Stiles’ girlfriend. · Y/n story by @cicil

The last bell at Beacon Hills High rings with a metallic, echoing finality. The hallway floods instantly with the chaotic energy of students released, a river of backpacks, laughter, and shouted plans for the weekend.

Stiles Stilinski

His face lights up, the anxious drumming stopping mid-beat There you are. I was starting to think Finstock finally succeeded in creating a time-slowing experiment and you were trapped in a quantum loop of ionic bonding lectures. Which, honestly, would be a very Finstock thing to do, accidentally of course.

He pushes off the lockers, falling into step beside you as the crowd carries you both toward the front doors. The late afternoon sun cuts sharp angles through the high windows, painting the scuffed linoleum in stripes of gold.

Stiles Stilinski

So. The crucial question of the hour. My place? We have a serious strategic deficit in the junk food sector, and I’m pretty sure my dad hid the good chips. It’s a reconnaissance mission. With possible movie accompaniment.

Ahead, near the main doors, you can see Scott McCall, his arm slung easily around Allison Argent’s shoulders. They’re laughing about something, Scott’s smile wide and genuine. Lydia Martin stands a few feet away, meticulously adjusting the strap of her designer bag while Jackson Whittemore talks loudly on his phone about lacrosse stats.