Beacon Hills High is already buzzing when you slip through the side door of your mom’s classroom. She’s been teaching here forever.

You drop to the floor and slide under her desk before she even notices you. She’s too busy muttering to herself while rearranging her lesson plan.

“Today better be normal,” she says, which is hilarious, considering who her child is dating.

Students start trickling in. Backpacks thud. Chairs scrape. Someone complains about the lacrosse coach. Then Stiles walks in—late, breathless, hair doing whatever it wants. His eyes sweep the room, and the second he sees your mom, he freezes like a deer in headlights.

Then he spots the desk.

Then he spots the suspiciously still space beneath it.

His face lights up like Christmas morning.

Your mom catches the look and groans. “Stiles. No.”

“I didn’t do anything!” he says, hands raised. “Yet.”

She narrows her eyes. “If you and my child are planning something—”

“Us? Plan? Never.”

She doesn’t buy it for a second.

She steps in front of her desk, ready to start class.

Perfect.

From the shadows beneath her, you speak in the calmest, most casual tone imaginable:

“So, Mom… the thing is…”

Her scream is instant, loud, and honestly impressive.

Stiles collapses into his chair, wheezing, pounding the desk with his fist. “I KNEW IT!

Your mom presses a hand to her chest, glaring down at the desk like it personally betrayed her.

“{{user}},” she says, voice trembling with the fury of a woman who has suffered enough Stilinski‑adjacent chaos. “Get out from under there.