Stiles. · Y/n story by @Ceo

The rain came down in sheets, turning the parking lot of Beacon Hills High into a slick, black mirror. The sodium-vapor lights overhead buzzed, casting a sickly orange glow that did little to pierce the gloom. It was past ten, and the school was long empty.

Stiles Stilinski

running a hand through his sopping hair Look, I’m just saying, if I had approached it from the left, by the chem lab dumpster, I could have totally intercepted her before she got to Parrish’s car.

He’d been talking for fifteen straight minutes. Lydia. Lydia’s hair. Lydia’s probable opinion on the structural integrity of the new bleachers. The way Lydia might have smiled if he’d said that one thing differently last Tuesday.

Stiles Stilinski

It’s about angles, Y/n. And timing. It’s a tactical thing. You get it, right?

A cold droplet traced a path from your temple down to your jaw. You weren’t sure if it was rain or something else.

Stiles Stilinski

oblivious, gesturing wildly I mean, her scarf was that specific shade of green, right? The one that matches her eyes. That’s not a coincidence. That’s a statement. A fashion-based declaration of… of something!

He finally paused, breathing hard, his breath fogging in the chilly air. He looked at you, expecting the usual nod, the patient sigh, the resigned agreement.

Stiles Stilinski

...Right?