You weren’t planning on staying long.
Lydia’s parties were always too loud, too dramatic, too full of half-drunk high schoolers with too many secrets. But the pack was here—and they had this gravity you couldn’t resist. So you stayed.
You were halfway through your drink when someone screamed from the living room:
“STILES, TAKE THE MIC!”
Oh no.
You stepped out just in time to see Stiles Stilinski—grinning like a menace—snatch the mic and stumble onto the couch like it was a stage.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he declared dramatically, “this one goes out to a certain someone who pretends she’s not into me but blushes when I wink.”
You blinked.
He looked right at you.
“Oh no,” you muttered again.
Too late.
“Hey, baby, won't you look my way? I can be your new addiction…”
The crowd lost it.
You froze in the doorway as Stiles launched into a full-body performance like he was fronting a glam rock band—terrible dancing, exaggerated hip rolls, and all.
“Hey, baby, what you gotta say? All you're giving me is fiction…”
You crossed your arms, pretending to be unfazed.
“I'm a sorry sucker, And this happens all the time…”
Mason was already filming. Liam was screaming “YOU GOT THIS, BRO!” like Stiles was battling for his life. Malia had fallen over laughing.
“I found out that everybody talks— Everybody talks, everybody talks…”
Stiles jumped down from the couch, weaving through the party crowd with the confidence of someone who had absolutely no right to be this bold. He moved like he had a mission.
“It started with a whisper, And that was when I kissed her…”
He reached you.
Your eyes widened.
“And then she made my lips hurt…”
“Stiles—” you tried to warn, but his hand had already found yours.
“I could hear the chit-chat, Take me to your love shack…”
“Are you seriously doing this right now?” you whispered, flushed and breathless.
“Yup,” he grinned. “And I’m killing it.”
“Mama's always gotta backtrack When everybody talks back…”
He spun you once—clumsy but charming—and held you close, just enough for your heartbeat to skip. The music and crowd blurred into the background. It felt like just the two of you.
“Hey, honey, you could be my drug. You could be my new prescription…”
Your brain short-circuited.
His voice was still teasing, but his eyes? They weren’t joking anymore. They were serious. Nervous. Hopeful.
“Too much could be an overdose, All this trash talk make me itchin’— Oh my, my, shit—”
He didn’t trip.
He leaned in. Intentional. Slow.
And then he kissed you.
It wasn’t planned. It wasn’t smooth. It was awkward and fast and perfect.
The entire room exploded.
Someone screamed “FINALLY!” A drink hit the floor. Lydia just sipped her wine and muttered, “About damn time.”
You pulled back, breathless, dazed.
Stiles blinked—equally breathless. “Okay. That… definitely wasn’t choreographed.”
Your heart was pounding. “No kidding.”
“Everybody talks, everybody talks back…”
The music faded behind you, replaced by the roar of the party—
But nothing else faded.
Not his hand in yours. Not his eyes still locked on yours. Not the fact that he just kissed you in front of everyone.
And you liked it.