winter Formal, Lydia Martin was hospitalized with serious injuries from Peter Hale’s bite. Everyone expected her to turn into a werewolf — even Derek. But she didn’t. And that’s what made it worse.

She vanished from her hospital bed days later.

When she came back, she was… off.

Not in an obvious way at first. She was still Lydia — sharp-tongued, styled, pretending she wasn’t scared. But people noticed. Her hands shook sometimes. Her eyes drifted toward things no one else could see. She stopped showing up to class. She walked into the woods alone at night. And she had no memory of where she went.

Lydia was unraveling in front of everyone, and no one knew how to stop it.

Meanwhile, your wounds were different.

Peter didn’t bite you— he clawed. Deep. Along your ribs and side during the chaos of the lacrosse field.

But when you came back… you were still yourself.

Not hallucinating. Not breaking down.

Just watching.

You were more careful. More quiet. Less quick to speak in a room full of noise.

And that started to freak people out too — especially Derek.

Because while Lydia spiraled, you stayed steady.

And somehow, that was more unsettling.

“She looks like a backup dancer for Rihanna,” Stiles muttered, eyes still wide. “Like… a violent one.”

You all stared at each other for a second — no one laughing now. Lydia looked around at you all for an explanation because you couldn’t tell her the truth about the supernatural just yet.

Something was changing. Again.

And you could all feel it.

-

Scott, Stiles, and yourself stood off to the side as the police finished loading up the last of the scene. Isaac had just been taken in. Flashing lights paint streaks across the parking lot.

“His father’s dead. They think he was murdered”Scott explained to the two of you.

“Holy shit”you held your hands up to your mouth, feeling sadness for Isaac.

“Are they saying he’s a suspect?”Stiles quipped out.

“I’m not sure. Why?”Scotts eyebrow raised slightly.

“Because they can lock him in a holding cell for twenty-four hours…”your eyes widened as you realised.

“Like, overnight?”Scott’s eyes drifted between you and Stiles as he nodded tensely.

During the full moon.

“How good are those holding cells at holding people?”Scott asked regretfully.

“People? Good. Werewolves? Probably not that good”Stiles answered grimly.

There’s a beat. The weight of the full moon sinks in. Everyone glances toward the police car disappearing down the street.

“Guys remember when I said I don’t have the urge to maim and kill?”Scott hummed out.

“Yeah…”Stilinski trailed off.

“He does, I can feel it”

A cold silence settles between you. Stiles shifts uncomfortably.

“Isaac is probably still figuring out how to stop himself just like Scott did, If no one’s in that cell with him…”

“Then someone’s gonna get torn to pieces. Or he’s gonna tear himself apart trying not to”Stiles finished your sentence.

You stood there, the three of you, knowing that you were going to have to fix this—again—before someone else gets hurt. Your hand brushes your side without thinking, the faint reminder of Peter’s claws still there. The danger feels closer than ever.

Back in class, the teacher drones on at the front of the class, but none of you are paying attention. Scott leans over toward Stiles, whispering urgently. You lean forwards, clearly listening.

“What if he can’t control it?”Scott whispered.

“Then we’re all screwed”Stiles whispered back

“He’s locked up. Even if he loses control, how much damage can he really do inside a cell? I mean Scott survived handcuffed to a radiator”you murmured.

“Y/N… he also escaped that night , look Isaac is not going to politely sit there and breathe through it if he shifts”

“We have to get to him. Tonight.”McCall stated.

“You mean… break into the sheriff’s station during a full moon?”you bit down on your pencil.

“Exactly. Which, for the record, sounds both suicidal and illegal”Stiles confirmed, trying not to wave his hands around.

“Great. Let me grab my bag”you rubbed your hands together excitedly.

“Oh definitely no, You’re not going. Absolutely not. You’re still healing and I am not dragging you out of another bloody situation”Stiles stated shaking his head.

“That’s adorable. I’m going”you snorted seriously.

“ I hate to say it Stiles but she’s right. We need her. And she’s not just a bystander in this anymore”Scott reasoned.

The three of you exchange a look — not just worried, but committed. You’ve all done this dance before. And you’ll do it again. Because no one else is going to.

“Okay. But the second something goes sideways, you run. No arguments”Stiles warned.

“Only if you do too”you shot back quickly.

Stiles doesn’t answer. He doesn’t promise.

-

Sheriff Stilinski stood across from Jackson in the principals office, Jackson slouched arrogantly in a chair. The door is slightly ajar. Just outside, you, Stiles and Scott wait awkwardly. You swung back and forth on your chair trying to listen out for something important.

“Listen to me — you’re telling me that you knew Isaac’s father was hitting him?”The sheriff tutted out.

“Hitting him? He was kicking the crap out of him”Jackson corrected Noah.

“Did you ever say anything to anyone? A teacher? Parents? Anyone?”Stiles’ dad continued.

“Nope. It’s not my problem”Jackson shrugged.

“Asshole”you muttered as you held the decoy book up to your face.

“No. No, of course not. You know, it’s funny that the kids getting beaten up are always the ones who least deserve it”the sheriff replied dry and bitterly.

“Yeah”Jackson agreed, completely missing the point.

“…Wait, what?” It finally hit him.

Sheriff Stilinski grabbed the file that was sat on the table and started walking to the door.

“I think we’re done here”Noah shook his head opening the door, stepping out into the hallway where Scott, Stiles, and you are standing. Scott stiffened instinctively.

“Hi, Scott, hello miss y/n” he offered you half a smile.

You shyly lifted your hand to greet your best friends father.

A new voice cuts in from behind you.

“Boys, Y/n…Come on in”you turned your head to take a peak at who had called your name so boldly.

You turn to see Gerard Argent waiting behind the principal’s desk, hands folded like a well-practiced politician. His smile is all teeth.

“Scott McCall… Academically not the most accomplished, but I see you’ve become quite the star athlete!”he started off as the three of you piled into the office.

You shift slightly, instinctively stepping closer to Stiles, eyes narrowing.

“Mr. Stilinski… Oh, perfect grades, but little to no extracurriculars. Maybe you should try lacrosse?” The principals lack of awareness made you snort a little.

Stiles side eyed you. “Oh, actually, I’m already—“

“Y/n, amazing grades, a fair few extracurriculars and an interesting choice in friends, Sorry to hear about your…injury”Gerard’s voice trailed away like he knew something, like he knew everything.

“Hold on… McCall. You’re the Scott that was dating my granddaughter”Gerard’s attention turned back to your friend Scott who shuffled around in his seat.

So he does know everything.

“We were dating, but not anymore. Not dating, not seeing any of each other, or doing anything with each other at all—“Scott jumped into defence mode.

“Relax, Scott. You look like you’re about to crack a cyanide pill with your teeth”Gerard attempted to joke but it fell short.

“Just a hard breakup…”Scott rubbed the back of his neck.

“Oh, that’s too bad. You seem like a pretty nice kid to me”Gerard’s tone changes.

You crossed your arms, posture defensive. If you weren’t watching Gerard before you definitely were now— reading him, not buying the kind tone for a second.

“Now, listen, guys. Yes, I am the principal, but I really don’t want you to think of me as the enemy”he continued.

“Heh, is that so?”Stiles muttered under his breath.

“I so second that comment”you murmured back.

Gerard glances at you, the smile barely shifting. But the look in his eyes darkens — briefly.

“However, this being my first day, I do need to support my teachers. So unfortunately, someone is going to have to take the fall and stay behind for detention”he started up again gesturing between the three of you.

The three teens exchanged a look. Stiles sighs dramatically. You just glare at Gerard.

“You mean punish someone to make a point”you cut your eye at him.

“I prefer to think of it as setting a tone”Gerard grinned.

-

The hallway was mostly empty. Lights buzz overhead. The door to detention clicks shut behind them. You and Stiles step out, both looking exhausted and annoyed. Being the ones to take the fall and sit through detention.

Stiles pulled the phone out of his pocket and held it to his ear as it started ringing.

“Come on, come on…”his foot tapped impatiently.

“Stiles?”You could hear Allison’s voice buzzing through the speaker on the other end. She was currently rummaging through her families belongings on the sly.

“Hey, sorry— we just got out. What’s going on?”he answered sending you a brief nod.

“Is Y/N with you?”you heard as he pushed the loud speaker button.

“Who else do you think I’m with whenever I say ‘we’”he rolled his eyes as if it was common knowledge. It was.

“We need to do something right now. My family were asking me questions about Lydia and Y/n-about how they were attacked by Peter—and then they sent this guy out…”Allison’s words were rushed and urgent with a hint of panic.

“Wait, first of all what questions were they asking about y/n and second of all what guy?”Stiles eyes flickered over to you briefly.

“We will talk about the questions later, and the guy? He was dressed like a Sheriff’s deputy”Allison responded.

Your eyes land on Stiles, already frowning.

“That’s not normal. There aren’t that many deputies on call tonight”you noted.

“They’re sending him to the station for Isaac”Stiles thought aloud.

“He had this box—like something carved into it”Allison continued.

“What kind of carving?”you ask curiously as Allison flips pages. The line rustles.

“Hold on… I’m taking a picture”she calls out quickly.

Both of your heads snap towards the phone as Stiles’ phone pings with the incoming image.

“Yeah. Wolfsbane”Stiles ran his hands over his mouth.

You let out a fearful gulp, your eyes meeting Stiles once again. Finding them already trained on you.

“They’re not bringing him in to question him…”you shook your head.

“What does that mean?”Allisons voice rang down the phone.

“It means they’re gonna kill him.”Stiles’ stress levels rose.

Part 1- Winter Formal

The air that night was sharp with cold, but not the kind that bit—just enough to keep the windows fogged and breath visible, like the whole town was holding something in. The sky was heavy with clouds, too low, too gray, like it knew something was coming.

Beacon Hills High had gone all out. The gym was strung with white lights and dripping with cheap silver tinsel. Music thumped low and steady like a warning heartbeat. Girls in glittering dresses clustered in bathrooms to reapply lipstick, guys in borrowed blazers fidgeted with clip-on ties. Everyone was pretending this was the best night of the year.

It wasn’t, and Y/N Y/L/N knew it.

You stood just outside the school entrance, hugging your arms around yourself. Your burgundy dress was elegant, classic, a last-minute find you’d convinced yourself you didn’t care about. But now, standing alone while everyone arrived in pairs, it felt like armor you didn’t ask for.

Inside, Scott had walked in with Allison—his hand in hers, nervous, like he still couldn’t believe he was allowed to be happy. Lydia had Stiles, though barely. It was more of a convenience than a date. Allison had asked Stiles to take Lydia, and Stiles, still caught in the haze of years-long pining, said yes without thinking.

And Y/N? She came alone. Not that you cared.

Not because you didn’t have options—there were always guys who’d ask. But none of them mattered. Not when the person you wanted to go with never looked at you that way.

Everyone else was buzzing about how much they planned to drink, who they were going to kiss, who’d get into whose car after the last song. But all you felt was this low dread, coiling in your stomach like something bad was just over the edge of the night.

You hadn’t felt right in days. Not since the last full moon. Not since the latest rumor about a body in the woods. Not since Scott started acting different.

Because everything had changed.

And none of you had figured out how to say it out loud.

Stiles P.O.V

Stiles tapped his fingers against the steering wheel, pretending not to be sweating bullets. Lydia sat beside him in silence, scrolling through her phone, her presence somehow louder than the music playing quietly through the speakers.

This was supposed to be his dream, right? Driving Lydia Martin to the Winter Formal.

Only it felt wrong. It felt off.

He couldn’t stop glancing in the rearview mirror, half-expecting to see y/n’s reflection, even though she hadn’t come with them. She’d said she was coming on her own. Shrugged it off when he asked why. Smiled a little too quickly.

They’d been best friends since they were kids. Since kindergarten, when she punched a boy for pushing Stiles into the sandbox. Since third grade, when he broke his wrist and she stayed with him in the nurse’s office all afternoon. Since fifth grade, when his mom got sick and stopped coming to parent-teacher nights, and she’d started waiting for him by the front gate without saying a word.

They’d grown up side by side, through every scraped knee and failed math test and supernatural catastrophe. When Scott was bitten and everything went sideways, she didn’t flinch. She didn’t run.

Y/n was the one person who never needed to ask what was going on—she just knew.

So when you said you’d come to the dance alone, when you smiled too quickly, when you laughed off the idea that it mattered—Stiles knew something was wrong. But he didn’t push.

Because he was too wrapped up in Lydia.

Then you walked in. Alone.

Hair curled and pinned up. Wearing a deep burgundy dress that stopped the air in his lungs. He didn’t know what he expected—sneakers, probably. Sarcasm, definitely. But she walked in like she wasn’t even aware she looked stunning.

Just like that, she wasn’t the little girl who used to throw Goldfish crackers at his face anymore. Suddenly, nothing else was in focus.

Not the music. Not Lydia beside him. Just her.

Y/n caught his eye across the room. Smiled, small and real. He smiled back—instinctively, shyly. Then Lydia tugged on his arm, dragging him toward the dance floor.

“Come on,” she said.

Stiles stumbled after her, his body moving while his mind stayed stuck on you, still standing near the punch bowl, twirling the end of your clutch strap in your fingers like you weren’t sure you belonged there.

The slow song started. Lydia turned into him, hands on his shoulders, eyes locked on Jackson from across the room.

And Stiles—he danced with her, like he was supposed to.

But over Lydia’s shoulder, he watched you sit down alone at a table near the edge of the room.

Your smile was gone now.

And then a guy walked up to you.

Stiles didn’t recognize him—tall, older-looking, probably someone’s cousin. He said something. You looked surprised, then laughed and shook your head. He asked again, holding out a hand.

And Stiles felt it—a twist in his chest. Like something was being pulled tight.

Jealousy? No. Not just that.

Fear. Possessiveness. Something.

Lydia’s voice broke through. “Are you even listening to me?”

“Yeah,” he lied, eyes still on Y/n. Still on the guy. Still on the way you slowly stood up taking the older boys hand hesitantly. Glancing over at Stiles quickly but he looked away too fast.

-

Stiles didn’t remember how long he’d been standing at the edge of the dance floor. Lydia had disappeared into the crowd, probably in search of Jackson, but Stiles barely noticed.

His eyes were moving—searching. Scanning.

He didn’t even know he was doing it at first. It was just a reflex, muscle memory. Like how he always looked for you in the hallway before class, or checked the back row of the bleachers at lacrosse games, even when you had said you weren’t coming.

His eyes kept drifting to the far side of the gym, where you were once stood with that guy. You and the unknown male were deep in conversation now. Not close—nothing romantic—but the guy was trying. His hand lingered a little too long on your arm.

Stiles should’ve looked away. He didn’t. He couldn’t.

And in couple of moments he was able to catch you on your own.

You stood near the punch bowl, cup in hand, pretending to be interested in the orange-ish liquid sloshing inside. You weren’t really sure what it was supposed to be—citrus motor oil, maybe—but it gave you something to do with your hands.

“Wow,” came a familiar voice from behind you making you instantly perk up. “That is some seriously bold beverage selection. Did they mix it with antifreeze on purpose, or was that just a happy accident?”

You smirked before you even turned. “Should we try it and find out, Stilinski?”

He stepped up beside you, hands in his pockets, tie already slightly loosened like he was allergic to looking put together for more than ten minutes.

“Risking the punch? Brave. Bold. Potentially fatal. I’m so down you know me so well”he hummed out, leaning into you.

“The sarcasm. It travels ahead of you like a warning sign.”you uttered back, handing him a cup of the unknown liquid.

“Someone has to live on the edge tonight,” You added. “You already used your one act of rebellion by showing up in a wrinkled dress shirt.”You let out a quiet laugh, taunting your bestfriend.

His mouth twitched into a knowing smile. “Rude.”

His eyes lingering on you for half a second too long before he looked away. “You look… nice.”

“Nice,” she echoed flatly.

“I-I- Well -I” Stiles cheeks unknowingly tinted red as he stumbled for words. Making him choke slightly.

“Relax I’m just messing w-

“Y/n, you look fucking gorgeous”Stiles cut you off, his statement firm. Your eyes widened slightly the colour of your cheeks matching Stiles’, mouth opening to say something when Stiles noticed the guy from earlier approaching from the corner of his eye.

He clocked him before he even reached the two of you—tall, slightly older-looking, dressed like he actually cared about this dance. He was walking straight toward you dodging through the crowd with the kind of focus that made Stiles’ stomach twist.

You didn’t notice. You were still slightly gawping at Stiles after his compliment.

But before you could say anything—before you could breathe—the guy from earlier slid into your orbit, cutting through the air between you and Stiles with way too much confidence.

“Hey,” he said, flashing a clean, practiced smile. “Didn’t get your name earlier. Figured I’d try again.”

You blinked, still catching up. “Oh. It’s—uh—Y/n.”

“Y/n”he repeated, like he was trying it on. “Nice. I was hoping I’d get another shot?”

Stiles laughed, short and sharp—just loud enough to be noticed. “Wow. Bold. Really going for it, huh?”

The guy turned toward him, confused. “Sorry?”

“Oh, nothing,” Stiles said with a tight smile. “Just admiring the timing. Literally couldn’t have waited ten more seconds. Impressive.”

You shot Stiles a look, brows raised, but your mouth betrayed you with a small twitch at the corner. He was being a pain- a pleasant one”

“I’m good, thanks,” you told the guy, still recovering from the chaos of the last minute. “Maybe later.”

He took the hint and nodded, though his eyes lingered on you longer than necessary before he backed off.

Once he was gone, you turned fully to Stiles. “Really?”

“What?” he said, too innocent. “I was just being supportive.”

“You sounded like you wanted to fight him, like literally pick up the punch bowl and smash it over his head type of fight him”

“I mean what if I do wanna fight him”Stiles shrugged.

Stiles opened his mouth again—this time maybe to say something real—but the sudden shriek of Coach Finstock’s voice cut through the gym like a grenade going off.

“DANNY! SCOTT! WHAT IN THE NAME OF LACROSSE FUNDING IS THIS?!”

Everyone turned.

On the far side of the dance floor, Coach stood wide-eyed, one hand clutching his heart as Scott and Danny twirled each other like it was the last dance of the century. The two boys looked completely unbothered, smiling, their moves just chaotic enough to be impressive.

Stiles blinked. “Oh, God.”

You laughed softly. “It’s beautiful.”

“It’s a liability,” he muttered.

Coach was now storming across the floor, yelling something about dignity, and chaperone protocol, and how he swore if anyone took a photo of this, he’d quit right now and move to Idaho.

Stiles sighed, already taking a step back. “I have to go make sure Scott doesn’t break the space-time continuum.”

“Well, you’d better hurry”

Stiles gave you a questionable look.

You smirked. “It’s fine, I’ll be right over to help you”

But before you could turn or disappear into the crowd again, he stepped closer, hand brushing yours for a second longer than it needed to.

“Don’t move,” he said seriously, eyes locking with yours. “I’ll be right back. Seriously. Don’t move.”

The tone in his voice made something in your chest pull tight.

You nodded once.

And with one last glance over his shoulder, your best friend hesitated—then forced himself to turn and head toward the chaos.

The noise of the gym settled back into its usual rhythm—bass thumping, heels clicking, laughter and bad decisions hanging thick in the air.

You stood where Stiles had left you, still half-smiling, still half-waiting for him to turn back again.

But he didn’t.

He disappeared into the crowd with that frantic, slightly unhinged stride of his, chasing after Coach and Scott like some weird subplot in a show only they were in.

You turned back to the dance floor, your eyes scanning out of habit more than intent—until something caught your attention.

Lydia.

You narrowed your eyes.

She wasn’t walking with purpose—more like she was floating. Pale, distracted. Detached from everything around her. And she wasn’t alone for long.

Jackson. She was following Jackson.

They disappeared through the far exit, heading toward the back of the school—toward the field.

Your stomach twisted.

There was no reason to follow. This wasn’t your problem. You weren’t even close with Lydia. And Jackson? He barely looked at you unless he wanted something.

But still.

Something felt wrong.

The way Lydia walked like she didn’t even know where she was. The way Jackson didn’t seem like he really wanted to be there. The way your gut clenched the second they vanished into the dark.

Without thinking, you handed your cup to the nearest table and started toward the door.

Quiet. Unnoticed.

Your heels clicked softly against the gym floor, then sank into silence as you stepped out into the cool night air.

The laughter and music faded behind you.

Ahead, the lights of the lacrosse field buzzed faintly.

And Lydia Martin was disappearing into the dark.

The further Y/n walked, the quieter everything became. The music from the gym was a faint, distant thump now—like a memory. The cold crept in around her, wind biting against yours skin, cutting through the warmth of the night.

You stepped onto the edge of the lacrosse field, heels crunching softly on damp grass.

And then you saw her. Lying motionless in the middle of the field, her red dress stark against the dark ground, like a dropped rose in the dirt.

You froze.

For a split second, you thought maybe Lydia had tripped. Passed out. Something harmless because it must’ve happened so quickly.

But then you saw him. Peter Hale, standing just beyond her body, looming like a shadow cut out of the night itself. His eyes glowed faintly gold, his hands slick with blood.

He looked up at you, the sound of your heels against the grass gaining his attention immediately.

A cold, paralyzing fear gripped your chest—but it snapped just as fast.

You screamed. Loud. Raw. Real.

The sound tore through your throat like it had claws. An ear-piercing, instinctive scream that echoed across the empty field and carried through the gym, slicing through the music for only a select few- the ones who recognised your voice.

Then you ran.

Straight to Lydia. No hesitation. No second thought.

You dropped to your knees, skidding on the wet grass, arms immediately circling Lydia’s body and pulling her into your lap.

“Lydia—Lydia!” You cried, hands trembling as you pressed them against the wound at her side. Blood seeped through your fingers. Your dress was soaked within seconds, blood staining the deep burgundy into something even darker, more permanent.

She was still breathing—but barely.

Peter hadn’t left.

His eyes glowed, reflecting the field lights like an animal about to strike. Blood still dripped from his claws, and his expression was something worse than rage.

“Two birds,” he murmured, voice like gravel. “One scream.”

You scrambled backward, trying to pull Lydia with you. “Stay away from her,” you spat, but your voice cracked. Your hands were shaking too badly to grip.

Peter just tilted his head.

“You’re braver than you should be.”

And then before you could take another breath he moved like a blur. Fast—too fast.

You barely had time to shield Lydia with your body before Peter’s claws slashed out, cutting across your side with brutal, inhuman force.

You screamed again—sharper this time, almost like a yelp.

Blood poured hot and fast from your ribs, soaking through your dress, your arms, your hands as you held Lydia tighter with your left arm, your right shooting up to your side.

The second your scream rang through the air, Stiles had stopped moving.

Mid-conversation. Mid-chaos.

He turned sharply, eyes snapping to the empty space where you had been standing minutes ago. Gone.

His heart dropped. He didn’t wait.

“Y/n!?”he shouted, already pushing through the crowd, the music and lights now meaningless noise. Scott and Allison’s eyes widening simultaneously at the sudden sound of your call for help.

Stiles didn’t know what he was running toward but that didn’t stop him for even a second. He just knew it you.

And you were in trouble.

The freezing night air hit him hard, burning his throat and lungs, but he didn’t slow down. He tore across the grass, shoes slipping in the wet mud as the field lights finally came into view.

And then he saw it. Two figures crumpled on the ground.

Y/n—still in that burgundy dress, the fabric ripped and soaked dark with blood—curled around Lydia’s lifeless body, shielding her even now. Your arms were shaking, your hair a mess of blood and sweat.

For half a second, Stiles stumbled.

The ground tilted underneath him, and a wave of nausea punched the air from his lungs.

No—no no no—

He nearly collapsed right there, right where he stood.

But somehow he kept moving.

He forced his legs forward, a broken sound tearing from his throat as he sprinted toward the two of you, the cold forgotten, the music and lights behind him swallowed by the rush of terror.

“Allison, Scott!” he shouted over his shoulder, his voice cracking. “Over here!”

They weren’t far behind—he could hear them crashing through the lot, footsteps pounding, voices frantic—but Stiles was faster.

And then—Out of the corner of his eye, he saw him.

Standing on the far edge of the field, partially hidden in the shadows. Watching. Waiting.

Their eyes locked. For one heartbeat, time froze.

Peter tilted his head slightly, a slow, calculating smile creeping across his face.

It wasn’t a threat. It was a promise.

Stiles felt every survival instinct in his body scream at once—but he didn’t stop.

He dropped to his knees beside you, mud soaking through his jeans, hands already reaching for you without even thinking.

“Hey, look at me,” he said, his voice cracking open. He was already pulling you closer, hands searching frantically for where you were bleeding.

Your skin was freezing cold under his touch.

Scott and Allison skidded to a stop behind him seconds later, but Stiles barely heard them.

His whole world had narrowed to the girl in his arms and the blood soaking through her dress.

And the monster still standing somewhere out in the dark.

“You’re okay. You’re okay,” he whispered, not sure if he was lying, not sure if he was trying to convince her or himself.

“I know I’m okay-I’m fine yeah it’s Lydia I’m concerned about”you shifted weakly, your head pressing against his shoulder. Your breathing was fast, ragged, like were fighting for every second.

“I know you’re going to tell me I’m really silly for this,” she said, voice small but steady, forcing herself to breathe through it.

Stiles let out a broken laugh, the sound too close to a sob. “Yeah. It was incredibly fucking stupid.”

“I’m so mad at you for this,”he added quickly, your fingers clutching the front of his shirt his hand reached down to put pressure on your wound.

He smiled, terrified, brushing your hair back from your forehead with his other hand.

She gave a weak, uncomfortable laugh, a sound that twisted straight through his chest.

“It does really hurt, Stiles,” you whispered, voice cracking around the edges. A single tear slipped down your cheek.

Stiles felt like he was drowning.

“Fuck,” he choked out, voice breaking. “Scott—Scott! Call a fucking ambulance or kill Peter Hale, I don’t care which—just fucking do something!”

Allison was already fumbling through her purse in a panic, pulling out her phone with trembling hands, dialing with fingers that didn’t want to work.

Scott hovered over Lydia, helpless for a second, before glancing toward the dark edges of the field where Peter had disappeared.

“I’m going after him,” Scott growled.

“No!” Stiles barked, holding you tighter. “Stay here. Help me. Please—help them”

Scott hesitated, torn between instincts, but the way Stiles looked at him—broken, desperate—made the choice.

Allison stumbled forward, pressing the phone to her ear, rattling off their location to the operator with a voice thick with fear.

Stiles looked down at you again, his forehead resting against yours for half a second. And all he could do was hold you tighter.

The sound of the sirens tore through the night, growing louder with every heartbeat, bouncing off the empty bleachers and stadium walls.

You had already passed out by this point, Stiles making sure that your chest was still rising and falling. He couldn’t move.

Not when the paramedics rushed across the grass.

Not when Scott tried to pull him back gently by the shoulder.

His arms stayed locked around your trembling body, holding you against his chest like he could somehow will you to stay alive just by refusing to let go.

“They’re here—she’s breathing, but she’s bleeding bad—she’s bleeding so bad,” Stiles rattled off to the first paramedic, his voice pitching higher, sharper.

One of the EMTs, a woman with calm eyes and blood-streaked gloves, knelt beside him. “We’ve got her, okay? Let us take her.”

Stiles shook his head, hard. His whole body curled tighter around you, shielding her instinctively. “No—no, you don’t understand. She needs me. She needs to hear my voice. She’s scared, she’s—”

“Stiles,” Scott said gently, crouching beside him. “They need to stop the bleeding, man. You have to let them help.”

His hands were shaking so badly now that he barely felt it when Allison gently tried to pry his fingers from the blood-soaked fabric of Y/n’s dress.

Stiles swallowed hard, heart pounding against his ribs like it wanted to break free. Your hand twitched weakly in his.

The paramedic touched his shoulder. “We have to lift them now.” Stiles nodded, his lips trembling.

“I’m going with her” he insisted.

“You can ride up front,” the medic said, already prepping a stretcher.

Another tear slid down your temple, mixing with the blood.

And then Stiles, hands still trembling, helped the paramedics lift you onto the stretcher. Helping an unconscious Lydia onto hers.

As they wheeled you toward the flashing red lights, he walked beside you, never letting go of your hand. Trying to keep up with the stretcher flashing red and blue lights painting his face in quick, dizzying strokes.

You were so still.

Too still.

And Lydia—Lydia was being wheeled away too, pale and unconscious—but Stiles’ eyes never strayed from you.

The world blurred around him. Voices barked orders. Scott said something behind him, but it was muffled, distant.

And then it hit him.

Hard.

Like a truck to the chest. Like the ground had been ripped out from underneath his feet.

It wasn’t Lydia. It had never been Lydia. It was you.

It had always been you.

Y/n—his best friend, his partner-in-crime, the girl who fought for him and with him, who stood by him when the whole world turned inside out”

And he loved you.

Not in the easy, distant way he used to dream about Lydia Martin. Not in the glossy, unreachable way. No—this was different. This was real.

Messy and painful and terrifying. Tangled in years of friendship and stupid inside jokes and late-night conversations and quiet moments he hadn’t known how to name before now.

And he felt like he had realized it too late.

The stretcher carrying you disappeared into the back of the ambulance, the doors swinging shut with a heavy, final slam.

Stiles stood there, soaked in your blood, heart pounding so violently he thought it might crack his ribs open.

He loved you.

And if you didn’t make it—

If you slipped away before he could tell you—

He didn’t know how he was supposed to keep breathing

-

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, humming like a second, smaller scream that never stopped.

Stiles sat in one of the stiff plastic chairs, hunched forward, elbows braced on his knees, hands still stained dark with your blood. He couldn’t look at them. Couldn’t wash them off. It felt wrong, like scrubbing them clean would erase you somehow.

The hospital smelled like bleach and cheap coffee and something metallic he didn’t want to think about.

Every time the automatic doors at the far end of the hall swooshed open, his head jerked up.

But it was never for him.

Never for you.

Scott paced back and forth nearby, quiet and tense. Allison sat stiffly in a chair, hands folded tightly in her lap, her phone buzzing periodically with missed calls from her dad. Sheriff Stilinski was going back and forth asking you all questions about the events leading up to the incident. Even Jackson skulked away in the corner waiting for the news on Lydia.

But Stiles barely registered them and everything around him.

He was locked in a loop.

What if you never woke up?

What if the last thing you heard was him yelling?

What if—what if—what if—

He scrubbed his palms over his face, dragging them down roughly, trying to ground himself, trying to stay upright when all he wanted to do was curl into himself and vanish.

Melissa McCall came down the hall, clipboard in hand. Her face was calm—professional—but her eyes softened when she saw him.

“Stiles,” she said gently, crouching down in front of him so they were eye-level.

He didn’t breathe.

“They’re both stable.”

The words barely made it through the static in his head.

“Y/n lost a lot of blood,” Melissa continued, her voice even, measured. “But the scratches weren’t as deep as we thought. They got her into surgery fast. She’s resting now. She’s gonna be okay. She saved Lydia’s life tonight”

For a full second, Stiles couldn’t move.

The room tilted. His vision blurred.

Then the breath he’d been holding for what felt like hours finally punched out of his chest in a shuddering exhale.

He nodded, too fast, wiping his sleeve roughly across his eyes.

“Can I—can I see her?” he asked, voice wrecked and small.

Melissa smiled, a little sad, but real. “Yeah. She’s asking for you.”

Those words undid him all over again.

He stumbled up out of the chair, too fast, too eager, his knees almost buckling.

Scott clapped him on the shoulder. Allison gave him a shaky, relieved smile. The room was dim and quiet, machines beeping low and steady around her.

You lay in the bed, hooked up to IVs, your face pale but alive. Your chest rose and fell in slow, even breaths.

Stiles stepped inside, his hands trembling again, and closed the door behind him with a soft click.

You blinked slowly when you saw him.

“Hey,” you rasped, your voice weak but threaded with something stubborn.

Stiles let out a broken laugh, dragging a hand through his messy hair.

“Hey yourself,” he whispered, voice thick with everything he couldn’t say.

For a second he just stood there, drinking in the sight of you, alive, awake, undeniably beautiful even in a hospital bed.

Then he moved to your side, pulling the chair up so close that his knees hit the bed.

He hesitated only a moment before reaching out—careful, so careful—and wrapping his hand gently around yours.

It was smaller than he remembered.

Or maybe he just realized now how badly he never wanted to let it go.

“You scared the hell out of me kid”he said, voice barely more than a breath.

You smiled slowly, squeezing his fingers. “You’re the one who keeps saying there need to be more adventure.”

“Yeah, well, next time let’s stick to cliff diving or, I don’t know, illegal fireworks or something maybe not death.”

Your smile cracked wider. “I’ll put it on my to-do list.”

“Seriously, you are my best friend, my family and if something ever happened to you I would lose my mind”he uttered out.

I know I’ve been M.I.A, I’m still writing don’t worry I have a lot coming up that will be posted. In the meantime I have started to edit and you guys can reach me on my TikTok where you can stay in contact, request anything you’d wish for and just chit chat🫶🏽 would like to thank everyone who has stuck around for this long as I have had this blog since 2015 I love you all.

@ssrx517

part three - part five

It had been half an hour since Scott had left Stiles’ house. Half an hour of you and Stiles going back and forth, trying to agree on the next plan of action.

“So you really think it’s a good idea to go after him, when he did…this?”you shook your head, pointing to the leather seat that was now shredded.

“He’s my bestfriend Y/n”Stiles got up from his seat on the end of his bed, searching around his room with a purpose.

“Yeah and look at what he did, look at what he was going to do to you”you replied quickly.

“I’m not going to give up on him, just because he might be a-a” Stiles’ voice trailed away, not knowing what to say. He snapped out of his thoughts resuming the rush around his bedroom.

“So for the love of god would you get your jacket on because we’ve got a party to go to”He stopped in front of you, shaking his car keys around excitedly.

“Have you lost your mind?”You asked genuinely, staring at him with empty eyes.

“Not recently”he mumbled under his breath.

“You’re insane, I’m going home”you laughed out, absolutely convinced that he had lost brain cells. There was no way in hell that you would be attending Lydia Martin’s party that night. Never.

“Are you sur-

“I’ve truly never been so sure of anything in my life”you cut him off, nodding violently as you grabbed your jacket and bag.

“I know your car is still in the shop so I’ll drop you off on the way, it’s getting late”he offered, holding his bedroom door open a small smirk dancing across his face.

He drove straight past your house.

“I should really call the police station and report you for kidnapping, in fact I should call your father”you hissed, slumping down in the passenger’s seat in Stiles’ jeep. If you could call it a jeep.

“If you must”Stiles sighed, tossing his phone over into your lap. You responded with silence, debating on jumping out of the car whilst it was still moving. You’d do anything to not have to go to this party.

“Hey, y/n can you pass me the-

“No”you replied, staring out of the window, a scowl fixed on your face.

“At what point do you become mature?”Stiles laughed out to himself.

“When I get to go home”you answered, sending him a glare from your corner of the vehicle.

“I hope the ground swallows you whole Stilinski”you added for extra measure.

“Honestly same”he muttered out as the two of you turned into Lydia’s driveway. Stiles jumped out of his side, jogging around to open the door for you.

You swung your legs over the side, jumping down from the seat as you rolled your eyes. The smell of alcohol invading your nose almost immediately. The sound of music drowned out every single one of your thoughts. It was extremely busy, and you were extremely terrified.

Stiles noticed the way your skin had turned a shade paler, the goosebumps that crawled up your skin as you shivered. His eyes widened when he realised, you had never been to a party before.

“H-hey, let’s just treat this as an investigation stakeout right? Don’t even stress, we’ll grab a drink- non alcoholic if that’s how you roll- a-and we’ll chill at the sides…just keeping watch”he took a step closer to you as your eyes darted around, taking in the party scene.

“If you leave me to fend for myself I swear-

“I promise i’ll be by your side the whole time”he reassured you, pulling on your jacket intent on leading the way.

You and Stiles tried your hardest to manoeuvre your way through the tight crowd without losing eachother. Him squeezing through in front and you fighting for your life in the back. A dancing stranger nudges Stiles making him lose grip of your jacket, his hands falling down your arm somehow catching your hand at the bottom.

You ignored the weird feeling you got as your hands fit perfectly together, his grip tightening as he weaved through the sweaty teenagers. The bass of the music travelling through your body to the beat. The two of you decided against letting go, you’d definitely get lost if he did.

You thought the walk through the house toward the back patio would never end but you felt relief wash over you when you felt the breeze hit your face. There you found dozens of party attendees dancing and drinking around the swimming pool and the fire pits scattered across the yard.

As you take the party in, Stiles peered down at your intertwined hands, how comfortable it felt. It was like your thoughts had caught up to his as your hand slipped out of his, becoming self aware.

He tried to brush off the cold shiver he’d felt after you let go before pointing over to the drinks table where it was quieter. As you followed Stiles across the patio you caught sight of Allison and Scott dancing together on the other side of the garden.

You observed as Allison and Scott are nose-to-nose, and just when it looks like they're about to kiss, Scott's fingers tighten around the back of Allison's jacket. He looks as if he is suddenly stricken with a terrible headache caused by all of his senses being heightened all at once.

You lifted your head, noticing the full moon blazing over the garden, gulping as you looked to Scott once more.

He groaned out as he clutched his temples with both hands. Allison stopped dancing and looks at him with concern. Over near the drinks table your arm reached out behind you trying to gain Stiles’ attention as he was pouring the two of you a drink.

Scott continued to hiss out in pain until the ache subsided slightly, opening his eyes just enough to see where he's going as he turned to go somewhere private and ride the sickness out.

“I'll be right back”he uttered out turning to walk away from Allison. Leaving her alone.

Scott stumbled towards the house, as he grows closer to where you were stood his vision started to get shaky and blurry. You nudge Stiles in the side and he croaks out at the sudden jab. Giving you a confused frown before following your line of sight. He notices Scott and looks at him with a worried expression.

“Yo, Scott, you good?”Stiles asked concerned for his friend. Scott seemed too overwhelmed to respond to Stiles.

“Are you okay?”you questioned straight after watching as Scott sway side to side, getting further away from the two of you.

You looked up at Stiles, mentally asking if you should go after him, Allison had the same idea it seemed as she appeared next to you looking both confused and hurt. Understandable.

The three of you silently followed Scott until you saw him get into his mom’s car, driving off without another word. It seemed like ten minutes passed before Stiles reached into his pocket pulling out his phone.

“I’m gonna try and call Scott”he caught your eye, telepathically asking if you were okay to wait whilst he made a phone call. You gave him an approving nod watching as he skulked away to his jeep.

You turned to the familiar face, her face frozen on the spot where Scott had parked his car.

“Silly question, but are you alright?”you ask quietly, the wind blowing her brown hair out of her face as she forced a smile onto her face.

“I’m always alright y/n”Allison turned to you, the grin never faltering, you felt a small smile twitch onto your face as your gaze fell to the ground.

“How have you been?”she added, remembering the last time she’d spoken to you and how you were in a rush to leave.

“I’ve been- I’ve been okay, thanks for asking”Your smile grew bigger. What was happening to you?

“Hey- Listen, I don’t know Scott well at all actually, but I know one thing… I know he’s not a bad guy”You offered, not knowing if you were helping the situation.

“I appreciate that a lot, thankyou”Allison blinked slowly, nodding gratefully.

Your conversation was cut short by Stiles tripping over his own feet as he made his way over to where you and Allison were stood. Kneeling down to tie up his shoelaces as he mumbled profanities.

“I had him and then I lost him”He jumped up seconds later, slightly out of breath and waving his phone around frantically.

“C’mon y/n, let’s go home”Stiles motioned towards you abruptly. You perked up when he mentioned your house. Home sweet home.

You pivoted to face Allison, giving her an expression that told her that you didn’t want to leave her all alone outside a party. She caught on quickly, almost shoo-ing you away telling you she’d be okay.

“Maybe I’ll see you at School?”She called after you waving you away.

“Maybe you will”you smiled, lifting your hand to wave back. Stiles watched the interaction his mouth falling open slightly.

“What was that, huh?”he smirked as he leant against his jeep, a smirk playing on his lips. He didn’t have to say it aloud.

“Start the jeep Stilinski”watching him unlock your door.

“Right yeah, home time”he agreed, opening the door for you so that you could climb in. Your eyes wandered across the car park over to where Allison was stood but she was now joined by yet another familiar face.

“Derek hale?”Stiles head snapped up from his wheel at your words.

“What about him?”Stiles raised an eyebrow confused.

“N-no he’s here, he’s talking to Allison…In fact im pretty sure she’s getting into his car?!”An unsettling feeling had gotten caught in your chest, the pairing already highly suspicious.

“Okay we gotta go”Stiles mumbled, speeding out away from Lydia’s house before you could choke out a “Wait”.

When Scott had gotten home from the party he rushed upstairs to his bedroom, locking the door before sliding down into a crouching position.

Groaning in pain, he eventually stumbled into the attached bathroom and stripped out of his jacket and tshirt before climbing into the bathtub and turning on the shower so that hot water poured over him.

It seemed to give him some momentary relief until he suddenly gritted his teeth in pain and anxiously rubbed his right hand over his face to try to distract himself from it, his fingers started to ache, and when he looked down at the palms of his water-swollen hands, he was horrified to see his fingernails growing into long, sharp claws.

Across town you sat in Stiles’ jeep as it sped down the road. Stiles driving like a mad man, a determine scowl on his face as he bit his lip.

“Stiles, why do I get the feeling you aren’t actually taking me home?”you finally sighed your knee bobbing up and down.

Stiles stuttered, his eyes falling on you before switching back to the road.

“What gives you that idea?”he hummed out furrowing his eyebrows.

“That fact that you drove past my house five minutes ago”you folded your arms across your chest.

“Sorry y/n, we just have to make one more stop”He confessed.

“Seriously?! You could at least tell me where we’re going”You huffed out, winding down the window.

“We’re going to Scott’s”

Frantically getting out of the shower, Scott looked in the mirror over the medicine cabinet and was even more overwhelmed to find his canine teeth growing into fangs and his irises glowing a bright gold color. Just then, a loud pounding knock is heard on his bedroom door. Scott pressed his forehead and torso against the inside of the door.

“Go away”he growled out.

“Scott, it's us”Stiles called out from the other side, the two of you standing close to the door with your ears against it.

Scott, realizing that it is just you two on the other side, unlocks the door but only allows Stiles to open it a few inches so that Stiles can hear him but not see him. Scott continued to lean his forehead against the door as he struggled to control his breathing.

“Let us in-“

Stiles looked over to you pausing for a moment, seeing that you are already giving him a slight nod of encouragement.

-Scott. We can help”he continued, trying his hardest to get through to his bestfriends who was clearly suffering. The thought of you and Stiles getting closer to him causes him to panic, he was deathly afraid of what would happen . Instead, Scott, lisping slightly due to his fangs, pleads with you.

“Y/n, Stiles you can’t be here, you gotta find Allison”he begged.

“She's fine, all right? We saw her get a ride from the party. She's-she's totally fine, all right?”Stiles tried to calm the situation.

“Don’t worry Scott, Allison is okay I-I spoke to her”Scott perked up at the sound of your voice, that being the first time you had spoken since arriving at Scott’s.

“No, I think I know who it is”Scott uttered out.

“Know who? What are you talking about?”you asked looking up at Stiles who looked just as baffled as you did.

“Dude, just let me in! We can try-

Stiles tried to push the door once more, becoming exasperated.

“It's Derek. Derek Hale is the Werewolf! He's the one that bit me. He's the one that killed the girl in the woods”Scott revealed, letting out what sounded like a cry.

Your mouth fell open slightly, your eyes widening in fear, Stiles mirrored your expression, the horror of the situation dawning on you both.

“Scott... Derek's the one who drove Allison from the party”Stiles tried to listen out for any sign of Scott, pressing his eyes to gap in the door.

“I’m sorry Scott”you offered sincerely, pressing your hand against the door. You felt terrible. You felt like if anything happened to Allison it would have been your fault you should have just gotten out of the Jeep when you’d seen him approach her.

Scott processed your words for a short moment before he quickly pushed the door and locked it again. Out in the hallway, Stiles rattles on the doorknob, and when he can't open the door, he starts to pound on it with his fist in an attempt to be let in.

You took this as your queue to start running towards the staircase knowing that Scott’s window was his only exit, you jumped down the stairs two at a time landing with a wobble before speeding towards his front door. You let out a frustrated yell as you fumbled around with his door handle.

You felt the breeze on your face as you sprinted outside of the house just in time to see Scott land the jump from his second-floor window. The air being knocked out of your lungs as he lands on his feet in front of you in perfect form.

Glancing in your direction before completing his transformation into his Werewolf form, complete with a ridged brow, pointed ears, gold glowing eyes, claws, and fangs. Saliva dripped from the tips of his elongated canine teeth as he looks up at the full moon and roars.

“Scott, stop!”you hear Stiles’ voice getting closer as he came to an abrupt halt next to you, grabbing your shoulder as he tried to catch his breath. He felt how you were frozen to the spot his eyes following your to see Scott who was fully wolfed out.

He let out a growl before hurtling down the road away from you at a speed you’d never witnessed. You couldn’t bring yourself to form full words as Stiles once again dragged you towards the jeep, sending you a sympathetic smile before opening the door for you just as he been doing all evening.

“Is there any point in asking if going home tonight?”you sighed out, buckling yourself in.

“Nope, I kinda need you tonight”Stiles blurted out, it was like he was uncontrollably vomiting up his words. Your mouth settled into a frown, unintentionally staring at Stilinski as he swerved around the corner.

No one had ever told you that they needed you, and this was completely new territory for you.

Across town at the Beacon Hills preserve Scott jumps on top of Derek's car, which is parked just out front of the entrance sign. He looks inside to see that neither Allison nor Derek are there before he headed deeper into the woods.

Scott, fully transformed, is running through the woods, using his new superhuman sense of smell to track Allison's scent in order to locate her and Derek.

Meanwhile, you and Stiles had just arrived at the Argent’s house, immediately rushing out of the Jeep toward the front door, where he frantically rings the doorbell as he mutters under his breath You cringed as he continued to ring the bell.

“Okay, you’re quite erratic right now so I think it’s best if I do the talking”you advised, watching as he shuffled about restlessly in front of you.

He sends you a brief ‘I’m fine, not at all freaking out’ stare. The door swings open and Allison's mother, Victoria Argent, finding an overwhelmed Stiles and a wary y/n on the doorstep.

Stiles wastes no time trying to figure out what is going on with Allison and your eyes widen. This was not the plan.

“Hi, Mrs. Argent. Um - You have no idea who I am. I'm a friend of your daughter's. Uhhh, look, this is gonna sound kind of crazy, um...-

“We were just wondering if Allison was home”you interrupted, saving both Stiles and yourself from further embarrassment.

“Allison! It's for you”she shouted into the house, Victoria looking at Stiles as though he's stupid.

Allison walked onto the balcony at the top of the staircase, seemingly safe and sound. You noted that she was missing the black blazer that she had been wearing that night.

Stiles looks flabbergasted by the sight of her, and Allison looked confused as to why he was so panicked. Sending you a small wave from up the stairs, you lifted a hand offering her the same, letting out a sigh of relief.

Scott continued to run though the woods, following Allison’s scent until he reached a clearing, Allison's jacket dangled from a branch and Scott realises that this was the scent he was following, and not the scent of Allison herself. When Derek steps out of the shadows, Scott glares at him and growls in warning.

“Where is she?”McCall calls out angrily. If only he’d answer the damn phone.

“She's safe... from you”Derek hissed back.

Derek lurches forward to tackle Scott, leading to the two of them rolling down a slight hill. Once they reach the bottom, Derek pulls Scott to his feet and pins him against a tree.

“What did you do with her?”

“Shh, quiet. Too late. They're already here. Run”Derek replied in hushed tones, his eyes flickering out behind him into the woods.

Derek disappears, but Scott, takes a minute to catch on, a flash-bang arrow flies past him, blinding him momentarily. Another arrow hurtles towards him, slicing into his left forearm.

Suddenly, a group of three middle-aged male Hunters stepped out of the shadows, with the leader, Argent, holding a crossbow aimed right at Scott while Derek watches from a distance.

“Take him”

Before the Hunters can move, Derek appears knocking out the two closest to him, leaving Chris outnumbered. Derek pulls the arrow out of Scott's arm, a loud roar echoing through the preserve.

When Chris finishes checking on his men, he looks back at the tree to find that Scott is gone.

Scott, now in his human form, fell to his knees as he recovered from the overwhelming combination of transforming into a Werewolf, believing Allison to be in danger, and being shot by Hunters. He looks at Derek with an expression of anger, hurt, and betrayal.

“Who were they?”Scott breathed out.

“Hunters. The kind that have been hunting us for centuries”Derek shoved his hands in his pockets as he stood in front of Scott who was furiously glaring at him.

“Us? You mean you! You did this to me!”Scott accused.

“Is it really so bad, Scott? That you can see better? Hear more clearly? Move faster than any human could ever hope? You've been given something that most people would kill for. The bite is a gift”Derek shot out at the teenager shaking his head.

“I don't want it”Scott retorted.

“You will. And you're gonna need me if you want to learn how to control it”Derek placed his hand on Scott's shoulder.

“So you and me, Scott? We're brothers now”Derek added before disappearing into the night.

The sun began to rise between the trees as Stiles tapped his fingers against the steering wheel along with the low volume music. He let out a quiet yawn as he reached forward to adjust his mirror, pausing when he caught sight of you in the back seat sleeping underneath his jacket that he’d placed over you not long after you’d let sleep take over.

Stiles began to slow the jeep down when he noticed Scott walking along the side of the road, still wearing only his jeans from the night before and cradling his now-healed left forearm.

Stiles' Jeep pulled up next to him to pick him up. Scott climbed into the passenger seat, putting on one of the many hoodies he’d left behind. He buckled himself in, his eyes flickering to the back of the jeep where you snored lightly.

The two boys share a look before Scott breaks the silence.

“You know what actually worries me the most?”he murmured out, trying his hardest to not wake you up.

“If you say "Allison," I'm gonna punch you in the head”Stiles lowered his voice to match his bestfriends, finally starting up the Jeep.

“She probably hates me now”Scott continued.

“Ugh. I doubt that. But you might want to come up with a pretty amazing apology. Or, you know, you could just tell her the truth and revel in the awesomeness of the fact that you're a frickin' Werewolf”Stiles exclaimed, his voice getting a little louder.

Scott shoots him and look and Stiles immediately backtracks.

“Look, things are changing right- just speak to her”Stiles briefly glances at Scott who furrowed his eyebrows.

“Things are changing?”Scott questioned, leaning his head against the window.

“Yeah things are changing, with you, with y/- Stiles sentence cuts short as the two boys hear you stir and move about in the back. They quickly turn to check on you for a moment before swivelling forwards to face the road.