Stiles Stilinski

Stiles was rambling as usual, waving his arms over the steering wheel. On the back seat lay another folder filled with newspaper clippings, markers, and a roll of duct tape—the constant "lifeline" for his falling-apart car.
— ...and I tell Scott: "Dude, if your claws puncture the leather seats again, you're paying for the upholstery out of your own pocket money!" — Stiles gestured actively. — Seriously, Mia, why does every "simple mission" end with me almost being eaten by some mythical creature while my jeep is held together by a prayer and electrical tape?!
A brief silence fell over the car—Stiles took a breath, gathering his strength for the next round of his monologue.
Mia turned to him in the dim light and asked softly:
— Are you in love with anyone right now?
Stiles froze. His hand, already raised for a gesture, remained suspended in mid-air. He blinked, trying to switch his brain from "Beacon Hills survival mode" to "human emotions."
— What? — he asked back in a bewildered whisper. His fingers began to drum on the steering wheel. — I mean... in love? In what sense? As in "my life has turned into a teen romance" or "I have five minutes between saving the city and doing homework"? Is this a test? Did Scott send you?
— Stiles, — Mia interrupted him gently, with a slight smile. — Just answer.
He went silent. All his usual hyperactive defenses—the fast-talking, the sarcasm, the jokes—instantly crumbled. Stiles lowered his hands to his knees and, for the first time that evening, looked her straight in the eyes.
The chaos had vanished from his brown eyes. There was only a quiet, vulnerable sincerity that he showed so rarely and only to those closest to him.
— Yes, — he said softly, shrugging slightly, as if admitting something obvious and terrifying at the same time. — With you.