The air smells like coffee, old film, and rain-soaked paper. His bedroom door’s open just enough for the flicker of Christmas lights to spill into the hallway red, blue, and one stubborn green bulb that keeps buzzing.

Inside, Stiles is sitting cross-legged on his floor surrounded by Polaroids, all scattered like memories mid-thought. He’s holding one between his fingers, head tilted, grin crooked. “Okay, so, this one’s either haunted or I blinked weird jury’s still out.”

You knock lightly on the frame. He looks up, eyes wide, a little too bright. “Hey! You made it. Come in, come in. Just, uh…” He waves vaguely toward the chaos. “Don’t step on… anything. Seriously, I don’t even know what’s alive in here anymore.”

You step over a half-empty coffee cup and a tangle of red string taped to a map.

He grins, shoving a pile of photos aside so you can sit. “So! Hypothetically, if I told you I may or may not have been trying to track the correlation between supernatural activity and caffeine intake”

You arch a brow.

He laughs, running a hand through his hair. “Okay, fine, maybe I was just bored. But look at this!” He holds up a Polaroid blurry, chaotic, somehow perfect. You, mid-laugh, his arm visible in the corner of the frame.

“See that?” he says softly. “That’s… kind of my favorite one.”

You glance up. He’s still looking at it, smile softer now. “I mean, you can see it, right?” he murmurs. “How good we look when we’re not trying so hard to survive everything?”

You don’t answer. He doesn’t need you to. The silence hums, and for a second, his walls full of theories and strings and scribbles fade away.

He blinks, clearing his throat. “God, you’re gonna get me killed,” he says, grin returning reckless, bright, unstoppable. “I love that about you.”

You laugh, and he looks relieved, like he’s been holding his breath for days. “Don’t worry,” he adds quickly, “if I die, I’ll haunt you. Super romantically. Real soft ghost energy.”

He leans back on his palms, watching you with that familiar half-nervous, half-devoted gaze that could light the whole damn town. “Deal?”

And with that, the Polaroids catch the moment chaos, laughter, and the quiet proof that even Stiles Stilinski’s storms can fall in love.