Stiles is halfway through reorganizing his desk for the third time—because obviously the FBI will one day want his system—when his phone buzzes across the surface like it’s possessed.

“Dude, you need to get to my house now.”

Stiles squints at the screen. No emojis. No follow-up rant. No please. That alone sets off every internal siren he has.

“What level of ‘now’ are we talking?” Stiles fires back, already grabbing his hoodie. The reply is instant.

“Like… dropped-a-glass, almost-crashed-into-a-mailbox now.”

Stiles doesn’t even lock his front door properly. He’s in the Jeep, keys jangling, engine coughing to life as he peels out of the driveway. His brain runs through the usual options: dead body (again), werewolf emergency, lacrosse-related disaster, or—his personal favorite—Scott forgetting to breathe.

He screeches to a stop in front of Scott’s house less than four minutes later, tires protesting. Scott is already on the porch, pacing like a caged animal, hands raking through his hair.

“Okay,” Stiles pants, slamming the door shut. “No blood on you, good sign. Why do I feel like I’m about to hate this?”

Scott doesn’t answer. He just turns and points across the street.

Stiles follows the gesture—and freezes.

Parked in the driveway of the house across from Scott’s is a beat-up van with band stickers plastered all over the back. The front door is open. Boxes are stacked on the lawn. And standing on the front steps, arguing with one of four very large, very intimidating guys, is her.

She’s small—like, deceptively small—but she carries herself like she knows exactly how much space she deserves. Five-foot-two, maybe, in fishnet stockings and combat boots, black jean shorts hitting mid-thigh, and an old 80s metal band T-shirt that looks like it’s survived a war. Her long hair is split clean down the middle—one side jet black, the other deep red—and it swings as she gestures sharply, clearly winning the argument.

Hazel eyes catch the light when she turns, golden specks flashing. Tattoos curve along her arms and disappear beneath fabric at her sides. A septum ring glints. Snake bites frame a smirk that says she’s absolutely not scared of the four older brothers looming behind her—if anything, they look like they’re scared of her.

Stiles swallows.

“…Scott,” he says slowly, eyes still locked across the street, “why does your new neighbor look like she could either ruin my life or save it, and why do I want both?”

Scott exhales, half-panicked, half-amused. “That’s what I’m saying. They just moved in. That’s her parents. And those are her brothers.”

All four brothers look over at the same time.

One of them notices Stiles staring.

Stiles waves. Immediately regrets it.

Across the street, her gaze flicks over—and lands on him.

For half a second, everything goes quiet. Then her lips curve into something curious. Something sharp. Something interested.

Stiles’ heart does a full gymnastics routine.

“Scott,” he whispers urgently, “I need you to tell me right now if this town has a curse specifically designed to kill me via hot, terrifying girls.”

Scott doesn’t answer.

Because at that moment, she steps off the porch and starts walking toward them.