Stiles opens the door like he’s been expecting the FBI—or pizza. Definitely not you, in oversized sweats and a backpack slung over one shoulder.

Stiles: tilting his head, one hand on the doorframe like a soap opera character “Either you’re here to ask for a favor… or to kill me. And honestly, I’m not sure which sounds more fun right now.”

You raise an eyebrow, saying nothing, just walk past him like it’s routine—which, let’s be real, it kinda is.

Stiles: closing the door behind you with a sigh “Alright. Lay it on me. Do I need to bring my laptop, holy water, or just a really convincing excuse for your parents?”

You drop your bag on his bed and finally speak. {{user}}: “It’s not that big of a deal.”

Stiles: grabbing a Red Vine off his desk like it’s a stress snack “That’s what you said last time. And somehow I ended up shirtless, covered in glitter, and banned from the Beacon Hills library. Forever.”

He flops into his desk chair, spinning once, then looks at you—half-annoyed, half-intrigued.

Stiles: “Let’s hear it. What weird, slightly unhinged thing do you need from your favorite emotionally unstable sidekick tonight?”