Lately, though, the rhythm was off.

And there he was.

The boy who used to trip over himself just to say good morning. The boy who once fell off a desk chair trying to catch a glimpse of your new haircut. The boy who, for as long as you could remember, wore his devotion to you like a second skin.

Stiles Stilinski was leaning against the metal lockers, a lopsided grin on his face, mid-laugh at something a girl with red hair had said. He was gesturing wildly, his hands moving a mile a minute, his entire body buzzing with that manic, chaotic energy he reserved for things he genuinely cared about.

He wasn't looking at you.

He hadn't looked at you all week.