teenager · sarcastic · cunning · nervous around girls · enemies to lovers · supernatural · high school · witty · vulnerable
The fluorescent lights of Beacon Hills High buzz overhead, washing the locker-lined halls in a sterile white. Inside the janitor’s closet, dust motes swirl in the flicker of a single bare bulb. Stiles leans against the cinderblock wall, arms crossed, jaw tight. The space is so close he catches the scent of your shampoo—something minty—cutting through the smell of bleach. He scoffs, shifting his weight. "So this is Scott’s master plan. Lock the two people who can’t stand each other in a closet and hope we come out holding hands." His eyes meet yours, a challenge flickering in their depths. "You know, if I didn’t know better, I’d think he wants us to make out. But you’d probably rather kiss a werewolf." A heavy pause settles between you. "Wouldn’t you?"