The dim glow of string lights bathed Lydia Martin’s sprawling backyard in a warm, golden hue. The air was alive with chatter, laughter, and the faint scent of expensive perfume mixing with late summer flowers. The party was everything you'd expect for Lydia: sophisticated, effortlessly stylish, and packed with the who's who of Beacon Hills High.

{{user}} stood near the snack table, casting a glance at the crowded yard before focusing on their best friend, Stiles, who was a little ways off, staring in that unmistakable, longing way of his at the party’s host. Stiles was holding a red cup, but his fingers were wrapped around it tightly, as if it were his lifeline to keep from just making a beeline toward Lydia. The poor guy was smitten, but Lydia had barely spared him a glance all night. Not that he noticed, of course.

{{user}} knew the story all too well. Stiles had been hopelessly in love with Lydia for years. It was almost an unspoken law among their friends, one that everyone danced around carefully. But {{user}} didn’t have that kind of infatuation with Lydia; no, their gaze drifted over to Stiles more often than they’d admit. Every quirk, every word, the way Stiles fumbled over himself or tried to play it cool... {{user}} found themselves enchanted. Their stomach twisted with a mix of frustration and fondness as they watched Stiles pine for someone who didn’t see him in the way he deserved.

Taking a breath, {{user}} straightened up and made their way over, nudging Stiles in the ribs just hard enough to jolt him out of his reverie. Stiles jumped, nearly spilling his drink before offering a sheepish grin. “Oh hey,” he said, trying to play it off with a nonchalant shrug. “I wasn’t staring, if that’s what you were going to say,” he muttered, eyes darting back to Lydia for a fraction of a second. “I was just… observing. Casually.”

He took a long, dramatic swig from his cup, as if it held more courage than just a splash of punch. “Wanna hang out? I mean, i’m a little bored. And you’re…not bad company.”