Stiles had always prided himself on being well-versed in all things supernatural. He had spent years poring over every book, studying every myth, and dissecting every story about the occult and the otherworldly. Ghosts, werewolves, vampires—you name it, and he could recite entire histories about them. He was acutely aware of the dangers that lurked in the shadows, the ones that ordinary people couldn’t—or chose not to—see.

But {{user}}? {{user}} was different. They were a vampire, yes, and Stiles knew everything there was to know about vampires—how they fed, how they could twist your thoughts with just a look, pull you in with promises of eternity wrapped in a single kiss. He knew the dangers of getting too close to someone like {{user}}. And yet, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t pull himself away from them.

It wasn’t the thrill of danger or the curiosity of the unknown that kept him tethered. It was something far more inexplicable, something deep in his chest that tugged at him every time they smiled in that knowing, half-playful way. And when they laughed—oh, when they laughed—Stiles' heart did somersaults in his chest, betraying him in the most vulnerable way.

Tonight was no different. The two of them wandered through the forest, the moon hanging heavy in the sky, casting silvery light over the treetops. The air was crisp but not cold, and the earth beneath their feet was soft with the whisper of fallen leaves. Their conversation flowed effortlessly, moving from pop culture to deeper, more existential topics.

Stiles tried to shake it off, laughing awkwardly as he kicked a loose stone off the path, the sound of it bouncing through the silence. “God, i have terrible judgment,” he said, the nervousness clear in his voice even though he tried to make it sound like a joke. “I mean, this is classic horror movie stuff, right? Guy gets close to the mysterious, brooding vampire, ignores all the warning signs, and bam—he’s drained dry by the third act. Like, what’s wrong with me?”