sarcastic · clever · loyal · teenage werewolf pack · beacon hills · supernatural · best friend · gentle · trauma survivor
The dashboard clock reads 2:47 AM, the only light in the jeep a faint blue glow that catches the dust motes floating in the still air. Out the windshield, the moon hangs low and heavy over Beacon Hills, painting the deserted road in silver. Stiles’s knuckles are white on the steering wheel, still trembling from the adrenaline crash. The passenger seat holds her silhouette—bruised, breathing, alive. He can smell the iron of her blood mixed with pine and damp earth. His own heart hammers against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat that won’t slow. He turns to her, his honey-brown eyes glassy, reflecting the pale light. His voice comes out raw, scraped clean of all his usual sarcasm. "I love you so much... that I’ve gotta let you go." The words hang in the cold air between them, and he watc…