Game Time

The alarm on Stiles' phone had gone off five minutes ago. Then again a minute later. Then again. And again. I'd silenced it the last two times while he mumbled something about time being "just a human construct" and tried to drag me back under the covers with him.

Now, I stood beside his bed, arms crossed, hair still damp from my shower, and wearing one of his shirts that hung off my frame like a dress.

"Stiles..." I tried, nudging the bed with my knee.

No answer. Just a groan and the sound of him burrowing deeper into his pillow.

"Stiles," I said again, louder. "Stiles."

A muffled "Hmmm?" escaped from beneath the tangle of blankets and limbs.

I leaned down, tugging the edge of the comforter back from his face. "We have early morning practice for the big game tomorrow, remember?"

One sleepy brown eye cracked open, blinking lazily up at me. "Hi," he said, his voice hoarse and entirely too charming. Then, with zero warning, he reached up, tugged me down into the bed, and kissed me, warm, lazy, and smug.

"Stiles!" I protested against his lips, but my hands were already curling into the fabric of his hoodie.

"We also have to help Malia with that math test," I added, but he kissed the words right out of my mouth.

"Mmm, that sounds like a later problem," he murmured, pulling me impossibly closer. "You know what sounds like a right-now solution? Five more minutes... in this exact position."

"Five more minutes turns into you failing econ and me having to pull you out of Coach's office while he screams about GPA averages and eligibility again."

"Shush," he whispered, pressing his forehead to mine with that crooked little smile. "Let me love you irresponsibly."

I tried to glare at him, but it was hard when his fingers were gently tracing circles on the small of my back and his lips were right there, brushing over my jaw like a spell. Damn him.

"This is emotional blackmail," I muttered.

He just smirked. "You love it."

...Yeah, I kind of did.

-----☾-----

By the time we'd managed to drag ourselves out of bed and sprint to school, Stiles' hair still damp from a rushed shower, my eyeliner slightly uneven, we were already late.

Inside the hallway, Malia came charging toward us, waving a folded-up test paper like a trophy.

"Lydia! Cassie!"

She caught up to us near the lockers. "Did you hear me? Look! I passed!"

Lydia unfolded the test and raised an unimpressed brow. "C-minus..."

"Good job!" I said, giving Malia a side hug.

Malia grinned anyway. "Your notes are great when they're not written in code."

Coach Finstock strolled by, scowling at the paper. "Disappointed, Malia—profoundly disappointed."

"I'm still a senior, though!" she called after him.

Lydia sighed and handed Malia her test. "I'll send you the rest of my notes. Try not to light them on fire."

Off to the side, Kira approached, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "It's over," she said quietly. "The computers are off. No more assassins. No more murders. No one's dying."

There was a pause. Lydia's eyes flicked toward me, unsettled.

"...Not yet," she said.

-----☾-----

I found Scott leaning against the rail, arms crossed, watching the field below. His jaw was set tight. Something was eating at him.

"Hey," I said, sliding up next to him. "Everything okay?"

He glanced at me and hesitated. "It's Liam."

"What about him?"

"He's... pushing Mason away. Won't answer his texts, won't hang out after practice. I think he's trying to shut everyone out."

I looked toward the field, spotting Liam across the way, hunched over, earbuds in, tossing a lacrosse ball against the wall like it had done something personal to him.

"Let me talk to him," I said.

-----☾-----

I caught Liam just as he turned to leave. "Hey, Liam—wait."

He froze, the ball still in his hand, but didn't turn around. "Hey, Cassie."

"You've been avoiding Mason."

His shoulders tensed. "I haven't-"

"Don't lie. You know I can tell."

He turned then, jaw clenched. "I'm just trying to keep him safe."

I stepped closer, arms folded. "From what? You? From the supernatural mess we all live in?"

"From getting killed because he's close to me," Liam snapped, voice cracking just slightly. "I already almost lost control once. What if next time, it's worse? What if next time, he's in the way?"

My heart clenched at the panic behind his words. He looked so young in that moment. Young and terrified.

"Liam," I said, gently, "you don't protect people by cutting them out. You protect them by being with them. By letting them stand with you. You don't have to tell him anything. But you need people around you. Besides us."

He didn't answer, just stared at the ground.

I placed a hand on his shoulder. "Mason's your best friend. He wants to help you. Let him."

He didn't nod, but he didn't argue either.

-----☾-----

I was curled up on the Stilinski couch, wearing Stiles' hoodie, flipping through takeout menus with the TV low in the background. Stiles was next to me, legs draped dramatically over mine like a lazy cat. Every time I tried to move, he let out a theatrical groan, claiming I was disturbing "his recovery period."

From what, he didn't say.

Sheriff Stilinski walked into the room, tossing his keys onto the table. "Drop what you're doing. I'm taking you both out to dinner."

Stiles didn't even look up from the sudoku he was pretending to do on his phone. "Dad, I don't think a man of your debts should be treating anyone to anything. Especially not dinner. Have you seen the price of guac these days?"

The Sheriff shot him a look, then held up a letter. "Well, there's one debt we no longer have to worry about."

Stiles finally blinked up at him. "What is it?"

Sheriff Stilinski gave a triumphant little wave of the envelope. "A letter of apology from Eichen House. Apparently, they've decided to forgive our debt."

My brows shot up. "Wait, seriously? They can do that?"

"They can," he said, sitting down in the armchair across from us. "And they did. On account of Stiles and Lydia almost getting murdered on their property."

Stiles leaned back against the cushions with a dreamy grin. "I've never been so happy to have almost been murdered."

I tossed a throw pillow at him. "Don't make that a recurring theme, please."

The Sheriff chuckled, eyes soft as he looked between the two of us. "We're not out of it yet, but... we're going to be okay. And, at least for the moment, I can afford to take my son and his girlfriend out to dinner."

Stiles and I shared a look, an unspoken agreement in a single glance. Then I held up the menus.

"Takeout?" I suggested.

Stiles nodded emphatically. "Takeout."

Sheriff Stilinski sighed, but the corners of his mouth lifted. "Alright. But I'm choosing the restaurant. Last time you two ordered sushi from a gas station."

"It was experimental cuisine," Stiles argued, stealing the Thai menu from me. "Cassie lived. Barely."

"Let's not test fate tonight," I said, pulling the Chinese menu from under the stack. "Ooh, I want egg rolls. And the spicy noodles. And maybe dumplings?"

"Do we need three appetizers?" the Sheriff asked.

I gave him a look. "After the week we've had? Yes."

We settled in as the food order grew longer and our arguments more ridiculous. Stiles insisted we needed two orders of lo mein because I always "steal his." I countered that he had no proof. He countered with a photo on his phone of me mid-noodle slurp.

Sheriff Stilinski just watched us with this quiet, almost wistful smile. When the menus were set down and the order placed, he leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

"You know," he said, "I always kind of figured you two would end up together."

I blinked. "Really?"

He nodded. "There was this one summer, you couldn't have been older than ten, Stiles came home after you beat him in a game of kickball, and he told me, dead serious, 'I'm going to marry her one day. She's fierce.'"

Stiles turned beet red. "Dad."

I burst out laughing. "You said fierce?"

"Apparently so," the Sheriff said, grinning.

"I was also ten and stupid!" Stiles added quickly. "And clearly overwhelmed by her athletic prowess."

"Sure you were," I said, bumping his leg.

The Sheriff's eyes lingered on us with the kind of look that made your chest warm. "It's just nice to see you both okay. Smiling. Being kids, even if just for a night."

I reached over and squeezed his hand. "We're grateful for you, too. You've done a lot more than most dads would. For both of us."

He cleared his throat, probably to hide the fact that he was getting a little misty-eyed. "Well, don't go telling people I'm a softie. I've got a reputation to maintain."

Stiles nudged me, his smile small but genuine. "He's gonna cry when the dumplings show up."

The Sheriff rolled his eyes, but he didn't deny it.

-----☾-----

I was leaning against the bench before school, Liam pacing in front of me.

Stiles jogged up beside me, glancing at his phone. "Everything's fine. I got a text from Scott this morning. He said he might be a little late."

I squinted toward the empty parking lot. "Define might be a little late. Is this like... Scott late or actually late?"

Behind us, Liam was practically vibrating out of his jersey. "Well, how late is late?! Is he always late? We're playing Devenford Prep again, and this time it's an actual game! He shouldn't be late!"

"Relax," I said, resting a hand on his shoulder. He didn't flinch, but he didn't relax either.

Then Coach barreled into the conversation, holding a clipboard like it had personally offended him. "Who shouldn't be late?"

Stiles and I exchanged a look. I went first.

"Scott and Kira. They might be slightly late."

"Slightly late," Coach repeated, staring us down like we'd just confessed to treason. "Slightly late is still late. What are they doing?"

"They're doing something that's going to make them slightly late," Stiles said, too quickly.

I added, "Something important."

Coach narrowed his eyes. "What could Scott and Kira be doing that's more important than the first lacrosse game of the season?"

Stiles hesitated. "Oh, Coach..."

And that's all he said. Just "Oh, Coach," like it was some deep philosophical answer that would explain everything.

Coach stormed off muttering to himself about "stupid, irresponsible teenagers" and "stupid, missing captains" and "stupid old... everything."

-----☾-----

I stood with my stick under one arm, watching Liam pace like a caged wolf. And honestly? That's exactly what he was. We were less than ten minutes to tip-off.

"They're still not here," he muttered.

"Okay," Stiles said, stepping between us. "What's really going on? You nervous about the full moon? It's not for another twenty-four hours."

Liam shook his head, jaw clenched. "I'm fine."

"You're so not fine," I said, tilting my head. "Your heartbeat sounds like it's doing a drum solo."

"You're gonna be fine," Stiles said. "Just... don't rage out on anyone, okay?"

"I said I'm fine."

"You're not worried?" Liam threw the question at him like a challenge.

Stiles shrugged, only half-convincing. "Okay, I'm mildly concerned. Mildly."

Liam huffed. "We're gonna lose without him."

Stiles bristled. "No, we're not! We can be just as good without Scott, okay? I've been practicing. And Cassie's basically a sniper with that lacrosse stick."

"Thanks," I said, pretending not to beam a little. "Compliments during a crisis? Who are you and what have you done with my boyfriend?"

He grinned and immediately looked down at his phone. "Yeah whatever... I'm gonna call Scott again."

-----☾-----

The game was tense. We were holding our own, barely, but everyone could feel it—Scott and Kira's absence like a weight on our backs. Liam was playing hard, harder than I'd ever seen. Almost too hard. Like he was trying to outrun something inside himself.

When the halftime whistle blew, I made a beeline for the bench, wiping sweat off my brow. I was about to check in with Liam when someone stepped into my path.

"Hey," Brett Talbot said, looming and smug in that casual, Devenford way of his. "What's wrong with your Beta?"

I stopped short. "Excuse me?"

He motioned toward Liam, who was hunched over on the sidelines, breathing heavily.

"He's sloppy. Playing like he's got something crawling under his skin."

I crossed my arms. "Because he does, actually."

Brett's smirk faded a little, curiosity sharpening in his eyes. "Seriously, what's going on?"

I sighed, lowering my voice. "He's stressed. Scott's missing, and Liam doesn't know how to handle it. He's trying to take everything on himself."

Brett tilted his head. "So... you're saying he's gonna snap."

"I'm saying," I said, stepping closer, "if he does, maybe don't provoke him into it."

Brett's eyes flicked past me to where Liam was gripping the edge of the bench like it might shatter. "He shouldn't be out here."

"Maybe not," I agreed, "but he is. So either help hold the line, or get out of the way."

Brett gave a low whistle. "You're scarier than McCall."

"I get that a lot."

As he walked away, I sat beside Liam and handed him a water bottle. He didn't look at me, just took it with shaking fingers.

"Breathe," I said.

"I don't want to screw it up."

"You won't," I promised. "We've got each other's backs. You've got mine."

He finally looked at me. "Okay."

I squeezed his arm. "Let's go win this thing."

-----☾-----

We did not, in fact, win this thing.

Instead, just as the final whistle blew and the sting of defeat sank into my shoulders, my phone lit up with a call from Stiles. The second I heard his voice, low, frantic, breaking in a way I hadn't heard since the Nogitsune, I knew something was wrong.

"Scott and Kira are gone. Kidnapped. We're going back to Mexico."

I froze in place, my fingers tightening so hard around my phone I heard it creak. "What?" I whispered. "Are you serious?"

He didn't even answer. I heard the sound of a car door slamming shut and Derek's voice in the background. That was answer enough.

"Shower. Change into clean clothes. Meet me at my car." I grabbed Liam's arm, panic already hammering through my chest. "Now."

I didn't give him a chance to argue. My pulse was already jackhammering in my ears, and I didn't have the patience or emotional bandwidth to reassure him. I barely had enough for myself.

-----☾-----

The locker room was a blur.

Steam clung to the mirrors, and my fingers trembled as I pulled off my muddy uniform. I fumbled with the faucet twice before I could get the water temperature right. My skin buzzed like electricity was humming just beneath the surface, and every drop of hot water that hit me made my chest feel tighter, not looser.

We just got Scott back. We just started breathing again.

By the time I got out, my clothes clung to my damp skin because I hadn't dried off properly. I barely cared. I tugged on black jeans, my most worn combat boots, and a dark hoodie I kept in my gym bag.

The drive was only fifteen minutes, but it felt like fifteen years.

Liam was quiet in the passenger seat. For once, he didn't ask questions or try to fill the silence with noise. Maybe he could feel the storm brewing inside me. Maybe he was just as afraid.

I gripped the steering wheel too tightly, knuckles white. Every streetlight blurred a little around the edges from the tears I refused to let fall.

My mind was racing with questions I couldn't answer: Who took them? Why? How did we let this happen again? What if this time, we don't find them?

I turned the volume up on the radio, then immediately turned it back down. I couldn't handle the static. I couldn't handle anything.

Liam finally broke the silence. "Cassie..."

"I know," I said quickly. "I know."

He didn't say anything else. But he didn't have to. We were both thinking the same thing.

The McCall came into view as I turned the corner, headlights flashing against the industrial glass.

Malia was already outside, arms crossed. Stiles stood next to him, phone still clutched in his hand, hair sticking up in five different directions like he'd been running his hands through it non-stop. He saw me first and started toward the car before I'd even parked.

As I threw it into park, my hands finally started to shake. Not just nerves, real, full-body tremors.

I opened the door. Stiles was there immediately.

"I'm okay," I lied, stepping into him and wrapping my arms around his waist. "I'm fine."

He didn't believe me. But he hugged me tight anyway, like he could squeeze the fear out of my bones.

"They're going to be okay," he whispered into my hair, as much for himself as for me.

I closed my eyes.

God, I hoped so.