The living room of the Stilinski house felt unusually small, as if the walls themselves had leaned in to listen. Morning light filtered through the curtains in soft, dusty beams, making the air look thicker, heavier. Stiles sat on the far end of the couch; Noah Stilinski sat centered, elbows on his knees, leaning forward like a man preparing to interrogate a suspect. Across from them sat Ronan—calm, patient, unreadable.
It was quiet. Too quiet. Stiles could hear the faint ticking of the wall clock and the tiny shift of his dad's fingers tapping against his coffee mug. Ronan sat with the stillness of someone who had learned long ago that silence often made people reveal more than words.
Noah finally spoke.
"Let's start simple," he said. "You say you're a teacher. A mentor. From what school?"
Ronan didn't blink. "The Carrington Preparatory Institute."
Noah frowned. "Never heard of it."
"It's private," Ronan said smoothly. "Selective. Small by design."
"Small as in… how small?"
"A few students per year," Ronan answered. "We focus on individualized development."
Noah's expression tightened. "Sounds expensive."
"It can be," Ronan admitted. "But expense isn't the core of the program."
"And what is the core?"
Here it was. The question Ronan had been waiting for—the one he had prepared an answer for, carefully crafted, half-truths woven with just enough sincerity to be believable.
"Our program trains students to be resilient," Ronan said. "To handle pressure, discipline their minds, strengthen their bodies, and build self-reliance. We develop skills that traditional schools rarely touch: leadership, situational thinking, emotional control. Students leave more confident in themselves and their abilities."
Stiles could practically feel his dad evaluating every word.
"And you want to teach that to my son," Noah said.
"Yes," Ronan replied simply. "Because he has talent for it."
Noah raised an eyebrow. "He's nine."
"Nine is one of the best ages to begin," Ronan said. "Young enough to learn quickly, old enough to understand purpose."
The sheriff leaned back slightly, crossing his arms. "What exactly made you think my son is… suited for something like this?"
Ronan glanced at Stiles, his eyes steady but not unkind.
"He notices things most children don't," Ronan said. "He reads people. He reads movement. Emotion. He sees details even adults miss. And he's driven. Even when tired, even when unfocused by grief, he pushes himself. That kind of determination isn't common."
Stiles blinked. It was strange hearing someone describe him like that. Strange and unsettling and flattering and terrifying all at once.
Noah shifted. "You've spent… what? A few weeks with him?"
"Six months, on and off," Ronan replied. "And one week of direct instruction. That was enough."
The sheriff's jaw tightened. "Enough to what?"
"To know that your son has potential worth cultivating."
Noah stared hard at Ronan. "You're talking like he's some kind of prodigy."
"In certain ways," Ronan said lightly, "he is."
Stiles felt his stomach flip. His dad's eyes flicked toward him, searching, questioning, trying to imagine what Ronan saw.
"And what does this program do with these prodigies?" Noah asked slowly. "What would Stiles actually do there?"
"Training," Ronan said. "Mental and physical. Focus exercises. Structured routines. Problem-solving challenges. Things that build confidence and clarity."
"How long would he be gone?"
Here it came.
Ronan paused—not out of hesitation, but out of respect for the weight of the answer.
"That depends on Stiles," Ronan said. "On how fast he progresses. On whether he feels comfortable. On whether he wants to continue."
Noah straightened. "That's not an answer."
"It's the truth," Ronan said. "The program adjusts to each individual."
"How long do students usually stay?"
"Sometimes a year. Sometimes several." Ronan let the words settle. "But they are free to leave if it becomes too much. Or if it isn't right for them."
Stiles watched his dad's throat tighten. For a moment, the sheriff's eyes turned glassy—barely noticeable, but Stiles caught it. Pain, fear, memory… all tangled together.
Noah cleared his throat. "Where is this school?"
"We move," Ronan said. "Different environments help students adapt. Forests, mountains, urban areas… Exposure to new settings builds resilience."
"Move?" Noah repeated. "As in travel?"
"Yes."
Noah shook his head. "He's nine."
"Nine," Ronan repeated, "and already carrying more grief than many adults. He needs transition. New spaces. New challenges. Distance from the environment that has been suffocating him."
Stiles stared at the floor. Hearing someone else say it out loud hurt.
Noah swallowed hard. "And what about cost? Because programs like that aren't free."
"Stiles would be sponsored," Ronan said immediately. "No expense to you."
"What's the catch?"
"No catch."
Noah narrowed his eyes. "There's always a catch."
Ronan smiled faintly. "In this case, the catch is simply that he has to want it. He has to choose it. And he has to work for it."
The sheriff shook his head slowly, rubbing his temples. "Why him? Out of all kids in Beacon Hills, why him?"
Ronan answered softly this time. "Because he's hurting. And because he doesn't want to stay hurt."
Noah froze. The words landed like a blow.
Ronan continued, voice even but gentle. "Because he's trying to grow stronger on his own. And because he'll succeed faster with someone guiding him."
"You sound awfully sure of yourself," Noah muttered.
"I sound sure of him," Ronan corrected.
Stiles bit the inside of his cheek. He felt small. Seen. Exposed. But not in a bad way. More like someone had finally recognized a part of him he hadn't fully understood himself.
The sheriff leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms again. "If he goes with you—and I'm not saying he will—what would communication look like? Would he get to call home?"
"Every day," Ronan said without hesitation. "We enforce it. Children need consistent connection with home. If Stiles calls you and says he wants to come back, I will bring him home myself."
Noah blinked slowly, processing. "Every day?"
"Every day," Ronan echoed.
"And visits?"
"Possible," Ronan said. "Whenever the schedule allows, or when he struggles, or whenever you request. The program is designed to build independence—not isolation."
Noah nodded slowly, fingers drumming on his knee. "He's all I have left."
Ronan's expression softened—not pity, not condescension, but understanding. A flicker of something human and pained passed through his eyes, something from his past, but it vanished before Stiles could read it fully.
"And he will remain yours," Ronan said gently. "But right now your house is a wound neither of you can heal while standing in it."
The room went quiet again.
Stiles wasn't used to adults talking about grief so openly. It felt raw. It felt like touching a bruise that never stopped hurting.
Noah looked at Stiles now. Really looked. Stiles lifted his eyes to meet his dad's, and for a moment everything else disappeared.
"I don't want to lose you," Noah whispered.
"You won't," Stiles said, voice thick. "I promise."
"And you really think this will help you?" his dad asked. "This… training? This traveling? This program?"
Stiles swallowed. "Yeah. I do."
"And you're sure you want this?"
Stiles hesitated, not because he doubted himself—but because saying it out loud made it real.
"Yes," he said finally. "I want to get stronger. I want to make you proud. I want to be someone who can protect the people I love. And this… this feels like the first step."
His dad's eyes closed for a moment, pained, torn, fighting two instincts at once—protect his son by keeping him close, or protect him by letting him grow.
When he opened them, he looked at Ronan.
"If he goes with you," Noah said slowly, "I need to know he'll be safe."
"He will," Ronan said. "I swear it."
"You swear," Noah echoed, not quite trusting.
Ronan nodded once—firm, steady, without hesitation.
"On my life."
Something in Ronan's tone made Noah pause. There was weight there. Something deeper, older, and sharper than any ordinary promise. Something a man only said if he understood exactly what it meant to fail.
"What kind of man are you, Ronan?" Noah asked quietly.
Ronan held his gaze with an expression that gave nothing away.
"A man who once failed someone he should have protected," he said softly. "And a man who will not fail another."
Stiles' breath caught.
Even Noah seemed taken aback by the sudden honesty.
It hung in the room like a ghost.
Ronan looked at Stiles again. Not with pity—never pity—but with something closer to recognition. As if he saw in Stiles the same fire he once had, before life had carved scars across his path.
Noah exhaled shakily. "If Stiles gets hurt—"
"He won't," Ronan said.
"If he's scared—"
"He'll have support."
"If he wants to come home—"
"I'll bring him myself," Ronan repeated.
Noah nodded, a slow, heavy nod, the kind a father makes when his heart is breaking but he knows his son is right.
"Then I need time," Noah said finally. "Time to think. Time to talk with Stiles alone. Time to make sure this isn't happening too fast."
"Take all the time you need," Ronan said, rising smoothly from his seat. "I'll return tomorrow morning. If your answer is no, I will respect it."
He turned to Stiles.
"Stay focused today," he said softly. "No overthinking."
"Too late," Stiles muttered automatically.
Ronan gave a small smirk—tiny, but there. "Then ground yourself. Your mind is a tool. Not a trap."
He nodded once to Noah.
"Sheriff."
Noah nodded stiffly. "Ronan."
Ronan let himself out, closing the door quietly behind him.
The house fell silent again.
Stiles felt the quiet sink into him, thick and heavy. He looked at his dad, who was staring at the closed door, expression unreadable.
Finally, Noah turned to Stiles.
"Are you sure this is what you want?" he asked softly.
Stiles opened his mouth.
But the chapter ends before he answers.