Stiles still had his moments, but for the first in a long time, he seemed almost happy and not like a kid who'd lost his mom at 8 years old. Now, at age 14, Stiles still had Scott by his side. He was a regular for Saturday's game nights by this point, and the sheriff could tell that this kid was a blessing to his son.
Now that the panic attacks were only rarely seen, usually on the anniversary of his mother's passing, Stiles' biggest issue was his behaviour. He had turned 16 a few weeks ago and was now attending Beacon Hills High School. Most of his teachers had quickly taken a liking to the boy. Mr Harris, however, was a complete exception to that rule. While the other teachers reminded Stiles that he needed to be quiet and focus on his work, Mr Harris, or the devil reincarnate, as Scott and Stiles had been calling him, would scream and give endless detentions every single day. This is where he found himself now, throwing a highlighter up in the air and catching it over and over to pass the time.
"Mr Stilinski, this is a detention, not kindergarten recess" spoke up the horned devil at the front. And this process repeated for the next hour, Mr Harris screaming at Stiles to stop moving and to get on with his lines until the bell went signalling Stiles's sweet freedom.
When Stiles walked over to his beloved Jeep, he noticed something rather unusual on his windscreen. He walked over to the piece of paper tucked behind his windscreen wipers and opened it to reveal a single word :
"SPAZ"
Stiles was shocked to say the least. Normal people would think nothing else of a little word left by a coward, but Stiles wasn't normal. Stiles was Stiles. An overthinker by nature. And so he put the sheet of paper into his backpack and clambered into his Jeep's driver seat and just sat there for a few minutes, trying to ignore the feeling in his chest. Eventually, he began to drive home, actually relieved when he saw his father's police cruiser no where in sight of the home. Unlocking his door with shaking hands, Stiles continued to ignore the feeling of dread that had spread to his stomach.
He climbed onto his bed, pulling his phone out of his pocket and immediately tried to find out who the coward was. He searched his camera roll for any signs of matching handwriting, and something internal pulled him towards some pop quiz answers that someone had kindly sent him. That someone was the person Stiles least expected. That someone was Scott McCall.