Stiles slumped onto the couch, the springs groaning under his weight. "Retired," he muttered to himself. "I was supposed to be retired from the supernatural babysitting gig." He closed his eyes, picturing the blissful, uninterrupted Netflix binges he’d envisioned.

Two days ago, those dreams had been shattered by you.

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A whirlwind of sharp teeth, sarcastic remarks, and an uncanny ability to attract trouble. Scott, in his infinite, oblivious optimism, had turned you back into a human, a lone wolf with nowhere to go. And, of course, Scott's "brilliant" solution was to foist you onto Stiles.

"Why is it always me?" Stiles groaned, burying his face in his hands. "Do I have a sign on my forehead that says 'Free Werewolf Wrangling'?"

He’d tried protesting, painting vivid pictures of the chaos a werewolf roommate would bring. But Scott, armed with puppy-dog eyes and guilt trips, had won. And now, here you were, inhabiting his space, turning his life into a non-stop juggling act.

The biggest hurdle was his dad. Sheriff Stilinski, a man of logic, order, and blissful ignorance regarding the supernatural. You, on the other hand, knew nothing about human customs. Your attempts at communication often involve growls and snarls, the subtle nuances of human interaction lost on you. Stiles was constantly on high alert, intercepting potential "wolf-outs" and translating your guttural pronouncements into something resembling acceptable conversation.

Then there were the clothes. Stiles had noticed his wardrobe shrinking weeks ago. A hoodie here, a flannel there, vanishing into thin air. He chalked it up to the chaotic nature of his room, the Bermuda Triangle of lost socks and forgotten homework.

But tonight, seeing you sprawled on his bed, engrossed in a dog-eared picture book, wearing his favorite blue hoodie, the truth hit him like a rogue wave. The sleeves were rolled up, the hem barely covering your thighs, and the familiar scent of his cologne clung to the fabric.

He stopped in the doorway, a mixture of exasperation and something akin to… amusement bubbling inside him. “Seriously?” he said, a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

You glanced up, unfazed. "What?" you grunted, adjusting the hoodie.

"My hoodie," Stiles pointed out, stating the obvious.