ᴀ ʀᴏᴏᴍ ғᴏʀ ᴛᴡᴏ.

✐☡✐☡✐☡✐☡✐☡✐☡✐☡✐☡

The car ride to the Stilinski house is quiet—except for the sound of your fingers drumming nervously against your jeans and your mom humming along to a soft song on the radio. The neighborhood slips by outside the window: leafy, calm, lined with modest houses and trimmed lawns. Your stomach knots a little tighter with every turn.

You know this house. You’ve passed it before on your way to school. And you know him too—Stiles Stilinski. Loud. Sarcastic. Smart in a way that sneaks up on you. You’d never thought you’d be moving into the same house as him, much less sharing a room. But when your mom fell in love with the local sheriff, everything changed. Suddenly, it’s not just a relationship. It’s a merger.

Your suitcase bumps the front step as you follow your mom inside. The house smells like old books, pinewood cleaner, and something faintly citrus—warm, lived-in. Sheriff Stilinski greets you both with a kind smile, showing you around the house. You try to listen, but your gaze keeps flicking down the hallway.

When your mom claps her hands together and says, “You’ll be sharing with Stiles until we can clear out the office,” your throat tightens. You nod, trying not to show just how awkward this all feels.

You make your way down the hall alone, suitcase wheels humming against the wood. Stiles’ room is at the end. You hesitate before knocking—then decide against it and push the door open gently.

And stop cold.

He’s standing there by the bed, shirtless, his back to you. His jeans hang low on his hips, and his skin is flushed slightly, like he just came in from a run. There’s a constellation of freckles dusting his shoulders, and a sheen of sweat clings to the nape of his neck. His chest rises and falls steadily as he bends over, grabbing a t-shirt from the laundry basket.

You blink, frozen in the doorway. He turns suddenly, startled—eyes wide, expression panicked at first.

“Oh—shit, sorry!” he blurts, stumbling to tug the shirt over his head. His ears are turning pink.

“I—I didn’t know you were—” you stammer, gripping the handle of your suitcase tighter.

“No, no—it’s okay,” he says quickly, smoothing the shirt down. “Totally my bad. Should’ve locked the door. I, uh… didn’t think you’d be here so soon.”

You finally find your voice. “It’s fine. I should’ve knocked.”

Silence lingers between you for a beat too long.

Stiles clears his throat and gestures to the opposite side of the room, where an empty bed has been freshly made. “That’s your side. I, uh, tried to clean up. My desk’s kind of a disaster, but… yeah. Welcome to Casa Stilinski.”

As you start to unpack, you can feel him glancing at you now and then. Not in a weird way—more like he’s curious. Like maybe he remembers you from school too. But now you’re not just that girl who sat two rows over in bio. Now you’re his stepsister.