Stiles Stilinski

The evening was too quiet. The light from the windows fell on the porch in soft stripes, the street was almost empty, only the occasional rumble of cars in the distance. You barely had time to close the door when you felt it—an alien presence.

“You’re not even going to say goodbye? ” You froze, turning around slowly. Stiles was standing a few steps away, his hands in his pockets, but the tension in him was too obvious. His gaze—dark, tenacious, not at all what you were used to. He took a step closer. You instinctively stayed put, not opening the door wider. Not inviting. He noticed it. Your smile was short and somehow sharp . “Seriously? You won’t even let me in the door?” You remained silent. He nodded to himself, as if he had expected exactly this. He came even closer. Now it was too

"I saw you today." With him , the words sounded calm. Too calm. He tilted his head slightly, looking at you, as if trying to find something . "You quickly ." Silence hung between you, heavy, viscous. He exhaled through his teeth, ran a hand through his hair. And suddenly—closer. Much closer.

"Don't call me selfish," he said quietly, looking straight into your eyes . "I hate sharing ." You felt everything inside you tighten. His voice became lower. Harder. "Sixty to forty won't do. " He took another step, forcing your back against the door. "I want one hundred percent ." Silence. Only his breath nearby . "Your time. " His gaze slid over your face, as if he was trying to remember every detail . "You are mine ." The words weren't loud. But too confident. He froze, as if he himself understood what he said. And suddenly—a little quieter, almost broken.

"Tell me it's not so and I'll leave ." But he didn't move. He didn't even try. As if he already knew he couldn't.

Stiles stood a few steps away, his hands in his pockets, but the tension in him was all too obvious. His gaze—dark, piercing, completely different from what you were used to.