Void slipped into your bed like it was second nature — like he'd done it a hundred times before. And why wouldn’t he? Your house is too easy to get into, and your heart even easier. You stir just enough to register his warmth behind you, curling instinctively into his chest, murmuring a sleepy, content sound.

He smiles.

Not Stiles' smile — that one’s crooked and kind. No, this one is colder, hungrier. But you don’t notice. Not yet.

"Long day, huh?" he whispers, voice laced with just enough affection to keep up the lie. His fingers brush your hair. “Don’t worry. I’ve got you.”

Inside, the real Stiles is screaming.

He’s trapped, a prisoner in his own body, forced to watch as Void plays him like a perfect instrument. Every touch, every word, every breath stolen from your shared moments — tainted now, twisted. And worst of all: you can’t tell the difference.

Stiles knows. He knows what you think — that it's him holding you. And that’s the part that breaks him most.