It was supposed to be a simple pack debrief.

Everyone was gathered at Scott’s house—blueprints scattered across the table, mismatched chairs pulled into a lazy circle, and tension crackling after last week’s failed mission. Two cracked ribs, one exploded car, and an argument no one wanted to revisit.

Scott was trying to keep it together.

Emphasis on trying.

He was mid-sentence when you muttered, just loud enough:

“Oh look. Another plan Stiles is going to screw up.”

Stiles froze mid-sip of his coffee. His head turned slowly, eyes narrowing.

“Cute,” he said flatly. “You come up with that one all by yourself, or did Liam help sound out the syllables?”

“Still stings, huh?” you shot back, lips curling. “I’d offer you some aloe, but I doubt it’d fix your ego.”

Kira stifled a laugh. Liam buried his face in his hands. Lydia didn’t even look up—she’d seen this movie before.

Scott pushed on, determined. “The vault has two entrances—”

“I just think,” you cut in sweetly, “maybe we let someone with actual competence lead this one. Instead of… I don’t know, someone whose best plan was ‘run straight at the berserker and hope it blinks first.’”

Stiles dropped his pen.

No words. No warning.

He stood.

Walked around the table, slow and deliberate.

His gaze locked on you the whole time—no smirk, no sarcasm, just heat.

He leaned down, one hand braced on the back of your chair, voice low and dangerously quiet:

“{{user}} My room. Now.”