Morning in the Stilinski house always carried the same quiet softness, like the whole place was still learning how to breathe again. A year had passed since the night Claudia died, but the walls hadn't forgotten. They held memories like photographs: the scrape of her slippers on the kitchen floor, the hum of her voice mixing pancake batter, the gentle laugh she'd use when Stiles spilled milk everywhere. Now the house echoed differently. Every sound felt larger, sharper. Even Stiles' footsteps seemed too loud for the space his mom once filled effortlessly.
Stiles knew his dad felt it too—how silence had become a roommate they never invited.
He came down the stairs rubbing his eyes, hair sticking up in ways even gravity couldn't explain. Sheriff Noah Stilinski was already in the kitchen, dressed but not fully awake. His uniform shirt was open over a white undershirt, badge resting on the table beside a mug of coffee that had probably gone cold ten minutes ago. He was reading a file, but not really reading it; his eyes weren't moving.
Stiles paused in the doorway, watching him. His dad looked… tired. Like someone carrying two lifetimes of weight on one set of shoulders.
Not for the first time, Stiles felt that familiar squeeze in his chest: the fear of disappointing him, hurting him, or slipping away like Claudia had. He pushed it down. He had learned to push many things down this past year.
"Morning," Stiles said finally.
His dad looked up and smiled, soft and small but real. "Hey, bud. You're up earlier than usual."
Stiles shrugged. "Didn't sleep much."
"Nightmare?"
"No. Just thinking."
Noah nodded like he understood more than Stiles was willing to say. Maybe he did. Maybe parents were like that—they kept guessing until they were right.
"Sit," his dad said, nudging the chair out with his foot. "I made you something."
Stiles blinked. "Wait, you cooked? Is it edible? Should… should I call 911?"
His dad rolled his eyes. "It's cereal, smartass."
"Oh. Then yes, definitely edible."
Stiles sat, and they ate together: simple, quiet, a little awkward, but warm in its own way. The kind of moment Stiles knew he would miss when everything changed. And everything was about to change. Because today wasn't just any morning.
Today, Stiles was going to tell his dad about Ronan.
Not the truth—he wasn't ready to unload the supernatural world onto his father's already heavy shoulders. Not yet. But enough of a half-truth to get permission to go.
He felt like a rubber band stretched too tight, seconds away from snapping. He took a deep breath.
"Dad?"
"Yeah?"
"I, uh… I wanted to talk to you about something. Someone, actually."
Sheriff Stilinski froze, spoon halfway to his mouth. "Someone?"
Stiles suddenly wished he had practiced this. Or at least written notes. Or run far, far away.
"His name is Ronan," Stiles said.
The sheriff's eyebrows shot up. "Ronan?"
"Yeah. He's… kind of like a teacher. Or, like, a mentor." Stiles swallowed. "He's been helping me."
"Helping you with what?"
Stiles glanced at his dad's face—open, worried, and confused—and guilt punched him in the stomach. Lying to him felt like drawing cracks through the only real family he'd ever have. But this was the only way. He needed to leave to grow stronger—strong enough to protect both of them later, when Beacon Hills would no longer be safe. Strong enough to help Scott survive what was coming.
And strong enough to prevent the tragedies that once played out in the show's timeline.
"I've been having a hard time since Mom…" Stiles hesitated. The word died felt too heavy, too blunt. "I just needed something. Something to focus on. Ronan's been helping with… mindset stuff. Like discipline. Structure. Kind of like training."
His dad's eyes softened. Pain flickered across them—pain that Stiles hated causing even by accident.
"You could've talked to me, Stiles."
"I know." He tried to smile. It wobbled. "But you're already dealing with so much. And Ronan understands stuff about keeping your head clear when things get rough. It helps. A lot."
Noah leaned back, studying him, trying to read truth from the space between Stiles' words. Stiles held perfectly still. He didn't flinch. He didn't fidget. Ronan had taught him that much.
"Is this why you've been out so much lately?" the sheriff asked quietly.
"Yeah." Stiles kept his voice steady. "I've been training."
"What kind of training?"
"A bunch of things. Balance. Fitness. Observation. Stuff like that."
He wasn't lying—not exactly. Ronan had been teaching him those things. And more. Much more.
"I feel better when I'm training," Stiles added softly. "Less… overwhelmed."
His dad exhaled, tension melting out of him. He ran a hand through his hair, making it stand even messier.
"Okay," Noah said, sounding unsure but trying. "Okay. If this Ronan guy is helping you, I want to meet him. To know who he is."
And there it was—the moment Stiles had been dreading.
"Actually… he's coming today," Stiles said. "He wants to talk to you."
His dad frowned. "Coming here? To the house?"
"Yeah. Like around eleven."
"That soon?"
Stiles nodded.
The sheriff froze, like he'd suddenly spotted danger but wasn't sure from where. Stiles could practically see him switching into protective-parent mode.
"Why does he want to talk to me?"
"Because he, uh…" Stiles took a breath. "He wants to offer me a chance. A special kind of training program. Something that might help both of us move forward."
Noah stared. His eyes softened again, but with something like fear this time—fear of losing the only family he had left.
"Stiles," he said slowly, "I just got you back. I'm not letting you go anywhere."
Stiles felt something twist painfully inside him. "I know. I know. And I'm not trying to leave forever. Just—Dad, you know how people say time heals things?"
"Yeah."
"Sometimes you have to help it. Sometimes you need space. And I think… I think we both need space to breathe. Not because we don't love each other, but because everything hurts so much when we're together in this house."
His dad's breath hitched. Just barely. But Stiles caught it.
He continued, voice gentle. "I feel like every time you look at me, you see her. And when I look at you, I see her too. And it makes it harder. For both of us."
The silence that followed was thick and trembling.
Finally, Noah whispered, "You're not wrong. But losing you too… I couldn't survive that."
"You won't lose me." Stiles leaned forward. "I'll call every day. If I hate it, I'll come home. I'm not disappearing. I just… need to grow a little. Away from here."
Noah looked down at his hands—the same hands that used to hold Stiles' tiny ones when crossing streets, the same hands that clenched around his wife's fingers as she faded.
"You're eight years old, buddy," he murmured.
"Nine," Stiles corrected softly. "I turned nine two months ago."
"Still too young," his dad said. "Too young to lose your mom. Too young to leave home."
Stiles didn't respond. He couldn't. If he said anything else, he would break.
They ate in silence then, but this time the silence wasn't empty. It was full of fear and hope and grief and love all tangled together.
As the clock neared eleven, a soft knock echoed through the house.
Stiles froze.
His dad stood, shoulders tight, jaw set. "That him?"
"Yeah."
Noah walked to the door and opened it.
Ronan stood there.
Average height, average build, worn jeans, dark jacket. Nothing remarkable at first glance. But his presence was sharp. Controlled. Like someone who could slip into a room and leave without anyone noticing—except Stiles, who had learned to see the threads beneath appearances.
Ronan nodded politely. "Sheriff Stilinski."
"Ronan," Noah answered, voice cool but civil. "Come in."
Ronan stepped inside with the caution of someone who had walked into many homes, none of them his. His gaze flicked once over the photos on the walls, taking everything in without seeming to look at all.
Stiles swallowed hard.
Ronan met Stiles' eyes for a brief second.
A question.
Are you ready?
Stiles nodded.
His dad gestured to the living room. "Sit. Let's talk."
Ronan sat. Noah sat. Stiles sat between them, his heart pounding so loudly he wondered if either man could hear it.
And then Ronan began.
"I appreciate you taking the time to meet with me, Sheriff," he said calmly. "I'm here because your son has potential. Discipline. Curiosity. Determination. Rare qualities for someone his age. I'd like to help him develop them."
Noah folded his arms. "Into what, exactly?"
Ronan smiled slightly. "Into someone strong. Someone confident. Someone who knows how to protect himself."
The sheriff stiffened. "Protect himself from what?"
"Life," Ronan replied smoothly. "Loss. Fear. The kind of challenges that break children who don't know how to handle them."
Noah looked down, do doubt remembering nights he heard Stiles crying quietly into his pillow.
"And you think you can help him with that?"
"I can," Ronan said. "If you allow it."
Stiles watched his dad swallow hard.
The weight of the moment pressed on all three of them.
This was the hinge point. The moment before everything changed.
But the decision—
would come in the next chapter.