The days blurred into a whirlwind of secret dates and stolen moments, each one pulling Stiles deeper into Derek’s world. Picnics in hidden meadows, late-night drives with hands intertwined, whispered promises under starlit skies—it was everything she’d craved. But back home, the tension with Jackson simmered like a pot ready to boil over. He grew increasingly frustrated, his touches more insistent, her excuses thinner. “Not tonight, baby—I’m tired.” “Headache again.” He bought it at first, but the cracks were showing.

One evening, it finally shattered. Jackson stormed into the living room, face red, veins bulging. “What the fuck, Stiles? It’s been weeks! You act like a bitch every time I try to touch you. No sex, no nothing—you’re my girlfriend, not some prude nun!”