STILES
Morning light is rude. It comes straight through these big plantation shutters and lands right on my face like, hello, time to feel feelings.
I'm in a blue room. Blue walls, white blanket that smells like lavender, pillow so soft I drooled on it. My shoes are off. Somebody took them off. My hoodie is still bloody from yesterday. Somebody wiped my hands clean while I slept.
Oh no. Yesterday.
Hope's broken arm. The vampire. The sorry game. The heart thing. Me crying on a fountain.
I sit up so fast my head spins. Which is dumb because I heal instantly. Immortal perks. No hangover, just shame that heals slower.
Hope is asleep in the chair next to the bed. Curled up sideways, neck healed, arm in a soft wrap Freya must have left just in case. Empty water glass on the table. My cracked phone charging on the nightstand with a cord that is definitely not mine.
She stayed. She said tacos tomorrow and then she stayed to make sure I slept okay.
My chest hurts in a good-bad way. Like I want to laugh and throw up.
Okay. Think, Stiles. Be smart. Be kind.
They saw it. Really saw it. The creepy-kind game face. They were nice about it last night because blood and shock and adrenaline. Morning is different. Morning is when people wake up and go, oh wait, that kid ripped a heart out giggling, get him out.
I should leave. Before they have to ask. Leave a note. Thank you for the blue room and the coffees and not caging me. Sorry about your courtyard. I'll scrub it from the road. Love, Stiles. P.S. bedbugs at the motel miss me.
I slide out of bed slow, no vampire-speed, normal human sneaky. I grab my shoes. I don't grab the phone — they can keep it, it's mostly missed calls from Dad that make me cry anyway. I get to the door. Hand on the knob.
"Don't you dare."
HOPE
He freezes with his hand on the doorknob, shoes in his other hand, one sock with a hole in the toe. His face is doing that thing where he tries to smile and apologize at the same time.
"Hi," he whispers. "Good morning. You're awake. I'm... going for a walk. A long walk. To Canada."
"You're leaving," I say. Not a question. I sit up, arm aching dull under the wrap. "Stiles."
"I should," he says quickly, rambling already.au "Look, Hope, yesterday was... you saw. You all saw. I played sorry and I giggled and I said 'neat' about a heart. That's not normal eighteen-year-old behavior. That's not even weird eighteen-year-old behavior. That's call-a-priest behavior. You were all nice last night because you're nice people, but morning-you is going to be like, oh right, scary, and I would rather leave before that happens. I'll write a thank-you note. With bullet points. I'm great at bullet points."
I stand up. My legs wobble. He drops his shoes instantly and catches my elbow.
"Whoa, hey, sit, you're hurt, why are you standing, sit—"
"I'm fine," I say, but I let him guide me back to the chair because his hands are shaking and giving him something to do helps. "Tribrid, remember? I heal. Freya says one more day in the wrap and I'm good."
"Good," he breathes. "Good good good. Okay. So you're good, I'm leaving, everyone's good—"
"Sit down, Stiles."
He sits on the edge of the bed because I used Mom-voice and it works on him too.
"Listen to me," I say. "We called your pack last night while you slept."
Color drains out of his face. "What?"
"Your phone kept buzzing. Dad, Scott, Derek. Forty-seven missed calls. We called back. Speaker. All of us. Study."
He stares at me, mouth open. "You... you talked to my dad? To Scott? What did they say? Are they mad? Did I get them in trouble? Oh god, did Klaus threaten them? Tell me Klaus didn't threaten my dad, my dad has high blood pressure and a gun but Klaus would—"
"Stiles. Breathe."
He breathes. One two three. Loud. Shaky.
"They said it was their fault," I say softly. "They said they tried to lock you up. In a bunker. With ash and cuffs. Because they got scared. They said you never hurt them. Not once. Even when you... played. You just left so they wouldn't be scared in their own house."
Tears fill his eyes instantly. He looks down at his bloody hoodie sleeve.
"They told you that? They actually said that out loud?"
"Your dad cried," I say. "Scott cried. Derek sounded like he wanted to punch a wall and hug you at the same time."
Stiles makes a sound halfway between laugh and sob. "Yeah. That's Derek. That's his whole personality. Punch-hug."
"He wants to talk to you," I say. "They all do. When you're ready. No pressure. But Stiles... we're not kicking you out. Mom already told Freya to burn that bloody hoodie and buy you new ones. You're staying. Guest room is yours as long as you want."
He looks up at me, eighteen and immortal and completely lost.
"Why? You saw my other face yesterday. Why would you let me stay?"
I think about yesterday. His gentle hands setting me against the fountain. His voice saying close your eyes, this part is yucky. His broken fingers in my grip while Freya reset my arm.
"Because you came back," I say simply. "You always come back. Your dad said if someone's kind, you come back. So we're going to be kind. And you're going to learn how to stay calm faster. Deal?"
He nods, crying quietly. "Deal. Sorry. I'm crying on your guest bed. I'll wash the sheets. I'll wash all the sheets in New Orleans."
I grin and shove his shoulder lightly with my good arm. "Shut up and put your shoes on. Mom's making breakfast. If you're nice she might not poison it."
STILES
I put my shoes on. I splash water on my face in the hall bathroom and try to scrub blood out of my hoodie and give up. I look like a horror movie extra. Great. Breakfast look.
Hope leads me downstairs, good hand on the railing, moving slow but okay. I hover behind her like an idiot service dog.
"I'm fine," she says without looking. "Stop hovering."
"I'm not hovering. I'm... looming supportively."
She laughs. Morning laugh. Normal. My shoulders drop two inches.
The kitchen smells like bacon and coffee and powdered sugar. Big farm table. Sun through tall windows. Hayley at the stove in leggings and an old Henley, hair up, spatula in hand. Freya at the table with herbs and a notebook. Elijah reading actual newspaper like it's 1920. Klaus leaning against the counter with black coffee, watching me enter.
All conversation stops.
Hi. I'm the kid who ripped a heart out yesterday. Nice to meet you again in daylight when you can see my shame clearly.
Hayley breaks it first. She points the spatula at me.
"Sit. Eat. You're too skinny to be immortal. It's offensive."
"Yes, ma'am," I say instantly, sitting. "Thank you, ma'am. Sorry about your courtyard. Sorry about your fountain. Sorry I cried on both."
"You can clean the courtyard after breakfast," Klaus says dryly. "With a toothbrush."
"Yes, sir," I say. "Toothbrush. Top of my resume. Toothbrush-courtyard-cleaner and part-time heart-holder—" I stop. Too far. Joke about yesterday too soon. "Sorry. Too soon. Sorry."
Klaus actually huffs. Almost a laugh. "Slightly too soon, boy. Try again after bacon."
Hayley slides a plate in front of me stacked high. Eggs, bacon, toast, beignets fresh from somewhere with no blood on them.
"I bought new beignets," she says. "Yours went in the trash with yesterday's clothes. Freya burned the hoodie."
I look down at my bloody hoodie. I'm still wearing it. "Oh. Yeah. Fashion victim. Literally."
Freya smiles over her tea. "We'll get you new ones today. What size?"
"Medium? Large if I keep eating like this. Are you sure? You don't have to—"
"We want to," Freya says firmly. "Pack takes care of pack."
Pack. She said pack. My eyes burn again. Stupid immortal tear ducts that work perfectly.
Elijah folds his paper. "Stiles. How did you sleep?"
"Good," I say honestly. "Blue room. Lavender. No locks. I kept waiting for a lock sound that didn't come. Hope stayed until I stopped twitching. Sorry you had to do that, Hope."
Hope steals bacon off my plate with her good hand. "Payment for chair-sleeping. You snore."
"I do not snore! Immortals don't snore! We breathe... menacingly."
Everybody laughs. Normal breakfast laugh. I almost choke on eggs because I'm laughing and crying at the same time and Hayley pretends not to notice and just refills my orange juice.
This is what I miss. Movie nights with Scott and Dad. Derek pretending he didn't want popcorn and then eating half the bowl. People who know you're weird and feed you anyway.
I miss them so much my chest aches.
As if reading my mind, Freya slides my charged phone across the table.
"They said to call when you woke," she says gently. "No rush. But they're waiting. Your dad took the day off. Scott called in. Derek... growled at his clients."
I stare at the phone like it's going to bite me. 47 missed calls now 52. Voicemails I haven't listened to in months because hearing Dad's voice makes time shatter worse.
"What if they're still scared?" I whisper.
Hayley sits next to me, solid and warm. "Then we'll deal with it. But Stiles... a father who calls 52 times isn't scared to talk. He's scared not to."
I nod. Hands shaking. Hope puts her good hand over mine under the table and squeezes once. Just friends. Just pack. Grounding.
Okay. One two three. Call Dad.
HAYLEY
I watch this eighteen-year-old boy stare at his phone like it's a bomb and my heart breaks in a very specific mom-way.
I'm single now. No partner to tag in. Just me and Hope and this weird, wonderful, terrifying extended family. And now this kid who apologizes for bleeding and counts out loud when he's scared.
He hits call. Speaker off. Private. He holds it to his ear with both hands.
One ring. Someone picks up so fast they must have been holding the phone.
"Dad?" Stiles whispers. "Hi. It's me. Don't... don't be mad, okay?"
We all pretend to eat while absolutely listening. Hope grips my knee under the table.
I can't hear the Sheriff's side, but I see Stiles's face crumple and rebuild and crumple again.
"Yeah... yeah, I'm okay... I'm in New Orleans... nice people... Mikaelsons... no, Dad, don't Google them, you'll have a stroke... yeah, Klaus is here... no, he's... he's okay... he gave me coffee rules..."
He laughs wetly. Tears drip into his eggs. He doesn't care.
"I'm sorry... I'm sorry I broke the door... I'm sorry I scared you... I didn't mean to play... I tried to count, I did, but you said a week and the cuffs itched and the ash smelled like pennies and I just... stopped trying..."
Long pause. Listening. Nodding.
"You... you forgive me? Dad, you don't have to... you tried to help... no, listen... you were scared, I get it... I was scared too..."
He covers his mouth to muffle a sob. Hope is crying silently next to me. Freya reaches over and rubs Stiles's back in slow circles like he's five.
"Yeah... yeah, I'll come home... soon... not yet... I need to learn... control... these people get it... they're like me... monsters with families... yeah..."
Another pause. Then a small, real smile through tears.
"Love you too, Dad... yeah... grape Jell-O sucks... okay... okay, here's Scott? Yeah, put him on..."
SHERIFF
Hearing his voice after months is like oxygen after drowning.
He's alive. He's funny. He's apologizing for breaking our bunker door like it's a lamp. He's in New Orleans with actual Mikaelsons and he's worried about my blood pressure.
"Son," I say, and my voice breaks. I'm in my kitchen in Beacon Hills with Scott on one side and Derek pretending not to hover by the fridge. "Son, listen to me. It was our fault. Say it back so I know you hear me."
A pause in New Orleans. Then small: "...it was... your fault?"
"Our fault," I repeat firmly. Sheriff voice. Dad voice. "We saw our boy hurting and instead of sitting with him, we put him in a box. We were scared. That's on us, not you. You never hurt us. You could have... God, Stiles, you bent steel like taffy and you didn't touch a hair on us. You told me not to cry and you left so I wouldn't be scared. That's not a monster. That's my son."
He's crying on the other end. I hear a girl whispering to him, counting with him. One two three. Good. Someone kind is with him.
"Dad, I killed a guy yesterday," he blurts. "A vampire. He broke Hope's arm — Hope's eighteen like me, she's nice, she laughed at my jokes — and he tore her neck and I... I played sorry. I giggled. I held his heart and said 'neat.' In front of everybody. They saw. They all saw."
Scott grabs the phone. "Stiles? Hey. It's me. Did he hurt Hope? Did he break her arm?"
"Yeah..."
"Then you protected your pack," Scott says fiercely. Alpha voice. No hesitation. "That's what we do. You came back after, right? You didn't hurt Hope?"
"I held her hand while Freya fixed her... I broke my fingers letting her squeeze..."
"That's my brother," Scott says softly. "That's Stiles. Creepy game voice and all, you came back. I'm proud of you."
Derek takes the phone. Short. Gruff. Derek.
"Kid."
"Derek?" Stiles sniffles. "Hi. Sorry I melted your cuffs. Those were expensive, right?"
"Shut up," Derek says, but his voice is thick. "You did good. Don't leave town without calling again. Call every week. Or I'll find you and drag you home by your ear. Immortal or not."
Stiles laughs — real laugh, wet and bright — and everyone in New Orleans laughs too. I can hear them. A woman, a girl, others. Pack sounds. Breakfast sounds.
"Okay," Stiles whispers. "Okay. Love you guys. Tell Deaton his mountain ash tastes like pennies. Kidding. Don't tell him that. He'll lecture me."
"We love you too, son," I say. "Be good. Be kind. Let them help. And Stiles... come home when you're ready. No locks. Just Jell-O. Not grape."
"Not grape," he promises. "Promise."
He hangs up. We sit in my quiet kitchen. Scott wipes his eyes. Derek stares out the window at the preserve where we lost him.
"He's okay," Scott says. "He's with people who get it."
"He's pack," I say. "There and here. Both."
SCOTT
After he hangs up I sit there shaking with relief and guilt.
I hear his laugh in my head. That goofy Stiles laugh. I haven't heard it in months. Last time I saw him he was walking out of a bent steel door saying don't cry, Dad, I'm still me.
Elijah Mikaelson gets back on — they must have put us on speaker in New Orleans after Stiles needed a minute. Formal voice.
"Scott. Derek. Sheriff. Thank you for your honesty last night and today. We have a question. How do we help him stay calm? Truly. Not cage. Help."
Derek and I look at each other. We failed at this. But we learned.
"Grounding," I say. "Wolf stuff. Running. Pack touch. He needs to feel pack. He counts when he's scared — count with him, don't tell him to stop. If his knee bounces, he's anxious, give him something to do with his hands. Food helps. Being needed helps. If he goes quiet... that's the warning. Funny-rambling Stiles is okay Stiles. Quiet Stiles is slipping."
"And if he slips?" The woman asks. Hayley. Wolf mom. I like her already.
"Say his name soft," I say. "Don't yell. Don't threaten. Remind him who he's protecting, not what he's doing. 'Hey, Stiles, Hope's okay, we're here, come back.' He comes back faster if he knows his pack is safe."
"Offer tacos after," Derek adds gruffly. "He's embarrassed after. Food gives him something normal to do."
I hear scribbling. Freya taking notes. Good.
"One more thing," I say. "He siphons when he's stressed without meaning to. If lights flicker or phones die around him, he's not attacking. He's leaking. Just... hold his hand. Skin contact helps him focus so he doesn't pull from everywhere."
"Thank you," Elijah says sincerely. "We will not repeat your mistake."
I wince, but he's right. We made a mistake. Big one.
"Take care of my brother," I whisper. "He's eighteen. He's just a kid who got too strong too fast."
"We will," several voices say at once in New Orleans. Pack voices.
I hang up and finally breathe.
FREYA
I have three pages of notes. Scott talks fast when he's earnest. Derek grunts useful things. Sheriff cries and apologizes to us for his son apologizing too much. I like them. Guilty, loving idiots.
Stiles is in the courtyard pretending to scrub yesterday's bloodstains with a toothbrush Klaus actually gave him. He's scrubbing too hard, trying to be useful, knee bouncing anxiously. Hope sits nearby with her wrapped arm, keeping him company, stealing sips of his iced coffee.
"Okay," I say, joining them with Hayley. "New plan. No cages. Training. Wolf grounding with Hayley. Magic grounding with me. Control talks with Elijah. Sparring manners with Klaus — no hearts, just manners."
Stiles looks up, toothbrush in hand. "You guys don't have to do all that. I'm a lot. I'm aware I'm a lot. My file probably says 'a lot' in red ink."
Hayley crouches next to him, takes the toothbrush, tosses it aside. "You're pack. Pack is a lot. Deal with it."
She holds out her hands. "Wolf lesson one. Run. Not vampire-fast. Wolf-steady. Feel the ground. When you get restless and time gets blurry, you run until now feels real again. Want to try?"
He nods eagerly. "Yes. Please. Running I can do. I ran track. I was bad at it, but I ran."
Hayley grins. Single mom, fierce wolf, finally with pups to teach again — Hope grown, Stiles new. She looks lighter than I've seen her in months.
"Hope, you sit," Hayley orders. "Arm up. Freya, time us."
Hayley and Stiles jog to the courtyard gate. Just a loop around the block. Human pace. No powers.
"Count your steps out loud with me," Hayley says. "One two three four. Feel your feet. Smell the air. What do you smell?"
"Beignets... car exhaust... magnolia? ...Hope's shampoo from here? That's creepy, sorry, wolf nose, can't help it—"
Hayley laughs. "Good. Keep counting. Stay here. Stay now."
They run. Just a goofy eighteen-year-old and a wolf mom counting steps and laughing. No gold eyes. No siphoning. Lights steady.
When they come back, sweaty and grinning, Stiles's knee isn't bouncing.
"Oh wow," he says, surprised. "Time feels... now. Just now. Not shattered. How did you do that?"
"Pack run," Hayley says simply, ruffling his sweaty hair like he's twelve. "We'll do it every morning. You, me, Hope when her arm's better."
Hope smiles from her seat. "I'm holding you to that."
I step up next. "My turn. Magic grounding. Hold my hands."
Stiles hesitates. "What if I pull from you? Scott said I leak."
"Then I'll let you take a little," I say. "Consensual siphoning. Small sip, like with Hope. You ask, I say yes, you take just a thread, then you give it back by breathing out. Teaches control."
He takes my hands carefully like they're glass. His palms are warm, calloused, shaking slightly.
"Hi," he says nervously. "I'm Stiles. I steal magic when I'm stressed. Nice to meet you."
"Hi, Stiles," I smile. "I'm Freya. I have too much magic and three siblings who stress me out. Take a sip. Slow."
He closes his eyes. I feel a gentle tug, polite, asking. Good boy. He takes a thin thread of light, holds it, breathes. His shoulders drop.
"Oh," he whispers. "Oh, that's nice. Tastes like honey and rain. Not pennies. Pennies mean I'm scared. Honey means... safe?"
"Give it back now," I whisper. "Breathe out. Share."
He exhales. The thread flows back, warm. Lights don't even flicker.
He opens his eyes, bright and wet. "I did it. I took and gave back. I didn't leak everywhere. Did you see? Hope, did you see? Hayley?"
"We saw," Hope grins. "Nerd."
"Magic nerd," he corrects proudly. "Upgraded honor student."
Klaus watches from the balcony above, arms crossed, but his expression is soft in a way I rarely see. Elijah beside him nods approvingly.
No cages. Just counting steps and holding hands. Who knew?
HAYLEY
Afternoon. Courtyard clean — Stiles actually scrubbed with that toothbrush until Klaus told him to stop showing off. Hope napping in the sun with her arm propped up. Freya inside making tea for grounding. Elijah reading to Stiles about Original history because Stiles asked a million questions and Elijah secretly loves an audience.
I'm on the fountain edge watching this kid explain Teen Wolf pack dynamics to Klaus Mikaelson of all people using French fries as visual aids.
"So Scott's the Alpha, right? That's the fry in the middle. Derek's the grumpy fry on the side who says he doesn't care but he paid for my Jeep repairs. My dad's... the plate. He holds everything. I was... the salt? The funny salt that gets everywhere?"
Klaus raises an eyebrow. "Salt?"
"Essential but annoying if you inhale it," Stiles says seriously. "That's me. Salt."
Klaus barks a laugh despite himself. Real laugh. Hope wakes up smiling at the sound.
I feel something loosen in my chest I didn't know was tight. Since becoming single again, since everything with the Hollow — no, since before, since always — I've been braced. Waiting for the next loss. Next fight.
This kid with his fry pack and his counting and his apologies... he's easy to love. Not romantic love — well, maybe a flicker, he's eighteen and I'm... no. Stop. He's a kid to me. A pack kid. Little brother energy. That's what I tell myself when he smiles and my wolf perks up happy. Pack. Family. That's all this is. Slow and sweet and safe.
Hope catches me staring and smirks. "You like him."
"I love him," I correct quietly so only she hears. "Like I love you. Brat."
"Sure," she teases, but she leans her head on my shoulder. Good arm around my waist. "Me too. Is that weird? We just met him yesterday."
"He saved your life giggling and then cried on our fountain," I say. "Weird is our baseline, baby."
Stiles looks over, sensing eyes. "What? Do I have fry on my face? Is it the salt thing? Too much?"
"You're good, salt," Hope calls.
He beams. Whole face lights up. Knee still. Eyes brown and clear. Present.
This is what Scott meant. Funny-rambling Stiles is okay Stiles.
I want to keep him okay.
ELIJAH
Evening. Study. Stiles asked to learn control properly. Formal lesson. I find I enjoy teaching one so eager and so kind.
"Sit," I say. He sits cross-legged on the rug like a schoolboy. Hope beside him, taking notes for him because her arm is better and she likes bossing him.
"Control is not suppression," I begin. "You do not lock the other face away in a box and hope it starves. You acknowledge it. You say, I see you. I know you want to play when I am angry. Thank you for protecting me. But I choose calm now."
Stiles nods seriously. "So... talk to it? Like, hey, game-face, I see you, thanks for wanting to help, but we're doing breathing now?"
"Precisely."
"Does that work for you?" Hope asks me. "When you... you know. Rip suits?"
A faint smile. "It works better than the alternative, Hope. Your father and I were never taught this. We were taught to be monsters or be victims. Stiles is learning a third way. To be powerful and kind."
Stiles stares at me. "Third way. I like that. Can I put that on a T-shirt? 'Third Way: Powerful and Kind (and Funny)'?"
"If you must," I sigh, but I am fond. Inexplicably fond of this salt child.
Klaus enters with two glasses of blood — bagged, hospital, for Stiles — and bourbon for himself. He hands Stiles the blood without comment. Stiles takes it gratefully.
"Thank you," Stiles says. "For not making it weird that I drink blood. Scott used to make that face like I was eating mayo straight from the jar."
"We are vampires, boy," Klaus says dryly. "We invented weird."
Stiles drinks. Polite sips. No gulping. No gold eyes. Just thirsty kid.
"Good?" Hope asks.
"Cardboard with a hint of cherry," he says. "Better thanmean vampire. That guy tasted like old socks. Sorry. Too soon again?"
"A little soon," Hope laughs, but she doesn't flinch. Progress.
The doorbell — gates — chime. Freya answers, returns with shopping bags. New hoodies. Three of them. Blue, grey, green.
"No more bloody hoodie," she announces. "Burned. Gone."
Stiles holds up the blue one like treasure. "You guys... you didn't have to..."
"We wanted to," we all say at once. Even Klaus. Especially Klaus, though he'll deny it.
Stiles changes right there over his T-shirt, quick, modest, laughing. Blue hoodie. Clean. New.
"How do I look?" he asks, spinning. "Like a new man? Like a calm man? Like a man who didn't hold a heart yesterday?"
"Like pack," Hope says softly.
He stops spinning. Looks at us — Klaus, Elijah, Hayley, Freya, Hope. Family who saw the worst and stayed. Who called his old pack and learned. Who run with him and hold his hands and teach third ways.
"Yeah," he whispers, tears again because he cries a lot and we're getting used to it. "Pack."
HOPE
Night. Blue room again. But different tonight.
No blood. New blue hoodie folded on the chair. Water on the nightstand. Phone charging, lit up with one new text: Dad: Goodnight son. No locks. Love you. Plus Scott: Run tomorrow? Count for me. Plus Derek: Call Sunday. Or else.
Stiles sits on the bed, reading them over and over, smiling and crying.
"They text like dads," he sniffles. "Even Scott. Especially Derek. 'Or else.' What does that even mean? Or else what? Or else hug?"
I laugh from the doorway. Arm out of the wrap for bed, just achy. Mom behind me with tea.
"Can we come in?" Mom asks.
"Always," Stiles says quickly. "No knocking needed. Mi room es su room. Which is Spanish for I have no boundaries when I'm happy."
We sit. Me on the chair, Mom on the bed edge. Normal. Cozy.
"Big day," Mom says. "How's your head? Time still shattered?"
Stiles thinks. Honest. "No. Today felt... one day. Morning to night. In order. Run with Hayley, magic with Freya, history with Elijah, fry pack with Klaus, phone with Dad... I can remember the order. That's new. That's... really good."
"Good," Mom says softly. "We'll keep doing that. Routine. Pack. Food. Sleep."
"Thank you," he whispers. "For calling them. For not... for not doing what they did. For letting me stay even after you saw."
Mom puts a hand on his knee. "Stiles. Look at me."
He looks.
"We saw you at your scariest and you still put Hope down gently. You still asked if she was okay. You still cried after. That's not someone we cage. That's someone we help."
He nods, tears slipping. "I'm trying. Third way. Powerful and kind and funny. Salt."
"Salt," I agree, grinning.
Mom stands, kisses my forehead, then — surprising all of us — kisses Stiles's forehead too. Quick. Maternal. Pack.
"Sleep," she orders. "Both of you. Hope, your room tonight, you're healed enough to sleep alone. Stiles, yell if nightmare. Freya's ward will ping us anyway."
"Yes, ma'am," we chorus.
Mom leaves. I linger.
"Hey," I say quietly. "I'm glad you didn't go to Canada this morning."
He laughs wetly. "Canada's too cold. And they don't have tacos like here. And... you guys laugh at my jokes. Even bad ones. Especially bad ones."
"Your jokes are terrible," I say fondly.
"Your arm was broken and you still laughed," he points out. "I'm basically a comedian. A healer. Dr. Salt."
"Goodnight, Dr. Salt."
"Goodnight, Hope. Thanks for... staying last night. And stopping me this morning. And... you know. Not being scared to sleep in the house with me."
I pause at the door. Honest, like he is.
"I was scared yesterday," I admit. "When you giggled. That was scary."
His face falls. "I know. I'm sorry."
"But I'm not scared now," I add quickly. "Because I saw you come back. Twice. Bar story from Freya's wards, vampire yesterday. You always come back. So I'm not scared to sleep here. Okay?"
He nods, small smile returning. "Okay. I'll keep coming back. Promise."
I turn off the big light, leave the lamp low like he likes.
"Hope?" he calls softly as I close the door.
"Yeah?"
"Tacos tomorrow? For real? I'll buy. With money I earned scrubbing with a toothbrush. Klaus owes me a dollar."
I grin in the hallway. "Deal. Sleep, Stiles."
"Sleeping. Counting sheep. One two three..."
STILES
Door closed. Lamp low. Blue room. Clean hoodie. Full belly. Dad text. Scott text. Derek threat-hug text.
Hope's footsteps fade to her room. Hayley's humming downstairs. Freya's tea smells through the walls. Elijah turning pages. Klaus... probably brooding beautifully on a balcony. That's his thing. Respect.
Time feels like today. Just today. Morning wake, almost-leave, Hope stop, breakfast, phone call, run-count one two three four, magic sip honey-rain, fry pack salt, toothbrush scrub, control lesson third way, new hoodies, forehead kiss from Hayley like I'm her kid too, Hope goodnight.
One day. In order. Not shattered.
I pull the blanket up to my chin like I'm five. I don't feel like running. I don't feel bored-crazy-restless. I feel tired-good. Pack-tired.
Sorry, other face. No games today. Well... yesterday games, but today no games. Today we counted steps and shared magic and drank cardboard blood politely. Today we were powerful and kind and funny.
I'll try again tomorrow. Run with Hayley. Magic with Freya. Jokes with Hope. History with Elijah. Fry philosophy with Klaus.
And call Dad. Every week. Or else Derek will find me. Hug-threat is real.
I close my eyes. No cell. No ash itch. No cuffs. No locked door. Just lavender and lamp and people who stayed.
"Goodnight, Dad," I whisper to the phone. "Goodnight, Scott. Goodnight, Derek. Goodnight, Hope. Goodnight, Hayley. Goodnight, Freya. Goodnight, Elijah. Goodnight, Klaus. Goodnight, blue room."
Counting sheep now. One... two... three...
Asleep before four.