The front door creaked softly as it opened, and Stiles froze halfway inside, one hand still on the knob.

For a second, he thought he’d walked into the wrong house.

You were sitting on the living room floor, legs crossed, hair a little messy, a pastel blanket spread out in front of you. In the center of it lay a chubby, wide-eyed six-month-old, propped on his elbows, drool shining on his chin like he’d just discovered a new element.

You didn’t notice Stiles at first.

You leaned forward, crossed your eyes dramatically, and puffed your cheeks out.

“Brrrrrrp,” you whispered, blowing a raspberry.

The baby exploded into giggles.

Not polite giggles. Full-body, squealing, hiccupping laughter that made his arms flail like he was trying to take flight.

You gasped theatrically. “Oh! Was that funny? Was Auntie hilarious just now?”

You made another ridiculous face, tongue out, eyes wide.

More giggles. Louder this time.

Stiles stared.

His brain did that thing where it stopped working completely.

This was not the version of you he was prepared for.

He was used to you in hoodies, biting your nails when you were nervous, rolling your eyes at his rants, standing beside him in the middle of supernatural chaos. He was not used to you… like this. Soft-voiced. Smiling without restraint. Entirely focused on a tiny human who clearly thought you were the funniest person alive.

You picked up a plush giraffe and made it “walk” across the blanket.

“Excuse me, sir,” you said in a ridiculous deep voice. “Have you seen my missing cookie?”

The giraffe bonked the baby’s nose.

The baby shrieked with laughter.

Stiles finally let out a sound—something between a gasp and a choke.

You startled and looked up.

“Oh—Stiles!” you whispered, eyes widening. “You scared me.”

He took two slow steps into the room, still staring at you like you’d just revealed a secret identity.

“I… hi,” he said weakly. “So. This is happening.”

You smiled, a little sheepish. “My sister asked me to watch him for a few hours. He’s been in a really good mood.”

As if on cue, the baby turned his attention to Stiles and blinked at him, curious.

Stiles crouched a few feet away, hands braced on his knees.

“That’s… a very small person,” he said quietly.

You laughed. “His name’s Noah.”

Stiles flinched. “Why would you do that to me emotionally.”

You rolled your eyes and gently scooted closer to him, guiding the baby’s attention back to the giraffe.

“He likes faces,” you murmured. “And voices. Watch.”

You made another soft, ridiculous noise, something halfway between a chirp and a hiccup.

The baby giggled again.

Stiles felt his chest do something very dangerous.

“You’re… really good at this,” he said, almost to himself.

You glanced up at him, surprised. “At babysitting?”

“No,” he said. “At… being like this.”

He gestured vaguely at you. The floor. The baby. The moment.

You smiled, softer this time.

“Well,” you said, “someone has to teach him the important things. Like how to laugh at stupid noises.”

The baby squealed again, and Stiles finally sat down beside you, carefully, like he was afraid to disturb the scene.

And for once, his mind was completely, blissfully quiet.