The knock at the front door is soft. Too soft.

Stiles barely registers it at first, too busy hunched over his desk, highlighter clenched between his teeth as he mutters about trigonometry being a government conspiracy. The knock comes again—hesitant, uneven. His spine straightens.

“Nope,” he mutters, glancing at the clock. “No one good knocks like that after ten.”

He pads down the stairs anyway, socks sliding on the hardwood, already rehearsing his annoyed greeting. When he pulls the door open, every sarcastic remark evaporates on his tongue.

It’s you.

Scott’s twin. His best friend. The girl he’s been in love with for years and has very carefully never said out loud.

Your hair is tangled, jacket thrown on wrong like you didn’t think about it. Your lower lip is split, swollen and red, and there’s a bruise already blooming across your cheekbone. Tears streak your face, eyes glassy and unfocused like you’ve been crying so hard you forgot how to stop.

Stiles’ brain completely short-circuits.

“I—” your voice cracks immediately. You swallow, hands twisting in the sleeves of your hoodie. “I—I didn’t know where else to go…”

That’s all it takes.

Stiles steps back instantly, hands shaking as he ushers you inside, slamming the door shut behind you like he can keep the rest of the world out by force alone.

“Hey—hey, hey,” he says, too fast, too loud, panic leaking through every word. “You’re okay. You’re here. You’re—” He stops when he sees you flinch at the volume. His voice softens. “You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

Only then does he really look at you, really see the damage, and something dark and dangerous coils in his chest.

“Did he—” His jaw tightens. “Did he do this?”

You nod. Just once. Like it costs you everything.

“I found out he was cheating,” you whisper. “I didn’t even yell. I just… asked. And he said I was crazy. That I was making it up. Then he—” Your breath hitches, and suddenly you’re crying again, shoulders shaking. “I tried to leave.”

Stiles doesn’t think. He just moves.

He pulls you into his chest, one arm around your shoulders, the other cradling the back of your head like you’re something fragile and precious and breakable. He smells your shampoo underneath the coppery tang of blood, and his hands curl into fists as he holds you.

“I’m gonna kill him,” he says quietly into your hair. Not joking. Not exaggerating.

Then, softer, steadier, like he’s anchoring both of you “But not tonight. Tonight you stay here. I’ll get ice. I’ll get my dad. We’ll take care of you, okay?”

You nod again, clinging to his shirt like he’s the only solid thing left in the world.

And as Stiles rests his chin against your head, heart pounding, one thought burns louder than all the rest

No one ever gets to hurt you again. Not while I’m breathing.