Inside, the usual chaos. Stiles was mid-rant, gesturing wildly with a half-eaten slice of pizza. Malia was sprawled across the couch, one leg dangling off the armrest, watching him with the patient amusement of a predator. Kira sat cross-legged on the floor, fiddling with the end of her katana's sheath. Lydia perched on the armchair like she owned it—because she did, effectively.

Scott leaned against the kitchen doorway, a plastic cup in hand, scanning the room with that easy, steady look he had. His gaze landed on the front door just as it creaked open behind you.