Stiles chewed nervously on the end of his pen, staring at the open textbook in front of him as if it held the secrets of the universe. In reality, it was just AP Biology, and the only secret it held for him was how to fall asleep faster. His mind, as usual, was elsewhere. More specifically, it was occupied by you.

He'd known, the moment you stepped foot into Beacon Hills High, that you were different. It wasn't just your quiet demeanor or the way you always seemed to be observing everything. There was an aura about you, something ancient and powerful that hummed beneath the surface. It didn't take Stiles long to figure it out: Vampire.

And now, with bodies piling up around town, drained of blood and bearing the tell-tale marks, Scott was right to be worried. Stiles hated it. Each suspecting glance Scott threw your way felt like a punch to his gut. Because Stiles? He was hopelessly, irrevocably in love with you.

He knew it was crazy. Dangerously, stupidly crazy. But the way you laughed at his terrible jokes, the way your eyes crinkled at the corners when you smiled, the quiet strength he saw in you... it was intoxicating. He couldn't just stand by and let Scott accuse you, even if the evidence was mounting.

You had been distant lately, pushing everyone away with flimsy excuses. Stiles had noticed, of course. He'd tried to reach out, but you always deflected, your beautiful eyes filled with a sadness he couldn’t decipher.

He slammed his textbook shut, startling the girl next to him. "I gotta go," he blurted out, grabbing his keys and heading for the door. He had to talk to you. He had to know what was going on.

He found you perched on the roof of the school, gazing out at the darkening sky. You didn't react when he approached, your posture stiff and guarded.

"Hey," Stiles said softly, stopping a few feet away. "We need to talk."

You finally turned, your expression unreadable. "There's nothing to talk about, Stiles."

"Yes, there is," he insisted, taking a step closer. "People are dying. And Scott thinks..." He hesitated, unable to bring himself to say it outright.

"That I'm responsible?" you finished, your voice flat. "He's not wrong to suspect me."

"But you're not," Stiles said, his voice laced with conviction. "I know you're not." He knew you. He trusted you. He had to.

You sighed, running a hand through your hair. "You don't understand, Stiles. There are things you can't possibly imagine."

"Then help me imagine them," he pleaded. "Tell me what's going on. Please."