Two new members in the FBI (Rewritten)

Chapter 50

Previously on Two new members in the FBI

I turn my head and look at Stiles in the dim light. He doesn't know I'm awake. His hand is stretched across the bed toward me like it always is, even in sleep. He almost lost me. I almost lost everything before I even knew what everything was going to be.

I slide my fingers into his and let myself breathe.

I survived.

Boston survived.

And for the first time since I woke up in that hospital bed, I allow myself to really feel the weight of that—not just the trauma, not just the fear—but the miracle of it.

Because against every logical outcome, against wolfbane and surgery and stopped hearts and four months of darkness, we're still here.

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There's something surreal about not having a schedule.

No alarms set for early flights, no calls from Fornell, no texts from someone needing a consult, no cases sitting in the back of my mind waiting to be solved. For the first time in a long time, my days aren't dictated by anything except Boston's needs and whatever Stiles and I decide we want to do.

It shouldn't feel as strange as it does.

Beacon Hills has always had a way of pulling everything back to something simpler—even when it's not actually simple at all. The supernatural still hums under the surface here, I can feel it in the air, in the woods, in the way Scott's pack moves through the town like a living, breathing thing. But being back here, staying in Stiles' childhood home, walking the same streets we grew up on... it strips away the noise.

And for once, I let it.

Boston is in my arms as we step out into the backyard of the Stilinski house, the early morning sun just starting to burn through the thin layer of fog that always seems to cling to Beacon Hills this time of year. He's awake, wide-eyed, his tiny fingers curled loosely against my chest as he takes everything in.

"You're staring," Stiles says from behind me.

I glance over my shoulder. He's leaning in the doorway, coffee in hand, hair still a mess from sleep. There's something softer about him here, something that Boston seems to bring out even more.

"I'm not," I say automatically.

"You are," he counters, stepping out onto the porch. "You've been doing it all week. You get this look like you're trying to memorize everything."

I look back down at Boston instead of answering. He makes a small noise, shifting slightly, his head turning toward the sound of Stiles' voice.

"Maybe I am," I admit after a second.

Stiles hums like that makes perfect sense. "Yeah, I figured."

There's no judgment in it. There never is, not with him. He just... understands.

It's been a few days since we got here, and already there's a rhythm settling in. Slow mornings. Coffee on the porch. Boston waking up hungry like clockwork, his entire mood hinging on how quickly I can get him fed. Afternoons spent either at the clinic or out in town, inevitably running into someone from the pack.

They've all taken to Boston faster than I expected.

Scott was careful at first—hesitant in that way he gets when something feels important. Like holding Boston was somehow a responsibility he needed to get right. But it didn't take long before that hesitation melted into something more natural, something warm. I've caught him more than once just watching Boston sleep, this quiet smile on his face like he's trying to reconcile everything we've been through with the fact that we're here now, that this is real.