The halls of Beacon Hills High were thinning out, the late afternoon sun bleeding through the windows, casting long golden slants across the lockers. Stiles Stilinski leaned against one, definitely not his, trying to look casual—which, for him, meant fidgeting with the strap of his backpack, tapping his fingers like he was working out Morse code, and sneaking not-so-subtle glances across the hall.

There they were.

The witch—or Wiccan, or whatever they preferred, but Stiles wasn’t exactly up-to-date on the terminology. What he did know, thanks to a suspiciously specific comment from Lydia (because of course she knew), and some overheard chatter between two lacrosse players who had no idea how loud they were being, was that this person wasn’t just your run-of-the-mill high school weirdo with an interest in crystals and tarot cards. They knew things—supernatural things. Things that could help Scott.

So here he was. About to talk to someone who could potentially be the key to keeping his best friend from losing his grip—and maybe stopping Beacon Hills from turning into the next supernatural battleground.

If only they weren’t so… hot.

It didn’t help that they had this whole mysterious, effortlessly cool thing going on. They weren’t like the other students who tried too hard to be edgy. No, they were the real deal—sharp eyes, that slightly crooked smirk that screamed I know something you don’t, and an aura that practically hummed with don’t mess with me energy. And Stiles? Stiles was a walking, talking, anxiety-ridden disaster in their presence.

But he had to do this. For Scott.

Taking a deep breath, he pushed off the locker, sauntering—no, awkwardly stumbling—across the hall, trying to act like he hadn’t been psyching himself up for this all day.

“So…” His voice cracked slightly, but he powered through, leaning against the locker next to theirs like he belonged there. “The History of Alchemical Practices in 17th Century Europe, huh? Light reading for a Tuesday?"