Work Text:
there are three ways to get from scott’s house to yours.
the first takes eleven minutes if the lights cooperate. twelve if they don’t. it runs straight through town, past the hospital and the twenty-four-hour pharmacy, then cuts down the residential street behind beacon hills high before reaching your neighborhood.
the second takes seventeen minutes. it follows the edge of downtown long enough to pass the movie theater, the closed florist, and the gas station where stiles refuses to buy coffee because, according to him, anything that comes out of a machine beside beef jerky cannot legally qualify as coffee.
the third takes forty-two minutes. longer if stiles drives slowly. which he usually does.
“long way or short way?” he asks.
you turn your head from the passenger window.
stiles keeps one hand at the top of the steering wheel while the other rests loosely beside the gearshift. the dashboard throws pale light across his face, catching the slope of his nose and the shadows beneath his eyes. his hair has been flattened on one side from where he spends the last hour lying sideways across scott’s couch with his head wedged against the armrest.
you look through the windshield. the turn for the short way waits less than a block ahead.
“long way.”
stiles nods once, as though you have confirmed something important. “excellent choice.”
“you ask me every time.”
“because consent is important.”
“for driving routes?”
“especially driving routes. people have very strong feelings about traffic patterns.”
you glance at the empty road ahead. “there’s no traffic.”
“which makes this the ideal time to have strong feelings about it.”
the light changes green before the jeep reaches the intersection. stiles turns left.
your house is to the right.
neither of you mention it.
the jeep rattles faintly when he accelerates, a familiar vibration moving through the floor beneath your shoes. there are several sounds you have learned not to question over the years. the clicking near the glove compartment. the occasional metallic complaint beneath the hood. the low squeak the passenger door makes whenever you open it too quickly.
stiles insists each one is normal.
you have stopped reminding him that normal vehicles generally do not require their owners to identify several concerning noises by personality or use duct tape casually.
the road narrows after downtown. houses spread farther apart, their porch lights becoming isolated pools of yellow between stretches of dark trees and dry california hillside. someone leaves sprinklers running across a lawn despite the hour. water catches briefly in the headlights before disappearing behind you.
stiles taps his thumb against the steering wheel.
the radio plays quietly beneath the engine. some station neither of you chooses fades in and out between songs, dissolving into static whenever the road dips.
“you know,” stiles says, “statistically, one of these nights you’re going to choose the short way.”
“probably.”
“and i’m going to have to reconsider everything i know about you.”
you shift sideways against the seat. “you’d survive.”
“would i?”
“eventually.”
“wow.”
“you’ve survived worse.”
stiles looks toward you. “that sounded ominous.”
“you’ve literally been possessed by an ancient evil kitsune.”
“yeah, but this feels personal.”
you smile and turn back toward the window before he can see too much of it.
outside, beacon hills moves past in familiar pieces.
you have spent so much of your life wanting to escape this town that you know almost every road through it.
you know which intersection floods during heavy rain and which streetlight outside the old video store flickers even when nothing supernatural is happening. you know where the pavement buckles near the preserve and where the sheriff’s department likes to hide a cruiser behind an overgrown hedge.
you know which roads stiles takes when he is angry.
which ones he takes when he needs to think.
which ones he takes when he wants to make you laugh.
and this one.
this one belongs to both of you.
the route leaves the edge of town and curves toward the preserve without actually entering it. the trees gather closer here, tall enough to hide the scattered houses beyond them. darkness presses against the windshield while the jeep’s headlights sweep over trunks, road signs, and narrow stretches of shoulder.
stiles reaches toward the radio. static crackles through the speakers.
he turns the dial. more static.
another station catches halfway through a song.
you recognize the guitar before the vocals settle clearly enough to understand.
“no,” stiles says immediately.
you reach for the volume knob.
he catches your wrist.
“absolutely not.”
“you like green day.”
“i do like green day.”
“then what’s the problem?”
“you’re about to make it a thing.”
“i wasn’t.”
“you were.”
you pull your hand free and turn the music louder anyway.
stiles gives you a wounded look.
“betrayal,” he mutters.
“dramatic.”
“accurate.”
the song fills the jeep, slightly distorted by old speakers. you lean back against the seat and look through the windshield while stiles pretends he is not tapping his fingers against the wheel in time with the drums.
you let him pretend for almost thirty seconds.
“you’re doing it.”
his fingers stop.
“doing what?”
“nothing.”
“exactly.”
you laugh. stiles looks toward you.
it lasts less than a second. barely long enough for you to catch it before his attention returns to the road, but something in his expression stays with you after he looks away.
something soft, quiet, almost pleased.
you turn toward the passenger window. the trees blur together outside.
you have taken this road with stiles enough times to know every curve before it arrives.
you cannot remember exactly when that starts.
—
the first time stiles drives you home, he misses the turn.
you are sixteen and exhausted enough that you don’t notice until the school disappears several blocks behind you.
there are still dried streaks of mud along the knees of your jeans from spending half the evening in the preserve with scott. your backpack sits between your shoes, one zipper broken after getting caught on a branch. stiles has a bruise forming along his jaw that he claims comes from falling, which would be more convincing if you hadn’t watched something decidedly not human throw him into a tree.
none of you use the word werewolf casually yet.
the world has changed too quickly.
one month ago, your biggest problem was passing chemistry and convincing your parents that being home eleven minutes after curfew does not constitute a personal betrayal.
now scott heals from injuries before you finish worrying about them, stiles carries a baseball bat in the back of his jeep, and you have learned far more than any person should know about wolfsbane.
stiles drums both hands against the steering wheel while waiting at a light.
you stare through the window.
the pharmacy passes.
then the library.
then the diner.
you sit up.
“stiles.”
“yeah?”
“where are you going?”
he glances toward you. “taking you home.”
“my house is the other way.”
his expression empties.
you point behind you. “you were supposed to turn like five minutes ago.”
stiles looks in the rearview mirror, as though your street might somehow reappear there.
“huh.”
“huh?”
“interesting.”
“you forgot where i live?”
“i didn’t forget.”
“you’ve been to my house approximately eight thousand times.”
“okay, first of all, dramatic estimate.”
“stiles.”
“second, i’m very tired.”
the light turns green. the car behind you honks.
stiles throws one hand toward the windshield. “yeah, okay, i see it.”
he drives forward. you wait for him to find somewhere to turn around.
he doesn’t.
“there was a parking lot.”
“saw it.”
“you passed it.”
“also saw that.”
you stare at him. “are you kidnapping me?”
“if i were kidnapping you, i feel like announcing that i know where you live would’ve been a tactical mistake.”
“so what are you doing?”
stiles glances toward the fuel gauge. “taking the long way.”
“there’s a long way?”
“there is now.”
you should tell him to turn around.
your clothes smell like wet soil and smoke. your shoulder hurts where you landed against a fallen log. there’s homework waiting on your desk and a text from your mother asking when you will be home.
instead, you sink back against the passenger seat.
“fine.”
stiles looks toward you again.
“fine?”
“long way.”
his mouth pulls into a grin.
it’s quick and crooked and completely different from the expression he wears for most of the night. the tension around his eyes eases. his shoulders drop slightly beneath his plaid shirt.
“long way,” he repeats.
he drives another twenty minutes before either of you speaks about the thing in the preserve.
even then, the conversation starts with nothing.
stiles complains about coach. you complain about your chemistry teacher.
he tells you scott cheats at mario kart. you remind him that he drives directly into walls whenever he gets competitive.
somewhere between town and the road that curves around the preserve, the fear slowly stops sitting directly beneath your ribs.
when he finally asks whether you are okay, the answer comes easier.
“i think so.”
stiles keeps his eyes on the road.
“me too.”
you know he is lying, but you don’t call him on it.
when the jeep eventually stops outside your house, thirty-four minutes have passed since you should have arrived.
you reach for the door.
“hey,” stiles says.
you turn back.
his hands remain around the steering wheel. he looks toward your porch rather than at you.
“next time,” he says, “short way.”
you smile.
“sure.”
you both know better before the word finishes leaving your mouth.
—
“you’re doing that thing.”
stiles’ voice pulls you back into the jeep.
the present settles around you again—the music, the road, the faint smell of old upholstery and the fries scott drops somewhere beneath the passenger seat two weeks ago.
you look toward stiles. “what thing?”
“the staring-out-the-window-like-you’re-in-an-indie-movie thing.”
“maybe i’m thinking.”
“dangerous.”
“you should try it.”
“constantly. it’s exhausting, actually.”
you look toward the radio. the song has changed.
“i was remembering the first time you took me this way.”
stiles’ fingers pause against the wheel.
“when?”
“sophomore year.”
“that does not narrow it down.”
“after scott almost got us killed in the preserve.”
“still not narrowing.”
you turn farther toward him. “the night you missed my turn.”
under the dashboard light, his expression changes. only slightly.
“oh,” he says.
you watch him.
“you remember.”
“of course i remember.”
“you acted like you forgot where i lived.”
“maybe i did.”
“you didn’t.”
stiles scratches the side of his nose with his thumb. “that’s a pretty aggressive accusation.”
“you’ve known my address since we were twelve.”
“addresses are complicated.”
“numbers and street names.”
“two notoriously difficult concepts.”
you wait. stiles keeps driving.
the road begins climbing, carrying you farther above the scattered lights of town. he shifts gears as the incline steepens, his hand moving automatically between the wheel and the stick.
“you did it on purpose,” you say.
his shoulders rise beneath his jacket.
“did what?”
“missed the turn.”
“that was years ago.”
“that isn’t a denial.”
“i’m focusing on driving.”
“the road is empty.”
“which is when accidents happen.”
“that makes no sense.”
“most accidents happen somewhere.”
you stare at the side of his face.
stiles presses his lips together. you can see the effort it takes for him not to smile.
“you’re annoying.”
“you’ve mentioned.”
“frequently.”
“and yet.” he gestures around the jeep. “here you are.”
the words should disappear beneath the music.
they don’t.
you look down at your hands. the sleeve of your sweatshirt has pulled over your knuckles. you work your thumb beneath the fabric, suddenly aware that stiles is right.
here you are. again.
there have been hundreds of rides in this jeep. most do not mean anything when they happen.
that might be why they mean so much now.
there is the gas station near route 5, where stiles buys two blue slushies at one in the morning because you mentioned once, three weeks earlier, that blue raspberry is the only flavor worth drinking.
there is the parking lot behind beacon hills high, where the two of you sit on the hood after his jeep refuses to start and wait forty-five minutes for his dad to bring jumper cables.
there is the night he drives you home after your first real breakup and circles your block three times because every time he slows near your house, you start crying again.
there is the morning after a full moon when both of you are too tired to speak. stiles parks beside the preserve and sleeps with his forehead against the steering wheel while you curl sideways in the passenger seat.
there are drives after deaths.
drives after victories that do not feel enough like victories.
drives after arguments.
drives because neither of you can sleep.
drives because stiles shows up outside your house at eleven thirty and sends you a text that says only outside, and you climb through your bedroom window because explaining anything to your parents feels impossible.
the jeep collects versions of you.
at sixteen, seventeen, eighteen. when you were terrified, angry, or laughing so hard you couldn’t breathe because stiles tried to eat an entire powdered donut while driving and inhaled sugar directly into his lungs.
you leave fingerprints on the windows and receipts in the cupholders.
stiles leaves hoodies in your room and pens in your backpack.
neither of you notice when the space between your lives stops existing.
“hungry?” stiles points through the windshield.
a convenience store glows ahead, isolated between the road and a dark stretch of trees. the red-and-white sign above the entrance is missing one letter.
“we ate at scott’s.”
“but that was pizza.”
“pizza is food.”
“debatable.”
“you ate four pieces.”
“exactly. i’m wasting away.”
you look him over deliberately.
stiles catches you. his grip changes on the steering wheel.
“what?”
“checking.”
“checking what?”
“whether you’re wasting away.”
“and?”
you let your attention linger another second just because he notices.
“tragic.”
stiles clears his throat. “right.”
he turns into the parking lot too quickly, and you smile toward the window.
—
the convenience store smells like burnt coffee and lemon-scented cleaner.
fluorescent lights flatten everything beneath them: shelves of chips, humming refrigerators, a rotating display of sunglasses nobody should buy after sunset. the cashier sits behind the counter with one earbud in, watching something on her phone without looking up when you enter.
stiles makes it three aisles before picking up a package of powdered donuts.
you take it from him.
“absolutely not.”
“give those back.”
“last time you ate these in the car, you almost died.”
“i coughed.”
“you inhaled powdered sugar.”
“it was just a temporary respiratory complication.”
you put the donuts back. stiles immediately takes them again.
you stare at each other.
“i’m an adult,” he says.
“that feels generous.”
“legally, i am.”
“responsibility-wise? questionable.”
stiles tucks the package beneath his arm and continues down the aisle.
you follow him. he collects a bottle of water, two bags of chips, gummy worms, and a candy bar you know he doesn’t like.
you take it from the pile.
“you hate these.”
“those are for you.”
you look at him. stiles is already reading the back of a chip bag as though the nutritional information becomes urgently interesting.
“i didn’t ask for one.”
“you always get one.”
“not always.”
“every time we stop here.”
“we haven’t been here in months.”
“eight months.”
your fingers still around the wrapper.
“you know that?”
stiles turns the chip bag over.
“know what?”
“how long it’s been.”
“rough estimate.”
“eight months is specific.”
“seven and a half months, technically.”
you stare at him. he puts the chips under his arm with the rest of the food.
“do you want the candy bar or not?”
you look down at it.
it’s the same kind you buy when you are sixteen. the same one you split with him after the jeep dies behind the school.
“yeah.”
“great.”
stiles walks toward the register before you can say anything else.
outside, the air has cooled enough that you pull your sleeves over your hands.
the store sits beyond the last concentration of houses, where beacon hills becomes winding roads and scattered buildings separated by miles of darkness. insects move around the parking lot lights. somewhere in the trees beyond the pavement, something rustles through dry brush.
your body goes alert automatically.
stiles notices. of course he does.
he stops beside the jeep and looks toward the tree line.
“probably deer,” he says.
“probably.”
neither of you moves for another second.
you have both learned what probably means in beacon hills.
eventually, the brush goes still. stiles unlocks the passenger door first.
you catch the edge before he can open it for you.
“were you about to open my door?”
“no.”
“you were.”
“the handle sticks.”
“from the outside?”
he shrugs. “sometimes.”
you look at him. stiles looks back.
the parking lot light catches the amber-brown of his eyes and the faint mark near his temple from something that happened months ago and never entirely fades.
“get in the car,” he says.
you smile and pull the door open.
“whatever you say, stilinski.”
his expression follows you all the way into the seat.
—
the candy bar lasts six miles.
stiles reaches for a piece at the first red light, but you pull it away.
“you said it was mine.”
“i bought it.”
“as a gift.”
“i don’t remember using the word gift.”
“that was the implication.”
“legally unenforceable.”
“you’re not getting any.”
stiles looks betrayed. “after everything i’ve done for you?”
“name three things.”
“i’m currently driving you home.”
“incorrectly.”
“i bought you that candy bar.”
“which you’re trying to eat.”
“and.” he points toward the windshield. “i’m providing ambiance.”
you look through the glass.
the intersection is empty.
a flickering streetlight casts a weak orange circle across cracked pavement. trees crowd one corner. a closed auto shop sits on the other, its dark windows reflecting the jeep’s headlights.
“ambiance?”
“look at this.”
“it looks like the opening of a murder documentary.”
“exactly. atmosphere.”
the light remains red.
you break off one square of chocolate and hold it toward him. stiles reaches, but you pull it back.
his eyes narrow.
“seriously?”
“say please.”
“you’re abusing your power.”
“please is one syllable.”
“this is humiliating.”
“light’s still red.”
stiles glances at it, then at the chocolate.
“please.”
you place the piece into his palm.
his fingers close briefly around yours. the contact lasts less than a second. still, your hand feels different when you pull it back.
stiles eats the chocolate without saying anything.
the light turns green, but he doesn’t move.
you look ahead. “stiles.”
“what?”
“green.”
“right.”
he accelerates.
you watch the side of his face.
“were you distracted?”
“no.”
“you were.”
“i was checking the intersection.”
“for what?”
“cars.”
“there aren’t any.”
“which is suspicious.”
you smile. stiles sees it and shakes his head.
another mile passes.
then two.
the road opens enough that the trees fall away on your right, revealing the valley below. beacon hills spreads beneath you in clusters of light, the town small from this distance.
you have seen it from here dozens of times.
tonight, something about it catches differently.
“turn up here,” you say.
stiles glances toward you.
“the overlook?”
“unless you know another place up here.”
“there’s a trailhead about four miles north.”
“the one where we found half a body?”
“right.” stiles nods. “overlook.”
he makes the turn.
the pavement becomes rougher immediately, weeds pushing through cracks near the shoulder. the road climbs another half mile before ending at an old guardrail overlooking the valley.
no one else is there.
stiles parks facing outward. the engine stops.
silence arrives in pieces. first the vibration disappears beneath your feet. then the headlights click off. then the radio fades. without them, the night feels larger.
crickets pulse somewhere below the ridge. dry grass shifts in the breeze. beacon hills glows beneath you, distant enough to look harmless.
you open the passenger door.
stiles looks over. “where are you going?”
“outside.”
“bold.”
“you coming?”
“depends. are there murderers?”
“probably.”
“great.”
he grabs the food and follows.
the hood of the jeep still holds warmth from the engine. you climb onto it carefully, settling near the passenger side while stiles leans against the grille.
he hands you the open bag of chips. you take one.
“these are terrible.”
“you’ve had four.”
“research.”
“important work.”
stiles reaches into the bag.
your shoulders almost touch when he moves beside you. almost.
the overlook has changed less than most places in beacon hills.
someone replaced the old wooden barrier with metal after a car went through it a few years ago. graffiti layers the concrete drainage wall near the road, new names painted over older ones. one of the trees near the edge came down during a storm.
everything else remains. the town below, the mountains beyond it, the silence.
“remember when we got stuck here?” you ask.
stiles chews another chip. “you’re gonna need to be more specific.”
“junior year.”
“again, horrifying amount of things happen junior year.”
you look toward him. “your battery died.”
recognition moves across his face.
“oh.”
“you said it was because i left the radio on.”
“you did leave the radio on.”
“for five minutes.”
“it was an old battery.”
“exactly.”
“which means five minutes mattered.”
you bump your shoulder against his. stiles moves with it but doesn’t shift away.
“you blamed me for two years.”
“i was grieving.”
“the battery?”
“we were close.”
you smile.
the memory returns easily.
you and stiles sitting on the hood in almost the same place, his phone balanced between you while his dad tells him for the third time that jumper cables cannot help if nobody else is there with another car. stiles argued anyway.
you ate the candy bar you bought at the convenience store because it was the only food in the jeep.
the night was warmer then.
you remember your bare legs against the metal hood. mosquitoes gathering around your ankles. stiles pulling off his flannel and draping it across your knees after you complain about the bugs.
you remember leaning backward on your hands and looking toward him. he looked back. for once, neither of you said anything.
the space between you changes. you know that now.
at seventeen, you only knew that your heart begins beating strangely and stiles’ attention fell to your mouth.
he leaned closer. you did too.
then, his phone rang. scott’s name filled the screen between you.
stiles jerked backward so quickly that his elbow struck the windshield.
you laughed because the alternative was acknowledging what almost happens.
he answered his phone.
neither of you mentioned it afterward. not that night, not the next morning, and not in any of the years that follow.
until now.
“you remember that too,” you say.
stiles looks down at the chip bag.
“yeah.”
your heartbeat changes.
“we almost kissed.”
he exhales through his nose.
“yeah.”
the town continues glowing below you. somewhere on the road behind the overlook, a car passes without turning in. its headlights move briefly through the trees before disappearing.
you tuck your hands beneath your thighs.
“why didn’t we ever talk about it?”
stiles folds the top of the chip bag twice, sealing nothing.
“i don’t know.”
“you always know.”
“that’s aggressively untrue.”
“you always have an explanation.”
“having an explanation and knowing things are very different skill sets.”
you look toward him, but stiles avoids your eyes. the teasing feels different now. thinner.
you wait. he rubs one hand over the back of his neck.
“you were dating someone like three weeks later,” he says eventually.
“and?”
“and.” he shrugs. “seemed pretty clear.”
“clear how?”
“that you didn’t want…” stiles trails off.
his fingers tighten around the crumpled edge of the chip bag.
“what?”
he looks toward the valley.
“anything.”
the word sits between you.
you study his profile.
“you thought i didn’t want anything with you.”
“i didn’t say that.”
“you didn’t have to.”
stiles laughs quietly, but nothing about it sounds amused. “well, yeah. kind of.”
“why?”
his head turns.
“why?”
“yes.”
“because you dated other people.”
“so did you.”
“not exactly a thriving romantic history over here.”
“that’s not the point.”
“what is the point?”
you open your mouth. nothing comes out.
because you don’t know. you only know something about the answer hurts.
all those years, all those drives. all those moments where stiles sits close enough that your knees touch beneath diner tables, or his hand finds your elbow while you climb over fallen trees, or his head falls against your shoulder during research.
you always assume there will be another night, another drive, another almost.
maybe that’s the problem.
you look back toward the town.
“i would’ve kissed you.”
stiles goes still. you can feel it without looking.
“that night,” you clarify, though your voice comes out quieter. “if scott hadn’t called.”
silence.
you finally turn, and stiles is staring at you.
“what?”
“nothing.”
“that is absolutely not a nothing face.”
“i’m processing.”
“you look horrified.”
“i’m not horrified.”
“you look a little horrified.”
“i’m recalculating several years of my life.”
despite yourself, you laugh. stiles doesn’t. his expression remains caught somewhere between disbelief and something more fragile.
“you would’ve kissed me.”
“yes.”
“junior year.”
“that’s generally when it happens.”
“and then you date—”
“because you never said anything.”
stiles’ eyebrows lift. “i was supposed to say something?”
“you’re usually good at saying things.”
“not useful things.”
“clearly.”
he drags both hands down his face. you watch him.
“stiles.”
“hold on.”
“what are you doing?”
“experiencing profound retrospective humiliation.”
“that sounds serious.”
“it is.”
“should i call someone?”
“no. specifically don’t call scott. he’ll somehow make it worse.”
you smile.
stiles lowers his hands. for a second, neither of you looks away. the air changes again. not like junior year, there is too much history now. too much knowledge.
you know how stiles looks when he lies and how he sounds when he is scared. you know he rubs the back of his neck when he doesn’t know what to say, and he gets louder when he is nervous unless the thing frightening him matters enough to make him quiet.
he is quiet now.
your shoulder still touches his.
“we should go,” you say.
stiles blinks. “yeah.”
neither of you moves.
“it’s late.”
“very.”
“my house is still approximately twenty minutes away because somebody takes insane routes.”
“you chose the route.”
“under coercion.”
“there was no coercion.”
“years of conditioning.”
that finally makes him smile.
the tension does not disappear, but it becomes something you can breathe around.
stiles slides from the hood first, and he holds one hand out to you.
you look at it.
“seriously?”
“the ground is uneven.”
“it’s six inches.”
“people have died from less.”
“have they?”
“probably.”
you take his hand. stiles’ fingers close around yours.
he helps you down. your shoes touch pavement, but his hand stays for one second. two seconds. then stiles releases you and walks around the front of the jeep.
you stand beside the passenger door, staring at your empty hand.
—
the drive back toward town is quieter, but not uncomfortable.
you and stiles have never needed constant conversation, despite what most people assume about him. there are nights when he talks until his voice becomes rough and mornings when both of you can sit beside each other for an hour without saying more than necessary.
this silence is different.
it carries the overlook with it, junior year, the almost. the i would’ve kissed you.
stiles turns the radio on low. he catches a station playing something soft enough that neither of you recognizes it.
you watch his hands instead. left hand on the wheel, right near the gearshift. long fingers tapping once whenever he reaches a familiar turn.
you have watched those hands tie lacrosse cleats, flip through bestiaries, grip baseball bats, shake after fear has already passed.
you remember one wrapped around yours beneath a hospital chair while both of you wait for news about someone you love.
you remember them pushing your hair from your face when blood gets into your eyes.
you remember them hovering beside your waist at seventeen, not quite touching.
the road forks. the sign to your neighborhood points right.
stiles goes left.
you stare through the windshield.
“stiles.”
“yeah?”
“you missed the turn.”
“did i?”
you turn slowly. his face remains perfectly serious.
“you’ve lived in beacon hills your entire life.”
“muscle memory malfunction.”
“your muscle memory is wrong?”
“brains are complicated.”
“you’ve used that excuse before.”
“because it’s a good one.”
you look behind you. the turn disappears.
“you just added fifteen minutes.”
stiles’ fingers tighten around the wheel.
“i know.”
you stop.
the joking tone is gone. stiles keeps his eyes on the road, and something in your chest draws tight.
“you know?”
“yeah.”
the jeep fills with the sound of tires against pavement.
you wait, but stiles doesn’t explain.
“why?”
his jaw shifts.
“stiles.”
“i’m driving.”
“you always say that when you don’t want to answer.”
“maybe i’m very safety-conscious.”
“you once drove into a parking meter.”
“that parking meter came out of nowhere.”
“it was bolted to the ground.”
“exactly. suspicious.”
“why did you miss the turn?”
his mouth closes. you can almost see the argument happening inside him.
stiles has never been good at leaving thoughts alone. they move through him too quickly, one crashing into the next until silence becomes harder than speaking.
tonight, he fights it.
the jeep rolls to another red light. the intersection is empty, red light across the windshield and orange streetlights above you.
nothing moving in either direction.
you turn fully toward him.
“stiles.”
he closes his eyes.
“because i don’t want to take you home yet.”
the words are quiet, so quiet that for a second, you think the engine swallows them.
your chest forgets what it’s doing. stiles opens his eyes and looks straight ahead.
“oh.”
“yeah.”
the red light stays red.
“you could’ve said that.”
“could i?”
“yes.”
“because from where i’m sitting, this is going extremely badly.”
“i said one word.”
“it was an ominous word.”
“oh?”
“exactly. terrifying.”
you stare at him. stiles drums his fingers once against the wheel, then stops.
“is that why you always take the long way?”
his gaze moves toward you.
“what?”
“all these years.”
“we both choose it.”
“you ask.”
“that’s how choices work.”
“stiles.”
the light changes green. he doesn’t move. there is nobody behind you to honk this time.
his hands rest motionless against the steering wheel.
“not always,” he admits.
“not always what?”
“not always because of you.”
you wait. stiles swallows.
“sometimes i actually miss the turn.”
you laugh once, and he smiles, barely.
“okay,” he says. “most of the time because of you.”
the world seems to narrow around the jeep.
“most?”
“you want percentages?”
“maybe.”
“i don’t have percentages.”
“you always have percentages.”
“i regret establishing that expectation.”
“stiles.”
he exhales.
“fine.” his fingers slide lower on the steering wheel. “yeah, okay. i take the long way because of you.”
you look at him. he continues before you can interrupt.
“and sometimes i stop for gas when i don’t actually need gas.”
your mouth parts.
“you what?”
“tank’s usually at least half full.”
“stiles.”
“and the food thing.”
“what food thing?”
“sometimes i ask if you’re hungry because stopping somewhere adds, like, ten minutes.”
you stare.
he winces. “maybe twelve.”
“you make fake food stops?”
“fake is strong. we still get food.”
“you’re unbelievable.”
“i know.”
“the overlook?”
“adds twenty.”
“the gas station?”
“depends which one.”
“there are multiple?”
“i really don’t think focusing on the logistics is helping.”
you laugh. you cannot stop it. the sound breaks out of you hard enough that you bend forward, one hand covering your face.
stiles stares.
“wow. okay.”
“you—” another laugh catches before you can finish. “you’ve been manipulating the route?”
“manipulating sounds sinister.”
“for years?”
“again, sinister.”
you look at him. stiles’s face is red, actually red. color spreads across his cheeks and reaches the tips of his ears while he grips the steering wheel like he would prefer facing an alpha pack to continuing this conversation.
your laughter softens.
“why?”
he looks at you like the answer should be obvious now. maybe it is. still, you need to hear it.
“why, stiles?”
the green light turns yellow, then red again. you sat through the entire cycle without moving.
stiles looks through the windshield.
“because you leave.”
the humor disappears.
“what?”
“you go inside.” he gestures vaguely toward some imaginary version of your house. “we get there, and you get out, and then that’s it.”
“until tomorrow.”
“yeah.”
“we see each other almost every day.”
“i know.”
“you text me constantly.”
“i know.”
“half the time you show up at my house anyway.”
“also know that.”
“then what are you talking about?”
stiles’ fingers loosen from the wheel. he looks down at them.
“i don’t know how to explain it without sounding insane.”
“that’s never stopped you before.”
his mouth twitches, but the smile does not stay.
“when you’re in here, i know where you are.”
your breath catches.
“that sounds slightly serial-killer-ish.”
“yeah, immediately regretted the phrasing.”
“keep going.”
stiles looks toward you.
“you’re here,” he says. “and we can just… drive. nobody needs anything. scott isn’t calling about some new thing with claws. my dad isn’t getting another report. there isn’t research or school or somebody bleeding somewhere. it’s just you sitting there making fun of my car.”
“your car deserves it.”
“see?” he points toward you. “that.”
you go quiet. stiles drops his hand.
“we talk about nothing,” he continues. “you tell me about some weird thing you saw at the grocery store. i complain about people who don’t use turn signals. you steal my fries. sometimes you don’t say anything at all.”
his eyes fall toward the dashboard.
“and then i get to your street.”
your heartbeat is too loud.
“and?”
“and i never want to turn.”
the red light changes. neither of you notices.
stiles laughs beneath his breath, embarrassed now that the words exist outside him.
“so, yeah. long way.”
you cannot think of anything to say. every memory seems to rearrange itself at once. the missed turns, the slow roads, the unnecessary gas stations.
stiles driving past your house after your breakup because you started crying when he slowed down. stiles taking you twenty miles out of the way after the nogitsune because neither of you knew how to sit still in your own rooms. stiles driving until sunrise after his father almost died.
you beside him every time.
you always thought you were the one asking for more time. maybe neither of you has ever known how to leave first.
“you’re an idiot,” you whisper.
stiles nods solemnly. “yeah.”
“a complete idiot.”
“starting to feel repetitive.”
“you could’ve told me.”
he turns toward you.
“told you what?”
the question hangs between you. you know what he means. not the routes, not the food, not the gas. the thing beneath all of it.
you look at the windshield instead.
“that you didn’t want me to leave.”
stiles goes quiet again. you feel his attention settle against the side of your face.
“would it have changed anything?”
you think about seventeen. his flannel over your knees, his mouth almost touching yours, scott’s phone call, the years after.
“yes.”
his breathing changes. you turn, and stiles looks almost frightened.
you have seen him frightened enough to recognize the difference between fear and danger. this has nothing to do with something waiting beyond the jeep. this is softer, worse. hope trying not to exist too visibly.
“what would it have changed?” he asks.
you slide one hand from beneath your sleeve.
“i probably would’ve kissed you before now.”
stiles stares.
“before now.”
“yes.”
“meaning there’s still a now.”
you smile despite yourself. “you’re very focused on semantics.”
“semantics are incredibly important right now.”
“stiles.”
“because ‘would’ve kissed’ is past tense, which could imply an opportunity that has since expired, whereas ‘before now’ suggests—”
you reach across the center console and kiss him.
stiles stops talking completely. his hand remains frozen on the wheel. for one heartbeat, he does not move.
then everything happens at once.
his hand leaves the steering wheel and catches gently at the side of your neck. the other finds your waist awkwardly across the console, fingers bunching into the fabric of your sweatshirt as he turns toward you.
the angle is terrible. your knee presses into the cupholder. his elbow catches the horn, and a a short, violent blast tears through the empty intersection.
you jerk apart. stiles stares at the steering wheel, and you stare at him.
then both of you start laughing.
“smooth,” you whisper.
“shut up.”
“really romantic.”
“i didn’t design the car.”
“you kind of did. half the original parts are gone.”
“not relevant.”
you are still laughing when stiles looks back at you.
the sound fades. his hand remains at the side of your neck, his thumb resting beneath your jaw. the expression on his face changes slowly, the humor settling beneath something that makes your breath catch harder than the kiss.
“can i do that again?”
your fingers curl lightly into the front of his jacket.
“you’re asking now?”
“consent,” he reminds you, quieter. “important.”
you look toward the light—red—then back at him.
“yes.”
stiles kisses you again.
this time there is no surprise. he leans across the console carefully, one hand sliding behind your neck as your fingers move into his hair. his mouth is warm, hesitant for only a second before you shift closer.
you have imagined this before. not recently, or maybe not consciously, but your body remembers the possibility from seventeen—the old overlook, his flannel over your legs, the way his eyes drop toward your mouth.
this is nothing like that. there is no uncertainty in wanting it, only in learning how.
stiles’ thumb moves slowly beneath your ear. you can feel his pulse where your wrist rests near his throat, too fast and uneven.
yours is worse.
you pull back enough to breathe. stiles follows slightly before catching himself.
his forehead rests against yours.
“wow,” he whispers.
you smile.
“good wow?”
“i’m trying really hard not to ruin this by talking.”
“you’re failing.”
“i know.”
you kiss him once more, shorter this time. his mouth curves against yours.
when you pull away, the light is green.
you glance through the windshield.
“you’re missing another light.”
stiles doesn’t look away from you.
“worth it.”
a car finally appears behind you, and the horn sounds.
stiles closes his eyes.
“okay, yeah.”
you laugh while he faces forward and drives through the intersection.
his ears remain red for the next three miles.
—
nothing big changes, but every little thing does.
stiles still complains about other drivers. you still tell him that signaling after he begins turning defeats the purpose of a turn signal. he still insists his technique is anticipatory. you still insist he does not understand what that word means.
but his right hand leaves the gearshift after a quiet stretch of road and settles open between you.
you look down, then at him. stiles keeps his attention determinedly forward.
“what?” he asks.
“nothing.”
“you’re staring at my hand.”
“it’s doing something weird.”
“it’s sitting there.”
“suspiciously.”
“you can ignore it.”
you slide your fingers through his.
stiles stops breathing for approximately two seconds. you pretend not to notice.
his hand closes around yours.
the road begins descending toward town. streetlights return one at a time. closed businesses become houses. houses become blocks. beacon hills grows around you again, no longer something distant enough to pretend cannot reach you.
the clock on the dashboard changes to 1:47.
you should be home.
your phone contains two unread texts, one from scott asking whether you make it back and another sent thirty minutes later correcting himself.
actually never mind stiles is driving. i’ll see you tomorrow
you show stiles. he reads it at the next stop sign.
“rude.”
“accurate.”
“i’m an excellent driver.”
“you’re currently holding my hand.”
“i have another one.”
“that doesn’t help.”
stiles looks at your joined fingers. his thumb moves once across your knuckles.
“you can let go.”
you tighten your grip.
“didn’t say i wanted to.”
something soft moves across his face.
he looks toward the road before you can study it too closely.
the stop sign waits ahead. the jeep slows, and stiles stops.
you look down both empty streets.
“there are no cars.”
“safety first.”
“you don’t usually stop this long.”
“rolling stops are illegal.”
you turn toward him. stiles is already looking at you.
“oh.”
“yeah.”
you lean across the console.
this kiss is easier. no horn, no red light changing above you, no years of questions sitting between you.
stiles’ fingers stay threaded through yours while his other hand settles along your cheek. you kiss him slowly, smiling when he does, until the cold glow of headlights appears far behind you.
you pull back.
“car.”
“they’re far away.”
“stiles.”
“fine.” he drives.
you sink deeper into the passenger seat with your hand still inside his.
“so what happens now?”
the question comes out before you decide whether to ask it. stiles glances toward you.
“now?”
“yeah.”
his eyebrows pull together. “i continue driving.”
“not what i mean.”
“i know.”
“do you?”
“trying to buy time.”
“you’ve been doing that for years.”
“and look how well it works.”
you wait. stiles’ fingers shift between yours.
“i don’t know,” he admits.
“good talk.”
“no, i mean—” he exhales. “i know what i want.”
you look toward him. the jeep passes beneath another streetlight, brightness moving over his face before disappearing.
“what do you want?”
stiles’ mouth opens, then closes. he looks almost annoyed with himself.
“this shouldn’t be hard.”
“you fought an alpha with a baseball bat.”
“not really relevant.”
“you’re scared.”
“i’m terrified.”
you smile.
“of me?”
“specifically of saying something really stupid in the next thirty seconds.”
“your odds aren’t great.”
“thank you for the support.”
you wait.
stiles slows as the road curves.
his thumb keeps moving over the side of your hand, a small restless motion that seems to be happening without his permission.
“i don’t want tonight to be a weird thing we never talk about,” he says.
the humor leaves you.
“okay.”
“and i don’t want to kiss you at stop signs and then tomorrow we act like we don’t know what happened.”
“okay.”
“and i know that sounds like i’m trying to turn two kisses into some major relationship conversation, except technically it’s three kisses if we count the second one at the red light separately, which i do because there was a clear break in contact—”
“stiles.”
“right.”
he takes a breath.
“i want you.”
your fingers tighten around his. stiles looks toward you.
“and not just tonight. i think i’ve wanted you for a really embarrassingly long time,” he continues. “which is becoming increasingly obvious as we revisit my history of geographical deception.”
you laugh softly.
“but you’re my best friend.”
his voice changes around the words. he’s more careful.
“and that matters more. so if you don’t want this to become something, i can—”
“stiles.”
he stops.
“i want it to become something.”
the jeep drifts half an inch toward the center line.
“road.”
“right.”
he corrects immediately. you smile toward the windshield.
“you really have to stop doing that.”
“i’m having kind of a big night.”
“you’re driving.”
“also true.”
the road turns toward your neighborhood. this time, stiles takes it. neither of you points that out.
“so,” you say after a minute, “does this make our first date approximately three years long?”
“no.”
“why not?”
“because i would’ve it planned better.”
“you bought me candy.”
“that’s not enough.”
“you drove me to an overlook.”
“we do that anyway.”
“you confessed to manipulating traffic routes so you could spend more time with me.”
“when you phrase it like that, it loses some romance.”
“i thought it was romantic.”
stiles looks toward you so quickly that you point at the road again.
“eyes forward.”
“sorry.”
but he is smiling. not the quick grin he uses when he thinks he is funny, something smaller.
you recognize it from years of passenger seats and late-night diners, though you never understand what it means until now.
it is the expression stiles wears when something goes right and he doesn’t trust it enough to celebrate yet.
you squeeze his hand, and the smile stays.
—
your street is quiet.
every house has gone dark except one porch light near the corner and the upstairs window of the house across from yours. sprinklers tick over someone’s lawn. the wet pavement shines beneath the streetlights.
stiles slows.
your house appears ahead. the porch light is on.
you look toward the dashboard. 2:03.
what should be an eleven-minute drive took nearly two hours.
stiles pulls against the curb. the engine idles, but neither of you moves.
his hand remains around yours.
“so,” he says.
“so.”
“we’re here.”
you look through the windshield.
“eventually.”
“i took a very efficient route.”
“you drove in a circle.”
“once.”
“twice.”
“the second one is debatable.”
“you stopped at a gas station when you didn’t need gas.”
“convenience store.”
“you bought powdered donuts.”
“which you unfairly confiscated.”
“they’re behind your seat.”
stiles looks over his shoulder.
“seriously?”
“i hid them while you were paying.”
“that’s theft.”
“you already paid for them.”
“theft from me.”
“you’ll recover.”
stiles turns back.
the conversation fades. your house waits less than thirty feet away. you have done this part hundreds of times. unbuckle, grab your phone, open the door, tell stiles to text when he gets home, and watch the red taillights disappear from your bedroom window.
tonight, none of it happens.
stiles looks toward the house then at you. his fingers loosen slightly, not releasing you, only giving you the choice.
“i should let you go.”
you hate the sentence immediately. maybe because he has spent years doing everything except that.
you look down at your joined hands.
“do you want to?”
stiles becomes still.
“want to what?”
“let me go.”
his eyes lift. the answer is there before he says it.
“no.”
your chest tightens.
“then don’t.”
for a moment, stiles only looks at you.
you can almost see every version of him layered together. the sixteen-year-old who missed your turn and pretends it is an accident. the seventeen-year-old who nearly kissed you beneath a dead battery and a sky full of stars.
the boy who drives around your block until you stop crying. the one who sits beside you in hospital waiting rooms. the one who calls you at two in the morning when he cannot sleep.
the one who always asks long way or short way?
you reach for the door. stiles’ expression falls before he can stop it.
you smile.
“drive.”
he blinks.
“what?”
“i’m not ready to go home.”
stiles looks from you to the house.
“seriously?”
“unless you are.”
“no.”
the answer comes so quickly that you laugh. his hand leaves yours only long enough to shift the jeep into gear.
“where are we going?” he asks.
you settle back against the passenger seat.
“i don’t care.”
“dangerous amount of control you’re giving me.”
“i trust you.”
that quiets him.
stiles looks at you. the porch light catches against his windshield. something softens behind his eyes before he turns forward. the jeep pulls away from the curb. your house slips past the passenger window.
you don’t look back.
at the end of the street, stiles reaches the intersection. left takes you toward downtown, and right leads toward the highway. straight eventually reaches the old road circling the preserve.
he slows. for years, this is where he asks long way or short way?
tonight, he doesn’t.
stiles reaches across the space between you instead. his hand finds yours without looking. your fingers fit between his.
then he drives straight.
the road stretches ahead beneath the headlights, dark and familiar and longer than necessary.
exactly the way you want it.