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You love him.
You loved him when you were four and your mom took you to preschool for the first time, and you cried because you wanted to stay home and watch Batman. A kid with curly dark hair walked up to you and offered you half of his grape jelly sandwich. The two of you made yourselves into Transformers with construction paper and tape—he even let you be Optimus Prime—and then you both fell asleep hunched over at the snack table.
You loved him when you overheard your dad on the phone, eavesdropping because you heard lots of serious whispers and your dad’s consoling tone. And the next day you came over, ignoring the emptiness of the house and shoving comic books and jelly sandwiches in his face until he smiled.
You loved him when he found you hiding in your closet, eyes shut against the dark. Every visit to the hospital, every time you looked up at your dad and he looked down at his feet, every gray suffocating feeling that followed in the air and wouldn’t leave, pressed down against your chest, filling up your throat. He sat down next to you, whispering about the episode of Teen Titans that you missed, while you wiped snot and tears against your sleeve.
You loved him when you both had to wear black suits with stiff ties, and neither of you knew anything except that you were too young for this. And you press your lips together and hide your eyes behind too-long sleeves, daring yourself not to cry. Not for your dad, not for his mom, not for the person who only stares at you from picture frames, not for anyone but yourself. And maybe because even if you don’t know anything, you do know that Scott McCall hates to see anyone cry.
You loved him when the two of you tossed a lacrosse ball back and forth at the park, and you blurted out, “I’m not a boy.” And he had to ask you to repeat it, so you walked closer, and you did.
And he said “okay” with his familiar head tilt.
“But I’m still not a girl,” you continued, bile rising in the back of your throat. When you looked down at the ground, you almost missed his wide grin above his lopsided chin in the corner of your eye.
“You’re just Stiles,” he said, picking up the ball that had rolled to his feet.
Eyes wide, you smile – half a smirk at first, then with your devious glint. “Yeah, and just Stiles is about to kick your butt.”
“Bring it on,” he said, faking right towards the trees they used as a goal.
You loved him when he tried out nail polish with you, and more polish ended up on your bed than your nails. Picking off clumps of black goop around your nails, you admitted that you’re not really sure what the hell a Stiles is. He shrugged and took your hand, scooping off the nail polish with an acetone-soaked cotton ball while he said you would figure it out, and you wanted nothing more than to kiss his asymmetrical smile. So you did.
“Scott?”
“Yeah?” You liked the way his lips were flushed but his eyes were soft and kind when he pulled away—it almost took your mind off the heart pounding inside your chest.
“Why are you kissing me?”
He furrowed his brow, smile falling slightly. “Because you’re kissing me.”
“Oh.” Your cheeks flushed and you jerked your hands away from his. “I’m—I’ll—uh—”
“No, wait, Stiles…” He grabbed for your hands again, waiting until you looked back at his ridiculous cute face. “I kissed you because I wanted to.”
“Really?”
“Dude, have I ever lied to you?”
“Well, there was that one time in fifth grade—“
“Stiles,” he laughed. “You’re my best friend.”
“Yeah and people don’t usually kiss their best friend.”
“And people don’t usually go looking for dead bodies with their best friend either.” His fingers slipped between yours. “Besides, you’re not people. You’re Stiles.”
“Is this you flirting? Because I don’t think I’m prepared for you flirting,” you insisted, treading the usual fuzzy line between truth and sarcasm. “No flirting, just kissing.”
You loved him when he laughed and nodded and kissed you.
You loved him when you said he still had you. He will always have you.
You love him. You’ve never not loved him.