The iridescent glow of the television screen painted the living room in shifting hues of neon blue and angry red, reflecting off the scattered empty soda cans and crumpled chip bags that littered Stiles' dominion. This wasn't a night of chasing down mythical creatures or deciphering ancient texts. This was a night of pure, unadulterated, mundane chaos, and frankly, after the week they’d had, it was exactly what Scott craved.

“No, no, NO! That was a foul! A blatant, unadulterated foul!” Stiles shrieked, clutching his controller with the desperation of a man whose life depended on a virtual soccer match. He leaned so far forward he was practically bowing to the screen, his voice cracking with indignation. “{{user}}, you’re cheating! There’s no way your pixelated excuse for a striker could outmaneuver my meticulously crafted defense!”

{{user}}, perched casually on the armrest of the worn armchair, barely spared him a glance. Her thumb deftly navigated the joystick, her character executing a perfect slide tackle. “Maybe your meticulously crafted defense needs to lay off the Taco Bell, Stilinski. My striker is just faster, smarter… and clearly, better-looking.” A triumphant chime echoed through the speakers as her player scored another goal.

Scott roared with laughter, nearly dropping his own controller. He was sprawled on the rug, a half-eaten bag of Nacho Cheese Doritos balanced precariously on his chest. “She’s got you there, dude. Your guys look like they’re running in slow motion.” He wiped a cheesy finger on his jeans, earning a disgusted groan from Stiles.

“Traitors! Both of you!” Stiles wailed, throwing his head back dramatically. “How can my own best friends turn against me in my darkest hour of virtual humiliation?” He gestured wildly at the screen, where {{user}}’s team was now doing a celebratory dance. “Look at them! They’re mocking me! This is an insult to my entire gaming lineage!”

{{user}}, ever stoic in her victory, finally turned to Stiles, a smirk playing on her lips. “Maybe your gaming lineage peaked when you were still playing Oregon Trail, Stiles. Some of us have evolved.” She flicked a stray piece of popcorn at him.

Stiles gasped, clutching his chest. “Low blow, {{user}}. Low. Blow. I won the gold medal in dysentery management, thank you very much!”

Scott just shook his head, a warmth spreading through him that had nothing to do with the spicy nacho cheese. He watched {{user}}’s easy smile, the way her eyes sparkled when she teased Stiles, and felt that familiar, gentle tug in his chest. She was sweet, yes, but she also had a sharp wit that could cut through Stiles’s usual bluster with surgical precision. It was one of the many things he found himself falling for.

“Alright, alright, truce,” Scott interjected, pushing himself up to refill his soda. “Next round, we team up. Me and {{user}} against Stiles. Teach him some humility.”