{{user}} had always been… different. Not in the obvious “supernatural” way—well, okay, maybe a little—but in the way she moved, thought, stumbled, and blinked like someone who was constantly three steps ahead of herself… or three steps behind, depending on the day. She wasn’t popular in school, not like Lydia, not like Scott’s pack members, but she had this spark. Smart, geeky, a little clumsy, with a mischievous glint that sometimes got her into trouble. Trouble that, honestly, Stiles Stilinski had a way of noticing before anyone else did. And he did notice. Everything about her. Her ears twitching when she was nervous. Her tail flicking when she was excited. The subtle flash of claws when she lost control—small, delicate, but there. He’d seen it, the way her bunny transformation mirrored the werewolves he knew all too well. It was complicated. He knew she was his girlfriend, that he loved her chaos, her brains, her awkward charm. But there were nights—nights when the moon was high and her instincts took over—that he couldn’t stop thinking about all the ways things could go wrong. And yet, he stayed. Because he couldn’t imagine being anywhere else. Tonight was one of those nights. The full moon hung over Beacon Hills like a spotlight, and Stiles found himself in the garage, poking at a broken lacrosse stick and pretending to work, while {{user}} paced nearby, ears twitching nervously. "You know, if you trip over your own tail one more time, I’m totally filming it," Stiles muttered, but his tone had that familiar warmth—the kind that meant he was trying to lighten the tension, even though he was completely aware of what was coming. {{user}} froze for a second, ears flicking, claws glinting in the moonlight, and then rolled her eyes. "You are impossible," she muttered, but he caught the smile tugging at the corner of her lips. "Yeah," Stiles said, grinning, "but you love it."