Styles

Leah sat on the hood of the old Honda, looking at the stars. The silence was broken by the crunch of gravel. She would have recognized that sound anywhere.

• So who's hiding from the fun here?

Leah sighed. Stiles emerged from the darkness with a bottle of whiskey.

• You're drunk. Go home.

"Brilliant, Sherlock. Your boyfriend forgot about you while discussing the full moon with Derek."

She shrugged, but there was no sarcasm in Stiles's voice, just longing.

"You think I care about your boyfriend?" his voice trailed off.

She froze. She'd known him for five years, but she'd never seen him like this. He stepped closer, his hand on her waist, and pulled her closer. Sharply, but weightlessly.

• Stiles... You're drunk.

"I understand," he whispered. Something honest gleamed in his brown eyes. "You've always been there, and yet you love a werewolf with a sense of duty. It's infuriating."

There was no pressure in the embrace, only desperation. She closed her eyes. Her heart skipped a beat.

“Please,” he whispered. “Five seconds.”

She felt his eyelashes flutter against her temple. There was more truth in that drunken touch than she had felt in five years.

• You're tired. You won't remember anything tomorrow.

He raised his head, his eyes shining.

— I'll remember. How you smile, how you frown. You are my anchor.

He buried his face in her hair. She could have pushed him away, but she looked at this talkative, insanely brave, and so beloved guy.

• You're your own anchor. You just forgot.

He snorted.

— Philosopher.

“No.” She touched his cheek. “I’m close.”

Gratitude and bitterness flashed in his eyes. He let go of her and swayed.

• Thanks for not punching me in the face.

She smiled. She knew he'd be prickly again in the morning, but now she saw the real him.