The house is quiet in that way Beacon Hills houses always are at night—too quiet, like it’s holding its breath. Your bedroom light is on, curtains half drawn, the familiar walls still feeling slightly alien even though you’ve been back for weeks now. You’re standing in front of the mirror, tugging a worn T-shirt over your head, hair damp from a shower meant to wash the day off you.

For a moment, you forget.

Forget the scars. Forget the past. Forget that this room used to feel safe, then didn’t, then did again.

The mirror catches your back before the shirt falls into place.

Pale lines crisscross your skin—some thin, some wider, some faded enough that you almost convince yourself they aren’t there unless the light hits them just right. They ladder over your shoulders, curve along your ribs, disappear beneath the waistband of your sleep shorts. Evidence of nights you survived. Of a man you don’t say out loud anymore.

You swallow and pull the shirt down quickly.

That’s when the window creaks.

It’s soft. Careful. A sound you’ve heard a hundred times growing up in Beacon Hills, even before everything went wrong. You freeze, heart jumping straight into your throat, then—

“Okay, before you scream, it’s just me,” a familiar voice whispers, rushed and breathless. “And if you do scream, I’m blaming Scott.”

You spin around.

Stiles Stilinski is halfway through your open window, one sneaker already on the floor, hoodie snagged on the frame. He looks the same as always—too tall, too skinny, eyes wide like he’s constantly bracing for impact. His mouth is already forming a crooked grin, ready with a joke you didn’t ask for.

Then his eyes flick up.

They catch you mid-turn. Catch the back of your shirt still not fully settled. Catch the pale map of scars you tried to hide.

The grin dies instantly.

“Oh,” Stiles says. It’s quiet. Barely a sound at all.

For a split second, neither of you move. The air feels heavy, thick, like it’s pressing in on your lungs. You feel exposed in a way that has nothing to do with skin and everything to do with truth.

You turn away sharply, yanking the shirt down the rest of the way. “Stiles—what are you doing here?” Your voice comes out steadier than you feel.

He doesn’t answer right away.

You hear his sneaker hit the floor properly. Hear the soft thud of the window closing behind him. When he finally speaks, the usual rapid-fire chaos is gone, replaced by something careful. Something restrained.

“I was… uh. Scott wasn’t answering his phone,” he says. “Which is illegal, by the way. And I saw your light on, and I thought—” He trails off.

You cross your arms over your chest, suddenly cold. “You’re not supposed to just—climb in.”

“I know,” he says quickly. “I know. I usually knock first. Or text. Or both. Or pace outside dramatically.”

Silence again.

Then, softer “He did that, didn’t he?”

Your stomach drops.

You don’t turn around.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” you say, immediately, the words automatic. Practiced.

“I won’t,” Stiles replies just as fast. “I swear. You don’t have to tell me anything. I just—” He swallows. You can hear it. “You shouldn’t have had to go through that.”

That almost breaks you.

Behind you, Stiles stays exactly where he is—no sudden movements, no jokes, no pushing. Just there. Like an anchor. Like if you turned around, he’d still be standing, solid and real, not looking at you like you’re fragile or ruined or something that needs fixing.

“You’re safe here,” he says quietly. “Okay? I promise.”