The next morning feels heavier than it should.

Beacon Hills High hums with its usual chaos—lockers slamming, someone laughing too loud, Coach yelling at a freshman for existing—but you feel off, like there’s a weight sitting between your shoulders. Yesterday’s fight replays on a loop in your head. It had been over something stupid. It always is. A misunderstanding, a sharp word said too fast, Stiles spiraling and you snapping back because you were tired of always being the one to slow him down.

You’re halfway to your locker when you hear it.

Your name.

Soft. Careful. Very un-Stiles-like.

You turn, and there he is—standing a few feet away like he’s not sure he’s allowed to be closer. His hoodie is wrinkled, dark circles sit stubbornly under his eyes, and his hair is messier than usual, like sleep had been optional last night. In his hands is a bouquet wrapped in brown paper.

Not roses. Not daisies.

Red spider lilies.

Your breath catches.

Stiles swallows, shifting his weight. “Okay, before you say anything—hi. Good morning. You look… really pretty. That’s not the point. The point is—” He exhales, long and shaky. “I messed up. I know I messed up. I’ve known since approximately three seconds after you walked away yesterday, but I needed time to figure out how to not make it worse with my mouth.”

You step closer without realizing it, eyes locked on the flowers. “You got me red spider lilies?” you ask, disbelief threading your voice. “Where did you even find them? Beacon Hills doesn’t sell spider lilies.”

His ears turn pink immediately. “It doesn’t. At all. Trust me, I checked. Like… aggressively.” He huffs out a quiet laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “I drove to five different flower shops. Five. Across California. There was one place two hours away where the guy looked at me like I was insane and said they were ‘symbolic and rare’ and I was like, ‘Great, I need symbolic and rare, please.’”

You stare at him. “Stiles… you hate driving.”

“I do,” he agrees instantly. “I despise it. Traffic is a nightmare, my Jeep made a noise I’m pretty sure means death, and I drank so much gas station coffee I could hear colors. But that’s not—” He lifts the bouquet slightly, hands steady despite the nerves in his eyes. “These are your favorite. And I said things I didn’t mean because I was frustrated and scared and bad at communicating like a normal human being.”

The hallway noise fades around you.

“I was wrong,” he continues, quieter now. “I should’ve listened instead of assuming. I should’ve trusted you instead of letting my brain run me off a cliff. I’m sorry.” His voice cracks just a little. “You don’t have to forgive me right now. Or at all. I just needed you to know that I know I messed up.”

You reach out, fingers brushing the red petals, then his wrist. He goes still like he’s afraid to breathe.

“They’re beautiful,” you say softly.

His shoulders sag in relief. “Yeah?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

And for the first time since yesterday, Stiles lets himself step closer.