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stiles wakes up with his face pressed against the back of your shoulder and absolutely no intention of letting you leave.
you know this because the first time you try to move, his arm tightens around your waist. the second time, his knee hooks more securely between yours beneath the sheet. by the third, he has somehow managed to pull you backward until there is no longer enough space between your bodies to reasonably claim you are two separate people.
morning light reaches through the crooked blinds above his desk, striping the bedroom walls in pale gold. one of your socks hangs from the corner of his dresser. your jeans are somewhere beside the bed, though finding them would require escaping the arm currently locked around your middle, and the shirt you wear belongs to stiles because yours disappeared sometime after midnight.
you turn your head enough to see him. his eyes remain closed. his hair points in several directions at once, flattened near one temple and standing almost vertically near the crown. the faint shadow along his jaw is darker than it was when you started dating three months ago, though not enough that stiles has stopped complaining every time his father calls it facial hair.
“you’re awake,” you say.
stiles breathes against your shoulder. “false.”
“you just moved.”
“sleep reflex.”
“you dragged me six inches across the bed.”
“it’s a powerful sleep reflex.”
you reach down and try to lift his arm. stiles makes an unhappy sound and tightens it immediately.
“stiles.”
“no.”
“i need to go home.”
his eyes finally open, though only halfway. “why?”
you stare at him. “because i live there.”
“debatable.” stiles presses his face into the space between your shoulder blades again. “you’ve been here four nights this week.”
“i’ve been here for two.”
“four emotionally.”
“that isn’t a measurement.”
“it is to me.”
you laugh, and his arm loosens enough that you manage to roll onto your back. stiles follows without opening his eyes properly. his head settles against your chest, cheek resting over the faded lettering on his own shirt, and one hand spreads comfortably across your stomach beneath the blanket.
you look down at him. there was a time when waking up beside stiles stilinski would have seemed impossible. not because you didn’t know him. that would have made more sense. you have known stiles for most of your life.
he has been scott’s best friend since before either of them understood the importance of deodorant. he spent entire afternoons at your kitchen table doing homework badly, entire weekends stretched across your living room floor playing video games, and enough nights asleep on your couch that your mother eventually stopped asking whether he needed a blanket and started leaving one there automatically.
stiles has always been there. at birthdays, holidays, hospital visits, lacrosse games, supernatural disasters, and regular disasters. the summer your air conditioning broke and he appeared with three box fans because scott complained once. the winter sheriff stilinski worked three double shifts in one week and your mother made stiles eat dinner at your house because she knew otherwise he would forget.
for years, stiles belonged to scott first. he’s scott’s best friend, scott’s partner in terrible plans, scott’s emergency contact despite neither of them being remotely qualified for emergencies.
then, somewhere along the way, stiles became yours too. not suddenly, that would have been easier to explain. instead, it happened in pieces small enough that neither of you noticed until the pieces have already become a life. his hand started finding yours when the rest of the room wasn’t looking. you started falling asleep against him during movie nights instead of at the opposite end of the couch. one evening outside the animal clinic after something with too many teeth nearly kills all of you, stiles kissed you against the side of the jeep like he has been trying not to for years. afterward, you both stared at each other. then he kissed you again.
three months later, your toothbrush is beside his. your shampoo is in his shower, and one of your socks is apparently hanging from his dresser.
“we have to tell him,” you say.
stiles becomes completely still against you. “interesting,” he murmurs.
“what?”
“i was having a nice morning.”
you push gently at his forehead. “stiles.”
he lifts his head and squints toward you. “we talked about this.”
“we said we’d tell him.”
“right.”
“that was three weeks ago.”
“time is subjective.”
“not when you’re avoiding something.”
stiles rolls onto his back and drags both hands over his face. the sheet slips toward his waist, and you deliberately keep your attention on his face rather than the scattered evidence of last night still distributed around his bedroom.
“i’m not avoiding it,” he says.
you raise your eyebrows.
he lowers his hands. “okay, i am strategically postponing it.”
“that’s avoiding it with more syllables.”
“exactly. it’s more sophisticated.”
you sit up. the movement sends cool air across your bare legs, and you pull the sheet with you while searching the floor for your jeans.
stiles watches.
“your pants are over there,” he says.
you follow his gesture toward the desk chair. your jeans hang across the back, and one shoe is beneath them.
you look around for the second.
“under the bed,” stiles supplies.
“why?”
“you kicked it.”
“when?”
he looks at you, and you look back in confusion. the corner of his mouth slowly lifts and realization hits.
“don’t,” you warn.
“i didn’t say anything.”
“your face did.”
stiles presses his lips together, though that does nothing to hide the smile. you throw the nearest pillow at him.
he catches it against his chest. “violence, great. exactly the kind of behavior i expect from a mccall.”
“you love the mccalls.”
“one in particular.”
the answer comes easily, so easily that your hand stills around your jeans. stiles notices your reaction. his smile changes. the teasing fades from it, leaving something quieter behind as he looks at you across the rumpled bed.
you haven’t said that yet, not exactly. there have been things around it. stay, drive safe, text me when you get home, i missed you, you matter to me. things that settle near the words without becoming them.
stiles looks toward the pillow in his hands. “you know what i mean,” he says.
“yeah.”
he glances up again.
you smile. “i do.”
something in his shoulders relaxes.
then your phone buzzes against the nightstand.
you both look toward it.
the screen lights with scott’s name.
scotty | where are you
stiles closes his eyes. “see?” he mutters. “this is what i’m talking about.”
you pick up the phone. “what?”
“he has some kind of supernatural sibling radar.”
“he’s literally a werewolf.”
“right. terrible design flaw.”
another message appears.
scotty | mom wants to know if you’re coming home before lunch
you glance toward the clock. 10:43.
“i should go.”
stiles reaches for your wrist before you can climb out of bed. “counterpoint.”
“what?”
he pulls you back toward him. you catch yourself with one hand against his chest, and his other arm immediately circles your waist. stiles looks entirely too pleased with himself beneath you.
“stay.”
“very persuasive.”
“thank you.”
“i’m still leaving.”
“rude.”
you lean down and kiss him. stiles’s hand slides to the back of your neck, keeping you there when you start to pull away. the kiss deepens for only a few seconds before you break it deliberately, your forehead resting against his while his thumb moves beneath your ear.
“we’re telling him,” you murmur.
stiles sighs. “soon.”
“that isn’t a time.”
“neither is eventually, and you use that one constantly.”
“soon means before he catches us.”
“he won’t catch us,” stiles says.
you look around his bedroom. your jeans, your missing shoe, your toothbrush visible through the bathroom door, the faint mark near his collarbone that absolutely wasn’t there yesterday.
“you seem confident.”
“scott spent twenty minutes looking for his phone last month while he was talking to me on it.”
“that was one time.”
“it was impressive.”
you climb out of bed before he can catch you again. getting dressed takes longer than it should because stiles keeps providing unnecessary commentary from the mattress. your sock is recovered from the dresser. the missing shoe is, in fact, beneath the bed. your shirt turns out to be half trapped beneath stiles’s pillow, though after examining it, you decide his is more comfortable anyway.
you stand in front of the mirror and push your hair away from your face.
stiles appears behind you. he has finally put on sweatpants but nothing else. his arms slide around your waist as he rests his chin against your shoulder.
“you’re stealing my shirt.”
“i’m borrowing it.”
“you have probably six of my shirts.”
“then you should be used to it.”
“my wardrobe is disappearing.”
“how tragic.”
stiles kisses the side of your neck.
you lean slightly into him before remembering you are supposed to be leaving.
“stop.”
“doing what?” another kiss lands beneath your jaw.
“that.”
“seems vague.”
you turn inside his arms. “scott is expecting me.”
“scott is ruining my life.”
“he’s your best friend.”
“it’s a multifaceted relationships.”
you laugh and reach toward the silver chain around your neck, where the clasp has twisted awkwardly into your hair. stiles notices before you manage to free it.
“hold on.”
his fingers replace yours. you lift your hair while he works at the chain. the necklace is small, a thin silver strand with a simple star. your mother gave it to you years ago, and you wear it often enough that you rarely notice it anymore.
stiles’s knuckles brush your neck. “you broke it,” he says.
you turn. “what?”
“not broke-broke.” he examines the clasp. “it’s caught.”
“on what?”
“your hair.”
“so helpful.”
“i’m trying.” he works for another several seconds before the clasp finally comes free. stiles lowers the necklace into his palm. “there.”
you rub the back of your neck. “i’ll put it on downstairs.”
“why downstairs?”
“because if you keep standing behind me half dressed, i’m never leaving.”
stiles considers that. “maybe i won’t move then.”
you take the necklace from his hand and set it on the bed beside the pillow while reaching for your bag.
at least, you think you do.
—
lydia knows because lydia knows everything. you never officially told her about your relationship. there is no dramatic confession, no whispered admission, no carefully constructed explanation about how you somehow start dating your brother’s best friend after years of insisting that stiles is only stiles.
lydia took one look at you about six days into the relationship and said, “how long have you and stiles been together?”
you nearly walked into a locker. when you asked how she knew, lydia informed you that she has eyes.
apparently, that is the entire explanation.
now she sits cross-legged near the foot of your bed while you empty the contents of your handbag across the blanket for the second time. receipts, lip balm, wallet, two pens, a packet of painkillers, and one of stiles’s pens, technically, recognizable by the bite marks around the cap.
no necklace.
“you definitely wore it yesterday,” lydia says.
you check the side pocket again. “i know.”
“and this morning?”
your hand pauses on your keys. lydia notices and looks up from the book resting across her knees.
you avoid her eyes. “probably.”
“probably?”
“i was tired.”
“you stayed at stiles’s again, didn’t you?”
you reach for your wallet and check beneath it despite knowing necklaces rarely hide beneath wallets.
“maybe.”
lydia looks down at your shirt. “that’s his.”
you follow her gaze toward the faded shirt hanging loose on your frame.
“lots of people own old shirts.”
“not that ugly.”
“you’re very judgmental today.”
“i’m observant.”
“same thing with better posture.”
lydia smiles faintly. you abandon the purse and touch your bare neck again.
the memory returns in pieces, stiles behind you, his fingers working the clasp free. the necklace in his palm. you setting it—
“oh.”
lydia watches your face. “what?”
you close your eyes. “i left it there.”
“at stiles’s?”
“yeah.”
“where?”
you remember the bed, specifically the pillow. you open your eyes but can’t look lydia in the eye.
lydia’s eyebrows lift.
“don’t,” you preemptively warn.
“i haven’t said anything.”
“you’re about to.”
“i was only going to ask whether you left anything else.”
you throw a sock at her.
lydia catches it and drops it beside her. “very mature.”
“thank you.”
you begin putting everything back into your purse while trying not to think about the necklace lying somewhere in stiles’s bedroom.
it shouldn’t matter. you have left things there before. clothes, books, rings. once, an entire overnight bag sat beside his dresser for nearly two weeks because neither of you remembered to bring it home.
the problem is not stiles finding your necklace, it’s anybody else finding it. specifically one person.
lydia seems to follow the direction of your thoughts without being invited.
“you still haven’t told scott.”
you look up. “we’re going to.”
“when?”
you return the painkillers to the side pocket. “soon.”
lydia’s expression turns unbearably familiar.
“don’t.”
“i didn’t say anything.”
“you made the face.”
“what face?”
“the one where you think i’m being stupid.”
“i don’t think you’re being stupid.”
you wait.
lydia closes her book. “i think you’re making this harder than it needs to be.”
you sit against the dresser, arms folding loosely across your stomach. afternoon sunlight pours through the window behind lydia, catching red in her hair where it spills over one shoulder.
“he’s stiles.”
“i’m aware.”
“scott’s stiles.”
lydia tilts her head. “that sounds possessive.”
“you know what i mean.” you rub your thumb along the edge of your phone case. “they’ve been best friends forever. stiles has practically lived here forever.”
“which would seem to support dating him.”
“how?”
“you already know him.”
“that is not the problem.”
“then what is?”
you look toward the open bedroom door. downstairs, the television plays quietly. someone moves through the kitchen, cabinet doors opening and closing with the familiar lack of care that identifies scott before you hear his footsteps.
you lower your voice automatically. “how exactly am i supposed to tell him?”
lydia waits.
you gesture helplessly. “hey, scott, remember your best friend? the one you’ve known since you were five? the one who has slept on our couch approximately four hundred times? turns out i’ve been sleeping in his bed instead.”
lydia’s mouth curves.
“not like that,” you say as her smile widens. “okay, sometimes like that.”
“i know.”
you point at her. “and that is exactly why telling scott is horrifying.”
“you’re both adults.”
“logic has never stopped scott from being my brother.”
“he isn’t going to forbid you from dating stiles.”
“i know that.”
and you do. that has never been the fear. scott might be shocked. he might ask too many questions or look at stiles like he has personally rearranged the laws of the universe without permission, but he would never tell you who you can love.
the problem is quieter than that.
“it changes things,” you say.
lydia’s expression softens.
you look down at your hands. “stiles is scared scott’s going to think he hid it because he doesn’t take me seriously. scott’s going to think we didn’t tell him because we don’t trust him. and i…” you pull at a loose thread near your sleeve. “i don’t want him thinking he’s losing either of us.”
lydia watches you for a moment. “is he?”
“no.”
“then tell him that.”
you exhale. “that sounds extremely reasonable.”
“thank you.”
“i hate it.”
“that’s expected.”
“i know i have to tell scott anyway.”
footsteps reach the hallway. you hear them one second before scott appears in your doorway.
“tell me what?” he asks.
your entire body stills. you and lydia look at each other, and scott looks between both of you.
“nothing,” you answer.
at exactly the same time, lydia says, “stiles.”
your head turns toward her so quickly something in your neck complains.
scott’s brow furrows. “what about stiles?”
lydia does not blink. “his wardrobe.”
silence. you stare at her, and scott looks toward your shirt. your stomach drops before you remember he has seen stiles own approximately a thousand plaid shirts and probably could not identify this one under threat of death.
“what about it?” scott asks.
lydia lifts one shoulder. “it’s bad.”
scott’s expression clears immediately. “yeah.”
you bite the inside of your cheek.
“exactly,” lydia agrees.
scott walks into the room and reaches toward your desk. he picks up the phone charger lying beside the lamp.
“have either of you seen my black hoodie?”
“which black hoodie?” you ask.
“the black one.”
“very descriptive.”
“it has strings.”
“revolutionary.”
scott looks toward lydia. “do you know where it is?”
“no.”
he nods, apparently accepting this entire interaction as normal.
“okay.” then he leaves.
you wait until his footsteps disappear down the hallway.
you spin to face lydia. “his wardrobe?”
“it worked.”
“barely.”
“he agreed.”
you fall backward against the dresser.
lydia reopens her book. “you really need to tell him.”
“i know.”
—
scott finds the necklace at six twenty-seven that evening.
you know the exact time because at six twenty-eight, your phone receives three messages from stiles.
stiles <3 | problem
then:
stiles <3 | big problem
and finally:
stiles <3 | SCOTT FOUND YOUR NECKLACE
you stare at the screen from your place at the kitchen table.
your mother stands at the counter behind you chopping vegetables for dinner. the knife hits the cutting board in steady, efficient taps while something simmers on the stove.
“everything okay?” she asks.
you lock your phone. “yeah.”
it vibrates again.
stiles <3 | please come over before he kills me
you stand causing your mother to pause chopping halfway through a pepper.
“where are you going?”
“stiles’s.”
something in her expression changes. though not surprise. you choose not to examine that right now.
“dinner’s in forty minutes.”
“i’ll be back.”
“bring scott.”
you stop. “scott’s there?”
“he texted me ten minutes ago.”
you close your eyes. of course he did.
your mother looks at you for another second before returning to the cutting board. “good luck.”
you turn slowly. “with what?”
“getting them home before dinner.”
she smiles without looking up. you leave before asking anything else.
—
the stilinski house is quiet when you arrive. too quiet.
you have known this house almost as long as you have known stiles. you know which stair creaks near the middle, which kitchen cabinet sticks during humid weather, and which light switch near the garage has never controlled anything identifiable. usually, you enter without knocking.
tonight, you knock. sheriff stilinski opens the door. he looks tired but otherwise unsurprised to see you standing on his porch.
“upstairs,” he says.
you hesitate. “how bad?”
his mouth pulls slightly to one side. “your brother has been saying stiles’s full name a lot.”
you wince. “right.”
the sheriff steps aside. “door stays attached to the hinges.”
“i’ll try.”
“tell scott.”
you stop with one foot on the stairs. “tell scott what?”
sheriff stilinski looks at you. something deeply inconvenient passes through his expression.
“that if he breaks my door, he’s fixing it.”
then, he walks toward the kitchen. you make a note to revisit that later.
voices reach you before you reach stiles’s bedroom.
“—just answer the question.”
“i did answer the question.”
“you said ‘define dating.’”
“because definitions matter, scott.”
“not right now!”
you reach the doorway. scott stands near the foot of the bed, your necklace hanging from one hand.
stiles stands beside his desk with both palms braced against the edge behind him, looking like someone has informed him that execution is imminent but the paperwork is taking longer than expected.
both of them turn toward you.
you stop. “oh.”
scott raises the necklace. “looking for this?”
you consider lying, but there is no possible lie that would make this situation better.
“kind of,” you answer.
stiles makes a quiet sound that might be a laugh if he had not clearly lost the ability to experience joy.
scott turns toward him. “don’t.”
stiles lifts both hands. “not doing anything.”
“i came over looking for my hoodie and found this instead.”
you step into the room. the bed is still unmade. that definitely does not help. your eyes move toward the pillow and immediately away again.
scott notices, his face changing. “you knew it was here.”
“i realized this afternoon.”
“why was it here?”
stiles inhales, and you point at him without looking away from scott. “do not answer that.”
“wasn’t going to.”
“good.”
scott looks between you, then toward the bed, then back toward you. you can almost watch the pieces connecting behind his eyes. the sleepovers, the missing clothes, the nights you leave the house without explaining where you are going. the way stiles has started appearing in the kitchen before you come downstairs and somehow already has your coffee made. how you sit too close on the couch, and how stiles touches your back when he passes behind you. all the small things that mean nothing until they mean everything.
scott’s eyes widen. “oh my god.”
stiles’s posture changes immediately. “okay.”
“don’t say okay.”
“right.”
“you slept here.” scott’s voice rises slightly, mortified.
you cross your arms. “yes.”
“last night.”
“yes.”
scott looks toward stiles, and stiles looks at you. you give him a warning expression.
“i’m not saying anything,” he assures.
scott points toward the bed. “did you—”
“nope,” you interrupt.
“i didn’t even finish.”
“you weren’t going anywhere i wanted to follow.”
scott’s face twists. “that answers it.”
“it answers nothing.”
“it absolutely answers something.”
stiles rubs both hands over his face. “can we maybe redirect away from this specific line of questioning?”
scott looks at him. “why?”
“because she’s my girlfriend, not a witness under interrogation.”
silence. stiles freezes, and your eyes close. there it is.
scott turns slowly. “your what?”
stiles looks toward you, and you look back. after three weeks of planning the perfect conversation, discussing every possible reaction, and agreeing that both of you should tell scott together somewhere neutral, stiles has apparently chosen an accidental confession beside an unmade bed.
“girlfriend,” stiles repeats.
scott stares.
stiles swallows. “she’s my girlfriend,” he repeats.
you move beside him, not because he needs defending, but because you suddenly need the contact too. your hand brushes his. stiles looks down, then turns his palm beneath yours and laces your fingers together.
scott sees that. something in his expression shifts. not anger but something more complicated.
“you’re dating.”
“yes,” you say.
“each other.”
stiles glances toward you. “unless there’s been a major miscommunication.”
you squeeze his fingers. “stiles.”
“right. bad time.”
scott’s attention drops toward your joined hands again. “how long?”
“three months,” you answer.
“three months?”
“and seventeen days,” stiles says.
you turn toward him.
he immediately looks defensive. “what?”
scott stares. “you counted?”
“no.”
you raise your eyebrows.
stiles sighs. “okay, yes, but not actively. i just know the date.”
despite everything, a smile pulls at your mouth. scott sees it. that seems to bother him more than the necklace because he recognizes the expression.
you have seen scott look at allison that way before. then kira. that helpless little softening that happens before the person wearing it realizes anyone else can see.
scott looks from you to stiles. stiles is watching you exactly the same way.
“three months,” scott repeats. “and nobody thought to tell me.”
the humor leaves the room.
your fingers tighten around stiles’s. “we were going to.”
“when?”
you glance at stiles.
“soon,” he says.
scott laughs once. “you’ve been dating my sister for three months.”
stiles looks toward the floor. “yeah.”
“you’re my best friend.”
“i know.”
“and she’s my sister.”
“also aware.”
“stiles.”
“i’m sorry.”
scott runs both hands through his hair, forgetting for a moment that the necklace is still looped around his fingers. the pendant swings near his wrist.
“i don’t get it.”
you step closer. “what?”
“why didn’t you tell me?”
there it is. not why are you dating him. not how could you. why didn’t you tell me? the question lands harder than anything else.
you look toward stiles to see his jaw has tightened.
“because i didn’t know how,” you admit.
scott stares at you. “you tell me everything.”
“not everything.”
“you know what i mean.”
“yeah.” you let go of stiles long enough to take the necklace from scott’s hand. the silver chain is warm from his palm. “at first, we didn’t know what this was.”
stiles glances at you.
you continue. “and then we did.” scott’s arms fall to his sides.
“and that made telling you harder.”
“why?” scott asks.
stiles answers this time. “because you’re my best friend.”
scott looks at him. stiles pushes away from the desk. for once, there is no joke waiting behind his expression.
“and she’s important to me.” the words are quiet.
you look toward him, but his attention stays on scott.
“really important,” stiles continues. “and i knew exactly what this was going to look like when you found out.”
scott’s brow furrows. “what does it look like?”
stiles gestures vaguely toward the bed.
you close your eyes. “stiles.”
“i know, terrible visual aid.” he exhales. “but i didn’t want you thinking i was screwing around with her.”
scott’s face tightens.
stiles realizes what he said. “poor wording.”
you cover your mouth, but a laugh escapes anyway.
scott points at both of you. “this isn’t funny.”
“it’s a little funny,” you admit.
“my best friend is sleeping with my sister.”
stiles looks toward the ceiling. “and we’re back.”
“scott.”
“what?”
you fold the necklace carefully into your palm. “you don’t get details.”
his expression becomes horrified. “i don’t want details.”
“good.”
“i want less than details.”
“great.”
“i want negative details.”
stiles nods. “we can absolutely provide that.”
scott glares at him, and stiles stops nodding.
silence settles. somewhere downstairs, a cabinet closes. a car passes outside, tires whispering over the street before fading.
scott looks around the bedroom. you watch him notice things now that he knows to look. your book on the nightstand, the hair clip by stiles’s lamp, your extra charger plugged into the wall, the sweatshirt folded near the desk that definitely does not belong to stiles, the second toothbrush visible through the bathroom door.
scott’s gaze lands there, and his eyes close. “you have a toothbrush.”
you follow his attention. “that seems less upsetting than the bed.”
“somehow it’s worse.”
stiles frowns. “how?”
“because a toothbrush is permanent.”
“it cost three dollars.”
“you know what i mean.”
stiles’s mouth closes.
scott looks toward the desk next. a box of your favorite cereal sits on top of the mini fridge stiles insists doesn’t make his room smell weird. beside it is the tea you drink even though nobody else in this house touches it. you didn’t buy either, stiles did.
scott notices, and something in his face changes again.
you know your brother well enough to see the exact moment anger stops being available to him. stiles is not hiding some meaningless hookup. you are everywhere. not dramatically or possessively, just in the ordinary places. your things have settled into his room the same way stiles settled into your family years ago—gradually enough that nobody notices the exact moment they begin belonging there.
scott looks at stiles. “you really like her.”
stiles glances at you, his fingers finding yours again. “yeah.” one syllable, no joke or hesitation.
your chest tightens, and scott catches your reaction.
“oh,” he says.
you look down.
stiles rubs his thumb over your knuckles. “yeah,” he says again.
scott sits on the edge of the desk chair as though the last five minutes have physically exhausted him. “this is weird.”
“fair,” you admit.
“really weird.”
“still fair.”
“you’re my sister.”
“correct.”
he points at stiles.
“he’s stiles.”
stiles puts a hand against his chest. “hurtful.”
scott ignores him. “you two used to fight over the front seat.”
“we still fight over the front seat,” you say.
“she cheats,” stiles adds.
“you move the seat back so far my feet don’t touch the floor.”
“long legs aren’t cheating.”
scott stares, and you and stiles go quiet.
“sorry,” you say.
he presses his palms against his eyes. “lydia knows, doesn’t she?”
you hesitate, and that is answer enough.
scott drops his hands. “lydia knows.”
“she figured it out.”
“when?”
“pretty much immediately.”
scott looks offended. “how?”
stiles shrugs. “she’s lydia.”
scott considers that. “okay.” then his attention returns to you. “mom?”
you and stiles both become very still.
scott’s eyes narrow. “mom knows?”
“not officially,” you say.
“what does that mean?”
“i think she suspects.”
“how?”
you remember the expression in the kitchen, her wishing you good luck. “motherly intuition?”
scott points at stiles. “your dad?”
stiles’s face does something deeply unconvincing.
scott stands. “your dad knows?”
“define knows.”
“stop saying define!”
“okay!”
you put a hand over your eyes. “he might know i stay over.”
scott looks between you. “i’m the last person.”
“no,” you say quickly.
he waits while you search your memory.
“malia doesn’t know!”
scott stares at you for a second, apparently deciding that that does not help the situation. then he turns toward the door.
“where are you going?” you ask.
“home.”
“scott.”
“i need time.”
you start after him, but he turns in the doorway. his expression has softened despite everything.
“i’m not mad that you’re together.”
beside you, stiles exhales.
scott points at him. “i’m still mad at you.”
stiles nods. “reasonable.”
“and if you hurt her—”
“scott,” you say.
“what?”
“don’t,” you finish. your brother looks toward you. “he knows.”
scott’s gaze moves back to stiles, and stiles does not make a joke this time. “i know,” he says quietly.
scott studies him. years sit between them. childhood bedrooms. bikes abandoned in driveways. first lacrosse practices. hospital rooms. full moons. the preserve. motel rooms. blood. death. every impossible thing beacon hills has thrown between two boys who keep choosing each other anyway.
scott knows stiles. maybe that is what finally settles it.
“dinner is in half an hour,” he says.
you blink. “mom said forty minutes.”
“you drove fast.”
“you ran here.”
“same difference.” scott starts down the hallway.
stiles calls after him. “are we okay?”
scott stops. he does not turn around immediately, but when he finally does, his expression is tired, annoyed, and painfully familiar.
“you’re still my best friend.”
stiles’s shoulders drop. “okay.”
scott points toward you. “but this is going to take me a minute.”
“also fair.”
“and i never want to hear the phrase ‘poor wording’ again.”
“that feels unenforceable.”
“stiles.”
“working on it.”
scott leaves. several seconds later, the front door closes downstairs.
you and stiles remain exactly where you are, silence filling the bedroom.
then stiles collapses backward onto the bed. “i survived.” you look at him as he spreads both arms across the mattress. “barely,” he finishes.
“you told him exactly how many days we’ve been dating.”
“that was romantic.”
“that was insane.”
“there’s a thin line between those.”
you sit beside him.
stiles immediately rolls toward you and puts his head in your lap. “your brother asked about our sex life.”
“technically, he tried.”
“i experienced psychological damage.”
“you volunteered most of the incriminating information.”
“i panic-talk. it’s a condition.”
your fingers move through his hair, and stiles closes his eyes. for a moment, neither of you speaks. the hard part is over, though it was far from perfect. scott is probably going to stare at you strangely through dinner. he might spend the next week accidentally remembering things he never understood before and becoming horrified all over again.
but he knows, and the secret is gone.
you look down at the necklace still curled inside your palm.
stiles notices. “give me that.”
you raise your eyebrows. “why?”
“because apparently i’m responsible for necklace-related incidents now.”
you hand it to him, and stiles sits up. “turn around.” so you do.
his knees settle on either side of your hips as he moves behind you. his fingers brush your hair aside, gathering it carefully over one shoulder. the star settles cool the front of your throat. stiles works the clasp with surprising concentration. his fingertips brush the nape of your neck once, then twice, before the tiny hook finally catches.
“there.”
you touch the star. stiles does not move away. his hands rest lightly at your waist, and his mouth presses to the back of your shoulder.
you smile. “maybe i should stop leaving evidence.”
“absolutely not.”
you glance back. “what?”
“leave whatever you want.”
the humor in his voice is quieter now. you turn toward him, and stiles’s hands remain around your waist.
“i mean it,” he says. you study his face. “you can leave your toothbrush, your books, your weird tea that tastes like grass.”
“you bought that.”
“because you like grass tea.”
“it’s chamomile.”
“grass adjacent.”
you smile, and stiles’s expression softens. “leave your necklace,” he continues. “leave half your clothes. apparently leave one sock in increasingly impossible locations.”
“that happened once.”
“twice.”
“you can’t prove that.”
“i have the sock.”
you laugh. stiles watches you, then his forehead lowers against yours.
“you can stay too.” the words settle somewhere much deeper than the joke they arrive beside.
your hand slides around the back of his neck. “yeah?”
“yeah.”
“even if scott knows now?”
“especially because scott knows now.”
you kiss him, and there is nothing hurried in it.
no need to listen for the jeep outside or check whether your phone has another message asking where you are. no secret folded carefully behind your teeth while stiles’s hand rests against your waist.
he kisses you slowly, one palm spreading against your back as you shift closer. when you pull away, his nose brushes yours.
“best three months and seventeen days of your life?” he asks.
you pretend to consider it. “top five.”
stiles pulls back. “top five?”
“maybe three.”
“this is devastating.”
“two.”
“still insulting.”
you smile and kiss him again. stiles’s protest disappears against your mouth.
from downstairs, sheriff stilinski’s voice carries clearly through the house. “door stays open.”
you freeze, and stiles closes his eyes. you look toward the bedroom door. it is, technically, already open.
“he can’t even see us,” stiles calls.
there is a pause. “don’t care,” he calls.
stiles looks toward you. “see, now this is oppression.”
you laugh against his shoulder, and his arms close around you. “we’re adults,” he mutters.
“tell him that.”
“absolutely not.”
“coward.”
“your brother can throw me through a wall, and my dad owns a gun. i’m adapting to environmental threats.”
you lift your head. “thought you survived.”
stiles considers this. “that was a premature conclusion.”
you smile and settle against him again. for most of your life, stiles has existed somewhere nearby. down the hallway, across the kitchen table, beside scott, behind the wheel of the jeep. close enough that you never think about the distance until one day there isn’t any left.
maybe that is why keeping him secret never feels quite natural. stiles has never been something hidden. he has always been woven too deeply into your life for that. he’s scott’s best friend and your mother’s unofficial second son. the sheriff’s impossible child. he’s your friend, then something more, then something neither of you knows how to keep separate from everything that comes before.
you touch the necklace resting against your throat.
stiles notices the movement. “is it secure?”
“yeah.”
“good.”
his hand finds yours between you, fingers threading automatically through your own.
downstairs, his father starts making enough noise in the kitchen to suggest dinner preparation or a minor electrical disaster. outside, a car door closes somewhere along the street. your phone vibrates once in your pocket.
you check it. scott has texted you.
scotty | mom says bring him too
you turn the screen toward stiles. he reads it, then smiles. it’s small at first, then helplessly big.
“see?” you murmur. “you survived.”
stiles looks at you before squeezing your hand. “yeah.”
this time, he sounds like he believes it.