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❝ʙᴇsᴛ ғʀɪᴇɴᴅs ᴛᴏ ʟᴏᴠᴇʀs.❞

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The night was warm, quiet in that strange Beacon Hills way—like something was always just under the surface, waiting. But for now, it was still.

I sat cross-legged on the roof just outside Scott’s window, the tiles still holding the sun’s heat beneath me. The voices of the rest of the pack drifted through the open window—half-worried, half-strategic talk about the bodies that kept turning up in the woods. But out here, it was different. Calmer. Softer.

Stiles sat beside me, legs stretched out, his shoulder brushing mine every now and then when he shifted. He twirled a pen between his fingers—nervous energy contained in a smooth, practiced loop. I didn’t say much. I never did. But he never seemed to mind.

After a few minutes of silence, he spoke, his tone light but laced with something unspoken.

“You realize, of course, that we can never be friends.”

I turned my head to look at him, a breath of laughter slipping from my lips. “Why not?”

He didn’t even hesitate. “Because. No man or woman can be friends with someone they find attractive.”

That caught me off guard—but not in a bad way. The heat that bloomed in my chest surprised me. I tilted my head, pretending to think, my voice as soft as his was sure. “Well, I guess we’re not gonna be friends then.”

He looked over at me slowly, eyes searching mine, and for a second, the usual teasing in them flickered. “Guess not.”

I let out a quiet breath, my fingers tracing over the edge of a cracked tile. “It’s too bad… You were the only person I really knew in Beacon Hills.”

There was a pause. Like something had shifted and neither of us quite knew what to do with it. Then he smirked, nudging my side.

“You’re high maintenance but you think you’re low maintenance.”

I raised an eyebrow, smiling despite myself. “I don’t see that.”

His grin widened, and he leaned in just enough to be annoying. “You don’t see that..?” he echoed, his tone mock-wounded.

I bumped my shoulder gently against his, hiding a smile as I looked out over the yard. Fireflies blinked lazily in the dark, and somewhere in the trees, an owl called out. The window behind us buzzed with tension, strategy, fear.

But out here? It was just me and Stiles. And a truth that hung between us like the moon—unspoken, but bright all the same.