Author's Note: No copyright infringement intended. This story is a prequel to Nine Simple Rules. It takes place in the time between the end of season S3P2 and the beginning of season 4. It explores how the pack pieces itself together in the wake of season 3 and it focuses on the growing feelings between Stiles and Malia. Nine Simple Rules is still active and I'm writing it...i'm just trying my hand at multitasking.

A knot of tricolored yarn dangles from a thumbtack on the wall. Stiles shifts around in front of his bulletin board, crumpling papers and tossing them blindly at his overflowing wastebasket. A few papers flutter from his grasp as he yanks out another tack. They fall around him and crinkle beneath his feet as he shifts onto his toes and plucks free another strand of yarn.

With every thumbtack he pulls free he feels a little lighter. But he knows the feeling won't last. Deep down he knows what he's doing, compulsive cleaning is textbook for a reason. Because for a few minutes, you get to be in control of your own space. And for a few minutes you forget about everything else.

Like how Allison is dead and his best friend is heartbroken, or about how the light has gone out of Lydia's eyes. His throat clenches, as guilt rolls through him. He pushes it down. And he decides that he'll upturn his desk drawers next and drag this out for as long as he can.

"Hey," his dad's voice echoes from the doorway. "Whatcha doing?" Stiles shuffles the papers in his hands and glances toward him.

"Uh…" Stiles clears his throat. His eyes shooting between his dad and the wall. "Just-uh clearing my head."

His dad gives him a nod and a small rueful smile before he shifts off the door-frame and leaves him to his work. Stiles turns back to his wall and sighs as he reaches up to pull down another stack of papers.

An hour later his bulletin board is bare and his drawers are cleared out. His floor is littered with discarded photographs, maps, schematics, papers and tangled webs of yarn. Stiles is grabbing handfuls of it and stuffing it in a garbage bag, when there is a knock at his window. He jolts, his feet skidding on the papers beneath his feet as he spins toward the window. Its dark out and his blinds are drawn. Fear coils in his stomach. His hand shoots out and grabs his bat from beneath his bed.

Stiles creeps over to the window and pries open two of the slats with his fingers. His bat clatters to the floor. Malia is sitting perched just outside his window. Stiles yanks the lift cord and pushes open the window. His hands shoot out to anchor Malia. She grabs onto his shoulders and Stiles pulls her through his window.

As he set her on her feet her hands quickly slide off his shoulders. But he's so stunned to have her in his room for the first time that his hands stay curled around her biceps for a few seconds. Then Stiles realizes that she's shivering. He slides his hands down her arms, she's cold as ice.

He leaves her for a moment and goes to tug open his closet door, and he reaches inside to snag a sweater. As Stiles moves back toward her he notices that she has her arms wrapped tightly around herself. He holds the sweater out to her. But when she looks at it but doesn't move to take it, Stiles makes an impatient noise. He draws the sweater over her head and tugs it down to cover her.

Stiles huffs through his nose and smirks at the sight of her. Her hair is in her face, and her arms are obviously still tucked around herself beneath the sweater, so the sleeves hang limply at her sides. Unsure what possesses him to do it, Stiles reaches out and brushes her hair out of her eyes.

Her tousled hair is silky soft beneath his fingers, just like he remembered it. Malia is tucked up to her nose in the collar of his sweater. As he pushed the hair out of her eyes she blinks up at him, her head tilted in curiosity. His throat goes dry. It's the same look she had given him in Eichen House, right after he'd gathered her hands in his and tried to warm them.

Stiles drops his hands and takes a step back from her. They had never talked about it. They had seen each other about a handful of times since it had happened. But they had never been alone together. Scott, Lydia or Kira had always been there with them, and somehow that had helped him keep his wandering mind in check. But this time he's alone with her...in his bedroom. Flashes of a green couch and her bare skin, race through his head.

Stiles clears his throat and rubs at the back of his neck. "Uh…Malia?" his voice cracks. "Wha-what're you doing here?"

Her reply is muffled by the collar of his sweater. The corner of his lip twitches and he bites the inside of his cheek as he reaches out and gently tugs the sweater off her nose. Malia wiggles her nose. And Stiles can't help finding it adorable.

"Sorry," He smirks. "I didn't catch that."

Malia shrugs. "I just needed to get out of my house." Stiles jerks his head in a nod.

"You, still avoiding you're dad?" he asks gently.

Malia shakes her head. "No more than usual. The school assigned me this tutor. He was over at the house and he was just so..." she struggled for words, her face flushed with anger. "I-I kept breaking pencils—I had to get out of there before I lost it."

Stiles gives her a sympathetic look. He notices that she still has her arms tucked under his sweater. And it gives him an idea. He crosses his room and disappears back into his closet. He reaches his arm around the top shelf questing for something. "What'd he do to set you off?" Stiles asks over his shoulder as he seizes a set of mitts. They are thick rag wool finger-less gloves with convertible mitten tops.

Malia's mouth twists in disgust. "He kept touching me." Stiles tenses, as he feels a sudden twinge of anger. The thought of some guy hassling her twists uncomfortably in his gut. "I tried to ignore it…but I just ended up breaking pencils so I wouldn't break his hand. I had to get out of there."

His jaw twitches and he keeps his head down as he moves back to her side, as he struggles to keep his face impassive.

Stiles shakes his head. "What a creep." he says a little to vehemently, his anger bleeding into his voice. Malia arches an eyebrow at him. And Stiles swallows down the lump in his throat. "I mean he was supposed to be helping you. Not making you feel like that. You should have broken his hand." he grumbles.

Malia flashes a dangerous smile. "If he tries it again, I will."

Stiles doesn't like the idea of anyone hassling one of his friends, but this is more complicated than that. He still doesn't know her very well but in Eichen House, before anything had happened on that couch she had listened to him and promised not to judge him. And for someone who spends a great deal of his time judging himself, that had really meant something to him. And it makes him feel protective of her now.

He remembers the gloves in his hands and reaches out to gently tug on the right sleeve of the sweater. Malia looks down at his hand on her sleeve and quirks an eyebrow. Stiles holds open a wool finger-less glove for her.

"Here, put these on." He instructs. Malia shifts her arms beneath the sweater and slips them into the sleeves. Stiles gently catches her wrist and slips the glove onto her hand. Malia flexes her fingers in it and sighs contentedly. Stiles smirks and slips the other mitt on her. He bends his head over her hand as he buttons down the mitten top. When he looks up he finds Malia watching him with that same warm curious expression. He flushes and drops her hand.

"Better?" he asks.

Malia smirks at him. "Much."

"Good — that's good." He says awkwardly as he rubs at the back of his neck. Malia's eyes scan over his room. Stiles shifts uncomfortably on his feet, his room is a disaster. His desk drawers are upturned and his carpet is littered with papers, and there is a knotted web of tricolored yarn strew across his bed. Malia crosses over and sits on the edge of his bed and he sort of chokes on air. Malia gives him an odd look as he coughs and clears his throat. She picks up a tangle of yarn and shrugs her shoulders.

"What is all this?" she asks.

"I was ah…cleaning." he says gesturing toward the garbage bag.

Malia raises an eyebrow at him. "Maybe I was in the woods for too long but I remember cleaning used to make things look better," she grins at him teasingly as she flicks the yarn back onto his bed. "Not worse."

Stiles blinks at her, his head tilting in amusement. Beautiful. And a smartass. He decides. Yeah that definitely wasn't going to help him keep his thoughts PG. That and the fact she was sitting on his bed looking deplorably good in his raglan sweater.