Best Friend's Brother // Stiles x Male OC

extra

Extra chapter just because I was bored, no smut, because I'm terrible at writing it.

I should be used to this by now—the feeling of Mateo's fingers lacing with mine as we walk down the street, the way he tugs me a little closer when a car speeds by too fast, how he swings our hands just enough to make me laugh. But I'm not.

Every time he touches me, it still feels brand new, like the first time he ever reached for my hand under the table at the diner, squeezing just once before letting go, leaving me stunned and grinning like an idiot.

Tonight, it's our usual Friday night date, and we're walking toward the little taco truck parked near the library. It's not fancy, but neither of us has ever cared about that. Mateo has a thing for street food, and I have a thing for Mateo, so really, this works out great for both of us.

"You're thinking too hard again," Mateo says, bumping his shoulder into mine.

"Am not," I argue, but he just gives me that look, the one that says he knows me better than I know myself.

He grins, tugging me forward. "Tacos first, overthinking later."

We get our food and find a spot on the curb, sitting close enough that our knees press together. The night air is warm, and the scent of grilled meat and fresh cilantro hangs between us. Mateo watches me take my first bite, waiting for my reaction like he always does.

I hum dramatically. "God, I think I just fell in love."

"With the tacos?" Mateo asks, one brow raised.

"Obviously." I take another bite, chewing thoughtfully before adding, "You're a very close second, though."

Mateo laughs, shaking his head. "Glad to know where I stand."

Later, we end up at my place, Mateo's legs dangling off the edge of my bed—my bed—like he's some prince slumming it in my very nerdy castle. He tilts his head toward me, flashing that smug smile of his. It's the kind of smile that probably has people lining up to do whatever he wants, but instead of being irritating, it just makes my stomach do this weird flip thing.

"You always keep it this messy, or did you just want to impress me?" he teases, his voice low and warm, like he knows exactly how to get under my skin.

"Oh, shut up," I fire back, flopping onto the bed beside him. My shoulder bumps his, and I try to pretend like that wasn't a deliberate move on my part. "It's called organized chaos. Maybe you've heard of it?"

He chuckles softly, turning his head to look at me. His dark eyes sparkle in the dim light, and I hate how effortlessly charming he is. "Sure, if by 'organized' you mean 'disaster zone.'"

I roll my eyes, grabbing a stray comic from the bed and tossing it onto the floor. "You're just jealous because my room has personality, and yours looks like a sterile hotel suite."

"Hey, I'll have you know my room has plenty of personality," he says, his voice mock-offended.

"Does it, though?" I quip, leaning back on my elbows and shooting him a smug grin. " you have a single framed photo and a plant you named Kevin,  that's not personality, Mateo. That's just sad."

He laughs, this deep, rich sound that makes my chest feel too tight. "You're unbelievable," he says, shaking his head.

"Unbelievably awesome, you mean."

Mateo doesn't respond right away. Instead, he shifts, turning onto his side to face me. His expression softens, and suddenly, it feels like the air in the room gets heavier—charged, like something unspoken is hanging between us.

"You know," he says quietly, his voice losing its teasing edge, "I like being here. In your room. With you."

I freeze, my brain short-circuiting for a second. "Yeah, well, it's not like you gave you much of a choice," I say, trying to keep things light. "You're the one who keeps barging into my house like you own the place."

"You're the one who keeps letting me in," he counters, his gaze steady.

"I don't know what you're talking about," I say, but my voice cracks slightly, and I know he catches it.

He smirks, but it's softer now, less teasing and more...fond. "You're a terrible liar, Stiles."

"Am not," I argue automatically.

"Are too," he says, his voice dropping to that low, velvety tone that makes me feel like I'm going to combust on the spot.

Before I can come up with a witty comeback, he reaches out and lightly touches my knee. It's such a simple gesture, but it sends a jolt of electricity through me.

His smile softens even more, and he shifts closer, his face just inches from mine. "You're kind of amazing, you know that?"

I snort, because I don't know how else to respond. "Pretty sure you're the first person to ever say that."

"Well, then the rest of the world must be blind," he says, his voice low and certain. Before I can muster another self-deprecating joke, he leans in, his lips pressing softly against mine, silencing every thought in my head.

His lips meet mine again, and this time, there's a desperate urgency behind it, like he couldn't wait any longer. I feel his hand at the back of my neck, pulling me closer, and I can't help but respond, pressing myself against him. The world outside disappears—there's nothing but the heat between us, the soft sounds of breath, and the faint hum of the air conditioning.

I shift, tangling my fingers in his hair, and he lets out a quiet groan, deepening the kiss. His other hand slides down my side, and I gasp as he pulls me even closer. Our mouths move in sync, urgent and hungry, It's messy and desperate, but it feels real—like this is exactly where we're supposed to be.

His lips leave mine for just a second, and I can't help but chase them, but then he's kissing me again, softer this time, and the contrast between that softness and the fire between us is enough to leave me breathless.