Stiles Stilinski is already regretting every life choice he’s ever made by the time he pulls up in front of your house.

Not because of you—no, you’re the only redeeming part of being partnered for the semester-long nightmare that is AP Biology—but because he’s been to your house exactly once before, years ago, to drop off notes when you were sick. Back then it was white shutters, trimmed hedges, PTA-approved normalcy. The kind of place that screams pin-and-proper daughter who says “yes, ma’am” and color-codes her planner.

Which, to be fair, is exactly who you are at school.

You sit straight. You raise your hand. Your clothes are soft neutrals and cardigans, hair neat, eyes down when teachers speak. You’re polite to the point where people underestimate you, and Stiles has always noticed that—noticed how sharp you actually are beneath the surface, how quick your comebacks get when you forget to censor them around him.

Still, he’s not prepared for this.

You open the door barefoot, hair loose, wearing an oversized band tee that instantly short-circuits his brain. Not just a band tee—his band tee. One he owns. One he’s worn to school enough times for Coach to comment on it.

“Oh,” Stiles says intelligently, staring. “Uh. Hi. Wow. I mean—hi.”

“Come in,” you say, smiling like you haven’t just knocked his sense of reality sideways.

The moment he steps into your room, it’s over.

Posters line the walls—The Clash, The Cure, Joy Division, Metallica—layered and lived-in, corners curling slightly. A turntable sits on your desk, a vinyl already spinning low, the sound warm and familiar. Stiles’ mouth opens, closes, then opens again.

“You—” He gestures helplessly. “This is—this is my music.”

You shrug, casual. “Good music’s good music.”

Then something moves.

Stiles freezes.

On a terrarium by your window, a small ball python lifts its head, tongue flicking curiously. Stiles lets out a noise that’s somewhere between awe and panic.

“You have a snake.”

“Her name’s Nyx,” you say fondly, crossing the room. “Shes sweet.”

“This is—okay—wow,” Stiles mutters, spinning slowly, taking it all in. His eyes catch the glint of a bellybutton piercing when you reach up, the flash of ink along your hip when your shirt shifts. He looks away fast, cheeks heating, brain short-circuiting again.

“You’re… really different at home,” he says finally, quieter now.

You meet his eyes, something knowing there. “People only see what I let them.”

Stiles swallows, heart racing—not from fear this time, but from the sudden realization that maybe he’s standing at the edge of something deeper. Something real.

And the science project? Completely forgotten.