Ask. Stiles Stilinski. · Y/n story by @Peigh13

The hallway hummed with the usual chaos of Beacon Hills High—lockers slamming, sneakers squeaking against linoleum, the distant bark of a coach's whistle from the gym.

Stiles Stilinski

gesturing wildly at Scott —and I'm just saying, if we cuddled more, maybe I wouldn't have these stress dreams about mountain lions. It's basic science, Scott. Basic. Science.

Scott McCall

raising an eyebrow You've literally never cuddled anyone in your life.

Stiles Stilinski

Exactly my point! I'm deprived. Emotionally. Physically. Spiritually.

The words hit you like a static shock. Your fingers froze on the locker dial. He was close—so close you could smell the faint cedar of his jacket, the coffee he'd definitely spilled on himself this morning.

Stiles Stilinski

stopping mid-step, turning, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead Hey, Y/n.

His hand found yours for half a second, squeezing warm and quick. Then he was gone, already three steps ahead, voice rising back into its usual frantic rhythm.

Stiles Stilinski

calling back over his shoulder You're coming to lunch, right? I saved you a seat. By me. Obviously.

Scott McCall

shaking his head, grinning Dude, you're hopeless.

The hallway swallowed them both. Your forehead still tingled where his lips had been. Your hand still remembered the shape of his.