Chapter Text
And we would go on as though nothing was wrong
Hide from these days we remained all alone
Staying in the same place, just staying out the time
Touching from a distance, further all the time.
— Transmission, Joy Division.
The cigarette smoke, burning slowly between his slender fingers, crawled upward through the cold air, and all of Stiles’ attention was locked on it — on that stubborn, drifting thread climbing toward the stars. He leaned slightly against Lydia’s open bedroom window, his body tense and hungry, detached from everything else around him. The icy air filled his lungs, made his chest ache, and reminded him of the chill that ran through every muscle, every bone.
The voices of his friends behind him barely registered. A constant hum swallowed everything — muffling words, laughter, conversations — leaving only the sound of his own breathing, shallow and uneven. He felt the cigarette heating between his fingers, the bitter taste rising in his throat, and for a few seconds the entire world narrowed to the smoke and the open window.
Cold bit into the back of his neck and his hands, and he curled against the wall, shoulders folding inward as if to shield himself from his own body. His damp hair from the shower clung to his skin, and he dragged his fingers through it, not noticing how the smoke hung around him like a thin curtain, a fragile barrier between himself and the world. Hunger gnawed at his stomach — a constant reminder of the emptiness he carried — but for now he could ignore it, could focus only on the smoke, on the fragile warmth the cigarette offered, too small to reach everywhere it needed to.
The night sky outside looked impossibly distant, endless. Each star felt too far away, yet he wished the smoke could carry everything up to them — the fear, the anger, the loneliness, the constant sense of being estranged from his own skin. His fingers tightened around the cigarette, clinging to the burn, while his mind slipped into fragments of thoughts that refused to come together.
He drew in a long drag, closed his eyes, felt the sharp cough catch in his chest, the taste of smoke mingling with the bitterness of his own saliva. And for an instant — just an instant — everything went still. Suspended. Only him, the smoke, and the cold that still cut through his body. But then the world began seeping back in: muffled laughter from his friends, the creak of Lydia’s bedroom door, the hammering of his heart reminding him that nothing was truly on pause.
Stiles exhaled slowly, as if the smoke could carry away everything pressing down on him. But when he opened his eyes, the same sense of displacement lingered — too small, too vulnerable — and he realized the smoke was nothing more than a temporary refuge. A comfort that burned slow, disappeared too fast.
Lydia approached quietly, her steps barely audible on the pale carpet. Stiles didn’t notice at first; his eyes were still fixed on the early night outside, lost in labyrinths only he could see. He realized only when a soft, warm weight fell across his shoulders. The jolt was immediate — his fingers pinched the cigarette too tightly, nearly snapping it, his chest seizing in reflex.
It was a blanket, sliding halfway down his back, the sweet scent of fabric blending with the smoke that still hung in the air. Lydia didn’t speak. She simply adjusted the blanket with a steady, deliberate touch, as if she were used to tending to fractures no one else saw. Stiles blinked, disoriented, the cigarette trembling between his fingers, unsure whether to thank her, refuse, or simply surrender to the gesture.
The shy warmth of the blanket clashed with the cold streaming through the window, and for a moment he allowed himself to feel it: the contrast between a body folding in against the wind and a gesture trying to undo it.
"You’re going to freeze out here." Lydia’s voice was low, but carried that certainty she always had, the kind that left no room for reply.
He didn’t answer right away. Just let another ribbon of smoke trail from his lips, vanishing into the dark. The blanket slipped from one shoulder, and Lydia, impatient, tugged it back into place, securing it against him.
Jackson, sprawled across the bed, watched with his arms folded behind his head. The black screen of the TV reflected the ghost of a smirk he barely bothered to hide.
"He’ll be dead before twenty if he keep that up, Lyds" he muttered, blunt as always, though there was something in his tone that sounded less like criticism and more like a familiar provocation.
Stiles cast a quick glance over his shoulder, smoke curling from the corner of his mouth along with a nearly-formed laugh — too fleeting to last.
"At least I’ll die pretty," he rasped, his throat scraped raw by nicotine.
Jackson gave a sarcastic grunt, rolled to the side, and dragged a pillow over his head as if that were enough of an answer. Lydia rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth lifted in the faintest, nearly imperceptible smile — the kind you only caught if you were looking too closely.
The room grew warmer, despite the open window. The blanket over his shoulders, their presence behind him, Jackson’s muffled laugh, Lydia’s steady gaze — none of it erased the emptiness gnawing at his stomach or the quiet ache in his chest, but it made the cold feel a little less cruel.
Stiles let the cigarette burn down to the end, watching the ember shrink until it singed his fingers. The sudden sting made him drop the stub with a sharp twitch, crushing it against the windowsill before it could hit Lydia’s carpet. The faint hiss of the dying ember left behind a silence broken only by the brittle crackle of the filter being crushed.
Before he could retreat back into himself, a sudden movement broke the moment. Jackson launched up from the bed with lazy force, crossed the room in a few steps, and without warning wrapped his arms around Stiles’ waist, lifting him effortlessly off the floor.
"Hey!" The protest came rough, half-laugh, half-startle, as Stiles’ feet left the carpet. He twisted in protest, but Jackson was already spinning him, dragging him toward the bed.
His light body hit the mattress with a muffled gasp, the blanket sliding from his shoulders across the pale sheets. Jackson dropped him without care, sprawling beside him with smug satisfaction, as if he’d won some contest no one else knew was being played.
From her spot near the window, Lydia arched a brow, but a stifled laugh escaped anyway, hidden behind her hand. The bright, brief sound filled the room.
"You’re unbearable," Stiles muttered, shoving Jackson’s shoulder with far too little force to actually move him. His messy hair fell into his eyes, and he huffed to clear it, still lying flat against the bed.
"And you’re too damn light," Jackson shot back, settling in with exaggerated comfort, as if he hadn’t done anything out of the ordinary. "You should eat once in a while."
Stiles rolled his eyes, dragging the blanket back over himself, pulling it up to his chin. It still held Lydia’s soft warmth, now laced with the cling of smoke in his clothes.
Lydia moved closer, sitting at the edge of the bed with automatic elegance. Her sharp eyes flicked from Stiles to Jackson, then back to the open window.
"And you two make too much noise," she said, though her tone carried no real reproach — more a hidden tenderness woven into the words.
The silence that followed was lighter this time, broken only by the muffled hum of the street outside and the chill wind tugging at the curtain. Stiles buried his face beneath the blanket for a moment, hiding the smile he couldn’t quite suppress.
The fabric muffled his breath, warm against his skin, and for a few seconds he let himself vanish beneath it, as if he could dissolve into the cloth and escape everything except the pounding of his heart. The sweet scent of the blanket mingled with the acrid smoke still clinging to his fingers, strange and oddly comforting.
Lowering the blanket slowly, he peeked out with just his eyes, finding Jackson on his side, watching him with that lazy, defiant smirk. Lydia’s gaze, by contrast, was sharper, almost protective, as though she were calculating each of his smallest movements.
Stiles’ chest still burned from smoke and cold, his muscles aching as if each fiber was used to resistance and strain. Jackson’s weight sank into the right side of the mattress, pressing him slightly toward the center, into the too-soft comfort.
"You look like a kid wrapped up like that," Jackson teased, his mouth curled in a mocking grin.
Stiles arched one brow, silent for a beat, then pulled the blanket tighter around himself, hiding the crooked smile that almost escaped.
"Better than looking like you," he muttered, voice low and scratchy.
Jackson laughed, short and genuine, before shoving his shoulder back against the mattress. Lydia sighed, as if this was a scene she’d watched too many times, though the way her eyes softened betrayed a quiet patience for both of them.
Cold air pushed in again through the window, tugging at the curtain. Stiles curled deeper into the blanket, his bones shivering despite the fragile warmth. Lydia caught the gesture, stood without a word, and closed the window. The click of glass and wood against the frame turned the silence heavier, more contained.
On the bed, Stiles felt his body give in slightly, as if the mattress and blanket together could ease some of the weight on his shoulders. Not release, not forgetting — but enough to loosen the tension.
Lydia sat back down, closer this time, tucking the blanket firmly against his chest in a practiced, almost unconscious motion. Jackson rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling, the whole room suspended in the rhythm of the three of them breathing.
Stiles let his eyes fall shut, feeling the shy warmth across his body and the steady presence of the two around him. Fragile, fleeting, but real — and that alone felt larger than the smoke that vanished too quickly in the air.
Jackson shattered the calm with a sudden jump, the mattress creaking as he leapt to his feet. The movement tugged the blanket from Stiles’ chest. His phone buzzed in Jackson’s hands, the screen lighting with a flood of notifications. Jackson looked down, his smirk vanishing into something sharp — panic, frustration.
"Fuck!" The curse cracked through the room, raw and jagged. "I’m so screwed!"
He began pacing, heavy steps muted by the carpet, the phone trembling in his grip as he scrolled through message after message.
"What now?" Lydia asked, too calm for his outburst, though her narrowed eyes showed she already suspected the answer.
Jackson raised the phone like it was proof of disaster. "The game! The fucking game! Everyone’s blowing me up, asking where I am! Oh, Derek’s gonna fucking kill me."
At that name, Stiles’ eyes opened slowly, as though dragged back from the edge of sleep. His body stiffened under the blanket, chest lifting with a breath that never quite reached words. Derek. Of course it was Derek. It was always Derek.
Lydia sighed, resting her chin in her hand. "And what did you expect? That the team would just accept you deciding to spend the afternoon here?"
"I didn’t decide anything!" Jackson snapped, pacing faster, like a caged animal. The glow of the phone lit his tense features, his jaw clenched. "I thought I had time. We were just gonna.. I don’t know! Drag Stiles out to the game, make a whole scene, and then…" He trailed off, cursing under his breath, the phone nearly slipping from his grip. "fuck, fuck, fuck!"
Stiles adjusted the blanket over his shoulders, sitting up slowly, his body heavy, his dark-lined eyes sharp. He didn’t speak, just watched Jackson unravel in circles across the room, sweat shining at his temple, hands too restless to keep hold of the phone.
Drawing in a steady breath, Stiles rose from the bed, each muscle protesting the deliberate slowness. The blanket slipped down his shoulders, pooling across the sheets, but he didn’t care. His skin still held the ghost of its warmth, clashing with the cold clinging to his neck and hands. He moved toward Jackson, who was too caught up in his panic to notice.
Without a word, Stiles reached out and plucked the phone from his hand, feeling the metallic weight settle against his palm. Jackson froze, eyes wide, mouth half-open, unable to form a protest.
Stiles’ thumb skimmed the screen, his fingers tapping out a message quickly — with care, and with a simmering edge of resentment. Each word was measured, calculated to strike the perfect balance: sharp enough to take the blame, distant enough to hide how much he cared, how well he knew Jackson had dug himself into this.
When he finished, he handed the phone back. Jackson took it with trembling hands, staring at him, waiting.
"What did you send?" His voice cracked with tension.
Stiles leaned back against the headboard, his movements slow, deliberate.
"That it’s my fault you’re late. That if he’s got more complaints, he can take them up with me," he said quietly, his tone carrying that cold edge he used whenever he wanted to disappear behind indifference. "It’s not like he and I are friends. He's a dick"
Jackson frowned, disbelief flickering across his face, but found no words. He glanced at the screen. The message was simple, curt:
“Don't take so long.”
The blond read the short message on the screen again, as if he expected to find some hidden trap in it, some secret buried inside the two words Derek had chosen. His jaw was still tight, but the rest of his body no longer burned with the same fury as before. He tossed the phone onto the bed, dragged his hands through his hair, and let out a loud breath.
"Don't take so long? That’s it?" disbelief tangled with a thread of relief in his voice.
Stiles pulled the blanket back from where it had slipped onto the floor and wrapped it around himself, the rough fabric scratching against the chilled skin of his arm. The smudged eyeliner beneath his eyes deepened the look of exhaustion, but the way he leaned against the headboard showed he had no intention of spiraling into the same frenzy Jackson was caught in.
"It’s not like Hale would ever bother to answer with anything more," he said, not bothering to look at either of them. The Russian accent dragged heavier now, thickening each word.
Lydia watched the exchange in silence, one leg folded onto the bed, the other swinging lightly. Her eyes lingered on Stiles for a few seconds, studying the way he made himself into a shield while pretending not to care. Then she shifted her gaze to Jackson, who was still pacing restlessly, hands buried deep in his pockets.
"Alright, then let’s go," she said at last, her voice firm, the kind that closed a conversation rather than continued it. "The longer you waste time freaking out in here, the more reason Derek will have to rip your head off in front of the entire team."
Jackson froze in the middle of the room, took a deep breath, and gave a sharp nod. He grabbed the jacket thrown over the chair and shoved it on in a rush, nearly tripping over his own feet. His pulse still raced too fast, his face flushed from the adrenaline, but the decision was made.
Stiles rose last, the blanket slipping from his shoulders. The cold air bit back at his skin as Lydia opened the door, and for a moment he thought about lighting another cigarette before stepping out. His fingers twitched against the pocket of his jeans, but Lydia’s watchful, cutting look was enough to make him give it up.
They moved down the stairs each in their own rhythm: Jackson too fast, stumbling in his impatience; Lydia calm, controlled, as though every step was measured; Stiles dragging behind at a slower pace, his body weary, but held upright by the strange current of energy that came with the thought of facing Derek again.
In the narrow hallway, their reflections caught for a heartbeat in the wall mirror: Jackson taut with nerves, Lydia flawless, Stiles pale and hollow-eyed under smeared makeup. The contrast between them was stark, yet an invisible thread bound them together, as if none of them could exist without the others that night.
When they stepped into the cool air outside, the wind hit hard, carrying with it the smell of gasoline and damp earth. Jackson was already striding quickly toward the car, while Lydia pulled the door shut behind her. Stiles lingered for a moment on the front step, eyes tilted toward the dark sky. The memory of cigarette smoke curling upward crept back, and for one brief second, he wished he could dissolve the same way.
Then Lydia brushed past him, her hand grazing his arm like a tether pulling him back, and he descended the next step, trailing after the two of them toward the game.
The night wind cut like a blade, and Stiles felt every thread of it slice through the thin jacket he wore. He walked a few paces behind Lydia and Jackson, shoulders hunched forward, hands buried deep in his pockets. The asphalt still glistened with the sheen of a recent drizzle, each puddle catching the glow of the streetlamps, scattering trembling patches of yellow across the dark ground.
Jackson’s car sat just a few yards away, a dark, impatient shape under the weak light. He yanked the driver’s door open with a violent motion, nearly tearing the handle loose. The interior smelled of new leather and stale air-conditioning — a sharp contrast to the lingering smoke and cold Stiles carried with him.
Lydia slid into the passenger seat with her usual effortless grace, pulling the door shut with a soft thud. Stiles hesitated outside, staring at the backseat as though it were some kind of trap. The tinted glass threw back the image of his pale face — the smudged eyes, the hollow expression. He tugged at the handle and stepped inside, the cold leather biting instantly through his jeans.
The engine roared, and the car shot forward with a dry acceleration that pinned Stiles against the seat. Jackson drove with a blend of aggression and jittery nerves, his fingers tapping an uneven rhythm on the wheel. The radio played low, a pop song crackling through static and bass.
Lydia watched the street slip by her window, her face lit in fragments by store signs and headlights. Every so often, she glanced at the rearview mirror, catching Stiles leaning his head against the glass. He felt the hum of the engine through the window, a steady vibration that seemed to rattle straight into his bones.
The field wasn’t far. Stiles could hear the crowd long before the lights came into view, the sound rolling like distant thunder — shouts, whistles, the metallic echo of the loudspeaker carried across the night.
Jackson parked without finesse, the tires biting the curb. He barely killed the engine before throwing the door open, yanking the hood of his sweatshirt over his head like he meant to vanish.
"Come on, let’s go," his voice was muffled beneath the fabric, and he didn’t wait for them, already storming toward the locker room entrance.
Lydia stepped out with more composure, adjusting her bag over one shoulder. Stiles was last, his body heavy, every movement costing conscious effort. The air outside was alive, thrumming with the raw electricity of hundreds of restless people. The smell of wet grass, popcorn, and sweat hung like a fog.
He trailed Lydia across the parking lot, avoiding the clusters of fans drinking and laughing too loud. His presence seemed to shrink against theirs, as though he were just a shadow skimming the edge of all that noise.
Lydia slowed, stopping a few paces from a group of friends waving her over, and turned back to him. Under the artificial lights, her green eyes looked darker, sharpened.
"You’re staying here? I won’t be long, I promise," she said — and he understood the unspoken question beneath it: are you going to run again?
He shrugged, eyes dropping to the concrete at his feet.
"I’m not going anywhere."
Her gaze lingered on him for a heartbeat longer, weighing the truth in those words. Then she gave the faintest nod and walked toward Allison, pulling her into a tight hug.
Stiles fell back against a nearby wall, the brick rough and cold against his spine. From there, a slice of the field was visible, the grass beneath the floodlights so flawless it looked almost fake. Players were already warming up, and his eyes drifted instinctively over their moving shapes.
It was too easy to find him.
Derek Hale stood near midfield, stretching with a fluid efficiency that bordered on animal. Even from a distance, Stiles could see the tension carved into his back, the sharp focus in the way he ignored everything else around him.
His chest tightened — a knot of familiar anger twisted with something hotter, something reckless he strangled before it could take form. He folded his arms, sinking further into the wall.
And then Derek turned. As if he’d felt the weight of Stiles’s stare, his head lifted slowly, and his eyes — dark and unrelenting even from across the field — locked onto him.
Time didn’t stop. The world didn’t slow. If anything, the roar of the crowd swelled louder, the shouts sharper. Yet between them, across fifty yards of floodlit grass, a silence took shape — heavy, charged.
Derek didn’t move. He didn’t wave, didn’t frown. He only held that gaze, and Stiles felt it strike him like a blow to the sternum, knocking the air from his lungs. It was a look that measured, that judged, that remembered. Remembered everything.
Stiles was the first to look away. He dropped his head, fussing with the sleeve of his jacket as if it mattered. When he looked up again, Derek had already turned back, absorbed in warm-ups, as though Stiles were nothing. As though that moment had never existed.
Stiles’s heart pounded too hard, the bitter taste of nicotine and bile rising at the back of his throat. He pressed the back of his skull into the rough brick, letting the cold seep in through his hair.
A sharp whistle cut through the air, announcing the start of the game. The players crowded together on the field. Jackson was there now, sprinting to join the team, shoved roughly by one of his teammates — a typical greeting, which he returned with a nervous grin.
Stiles stayed pressed against the wall, unmoving, while the game began and the crowd erupted. Every shout, every footstep tearing across the grass, every thud of the ball seemed to echo inside him, amplified by a raw sensitivity that never left his skin.
Lydia came back a few minutes later, two bottles of water in her hands, her hair tousled slightly by the wind. Her green eyes found Stiles where he stood, locked against the wall, and she didn’t need to step close to see how far away he really was. She pressed the cold plastic against his fingers until he finally took it.
The touch made him flinch — not from the chill, but from the jolt of realizing he was still inside his body, trapped there. He shot her a glance, quick and defensive, then turned back toward the field, where Derek was cutting across the grass at full speed, receiving the ball with brutal ease. His body seemed built for it: the power in his legs, the precision of his movements, the unshakable focus that left no room for hesitation.
Stiles gripped the bottle without opening it, the plastic creaking beneath the pressure of his hand. The contrast between them crushed him. Derek blazed under the floodlights, every motion etched into the eyes of a crowd that roared for him. And Stiles — Stiles stood against a cold wall, fighting to breathe without pain, fighting not to hear the emptiness howling inside.
A collective roar erupted from the stands when Derek cut through two players and passed to Jackson, who, despite his nerves, scored cleanly. Jackson threw an arm into the air, his smile lit up by the stadium lights, before running back to the team. The crowd’s cheers tangled with the sharp blast of the whistle.
"Ali saved good seats for us," Lydia said at last, breaking the weight of silence. Her tone was light, almost casual, but her sharp eyes betrayed the intent beneath. "Shall we, cutie pie?"
Stiles delayed his answer. He snapped the bottle open with a dry crack, took a quick gulp that burned on its way down, as if even his throat rejected the water. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he shrugged.
"Sure, whatever," he muttered, his accent heavier, dragging each word.
She didn’t argue. She simply waited for him to take the first step, then followed in silence. The roar of the bleachers grew with every meter, a sea of voices and raw energy threatening to swallow anyone who came too close. The smells of sweat, fried food, and damp grass blended into a suffocating haze.
When they climbed the stands, Allison waved from a distance, her face lit with warmth. Lydia cut through the crowd with her usual composure, firm and graceful, while Stiles trailed after her like a shadow — shoulders curved inward, eyes lowered, as though he could hide among the noise.
They sat, and the vibration of the bleachers coursed through Stiles like an unbroken current. The shouts, the stomping feet, the thunder of applause — it all burrowed too deep, and he clutched the seatback in front of him just to stay grounded. The field below glowed an almost unreal green, at once distant and crushingly close.
Down there, Derek moved as if he owned the space. Jackson and Scott flashed in bursts — impulsive, explosive — but it was Derek who drew the eye, who made every motion look inevitable, who carried the weight of the game on his shoulders. And Stiles couldn’t stop watching. Couldn’t stop feeling every muscle in his own body react to the movements of another, like a current he had never wanted to touch.
His heart thudded in rhythm with the ball striking the grass. And no amount of smoke in the world could ever drown that out.
The game pressed on at a brutal pace, each pass, each cheer from the stands landing in Stiles’s chest like a muffled drumbeat. The bleachers rose and fell in waves of energy, but he stayed seated, fingers clenched around the crumpled bottle as though it were the only solid thing left.
Beside him, Allison leaned in toward Lydia, laughing through the noise, her words lost in the roar. A few rows down, Erica — a blonde Stiles wasn’t sure he had ever actually spoken to — leapt to her feet when her boyfriend, Boyd, scored. Her scream cut sharp through the chaos, her earrings flashing under the floodlights as she threw her arms into the air like she was part of the show.
Cora was there too, beside Erica — he recognized her instantly. Her gaze, as steady and relentless as Derek’s, tracked her brother with an intensity that left no space for distraction. The tension in her shoulders was visible even from above, her breathing syncing unconsciously with every play, as though her body had been trained to live the game by reflex.
Scott was easily the most reckless, stumbling over his own speed, but somehow pulling applause through sheer momentum. The way he sprinted alongside Jackson and Boyd, trading quick passes, drove the crowd wild. Every mistake drew Derek’s voice, deep and cutting through the noise, barking orders that Scott answered with a sharp nod before throwing himself back into the play.
Stiles watched it all in silence, jaw tight. His fingers tingled around the mangled bottle, plastic folding deeper under the strain. He tried to look away, but his eyes always returned to Derek. To the sweat running down his temple, the jersey clinging to his body, the brutal synchronicity of muscle and movement. Every time the captain took the ball, the field itself seemed to hold its breath.
And every time Derek moved, Stiles felt it inside himself — raw, grating, intolerably alive.
The crowd erupted again when Derek cut past two players at once, handing the ball off to Scott, who scored clean. The roar of the bleachers made the concrete vibrate beneath Stiles’s feet. He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to filter the excess. But it all remained — the vibration in his chest, the cold at the back of his neck, the bitter taste of nicotine that wasn’t there.
Stiles kept his eyes shut for a few seconds longer, dragging air in slow, deliberate pulls, trying to feel his body breathing without every muscle protesting. The tension wouldn’t yield. Derek’s impact as he ran, the precision of his passes, the raw energy of the field — it all pierced through him like electric current. His fingers tingled harder around the bottle, the chill of the plastic reduced to nothing but an object pressed against a body on high alert.
When he opened his eyes, Derek had the ball again. Every step the team captain took was measured, deliberate, brutally efficient. The air seemed to shift with him, slicing through the night wind, and Stiles felt his own breathing quicken — uninvited, uncontrollable. His chest tightened, a knot of anxiety and something older, more intimate, something he had never been able to name — but which always rose when Derek entered the frame.
Scott charged after the ball, skidding slightly on the wet grass, and Jackson trailed close, panting but burning with that relentless electricity only he could summon. The game unfolded fast, ruthless — yet Stiles was locked onto Derek. Every touch of the ball, every turn, every command barked across the field crossed the distance and struck him like an invisible fist. He couldn’t move, didn’t want to move — only watch, tethered to that physical pull tearing his focus apart.
Beside him, Lydia murmured quick observations to Allison, but her voice drowned in the rumble of the stands. Stiles’s hands had gone white from gripping the bottle so tightly. A shiver climbed his arm — not from cold, but from sheer tension, a current that began at his nape and ran straight down his spine to the ends of his fingers. It was familiar. It was unwelcome.
Then Derek drove toward the end line, slipping past two defenders with almost cruel ease. His jersey clung to his back, sweat carving down the line of his neck. Stiles felt something seize in his chest, sharp and nearly physical, as though pressure were mounting from inside out. Rage, fascination, frustration, desire — all compressed into one wave that refused to release him. His stomach knotted, his shoulders locked tight, and he had to clutch the seatback in front of him harder just to stop himself from standing.
The ball passed to Scott, who spun quick and sprinted for the touchdown. The roar that followed shook the concrete under Stiles’s feet, the sound tearing through his whole body. His ears rang, his chest throbbed with the force of the crowd — and still, his gaze clung to Derek. Every muscle in the captain’s body spoke of control, of force, of precision. And every muscle in Stiles’s own body remembered what he tried to bury — the need to measure himself, contain himself, prove himself without breaking.
The night air clung cold to his skin, tangled with the damp of the bottle in his hand and the charged electricity hanging over the field, layering tension until it ran all the way down to his toes.
Beside him, Allison and Lydia laughed, pointing, cheering with friends — but Stiles heard nothing. He felt everything: the vibration, the movement, the breath in his own lungs — time stretching and compressing inside him into nothing but raw tension. The bleachers vibrated with life, but he sat apart, too aware, too alive, too wounded — unable to tear his eyes from the captain sprinting below, relentless and impossible.
Stiles’s heart hammered so violently it seemed to echo through the floodlights, the grass, the concrete. Every missed pass, every touchdown, every cry — it all reverberated through him, turning the thrill of the game into unbearable pressure. He crushed the bottle until his fingertips ached, drew a deep breath, and shut his eyes again, trying — and failing — to cut himself off from the field, the team, from Derek. He knew it wouldn’t pass anytime soon. It never did.
The scoreboard glowed red, merciless, counting down: only seconds left in the first quarter. The field pulsed like a living thing, the crowd vibrating as though their shouts alone could shove the players forward.
Derek took the ball once more. His movements were precise, violently efficient, as if each step had been charted from the start. The sound of cleats biting into the wet grass rang sharp, metallic, each impact reverberating through Stiles’s bones, chest, throat. The captain spun, slipped past two defenders with brutal fluidity, jersey plastered against slick skin.
An opponent lunged for interception — too late. Derek had already passed to Jackson, who ran ragged, trying to keep pace with the play. The crowd erupted when Jackson managed to push a few yards forward, and Stiles’s chest flared, his heartbeat skidding out of rhythm. Each pass, each sprint, each scream from the stands sliced through his skin, leaving heat and pressure he couldn’t shake.
The referee’s whistle cut sharp, dry. The first quarter ended. The sound carried across the field, echoing through Stiles’s bones. Derek halted, panting, bracing a hand on his thigh, shoulders rising and falling with weight. Jackson staggered back, lungs tearing at the air, while Scott ripped his helmet off, sweat streaming down his face as he threw himself into Boyd, who shoved him lightly with a grin.
Stiles waited a few beats after the whistle, as though needing proof that the noise wouldn’t die anytime soon. The field roared — a living mass of voices and footsteps slamming against the concrete — but inside him there was only dry silence, heavy, unbroken by celebration. He let the crushed bottle fall at his feet and rose slowly, ignoring the flick of Lydia’s gaze, sharp but not stopping him.
His legs felt stiff, as though he had been frozen for hours, but he forced himself up the steps. Each movement thudded through the cement, drowned in the sound of the crowd applauding the team as they cleared the field. The smell of grease and sweat thickened as he passed, seeping into his clothes, burning in his nose until nausea curled at the edges of his stomach.
He cut through the press of bodies in the corridor, and the draft from outside slammed into him — cold, abrupt. Like stepping through a door into another world, where the roar was muffled, distant, a thunder locked behind walls. The night wind bit at his skin, carrying the smell of wet earth and the gasoline of a nearby street.
Stiles dug into his jacket pocket, pulled out a crumpled pack and a small lighter. The cigarette slid between his lips on instinct. The dry click of the lighter sparked, briefly lighting his face — shadows under his eyes, skin pale and drawn. The first drag tore down his throat, scorching, but relief flooded fast, the smoke filling his lungs, pushing out the pressure that had been crushing him moments ago.
He leaned against the wall, where the floodlights didn’t quite reach. Smoke unspooled slowly, dissolving into the cold night air. The only sound was the distant, muffled swell of the crowd inside, rising and falling like something buried deep underground.
Stiles smoked slow, each drag stretched until the filter singed his fingers. The cigarette burned down quick, and he lit another without thought. His shoulders loosened by degrees, the knot in his gut slackened, his chest no longer screamed for air. The wind tangled through his hair, chilled his face, and for the first time that night he breathed without feeling like something inside him might break.
When he stepped back inside, the noise hit again — a fist to the chest — but the smoke dulled its edge. He climbed the bleachers without looking, weaving past the fans still laughing, still cheering. Lydia’s eyes flicked up when he returned, but she said nothing. She only shifted her coat to clear a spot.
Stiles dropped back into the seat, body heavy, lungs steeped in smoke and sweat-stained air. The field was already alive again. The second quarter had begun without him noticing. His team was crushing the rival school, a ridiculous lead that had the crowd laughing with every play.
Derek was back on the field — sweat-soaked, muscles drawn tight, yet still steady, as if his body refused to recognize limits. Jackson looked electrified by the first score, Scott buzzed with every pass, and Boyd moved like a wall no one could push through. The scoreboard flashed red, merciless, a near-humiliation for the opposing team. Stiles barely registered the numbers.
He leaned back against the hard bleacher, the cold metal biting through his thin jacket. Smoke still burned in his throat, tangled with that bitter taste that never seemed to fade. The noise was deafening — and yet distant, like it didn’t quite belong to his reality.
That was how he realized, without surprise and without joy, that he hadn’t even noticed the game end — and that their school’s team had already won by a landslide.
The stands poured themselves down onto the field when the final whistle cut through the night, concrete shaking under the weight of running, screaming, celebrating bodies. The scoreboard blazed like a verdict, impossible to contest: Beacon Hills had crushed the rivals. Horns blared, voices cracked from shouting, applause hammered the air until it felt like breathing required swallowing victory, too.
Stiles stayed seated a moment longer, unmoving on the rigid bench. His body felt leaden, as though his legs might refuse when he asked them to rise. The taste of cigarettes still clung to his throat, mixed with the greasy stench of the bleachers and the sweat-heavy air. The vibration of triumph didn’t reach him, didn’t break through. It was like watching a fire through thick glass — the light came in, but not the heat.
Lydia stood first, fingers smoothing her hair into place, flawless even after two hours of wind and shouting. Allison followed, bright and laughing at something Erica had shouted from below. The world around them was all movement, arms lifted, voices spilling over with glee — but Stiles lagged. Only when Lydia reached a hand toward him, not to pull, just to remind him there was still a way forward, did he breathe deep and push himself up.
His legs complained, muscles stiff from being locked so long, and he had to steady himself on the back of the bench in front. The concrete thudded with footsteps, the noise multiplying inside his skull.
Descending the bleachers, they were swallowed by the crush of students. Shouts, embraces, shoulders slamming against theirs — the reek of cheap perfume and contraband beer mixed with adolescent sweat. Stiles kept his gaze low, folding himself into his jacket, but still felt the stares prick his skin like barbs. Recognition. Curiosity. Contempt. Derek Hale was the hero tonight, and everyone knew the bad blood between them.
When they finally spilled free of the crowd, the night air hit like ice water. The sky stretched clear, only wisps of cloud veiling scattered stars. In the parking lot, horns honked in rhythm, headlights flashed, and voices carried promises of parties into the dark.
Jackson appeared a moment later — still dripping sweat, hair plastered to his forehead, jersey slung over one shoulder. His face shone with exhaustion and satisfaction.
"Quick shower, then we’re celebrating," he said, breathless, before vanishing back into the locker room.
Lydia turned toward Stiles, green eyes sharp, gauging every flicker of his reaction.
“You’re coming, right?” she asked. The words landed as a given — but her tone made it a dare.
He blinked, confused, as though the idea itself were foreign. "Celebrating?" The word dragged, thick with his accent.
"Of course. The team’s going to Greenberg’s parents’ place. He shut the whole pizzeria down for them. For us." Lydia’s eyebrow arched like refusal was inconceivable.
Stiles’s brow furrowed. Discomfort crawled across his body at once. He’d come only to watch the game — and even that had been more than he could handle. The thought of cramming into a pizzeria full of players, friends, and fans pressed on his chest, suffocating.
But Lydia held his gaze, steady, patient, like she dared him to say no. The silence between them was broken only by Allison, already striding toward the lot, laughter spilling from her phone.
Stiles dragged in a breath, lungs still raw from smoke, and rolled his shoulders in surrender.
"Whatever," he muttered.
No victory in his tone. No agreement, either. Just resignation.
Lydia nodded, as though it was enough, and started forward, her bag swaying against her hip. Stiles followed, hands buried deep in his jacket pockets, each step heavy, already carrying the weight of the claustrophobia waiting ahead.
Beacon Hills’s night was only beginning — but for Stiles, it already felt far too long.