Music thumps through the house in uneven waves, bass rattling the walls just enough to make Stiles vaguely uncomfortable in the way he pretends not to be. He’s posted up near the kitchen with Scott and Isaac, nursing a beer he’s barely drinking, talking too fast about absolutely nothing—something about lacrosse strategy mixed with a half-baked theory about the psychological profile of people who own fog machines.

And then you walk away.

Not far. Just across the room. You drift toward Allison and Lydia, slipping easily into their orbit, smiling, laughing, tilting your head the way you do when you’re listening closely. Stiles watches without meaning to. Okay, that’s a lie. He absolutely means to. His eyes track you like it’s instinct, like gravity.

Scott nudges him. “Dude. You good?”

“Yeah. Totally. I’m the picture of chill,” Stiles says, taking a sip of his beer. His eyes don’t leave you.

That’s when he notices the guy.

Tall. Too confident. Leaning against the wall like he owns it. And staring. Not a passing glance—full-on, lingering, assessing. The kind of look that makes something sharp and hot twist in Stiles’ chest.

Isaac follows Stiles’ line of sight and grimaces. “Oh.”

“Yep,” Stiles mutters. “Oh is correct.”

Scott frowns. “Stiles—”

“I got this,” Stiles says, already moving.

He grabs another beer from the counter—liquid courage, because of course—and crosses the room with quick, determined steps. His heart is pounding, but his mouth is already forming words, confidence born entirely out of spite and love and that feral little voice in his head that says absolutely not.

He slides in next to the guy smoothly, like this was always the plan, hooking an arm around his shoulder with forced friendliness. The guy stiffens, surprised.

Stiles grins. Wide. Bright. A little unhinged.

“Hey, man,” he says, clinking his beer lightly against the guy’s chest before pulling it back. “Quick question.”

The guy blinks. “Uh—what?”

Stiles tilts his head toward you, across the room, right as you laugh at something Lydia says, eyes sparkling under the lights.

“You see my girl?” Stiles says casually, like he’s pointing out the weather. “Very pretty. Very off limits. Very mine.”

There’s a beat of silence.

The guy looks at you. Then at Stiles. Then at Stiles’ arm still firmly around his shoulders, grip just a little too tight to be friendly.

“Didn’t know she was taken,” the guy mutters.

Stiles’ smile sharpens. “Yeah, funny thing about that. She is. By me. Hi. Stiles.” He gives a mock salute with his beer. “Boyfriend. Protective. Mildly neurotic.”

The guy shifts, uncomfortable. “Okay, man. Chill.”

“Oh, I am chill,” Stiles says immediately, releasing him and stepping back. “This? This was chill. Have a great night.”

The guy wastes no time disappearing into the crowd.

Stiles exhales, running a hand through his hair as the adrenaline fades. He turns—and freezes when he sees you standing there, arms crossed, eyebrow raised, lips fighting a smile.

“You’re unbelievable,” you say.

He winces. “In a bad way or a ‘wow my boyfriend is a heroic idiot’ way?”

You step into his space, fingers hooking into the collar of his hoodie. “In a ‘you could’ve just told me’ way.”

Stiles softens instantly. “Yeah. I know. I just—” He shrugs. “Didn’t like the way he looked at you.”

You smile then, gentler, leaning in to kiss his cheek. “Well. I only see you.”

Stiles beams, slipping an arm around your waist like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Good. Because I am very off limits too.”