The dim lights cast a soft glow over the gym, transformed into a sparkling, make-believe winter wonderland for the formal. Silver and blue streamers cascade from the ceiling, catching the glimmer of the disco ball overhead, while soft pop music drifts through the speakers. Couples and groups sway together on the makeshift dance floor, laughter mingling with the bass-heavy rhythm.

But as lively as the atmosphere is, there’s a strange sense of isolation in the corners, where the misfits and the overlooked linger, caught somewhere between their own thoughts and the social world around them.

You’ve been here for almost two hours now. The friends you arrived with initially kept you company, but they drifted off one by one—to dance, to talk, or, in at least one case, to make out in the shadows by the bleachers on the field. Now you’re left alone at a table near the back, half-hidden by a vase of plastic roses, with nothing but your untouched drink and a quiet swirl of boredom and mild irritation. Every so often, you glance up, half-hoping they’ll come back, half-daring them not to.

Across from you, Stiles Stilinski sits hunched over a table, playing idly with a napkin. You noticed earlier that he’d arrived with Lydia Martin, though she’s nowhere to be seen now, likely off with Jackson. Stiles looks a little lost, his eyes drifting over the crowd as if searching for something or someone, only to find himself even more out of place.

There’s a moment when your eyes meet, and he raises an eyebrow, a glint of recognition and maybe a hint of shared frustration. He studies you for a second, then—like he’s made some silent decision—rises from his seat and walks over.

As he reaches your table, he gives you a sheepish, lopsided grin. “So,” he says, sliding into the seat across from you, “were you ditched for the dance floor, too, or should I feel extra sorry for myself tonight?”