"Do you like him or not?" Scott asks, exasperation evident in his voice.
"Stiles?" I reply casually, looking over to where he is speaking animatedly with Lydia. Out of the corner I see Scott nod, and the expression on his face practically screams who else, asshole.
I watch stiles, the way his eyes are bright as he speaks, arms flailing because he never can stand still when he's talking-which is actually cute after you get past the initial annoyance. The heavenly whiskey colour of his iris' glinting in the sunlight, making them look more caramel than the basic brown he always claims them to be.
His pale skin almost sparkles-and I'm momentarily distracted by the all too unappealing image of him and Kirsten Stuart darting from tree to tree in a forest somewhere-and there isn't a blemish in sight. Which I am ridiculously jealous of, remembering how severe my own acne could get depending on the time of day during my own post-pubescent years.
I think of how Stiles is unable to let silence fall, always managing to find somthing to say, no matter how random. And how he could talk non-stop for hours should you bring up the right topic, and how adorable he was when he was running out of air from speaing so much, and the words would come out breathily. (Sometimes I would have to imagine Peter in lacy underwear when Stiles got like that, to save myself from imbaressment, but no one had to know of that habit, did they.)
I think of how when Stiles smiles-a real smile, not his 'I'm fine' smile he often gives when things get bad-my heart skips a beat, and sometimes my breath catches in my throat. Then Allison gives me this look, and I have to avert my gaze, and tell myself under no circumstances am I allowed to blush-not that my brain ever took notice, of course, and every time the tips of my ears flare as red as my eyes.
Then I think of some of the more *cough cough* adult things I've been pondering late at night when there's no one there to remind me that I'm not allowed to do that because he's seventeen, and all of a sudden there's Peter in my head, wearing a frilly pink pair of panties that look like somthing out of a porno. But that's something else I'll never mention, mostly because who in their right mind would honestly admit to that? No one, that's who my brain oh so helpfully supplies, and I roll my eyes slightly at my own internal monologue-what's up with that?
In fact, I won't mention any of this, not a word nor single syllable. Because I'm not allowed to do that, for a whole bunch of cruel reasons that never cease to make my heart ache in such a chick-flick style way. The first being his age, or more importantly, my age compared to his age. And his dad's the Sheriff. And I'm pretty sure he's straight. And I'm scared of rejection. And because I told myself after Kate I'd not let something as stupid as love affect my pack in any way-and now that I have a pack again, a family again, there's no way I'd let my feelings affect it.
I look at him and Lydia, and there's the final and most important reason why I'm not allowed to tell him how I feel. He's in love with her, and I know he's in love with her, so it would be so unfair for me to confess everything to him when I know how bad he's got it for her. I couldn't do that to him, because I love him, and I could never hurt him in any way.
So I reply, "Yeah, he's alright." And hope like hell Scott doesn't pick up on my change in heartbeat as I lie. Because Stiles is so much more than alright, he's funny and sarcastic and he challenges me on everything and sometimes he's bit annoying, but he's prefect.
And that's killing me, because I can't have him.
