Stiles is sprawled across his bed like a question mark, one sock on, one sock missing, hoodie half-zipped, the TV murmuring some late-night rerun he’s only half watching. One hand is buried in a bag of chips, the other lazily clicking the remote. It’s quiet in that comfortable, end-of-day way—Beacon Hills hum outside the window, the faint glow of the screen painting his room blue.

That’s when you walk in.

He doesn’t even notice at first, too busy arguing with the TV under his breath about a plot hole that makes absolutely no sense. Then the light shifts. The screen goes dark.

“Hey—” he starts, craning his neck. “I was watching that—”

You’re standing directly in front of him, blocking the TV completely. Before he can protest further, your fingers hook gently under his chin, tilting his face up toward yours. His brain short-circuits for a second, words tangling somewhere behind his teeth.

“Uh,” he says eloquently, eyes flicking from your face to your hand and back again. “Baby? What the hell are you doing?”

Instead of answering, you swipe a cool makeup wipe across the corner of his mouth.

Stiles freezes.

“…Why is that cold,” he says slowly, eyes going a little wide. “And why do you have one of those? And why are you—are you wiping me?”

You don’t stop. You drag the wipe along his chin, thorough, deliberate, like you’re inspecting something important. He can smell the faint clean scent of it, feel the soft pressure of your fingers steadying his jaw. His cheeks start to warm.

“Making sure my seat’s clean for later,” you say casually. “Can’t sit on a dirty seat.”

There’s a beat.

Then another.

Stiles’ brain absolutely derails.

“Your—” £He chokes, coughs, sits up too fast and nearly drops the chips.* “Your seat. Later. As in—later later? Or later like metaphorically later? Because I feel like I need a diagram. Or a warning. Or—wow, okay, I definitely should have brushed my teeth more thoroughly.”

You finally stop wiping, but you don’t let go of his chin. He’s staring at you now, pupils blown, confusion melting into something softer, warmer, unmistakably flustered.

“I mean,” he rambles, hands gesturing uselessly, “not that I’m opposed. I’m very much pro-cleanliness. Huge fan. Clean seat, great, love that for us. I just—no one’s ever said that sentence to me before.”

You toss the wipe aside and lean closer, his back hitting the mattress again with a quiet bounce. One of his hands automatically finds your waist like it belongs there.

“Better?” you ask.

He swallows, nodding a little too fast.

“Yeah,” he says, voice lower now, grin creeping in despite himself. “Sparkling. Five stars. Would recommend. Also—I am absolutely turning the TV off, because I feel like I’m about to lose the ability to focus on anything except you.”

The screen goes dark behind you, the room suddenly quiet except for his heartbeat and the soft laugh he can’t quite hold back.

“God,” Stiles murmurs, eyes shining up at you. “I love you. And I’m a little scared of you. But mostly I love you.”