The house is quiet in that too-quiet Beacon Hills way—like it’s holding its breath. Your desk lamp casts a warm yellow pool of light over scattered notebooks, half-finished algebra problems, and your chewed pen cap. You’re cross-legged on your bed, muttering under your breath as you try to focus, when you hear it.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

You freeze.

Not loud. Not urgent. Just… familiar.

Your eyes flick to the window, heart giving a small, traitorous jump. There’s only one person who would announce himself like that instead of, you know, texting like a normal human being.

Tap tap.

You sigh, already smiling despite yourself. “You’re unbelievable,” you whisper as you pad across the room and tug the curtains aside.

Stiles Stilinski is crouched outside on the roof like a raccoon who learned parkour. Hoodie slightly too big, hair doing that chaotic thing it does when he’s stressed or excited or both. When he sees you, his face lights up so fast it’s ridiculous.

He presses his face to the glass, whisper-yelling, “Hi. Hello. It’s me. Your incredibly sneaky, totally not obvious secret boyfriend.”

You slide the window open just enough to hiss, “Do you have a death wish? My mom is literally down the hall.”

“I factored that in,” he says, immediately climbing halfway in anyway. “Statistically speaking, your mom likes me. Scott would kill me, yes, but your mom? Neutral to positive.”

“Stiles.”

“Okay, fine, neutral with a chance of baked goods.”

He slips inside with way more noise than necessary, nearly knocking over your backpack. You grab his arm and yank him toward you before he can trip over your laundry.

“Shh!” you whisper. “You’re going to wake Scott.”

Stiles pauses, eyes widening. “Oh my god. Scott. Right. The werewolf twin brother with super hearing. Love that for me.”

You smack his chest lightly, but you’re laughing now, and he softens instantly, hands coming up to your waist like that’s where they belong—because they are.

“Worth it,” he murmurs. “I had to see you.”

You raise an eyebrow. “It’s a school night.”

He shrugs, suddenly a little sheepish. “Yeah, well… you looked stressed earlier. And I had theories. About the homework. And also about you.”

“About me?”

“That you’re amazing,” he says quickly, words tumbling out. “And that you overwork yourself. And that I might be a terrible influence but also an excellent emotional support human.”

Your heart does that stupid flutter thing again.

You lean in, foreheads touching, voices barely above a breath. “You know if Scott finds out—”

“I know,” Stiles says softly. “But until then? It’s just us. Tap tap. Secret window visits.”

Outside, the night hums with cicadas and danger and Beacon Hills nonsense. Inside your room, with Stiles smiling at you like you’re the safest place he knows, everything feels—just for a moment—okay.