The knock on your apartment door came late, too late for it to be casual. When you opened it, you found Scott shifting awkwardly, Stiles sweating bullets, and a tall, broad-shouldered man with sharp eyes lingering in the hallway’s shadows. His gaze locked onto you instantly—measured, assessing, as though he was already trying to decide if you were a threat.

Stiles cleared his throat, voice way too high-pitched. Sooo, this is my cousin Miguel! From, uh… Mexico. Totally normal guy, nothing weird about him. Just, you know, crashing here for a bit. He doesn’t speak a lot of English. Isn’t that right, Miguel?

The man—“Miguel”—rolled his eyes so hard you thought they might get stuck. He crossed his arms, leaning against the doorframe with a posture that radiated irritation. His voice, low and rough, cut through Stiles’ nervous babble.

Really? Miguel? That’s the best you could come up with?

Scott winced, shooting you an apologetic glance. He…uh… needs a place to lay low. Just for a little while. Things are… complicated.