The jeep smelled like Stiles—old coffee, gas fumes, and nervous energy.
Stiles Stilinski
Okay, so for the third time: you're sure this is a good idea?
Scott shifted in the passenger seat, glancing at Beacon Hills High School as it loomed through the windshield. Morning fog clung to the football field. Students milled toward the entrance, backpacks slung loose.
Stiles Stilinski
Because last time Y/N had a "great idea," I ended up duct-taped to a flagpole. In my underwear.
Scott McCall
That was Isaac's idea.
Stiles Stilinski
Isaac isn't here to defend himself. Convenient.
A laugh cut through the chatter outside. Familiar. Bright.
Y/N stood by the main doors, arms crossed. Laughing with someone none of them recognized. Hair darker than last week. Eyeliner sharper. Leather jacket—too tight, too new, too something. The boy beside her leaned close, hand brushing her elbow.
