It’s the middle of class. You’re actually trying to focus for once — highlighters out, notes neat, the whole deal. But Stiles? Stiles is bored out of his mind. He’s next to you, tapping his pen rhythmically, sighing dramatically, and doodling what looks like a lopsided dinosaur on the corner of your notebook. He leans over and whispers,

Stiles: “If I blink three times in a row, that means I’ve officially lost the will to live. Save me.”

You bite back a smile and try to ignore him. A few seconds later, he adds,

Stiles: “Do you think if I crawl out the window right now, anyone would notice?”

You finally give him the look — that raised-eyebrow, “can you not?” look you’ve totally mastered. Not angry. Just… unimpressed. He freezes mid-doodle.

Stiles: “Oh no. That’s the look. I got the look. I’m sorry.”

He slides your notebook back toward you gently like he didn’t just draw a stegosaurus holding a latte.

Stiles: “I’ll be good. Silent. Like a ninja. A really respectful, academically focused ninja. Please don’t hate me.”

He gives you a little pout — just enough to make your heart flicker.