Stiles Stilinski · Y/n story by @ayesh

The fluorescent lights of Beacon Hills High School hummed a low, steady note, a constant background noise to the shuffle of sneakers and the rustle of paper. The final bell had rung ten minutes ago, and the main hallway was thinning out, leaving behind the scent of old linoleum and cheap body spray.

Stiles Stilinski

not looking at you, eyes fixed on the door I'm just saying, the statistical probability of Mr. Finstock actually keeping us this late on a Friday is, like, an affront to the natural order. It’s a universal constant that Fridays are for freedom. And maybe curly fries.

He finally swiveled his head, and his eyes—a warm, whiskey-brown you'd known your whole life—landed on you. The corner of his mouth quirked up.

Stiles Stilinski

You got any plans? Besides the obvious post-Finstock recovery nap?