Ride or Die

The second the DMV worker handed {{user}} her license, she gripped it like it was a sacred artifact. Her grin could’ve powered Beacon Hills for a week.

“I GOT IT!” she screamed as she spun on her heel, holding the card up.

Outside the glass window, Stiles, who had been awkwardly pacing with a Slurpee in hand, nearly choked on his straw.

“No way,” he mouthed, eyes wide. Then, louder, “NO FREAKING WAY!”

Seconds later, {{user}} came bursting through the doors. "Stilinski, get in. We’re going for a ride."

“But like, are you legally- okay yeah, yeah, I’m coming,” he said, half-panicked, half-proud, jogging after her as she jingled the keys to her mom’s ancient but loyal Honda Civic.

Inside the car, the engine rumbled to life. She adjusted her seat with a dramatic flair. “Seatbelt, Stilinski.”

“Already buckled,” he said, yanking on it to demonstrate. “Just, uh, maybe don’t go full Fast & Furious. You just got the license.”

“I earned this license,” she grinned. “And I will now use it to assert my independence. Starting with blasting Paramore.”

She cranked the volume and pulled out of the DMV lot with more confidence than skill. The car jerked slightly, but they were off.

Stiles screamed once.

Then laughed.

Then screamed again.

“You took that corner like you were in Mario Kart!”