The McCall house breathed the kind of stillness that only came late at night, when the world outside quieted and every creak of wood or hum of the refrigerator seemed louder than it should be. The air was heavy with that humid summer weight that clung to skin, sticky and slow, even as a soft breeze, scented of pine, drifted through a cracked window, making the thin curtains flutter. The McCall house had always been a kind of unspoken sage zone, a neutral ground amid chaos. Tonight, though, the house carried weight. Not from noise, but from silence.

It was after nine. Scott’s mom was on night shift, and the only sign of her was the scent of hospital soap lingering faintly near the stairs. The sun had long since slipped below the tree line, and Beacon Hills was deep in its usual, uneasy quiet, the kind that came before something broke. Inside, the living room lights were dimmed, a single warm lamp casting long shadows, which stretched across the worn carpet and cluttered coffee table. Pizza boxes sat half-closed, grease staining the lids, and an empty glass teetered on the edge of the wooden coffee table. The television was off, but the blue screen of Stiles’ open laptop pulsed gently in sleep mode, illuminating the corner of the table like a distant lighthouse.

Lydia perched on the arm of the couch, still in her fitted blazer from school, legs crossed tightly, fingers absentmindedly swiping at the tablet thaf hadn’t updated in twenty minutes. Her expression was unreadable, her jaw set and her eyes flicking from one face to the next.

Malia sat on the floor, spine straight against the armchair as she picked at the frayed hem of her sleeve. Her boots were muddy, her shirt stretched at the shoulder, and though she said nothing, her fingers twitched wirh the urge to move, to do something.

Liam had claimed the far end of the couch, slouched with his hoodie up, his eyes cast downward and his jaw set tight. His legs bounced slightly, not enough to be distracting, but enough to betray nerves.

Stiles lounged in the recliner, the one that still smelled faintly of aftershave and a decade of stale coffee. His legs were kicked out in front of him, arms folded across his chest, a spiral notebook balanced on his lap. He hadn’t written a word. He hadn’t needed to. His eyes rested solely on Scott.

Scott stood near the archway leading to the hallway, arms folded, eyes half-glazed with thought. His shoulders were tense, like every breath carried the weight of a decision not yet made. He hadn’t said much since everyone arrived, and yet his silence spoke loudest of all.

There was a stillness in the air, charged and waiting. The kind of quiet that came before something cracked.

And then, soft footsteps on the hardwood flooring, creeping closer before you appear in the archway of the living room, standing by Scott as all eyes turn to you. Your presence broke some of the tension in the room, your hair messy from your failed sleeping attempts in Scott’s guest room.

Upon seeing you, Liam visibly relaxes, his gaze softening and Lydia offers you a warm smile, setting her iPad on the couch beside her. Malia eventually stops fidgeting, tilting her head slightly as she watches you. Scott tilted his head slightly, his expression calm as he patiently waited for you to speak.

Stiles perked up from the recliner chair, confusion etched into his expression as he discarded his notebook onto the clustered coffee table, turning his body to face you. “{{user}}? What’re you doing up?”