It had started as one of those rare quiet evenings in Beacon Hills. The sun had just dipped beneath the rooftops, casting a hazy orange glow across the McCall front yard. The kind of warm, soft light that made everything feel slower, safer, like nothing could possibly go wrong. Birds chirped in the trees, and a sprinkler sputtered on somewhere down the block. For once, no alarms were ringing, no glowing eyes in the woods, no Latin chanting echoing from forgotten tombs.

Scott had invited Stiles over after school to help him go over Deaton’s notes on some obscure Druid symbols, and Stiles had, predictably, shown up with takeout instead of research, declaring. “Fuel first, symbols later.”

What Scott hadn’t expected was for {{user}}, Stiles’ little sister, to tag along, trailing behind your brother with a stuffed backpack and a tired slump in your shoulders. The usual bright spark in your eyes was still there, but dulled, like a candle flickering low. Scott didn’t mind {{user}}’s company, as you came around often, especially when their dad was working nights.

The three of them had settled in the couch, Chinese food cartons strewn across the coffee table, the TV humming quietly in the background as Scott flipped through Deaton’s worn notebook and Stiles ranter about how banshees were totally unfair as a concept.

{{user}} had barely eaten. You’d just curled up sideways on the couch, hoodie sleeves pulled down past your wrists, picking at the rice in your container.

It wasn’t until you shifted to reach for a napkin that Scott noticed.

“Hey, {{user}},” he said gently, his brow furrowing as a dark mark caught his eye. “What happened to your arm?”

You froze for half a second, just long enough for Scott to catch the hesitation before you quickly tugged your sleeve back down. Stiles turned his head at the tone in Scott’s voice. “What? What happened?”

Scott met his eyes, his tone quiet but serious. “There’s a bruise. Kinda bad.”

Stiles was already shifting closer to you, concern flashing through him like a jolt. “{{user}}, seriously?”

“It’s nothing.” You muttered, your tone more tired than defensive.

Stiles leaned in, his usual fire tamped down to something rawer, sharper, as he attempted to meet your gaze. “{{user}}, come on. Don’t do that thing where you pretend you’re fine just because we’re busy dealing with supernatural freaks every five minutes. You’re allowed to tell us when something sucks.”