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Scott stands in the doorway of the living room, one hand already on his keys, the other braced against the frame like he’s hesitating to cross some invisible threshold. The sun is setting outside, the light turning the dusty windows orange-gold, and for a moment the place feels quiet in a way that’s almost unfamiliar.
“I’m going out,” Scott says, mostly to fill the silence. “To get some Mexican.”
Isaac, stretched out on the couch with his boots kicked off and his jacket draped over the armrest, turns his head. He perks up immediately, like a dog hearing the crinkle of a bag. “Dude, I love Mexican.”
It’s not dramatic. It’s not even particularly loud. But something about the way he says it - simple, earnest, like it’s a small confession - makes Scott pause.
Scott looks at him. Really looks.
Isaac’s hair is still damp from his shower, curls loose and soft instead of gelled into anything sharp. There’s a faint bruise on his jaw that’s almost healed now, yellowing at the edges. He looks… calmer than he did a few weeks ago. Still guarded, still tense in the shoulders, but not coiled as tight. It’s progress.
Scott swallows. “Uh,” he says. “Do you—” He stops himself. Clears his throat. “Do you want to come with me?”
Isaac blinks.
It’s just a question. Casual. Normal. Friends eat together all the time, right?But the loft goes very quiet anyway, like it’s holding its breath.
“Yeah,” Isaac says after half a second. “Yeah, sure.”
Scott smiles before he can stop himself.
***
The jeep smells faintly like dirt and pine and something spicy that Scott can never quite identify. Isaac buckles in without being asked, glancing around like he’s cataloguing the inside of the vehicle—cracked dashboard, faded seats, the barely-working radio.
“This thing still doesn’t have air conditioning,” Isaac says.
“Stiles says it builds character,” Scott says.
Isaac snorts despite himself and looks out the window as they pull away from the curb.
Beacon Hills slides past in familiar pieces—the closed video store, the half-lit diner, the stretch of road where Scott once ran until his lungs burned and his bones ached. It all feels different lately. Quieter. Not safer, exactly, but… less constantly on the brink.
Scott drums his fingers against the steering wheel.
“So,” he says. “There’s this place near Main. It’s not fancy or anything, but the food’s good.”
“Good Mexican doesn’t need to be fancy,” Isaac says. “My dad used to say if the chairs weren’t uncomfortable, you were in the wrong place.”
Scott glances at him. “Your dad?”
Isaac shrugs. “Before.”
The word lands gently, but it still lands.
Scott nods, not pushing. He’s learned - sometimes the hard way - that Isaac opens up on his own terms. All Scott can do is make space.
They pull into a small parking lot wedged between a laundromat and a pawn shop. The restaurant’s sign flickers slightly, neon cactus glowing green against the dusk.
Isaac’s mouth curves upward. “This looks promising.”
***
Inside, the air is warm and heavy with the smell of grilled meat, onions, cilantro, and lime. A mariachi song plays softly from a speaker somewhere near the ceiling. The booths are vinyl and cracked, the tables scarred with years of use.
Scott breathes out without realising he’s been holding it.
They slide into a booth near the window. Isaac sits across from him, elbows on the table, hands clasped loosely together.
A waitress drops off menus and chips without ceremony. The salsa is bright red and smells like it might actually be hot.
Isaac immediately reaches for a chip.
“Careful,” Scott says. “That stuff is spicier than it looks.”
Isaac grins, sharp and playful. “I’m not scared.”
He dips the chip, takes a bite… and freezes.
Scott watches his eyes widen, then narrow.
“Oh,” Isaac says. “Oh, wow.”
Scott laughs. “Told you.”
Isaac coughs once, reaching for his water, but he’s smiling through it. “Okay, yeah. That’s—wow.”
Scott feels something warm settle in his chest. Not adrenaline. Not fear. Just… this.
They order without much debate. Tacos, enchiladas, extra rice, horchata. When the waitress leaves, the table falls into a comfortable quiet, broken only by the crunch of chips.
“This is nice,” Isaac says eventually.
Scott nods. “Yeah. It is.” He hesitates, then adds, “We don’t really… do normal stuff. Like this.”
Isaac considers that. “No, we don’t,” Isaac says. He pauses, then adds. “But I like it.”
Scott’s heart stutters, just a little.
When the food comes, it’s too much and exactly enough all at once. Plates crowd the table, steam rising in fragrant clouds. Isaac’s eyes light up like he’s genuinely impressed.
“Okay,” he says. “You weren’t kidding.”
Scott watches him take his first real bite, the way his shoulders relax as he chews, the way his expression softens.
Scott realises that this might be the first time he’s seen Isaac eat without being tense, without looking like he’s bracing for something.
“So,” Isaac says around a mouthful, “does Stiles know you’re abducting me for dinner?”
Scott snorts. “He thinks I’m running errands.”
“Smart,” Isaac says. “If he knew, he’d show up.”
“With colour coded opinions,” Scott adds.
Isaac laughs, and it’s easy.
The sound settles between them, warm and unexpected.
Scott pokes at his rice, then looks up. “Can I ask you something?”
Isaac stiffens, just slightly, but he nods. “Yeah, sure.”
Scott chooses his words carefully. “Back when I said I was going to get Mexican when I really wasn’t … and you said you loved it.”
Isaac tilts his head. “Yeah?”
“I should’ve asked you then,” Scott says quietly. “I’m sorry I didn’t.”
Isaac studies him for a long moment.
“You asked now,” he says finally. “That counts.”
Scott exhales, smiles.
They eat slowly. They talk about stupid things—Stiles’ latest theory, Lydia’s frustration with everyone, Coach’s inexplicable hatred of substitute teachers. They don’t talk about alphas or trauma or cages or pain.
Not tonight.
When they’re done, Scott reaches for the check automatically.
Isaac notices.
“Hey,” he says. “I can—”
Scott shakes his head. “I’ve got it.”
Isaac hesitates, then nods. “Okay. I’ll get the next one.”
The word feels heavier than it should. Meaningful.
They step back outside into the cool night air. Beacon Hills hums around them, distant traffic and cicadas and the low thrum of life continuing.
Isaac shoves his hands into his jacket pockets. “Thanks,” he says. “For asking me.”
Scott meets his eyes. “Anytime.”
They stand there for a moment longer than necessary.
Neither of them moves away first.
Maybe it’s a date. Maybe it’s just dinner. Maybe it’s something new, something tentative and real.
Scott doesn’t need to define it yet.
He just knows—walking back to the jeep, side by side—that this is something he wants to do again.
And next time, he won’t hesitate to ask.