Stiles’ blue Jeep sits in silence at the edge of the Beacon Hills Preserve, headlights casting long shadows that stretch into the dark, dense line of trees just beyond. You’re in the passenger seat, gaze trailing along the edges of the forest, where every rustle of branches seems to hint at something lurking just out of sight.

Inside the Jeep, the air is still, holding the faint scent of worn leather mixed with pine drifting in from the cracked window.

Stiles is talking beside you, his words fast and laced with that familiar nervous energy, his fingers tapping an absent rhythm against the steering wheel as if the silence around you is something he can beat back. He’s mapping out theories in that way only he can—quick jumps from one thought to the next, weaving a line between his trademark sarcasm and genuine worry.

You’re looking for a pack of rogue werewolves rumored to be using the Preserve as their hunting ground.

A metal baseball bat rests on the floor between your legs, your fingers occasionally brushing its cool surface. It’s been like this since sophomore year, the two of you thrown into the most improbable situations until all of it felt natural. The proximity, the trust, the unspoken understanding—it all comes easy.

“You know,” he says, and you shift in your seat to meet his eyes. “We really need to talk to Scott about getting more… qualified backup. You know, like people who aren’t terrified of being mauled in the dark.”

His eyes are bright, a familiar smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. You laugh, rolling your eyes at him, (“Don’t jinx us”) but his words feel oddly grounding tonight.