I only own Makaylah! 1x04.
"Shit!" It isn't the first time I've cursed out my tire.
I slam my palms against the steering wheel before pressing my forehead into it with an upset groan. I don't know how long I sit there, the rain pelting against my Dodge Ram, before fingers rap on my window and I glance up to find the sheriff's flashlight and face.
I roll down the glass.
"Hello, Sheriff Stilinski." I mumble politely.
"I don't recognize you. How do you know me?" He replies in shock.
"You busted me and Camden Lahey for skinny dipping in the pool at BHS my senior year."
"My God. Makaylah Duchannes?" He smiles broadly at me. The older man swings open the door and hugs me. His wife, Ava, babysat me when I was a child.
"Let me look at you." He takes my hands and I step back, "You look like your mama."
"Thank You. And look at you! You've lost weight."
"Not much. What are you doing just sitting here in the rain?"
"My tire split," I wrinkle my nose, "I was headed to Beacon Hills Inn. I'm staying there until I find an apartment in my price range."
"Cancel your reservation. You're like family—you can stay with Stiles and I. He needs someone to keep him out of trouble anyhow." I laugh at his words.
"How is he?"
"He's hyperactive. He makes your teenage years look less wild." The blonde haired Sheriff pulls a picture from his wallet while we're soaked with rain.
My hand flies up to my mouth in surprise.
"That's him? Little Stiles?" I reply.
"He's only a few years younger than you. Not that little." He smiles. I slip into the front seat of the cruiser after arguing about him taking my bags for me. My fingers play with my necklace as I stare straight ahead.
The memory of soft lips hungrily moving down my throat as my best friend's fingers unbuttoned my jeans flashes through my mind.
"You still wear that necklace? You've had that since you were 13."
"I love it, still."
The Triskele hanging from my neck hasn't rusted or faded at all. It still stands out; white silver against blue glass.
We pull up to a vaguely familiar two story house with olive green siding, and hurry inside.
"Stiles! Come here for a second."
"Coming dad!" A deeper voice than the last time I saw him calls as feet thunder down the steps.
He freezes when he sees me. Stiles Stilinski is a rail thin, pale skinned, black haired teen, with his mother's brown eyes. I glance down at myself and realize why his heartbeat is uneven.
My black muscle tee is clinging to my body, showing the tanned skin from my navel to the top of my clinging denim shorts that barely cover my ass. All my clothes are soaked through. My waterfall braid is ruined.
"Hi," He chokes.
"Stiles," I smile.
"Do I know you?"
"Well, I did babysit you when your mom was sick."
"Makaylah? Oh My God." He runs across the room and hugs me tightly. He's so much taller than me that he literally has to pick me up. I giggle like a teenager, turning my head to kiss him on the cheek.
"You're so grown up!" I say as he sets me down, holding my hands in his.
"You haven't seen me in 7 years, of course I look different. You're even prettier than you were back then."
"Thanks, Kid," I tap his chin with my fingertip. He grins, jogging outside to carry one of my suitcases in. Stiles leads me into a small bedroom with cream colored walls and a large bed with navy sheets. It's perfect for me.
"So, what are you doing back in Beacon Hills?" He asks, sitting at the edge and facing me.
"I got my Master's degree in Dance last year. I did background dance for awhile after that. I just got hired full time at BHHS. I teach ballroom and hip hop, and am coaching the dance team."
"Wow. You've done a lot for being so young."
"22 isn't exactly young," I tease, patting his cheek patronizingly, "You don't mind if I change, do you?"
"You're actually comfortable?" He swallows heavily.
"I changed your diapers when I was nine, Stiles. You're like my little brother, so of course I don't mind. Do you?" I smirk at him.
"N–N–No," he turns his head away from me. I strip my shirt off easily, unbuttoning my shorts and wriggling them down my legs. Stiles looks at me; I can feel his eyes on me. Typical teenage boy.
I comb my fingers through my hair and turn to face him clad only in a plain black push-up bra and panties.
"Stiles, can you toss me my duffel bag? All my clothes are in it." He gulps as he hands it to me, looking me up and down almost imperceptibly before angling his whole body away. I dig through the bags until I find a tank top and cotton shorts.
"Thanks. You can look now." I murmur, sitting with my back against the headboard, my necklace dangling down in stark contrast to the dark shirt.
"Hey, I've seen that before! Derek Hale has that tattoo." His name makes my stomach churn, and I spring to my feet.
"How do you know Derek?" I snap, "Stiles, I want you to stay away from him. Do you understand me?"
The dark haired boy stands up and closes the door before answering; "Why, because he's a werewolf?"
I stiffen, glaring at him levelly.
"You—You know?" I manage.
"Yeah. Are you a wolf too?" His brown eyes to wide.
"Yeah, Stiles," I nod, "You're perceptive."
"Well, my best friend's one. It's easy to see when you recognize it. You came in and immediately checked every direction for exits."
"Please don't tell anyone, Sti, please?" I take both hands.
"I promise. So, I guess I'll see you at school in the morning?"
"Night," I agree as he walks out and closes the door behind him. My eyes lock in the pendant as I twist it in my fingers, touching my free fingers to my bottom lip.
Derek's teeth tugging on it as my legs wrapped around his hips flashes through my head. I should've come when my sister told me Laura died instead of waiting until the last possible moment. I set my alarm, curl up under the comforter, and fall asleep with a prayer that work will go smoothly tomorrow morning.