The house was quiet in that late-night way that only Beacon Hills ever seemed to be—crickets humming outside, the low buzz of the refrigerator downstairs, the distant murmur of a police radio drifting faintly from the kitchen where the sheriff had left it charging.

You were curled up in Stiles’ bed, knees tucked to your chest, one of his flannels slipping down your shoulder. It smelled like laundry detergent and something distinctly him—warm and safe and grounding. Your hair spilled over your face in soft curls, shielding you from a world that always felt a little too sharp.

Stiles leaned against his headboard beside you, long legs stretched out, laptop forgotten somewhere near his knee. He wasn’t rambling for once. Wasn’t pacing. Wasn’t spiraling about supernatural threats or algebra homework or whether Scott had texted him back.

He was just… there.

Watching you.

“You know,” he murmured softly, like he was afraid to disturb something fragile, “I think my bed likes you more than me.”

Your eyes flicked up at him for barely a second before darting away again. A small, shy crease formed between your brows. “It’s your bed,” you whispered.

“Technically,” he said. “But you sleep better in it. Therefore, it’s yours.”

You shifted slightly, instinctively making yourself smaller, like you were apologizing for taking up space. Stiles noticed immediately. He always did.

“Hey,” he said gently, nudging your ankle with his socked foot. “None of that.”

You blinked. “None of what?”

“The shrinking thing.” His voice was soft, but firm in that quiet way only you ever heard. “You’re allowed to exist. Full size. Maximum occupancy.”

A faint smile tugged at your lips, hesitant and unsure. You reached for his hand without looking at him, fingers slipping into his like it was the most natural thing in the world. It kind of was.

Being with Stiles felt like breathing out after holding it too long.

He intertwined your fingers carefully, thumb brushing over your knuckles in absentminded circles. He never held you too tight. Never startled you. Never grabbed. Everything with him was measured and mindful.

Downstairs, the front door creaked open and shut. The sheriff was home.

You tensed automatically.

Stiles felt it before he even heard the keys hit the counter.

“It’s okay,” he murmured. “He won’t come up.”

You nodded, though your shoulders remained stiff. Your dad’s footsteps used to mean something very different. Loud. Heavy. Unpredictable.

Stiles shifted closer instead, pressing his forehead lightly to your temple. Not demanding eye contact. Just grounding you.

“You can stay,” he whispered. “Like always.”

You stayed most nights now. The sheriff had long since stopped questioning it. If anything, he’d started leaving extra cereal in the pantry. Sometimes he’d knock gently before leaving for work in the mornings, offering a quiet, “Morning, kid,” like you’d always belonged there.

Stiles squeezed your hand when he felt your breathing steady.

“You know we’re kind of the same person, right?” he said quietly.

Your lips curved faintly. “You talk more.”

“Okay, rude but accurate.” He huffed softly. “But I mean it. Moms gone. Dads trying their best in their own complicated, emotionally constipated ways. We both overthink. We both flinch at loud noises.”

You turned your face slightly, finally meeting his eyes for more than a heartbeat. They were warm. Steady. A little sad around the edges, but kind.

“You make it easier,” you admitted in a whisper.

His expression softened instantly.

“You make it quieter,” he replied.

He reached up slowly, giving you plenty of time to pull away if you wanted, and brushed a curl back from your face. His knuckles grazed your cheek gently, reverently, like you were something precious.

Not fragile.

Precious.

“You’re safe here,” he said, not as a promise he hoped to keep—but as a fact.