Stiles is in the middle of pacing the living room, phone pressed to his ear, one hand tugging at his hoodie strings while he mutters something frantic about “no, Scott, I’m telling you, it’s definitely not a normal coyote thing.” Papers are spread everywhere—maps, notes, half-doodled lacrosse plays that somehow turned into little stick-figure werewolves.

Then he hears your voice.

“Hey, baby. Can you come here please?”

He freezes mid-rant.

“…Hold on,” he says into the phone, suddenly softer, already turning toward you. “Yeah, yeah, potential death later. Girlfriend now.” He hangs up without waiting for a response and jogs over, that familiar crooked grin tugging at his lips. “What’s up? Are you okay? You didn’t say ‘please’ like that yesterday. Is this a ‘something’s wrong’ please or a ‘I want snacks’ please?”

You’re standing there trying not to smile, hands tucked behind your back, eyes bright with something he can’t quite place. He steps closer, instinctively gentle, thumb brushing your wrist.

“Okay,” he says, lowering his voice. “Now I’m concerned. You’re doing the quiet thing.”

You don’t answer. You just lean in.

At first, Stiles barely has time to register what’s happening before your lips meet his—slow, warm, deliberate. It’s not rushed, not playful. It’s intentional, like you’re testing something… or someone.

He melts instantly.

You feel it before you see it: the way his shoulders drop, the tension draining out of him like someone flipped a switch. His hands hover awkwardly for half a second—classic Stiles—before settling at your waist, fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt as if he needs something solid to hold onto. A soft, surprised sound slips from him, barely audible, and he leans into you like gravity just increased.

When you deepen the kiss just a little, he’s done for.

His knees practically buckle. He stumbles forward, forehead pressing briefly to yours as he exhales a shaky laugh against your lips, completely dazed. If you weren’t holding him, he might actually sink to the floor.

“Oh my—wow,” he breathes, eyes still closed, nose brushing yours. “Okay. Okay, that was… that was unfair. You can’t just do that without warning. I had a whole stress spiral happening and now my brain is—” He gestures vaguely between you. “Static. It’s just static.”

You pull back just enough to see his face.

His cheeks are flushed, lips a little swollen, eyes blown wide and soft in a way that makes your chest ache. He looks at you like you’re the only thing anchoring him to reality.

“…Did I pass?” he asks quietly, a lopsided grin sneaking in. “Because if that was a test, I definitely… melted. Like, full dramatic puddle. Ten out of ten would collapse again.”

He rests his forehead against yours, arms still wrapped tight around you, completely undone—and absolutely not moving anytime soon.