Days blurred into a frustrating cycle for Stiles. She threw herself into flirting with Scott—subtle touches on his arm during class critiques, compliments like “Your style is so inspiring… makes me feel all tingly,” whispered with what she hoped was a seductive smile. But Scott just nodded politely, saying things like “Thanks, Stiles. Keep working on your shading.” No spark. No heat. Each failure left her pouting in her room, phone in hand, calling Derek late at night.

“Derek… I tried again today,” she’d whine, voice small. “I even wore that low-cut top you suggested. He didn’t even look!”