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They hadn’t all survived to adulthood; Stiles is acutely aware of that fact. There are gaping holes in his life where people should be. They’d been teenagers when the world around them had become a vortex of the horrible, the violent, the strange, and the bloody. He’d buried more friends than anyone should by the age of twenty-four.
There are days when he wonders why he survived when others hadn’t. Erica had been more confident. Boyd had been more loyal. Aiden had been stronger. They all had so much life still ahead of them. There were others allies that lost their lives; even more unaware civilians were victims to a war they couldn’t see.
Beacon Hills is calmer these days. The cleansing ritual Stiles had performed on the nemeton ensured that it worked once more as a beacon, not the fucking hellmouth high on blood sacrifices that it had been.
Things are good. Admittedly, they are not as Stiles would have predicted back in high school. He’d thought he’d go into law enforcement in some capacity. Instead, he owns a little flower shop and lives in the apartment above it. It works for him, keeps him close to his dad, to his pack and allows him to feel Beacon Hills through the nemeton.
Magic isn’t something he’d predicted he’d specialize in back in high school either. Back then, he’d only managed to work with mountain ash a handful of times and relied more on his trusty baseball bat than a spark. Honestly, he still has three baseball bats (one for his bedside, one for the store, and one for the Jeep) it pays to be prepared in Beacon Hills.
These days, magic comes to him as easy as breathing. He flips on the lights as he comes into the shop with a travel mug of coffee in hand. The geraniums turn to him like he’s the sun. He reaches out to touch the petals and feels his magic slip down into the roots, making it stronger.
Right on time, the truck stops outside. Stiles crosses the small shop, unlocks the door and walks out to greet Austin. He’s only eighteen, barely out of high school and always calls Stiles ‘Mr. Stilinski.’ Honestly, nothing makes Stiles feel older than this kid. Austin seems so young and carefree. Stiles can’t relate. He feels twice his years and weighed down with trauma.
“Mornin,’ Mr. Stilinski,” Austin says in his usual happy, chipper way.
“Good morning, please tell me my hydrangeas are in there.”
Austin pulls open the double doors for the cargo area of the refrigerated truck. “Of course, why are you so worried?”
Stiles breathes in the cool, floral scented air. “Because brides tend to get pissed off when the arrangements they order don’t arrive.”
“Fair enough.” Austin climbs into the back of the truck.
There is something that has come into Beacon Hills. Not new. Something he’s felt before. The nemeton doesn’t work in names, it works in energy. The network of roots that surround the county give him vague feelings.
“Mr. Stilinski?”
Stiles shakes himself out of it and looks up at Austin who holds a bucket full of hydrangeas. “Pass them over,” Stiles says. “I’ve got to get these prepped!”
He has a wedding to prepare for. Whoever and whatever just entered Beacon Hills isn’t a danger, there is no sense of foreboding that would leave him chilled. Everything is fine. He feels a little calmer once he’s inside the shop. It’s been a while since any new supernatural entity has come into the territory.
He relays the message to the pack group chat. It’s still early, he doesn’t expect anyone—except maybe Scott if he has an early shift at the clinic, to be awake.
But his phone pings.
LYDIA: Jackson is home.
Stiles stares at the message for a long time. Long enough that Austin to deliver multiple buckets of flowers to him. There is a lot in that once sentence—and who it came from.
A part of him is angry that Lydia didn’t mention it. It’s possible she didn’t know, that he surprised her, or that he wanted it to be a surprise and asked her to keep the secret. Jackson is one of the many who left Beacon Hills, like Ethan, Isaac, and Hayden—they left and stayed away. Chris and Derek had both left too, they’d come back in their own time.
Jackson is still a fucking kanima/werewolf and she should have warned Stiles—if not as a friend, than as pack emissary, she knew he’d feel it.
There is also that horrible, stupid, crush he’d once held for Jackson (and Lydia) because obviously his type is powerful, confident, wildly out of his league people. He’d settled into his bisexuality in his late teens, and his crush on Lydia had evolved into one of the strongest, most important friendships he would ever have.
She should have told him.
The nearest flowers start wilting at his mood, and he shakes it off. Work will be good for him. Jackson is an issue that can wait. He sets his phone on his little desk, away from where it could possibly get wet. He fills buckets of water, some warm, some cold. He jams the stopper into the sink when he’s done and fills it with water too.
Austin leaves the invoice on the desk and bids him a good day.
He turns on the radio, keeps it low enough that he’ll be able to hear the bell over the door chime if someone comes in. He chucks a couple pieces of floral foam into the sink to soak. More than once he’s had to stop one of his visiting friends from dunking them under. How many times has he had to explain that they sink when they’re full, and if you push them under, the centers remain dry and the arrangement doesn’t last?
The orders are arranged by priority on the tablet on his desk. He’s got orders for two funeral arrangements, one birthday bouquet, and most of the afternoon is squared off for wedding prep. Only thirty table arrangements, seven bridesmaid bouquets, one cascading bouquet for the bride, eight boutonnières and six corsages. No big deal.
His fingers ache already.
°°°
The bell above the door rings when he’s working on one of the boutonnières. “Back here,” he calls out. He’d ordered food delivery since it was hours past lunch and he wasn’t even sure if he had a pack of ramen upstairs. Grocery shopping had been on his to-do list for the past three days. He doesn’t let go of the greenery or flower he’s wrapping in floral tape. “The twenty on the desk is for the food.” He smooths his thumb over a ridge in the tape. “Keep the change.”
“I’m not delivering anything.”
His focus is gone in an instant. He knows that voice. He turns and looks over at Jackson Whittemore for the first time in…what? Seven? Eight years? He looks better than ever. Somehow, he looks more settled in his skin, confident—not for show but for real.
“I hear you’re the man to see about flowers.”
“You want flowers?” Stiles can’t stop staring. His brain has short circuited.
“Looking for something nice, mid-budget, nothing too fancy—but nothing cheap either.”
Something to impress a date but not say trying too hard.
“Okay. I can do that.”
The bell chimes again, and someone comes in with his food. Stiles gives the actual delivery driver the same speech he’d given Jackson on accident. The driver gives him thanks and pockets the cash.
Without asking, Jackson opens the container. “Curly fries?” He smiles, it’s real and soft. “Really? You didn’t change at all, did you?”
Stiles frowns and turns back to finish the boutonnière. “I changed plenty.” The following silence is tense. Stiles tries to keep his thoughts warm and light as he handles the finishing touches.
Completed, Stiles walks the the boutonnière to the fridge and places it with the few others he’s finished. “So, any flowers or colours in mind?” he asks as he walks back into his work space.
“Eat your fries before they get cold,” Jackson says, standing over by the sink. “The flowers can wait.”
“Don’t dunk the foam!” Stiles warns.
“I didn’t touch it!”
°°°
Jackson comes back the next week and orders another bouquet. They talk for a while. It’s weird but in a good way. Stiles thinks about their conversation long after Jackson’s left. Neither of them are the people they were back in high school.
°°°
Jackson comes back the week after and this time Stiles isn’t wearing his flannel over-shirt. “You have tattoos,” Jackson says in lieu of greeting.
Stiles looks down at himself, like he’s surprised by the news. “Son of a bitch, you’re right.”
Jackson shakes his head. “I’m just surprised. I didn’t peg you as the type.”
Prominently, on Stiles’ right forearm is a tattoo of an arrow, the word Argent barely noticeable in the shaft. Every single day he thinks of Allison, her life cut too short. On the same day he had that tattoo done, he got the kanji for self behind his ear. They’d been his first set of tattoos but hardly the last.
Every single one of his packmates have a place on his body, tattoos that he somehow magically attached packbonds to. He has the symbols of both the McCall and the Hale pack—with their blessing—the dual arm bands of Scott’s, Derek’s triskelion between his shoulder blades. They didn’t do anything but look badass.
On his wrist is ‘xo’ written twice in two sets of penmanship, one his mother, the other his father, taken from letters they used to leave each other before her passing.
Melissa, practically his third parent, had looked skyward when she’d seen his tattoo for her. do no harm. take no shit. He remembers her fond, ‘oh Stiles,’ before she’d started laughing.
Some of his tattoos don’t just bind but activate with magic. Kira is represented by a lightning bolt on his left wrist. Channeling the image could bring it to life. He can make lightning jump from the tattoos to his fingertips, and can manipulate it in his left hand and weaponize it if when need be. The small flame had been added next to the lightning bolt for Parrish a month later.
Those aren’t the only tattoos with function. After finding out his tattoos could also be functional, he went the obvious choice of a gun to represent Chris. It was angled slightly along his hip bones, like it had been tucked in the front of his pants. That one is more complicated, created of the mortal world, not primal energy like the elements. To have it function, he had to learn every single part of a gun and why it works. Unlimited ammo too, he just has to believe he has bullets left.
He had resisted for a while but knew Peter could be nothing but a wolf in the same way Malia could be nothing but a coyote. He’d had persistent dreams of Lydia as a clever little fox. He didn’t ask questions when it came to his magical instinct. He still doesn’t know why Liam is a coiled snake, or why Mason is a raven, he just accepts.
“I didn’t think of myself as the type either, to be honest,” Stiles admits as he leans on the counter the register sits on.
“Which one was first?”
Stiles swallows hard. “Allison.” He drags his thumb along the arrowhead. It used to cut him when he did that, his guilt making him want to suffer. It had taken a long time to grieve and move on. Long talks with Chris of all people had gone a long way to help them both heal. “The kanji for self, I got the same day.” He touches the kanji behind his ear. He can’t feel it, it’s nothing but ink on skin, but he is himself, he is alone in his body.
“Lydia told me about…” Jackson trails off.
Stiles nods. He turns away and picks up the bouquet that Jackson had ordered over the phone this time. “Anyway, here are your flowers.” He rings it up mechanically.
“Sorry, I shouldn’t have brought it up,” Jackson says, tapping his card.
Stiles takes a deep breath. “Allison should be talked about. I want to remember her always. But the rest…”
“I get it.”
Stiles remembers the kanima, all the things Matt made Jackson do. They both had other people use them for nefarious purposes. Jackson probably understood better than anyone else what he’d been through while the nogitsune had taken his body for a joy ride.
Stiles holds out the bouquet. “I’ll see you next week?”
Jackson smiles. “See you then.”
°°°
The pack house is out on the preserve. Derek and Peter had decided to rebuild the house on Hale land. During so, they’d rebuild their relationship as well. Stiles had a room there, but until his only employee returned from maternity leave, staying in his apartment above the shop had just been easier. The seven days a week, open to close, had been getting to him though.
He walks in, no knocking, he’s pack.
The plants that had wilted during his absence, spring up as if greeting him. He walks over to the wall of plants, and touches them each in turn, speaking to them. “Who hasn’t been bringing you to the window?” he asks one of the more delicate flowers. “It’s Peter that’s been neglecting you, hasn’t it?”
“Your flowers are just dramatic,” Peter says as he walks by. “They were fine before your arrival. They just want your attention. Worse than pets.”
“Aww, grumpy wolf, do you need some attention and love too?” Stiles opens his arms. “Come on in for a hug, big guy.”
Peter’s lip curls as he growls a little. Stiles just laughs. It doesn’t matter how Peter acts as he stalks over to the long harvest table, Stiles can feel the bond through the wolf on his shoulder, it’s amused and fond.
Stiles is in a good mood. The pack is all happy and cheerful. He helps Scott in the kitchen for a while before getting shooed out when he starts dancing along to the radio with Kira too close tot he stove for comfort.
He moves on to help Liam with a college assignment he’s having trouble understanding. Stiles is happy to help sooth the frustration before it could start snapping it’s way through the bond.
Lydia comes in late, just before dinner is served. “Hey, Lyds. Have you seen Jackson at all this week?”
Lydia pauses in her action of taking her coat off, and then continues, draping it over the back of one of the dining chairs. “Yeah, for a bit. He’s staying with his parents. Why?”
“No reason,” he shakes his head.
He thought the crush on Jackson had been long dead and buried. Too bad it had grown back stronger than ever.
Lydia fidgets through dinner, glancing at Stiles now and then. He’d once admitted his crush on Jackson to her, long after his infatuation with her had become ride or die friendship. Oh god, she knows about his crush, and she’s getting back with her high school sweetheart and doesn’t know how to break it to him.
He’d spent all week being excited about pack dinner but now, he wants to be anywhere but here.
°°°
He sees Jackson and Lydia walking together as he packs his Jeep with some of the basic groceries he’d spent twice the amount on at the convenience store because he’d spent too much time working on an upcoming wedding and didn’t get to the grocery store on time. Again.
He sees them, but they don’t see him. Lydia laughs at something that Jackson says, and Stiles can feel her warm and light. He turns away. He’s happy they’ve reconnected. He loves Lydia—in a totally different, far more meaningful way than he once had. The crush on Jackson will wilt away. It had before. It will again. One day soon, he won’t give Jackson a passing thought.
°°°
Jackson keeps coming in weekly for flowers. Lydia better appreciate them.
°°°
Jackson brings in a gift for Stiles. It’s an issue of an up and coming comic signed by the artist. “I do some finance stuff for him, told him I knew a big fan.”
“I told you about this series once like a month ago!”
“I do listen to you,” Jackson says with a smirk. “Do you like it?”
“I love it!” Stiles sets it down so it’s safe and lets the excitement carry him. It’s an instinct like the ones that led him to his tattoos, cementing his bonds. He hugs Jackson, and it doesn’t even feel like he surprised the other man. Jackson holds him close and tight and it feels perfect. He quickly lets go and steps back.
Not mine, he reminds himself, Lydia’s.
“Thank you.”
Jackson rubs the back of his neck. “It’s no big deal.”
°°°
The more delicate plants react Stiles emotional turmoil.
He keeps killing the peonies.
°°°
“I’m fine,” Stiles repeats. He’s sitting on the back deck of the pack house. Scott is a good friend, he’s a good alpha, he’s grown to be even better as they’ve settled into adulthood. “I’m just a little tired. You know how wedding season is and Madison is on maternity leave.” He stands up. “Just magical exhaustion, Scotty. Put a bit too much oomph into those dahlias.”
“Okay,” Scott says. “You could take a nap. I think Mason said dinner wouldn’t be until seven.”
Stiles goes inside, grabs a drink, but doesn’t head for the stairs that lead up to the bedrooms. He flops down on the couch. He still hasn’t decided if he’s going to sleep at the pack house for the night, or make the drive back home so he has the luxury of hitting the snooze button twice.
He knows it’s Derek that sits down on the couch with him. The triskelion on his back is warm. He feels Derek’s hand on his shoulder, a couple fingers against his neck, skin on skin contact. He knows that Derek is trying to pull his pain. “It’s not that kind of pain,” he admits softly.
They’ve come a long way from accusations of murder and shoving against walls. Derek doesn’t say anything, but he rests his head against Stiles’ shoulder. Derek being a snugglewolf makes him feel marginally better.
“Stiles!” Liam lands on the couch next to them with enough force to make Stiles bounce a little. “Look!”
Stiles cracks open one eye then both eyes widen. “Holy fuck, you aced that essay!”
“You helped,” Liam says but Stiles can feel the pride.
“I’m so proud of you!”
Liam beams, then takes off to show Scott.
Stiles dozes a little on the couch until dinner. It’s not like Mason to make Alfredo pasta, it’s one of Scott’s staples but it’s one of Stiles’ favourites, so he doesn’t mention it. The garlic bread is extra cheesy, just the way he likes it.
He eats his way into food coma territory but decides to drive home. Peter jingles his own keys—it’s an offer, a ride if he wants out of the house but feels too tired to drive safely. “I’m good,” Stiles promises.
He’s gives his quick, general goodbye to the group and walks out. He’s still stopped by Lydia who follows him out, barefoot in her haste to catch up with him. “What’s going on with you?”
“Nothing.”
She plants her hands on her hips. “Are you sick? Has another pack reached out? Got a bad feeling about anything?”
“I’m just tired, Lyds,” he replies. “I’ve had weddings three weekends in a row.” It’s the same sort of excuse he gave Scott earlier. Lydia doesn’t look like she buys it though. He gives her a quick kiss on the cheek. “I’m fine, good night.”
She rolls her eyes. “Good night.”
°°°
Stiles whispers sweet words to the flowers as he finishes up the last arrangement for a baby shower. The first time mother had struggled for years to conceive and was celebrating to the fullest. He can feel his magic in the seven arrangements, they’ll last longer than any flowers should.
He looks at his tablet. He needs to take inventory. The only other arrangement he has is a bouquet for a birthday but the pick-up time is requested for 4:45 and it isn’t even time for lunch yet.
Inventory then. He makes sure his knife is dry and put away in the drawer before he grabs his tablet. He does general inventory first, walking around the shop. He makes note of the potted plants that he’s out of. The wave of popularity that the succulents once had seems to be over. He considers making a few terrariums with those left and see if he can entice buyers with how beautiful they can be.
He needs more pittosporum, it’s a good greenery for pretty much everything. He adds eucalyptus, bear grass, and ferns to the list. Roses, of course, he always needs more roses. Carnations are always popular. Snapdragons, one of Stiles’ favourites. Baby’s breath, alstroemeria, and larkspur are added.
The bell above the door jingles and Stiles looks over to see Jackson walk in. Oh, hell. Stiles has been avoiding the pack for a week and has actively been keeping his magic focussed so he doesn’t accidentally put his bad mood on his poor, defenceless plants.
Stiles has always been the type to fall hard, fast, and completely. He needs space from Jackson to let this crush die out, but he can’t just tell a weekly client to shove it.
He’s so distracted by Jackson, that he hadn’t noticed what Jackson had brought with him. Two cups of coffee. “Good morning,” he says, offering one of the coffees.
“Good morning.” Stiles abandons his tablet by the register and accepts the steaming hot coffee. “Thank you.”
“I should be the one thanking you,” Jackson says. “You have quite the way with flowers. I admit though, not the occupation I envisioned for you.” He grimaces. “I don’t mean any offence! It’s just—“
“I get it.” Stiles takes a careful sip of his coffee, it’s made just the way he likes it. “You’re not the only one who thought I’d end up following in Dad’s footsteps.”
“I heard through the grapevine that you even had a whole FBI thing going on.”
Stiles sighs. “Beacon Hills is too ingrained in me for that. I need to be here. I need to be with the pack. I could have gotten into local law enforcement but…” Stiles struggles to even think about it. “Beacon Hills got peaceful and it was like everything we’d been through finally caught up all at once and… I just wasn’t in a good head space for a while. Gardening helped and once I realized the effect I can have on plants and how much peace they give me in return—this is what I need, I’m lucky it also became what I want.”
Stiles sets his coffee down. “Anyway, enough about me. I assume you’re here for some flowers.”
Jackson shrugs. “Which one is your favourite?”
“Overall? Can’t go wrong with snapdragons, they’re fun, squishable and come in a variety of colours. I get happy just looking at them.” Stiles opened a different fridge. “I just got some ranunculus in, they’re Lydia’s favourite—I’m assuming you’re here for a bouquet.”
“Uh, yeah.”
Stiles pulls out some of the ranunculus. A hand on his shoulder gives him pause.
“I’m not buying flowers for Lydia,” Jackson says.
“Oh.” Stiles doesn’t want to venture a guess at who else Jackson is making a play at.
Jackson looks about ready to say something that Stiles isn’t ready to hear when his phone goes off. He knows it’s rude to just run off to answer the phone but Jackson shoos him. “Go answer that.”
Stiles is cursing himself for being a coward as he steps into the back room and grabs his phone. It had already stopped ringing but starts again at once. It’s Liam. Something had attacked Derek and Malia when they’d gone for a run in the woods. They’re both injured and barely made it out. Neither are making much sense. Both are running fevers and are delirious. Stiles assures Liam that he’s coming right away. He should have felt something. He feels for the pack bonds and finds they’re fuzzy, the way they get when his packmates are sleeping—that’s why he didn’t notice.
“What’s wrong?” Jackson asks.
“Pack, I have to go,” Stiles says, grabbing Jackson’s arm and dragging him out the door. He only pauses to flip the sign to closed and lock the door.
“I’m coming with you.”
“What?”
Jackson’s nails grow and sharpen into claws. “You might need the backup.”
Stiles doesn’t argue, it would be a waste of time and Jackson is an asset in any fight. They both get into his little Jeep and he gives his magic a little push as he turns the key in the ignition. The old thing roars to life like it’s fresh off the lot.
They don’t talk in the car. Stiles’ attention is on getting them to the pack house without killing anyone.
When they arrive, there are more cars than normal at the pack house. He doesn’t take the time to try to figure out who they belong to. He grabs his baseball bat from the back seat and rushes inside.
Noshiko is there and he’s thankful for her expertize because she apparently has dealt with this before. There is some kind of concoction on the table. Derek’s got a wet face cloth on his forehead, and Malia is dry heaving into a bucket.
“Are they going to be okay?” Stiles asks.
“Kira and I have stabilized them,” Noshiko says. “But they won’t truly get better until the toxal is dead.”
“What the fuck is a toxal!” Stiles demands at about the same time he realizes there had been far more cars out on the driveway than there were people. “Where is everyone?”
“They went out to fight it,” Noshiko says. “Toxals look like giant snakes but they have arms and claws.”
“Weaknesses?”
“Fire,” Noshiko tells him. “Beheading should also do it.”
“Where is Parrish?”
“Couldn’t get a hold of him,” Kira says. “Called the station, he’s on a call on the other side of town. Liam siphoned some gasoline from the gas tanks and Peter has a lighter.”
It’s not the best plan but desperate times and all that. “I should have felt it come into Beacon Hills.”
“They lie dormant underground for decades,” Noshiko says. “It woke up to feed.”
He feels the bonds but most of the tattoos have gone into that dazed numbness that used to only mean dreaming to Stiles. “We need to—did anyone call Chris?”
“Of course I did,” Kira says. “He said he was stopping at home to pick up a flamethrower.”
Thank God for Chris Argent.
Stiles runs out the back and Jackson is right behind him. There is a pull, a fledgling bond, an image trying to form but Stiles won’t let it. Peter’s bond goes numb and he nearly trips. That leaves Scott and—
He hears Lydia scream and it’s cut short. Her bond goes quiet after.
“This way,” Jackson says, running off with speed that Stiles doesn’t have.
Scott and Jackson are both fighting the toxal when Stiles finally catches up. ‘Giant snake with arms and claws’ does not do the absolute monstrosity justice. Noshiko’s got to up her storytelling game. This is bullshit and he feels completely under prepared. His packmates are on the ground in varying states. Mason seems to be muttering to himself, his skin glistening with fever. Liam is sitting up, but clearly disoriented. Peter’s actively trying to get back to his feet, he stumbles and falls back down again. Lydia is curled on her side, terrifyingly unmoving.
He loves his baseball bat but it’s not going to do a goddamn thing against a giant snake. He leans it against the tree and slips his hand under his shirt. He can feel the raised details of the gun, his magic pressing against the tattoo until it’s pushed from his body and into his hand.
The toxal hisses at Scott and Jackson. Scott shouts a warning as he rolls out of the way. The saliva still gets on Jackson but he just looks annoyed.
“You’re immune!” Scott shouts.
It must be because of Jackson’s half-kanima status. Stiles doesn’t wait to talk it out, he aims and fires at the toxal only to have the bullets ricochet off the armoured scales. “Are you fucking kidding me!” There is the gas canister, he’s played enough video games to know it would go ‘BOOM’ but it’s closer to his packmates than the toxal.
He has no time to strategize, not with the thing shrieking and lunging his way. He grabs his bat and jams it in the creatures open mouth. The toxal’s saliva drips onto his shoulder—no! I’m going to—Jackson—have to get away. He crawls, or he thinks he does. Pack. Home? Bees? Why bees. Bees make honey. It’s cold. It’s snowing. The snow is ice cream cones. There is heat. Something cooking. Smells awful. Whose turn is it to cook? Stiles bets it’s Liam.
He blinks and his mind clears. All the bonds snap back into place all at once. He sits up to a giant ball of fire. Chris came through with the flamethrower.
Jackson crouches down in front of him. “Are you okay?”
“I think so. I think everyone in the pack is,” Stiles says. The bonds are electric with surprise and awareness. “Are you?”
“Yeah, a few scratches but they’re already healing.” Jackson holds out a hand and Stiles takes the assist back to his feet.
The pack stands around, watching the toxal burn.
“Thank you for helping us,” Stiles says.
“He protected you when the toxal wanted to rip you up for propping it’s mouth open,” Scott says. He grabs Jackson’s shoulders and gives a bit of a shake. “It was so cool!”
Jackson shrugs Scott off. “It wasn’t a big deal.”
Stiles bumps his fist against Jackson’s chest. “Looks like I owe you some free flowers.”
“Or a date,” Jackson says.
“A date?” Stiles blinks, it’s not the way he expected the conversation to go. “But…I thought you and Lydia—”
“Best friends.”
“Then who have all those flowers been for?”
“I just kept giving them to my mom,” Jackson admits, blushing. “I was only an excuse to see you.”
“Oh.”
“Both of you stop being dumb and kiss already,” Lydia says. “I’m sick of you both mooning over each other.”
“Lydia!” both Jackson and Stiles shout in unison. They turn back to each other with mirrored grins.
“You had a crush on me?” Stiles ask.
Jackson rolls his eyes. “Not until I came back. The first flowers really were for Lydia as a thank you but…you were different.” He shrugs. “I like you. I want to see if it becomes something more, if you’re interested.”
“Do you like curly fries?”
Jackson barks out a surprised laugh. “You dork.” The following kiss is a bit of a surprise for Stiles but he leans into it, his magic wanting to latch on and keep this one forever, the image of a snapdragon over his heart forms in his mind.
When they step back and Stiles opens his eyes, he sees there are beautiful little wildflowers blooming all over the place, completely ignoring the giant ball of fire.
“Premature seeding there, Stiles,” Scott says with a laugh.
Stiles flips off his best friend and goes back in for another kiss.