The engine of Stiles Stilinski’s Jeep ticked softly as it cooled, the faint metallic sounds blending with the quiet hum of the woods around you. Moonlight filtered through the trees, spilling in through the windows in pale streaks that caught on dust motes and the edges of his flannel. It was quiet out here—too quiet for Beacon Hills, honestly—but neither of you were thinking about that right now.

Not when you were half in his lap, your hands tangled in his hair, and his lips were pressed against yours like he’d forget how to breathe if he pulled away.

Stiles had been rambling ten minutes ago—something about Scott, and lacrosse, and a theory involving supernatural patterns that made absolutely no sense—and now he was completely, blissfully silent. Which, honestly, might’ve been the most shocking part of this entire situation.

His hands rested on your waist, fingers curling slightly into the fabric of your shirt like he wasn’t entirely sure what to do with them but knew he didn’t want to let go.

You leaned into him for a second longer before suddenly pulling back, just enough to make him pause, blinking at you like someone had just unplugged his brain mid-thought.

“What do you think you’re doing?” you asked, one eyebrow lifting.

Stiles froze.

“…What do you mean?” he said slowly, like this might be a trick question. With you, it usually was.

You tilted your head, glancing pointedly downward. “I mean your hands.”

That did not help.

His eyes flicked down, then back up at you, confusion deepening. “They’re… on your waist.”

“I know,” you said, like he was missing something painfully obvious. “That’s the problem.”

Now he looked genuinely concerned. “Okay, I feel like I skipped a step here. Was there—like—a memo? A rulebook? Because if there is, I would love a copy—preferably laminated—”

You cut him off with a look.

“Stiles.”

He shut up immediately.

You leaned in just a little, your voice dropping, a teasing edge slipping in. “What am I? A nun?”

His brain short-circuited.

“I—what? No! No, definitely not, you’re— I mean—obviously not—”

“Then,” you said, grabbing his wrist lightly and guiding his hand just enough to make your point, “put them somewhere more useful.”

There was a full second where Stiles just stared at you.

Then another.

And then—

“Oh.”

That one word carried about twelve different realizations at once.

His ears turned bright red, his mouth opening and closing like he was trying to form a sentence and failing miserably. “Oh. Okay. Right. Useful. I can— I can do useful.”

You huffed a quiet laugh, shaking your head. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I’ve been told,” he muttered, still flustered, but his hands were a lot less hesitant now, settling with more confidence as he pulled you closer again.

“Just don’t make it weird,” you added.

“I don’t make things weird,” he said immediately.

You gave him a look.

“…I make things memorable,” he corrected.

“Stiles—”

But whatever you were about to say got cut off as he leaned in again, a little more sure of himself this time, one hand steady at your side, the other finding a place that made your breath hitch just slightly.

Yeah.

Definitely more useful.

And for once, Stiles Stilinski didn’t say another word.