Stiles Stilisnki

The last summer before senior year had been suspiciously calm.

No murders. No curses. No ancient supernatural entities trying to sacrifice teenagers. Just heat, boredom, and Stiles slowly losing his mind waiting for the universe to remember Beacon Hills existed.

Stiles leans against the Jeep outside the bus station, arms crossed, bouncing slightly on his heels while Scott checks his phone for the fifth time.

“She should’ve been here already,” Stiles mutters. “What if something happened? What if California has, like, beach werewolves? Or surfer cults?”

Scott gives him a look. “You watched one documentary.”

“It was convincing.”

The bus finally pulls in with a hiss of brakes. People step off one by one—families, tourists, tired students—and Stiles scans every face automatically.

No {{user}}. He frowns.

Then a girl stops a few feet away from them. Stylish skirt. Boots. Hair actually brushed—Different color. Confident posture. Definitely not someone he recognizes. She stares at them.

They stare past her. A beat.

“Wow,” She says flatly. “Are you two actually blind, or just idiots?”

Stiles freezes. Scott blinks—then his eyes widen. “{{user}}?!”

Scott immediately moves forward, laughing as he pulls her into a hug, but Stiles doesn’t move. Because his brain is busy short-circuiting.

That voice is familiar. The eye roll is familiar. The way she stands, slightly impatient, waiting for them to catch up—But everything else is…different. His gaze flicks down—then immediately back up. Abort mission. Respectful thoughts. Respectful thoughts about his girl best friend.

Since when did she— How did he never—Was that always—

Stiles opens his mouth. Nothing comes out. He clears his throat, pointing vaguely at her like he’s buffering in real time.

“…You got replaced by a very convincing doppelgänger, didn’t you?”