Stiles mumbles, “It does.”
“I’ll keep calling you out when you act like you don’t care about anything, because I know you care too much. I’ll drag your broody ass into the sunlight when necessary. Figuratively. Maybe literally.” He pauses, scratching the back of his neck. “And if you ever need someone to sit next to you in the quiet when everything hurts, I’ll be there. No questions, no pressure. Just… there.”
Then, with a sly smirk, he adds, “And yes, I still reserve the right to call you a punk-ass bitch when warranted, even though we’re sleeping together.”
Stiles snorts.“I wouldn’t expect anything less.”
Stiles unfolds a neatly typed pledge from his back pocket. “McCormick,” he says, with a deadpan look that’s already goteveryone grinning, “this was supposed to be serious. But since you made fun of my fridge, all bets are off.”
McCormick winks, unrepentant.
“I, Bertrand Stiles, pledge not to publicly psychoanalyze your obsession with zip ties, gas station burritos, or your weird need to sit in the same damn chair every week like you own it.”
“I do own it,” McCormick mutters.
Stiles continues without a blink.
“I pledge to keep snacks in my car for when your blood sugar tanks and you turn into a bigger asshole than usual.”
“Thank you,” someone whispers. “On behalf of us all.”
“I’ll listen when you need to talk, and I’ll keep showing up even when you pretend you don’t need anyone. I’ll take your bad moods, your sarcasm, and your terrible taste in podcasts, and I’ll keep showing up anyway.”
McCormick’s smirk fades a little at that.
“I’ll remind you you’re not the only one who made it out. I’ll remind you to stop looking over your shoulder and start looking at what’s right in front of you.”
He folds the paper once, twice, then looks up.
“And if you ever forget that you matter, I’ll find you and I’ll drag your dramatic ass back to the people who love you.”
He’s quiet for a beat before adding, “But yeah, I still reserve the right to correct your grammar mid-sentence.”
McCormick stares at him, then nods once, quietly. “Deal. Don’t forget the part about not limiting my processed meat consumption.”
Stiles just stares. “Right. That.”
“No, you have to say it as part of the pledge or it doesn’t count.”
“I swear to Christ, you’re fucking two years old.”
“Say it, Bert,” Mac insists.
With a deep breath of patience, Stiles vows, “I solemnly swear not to limit your consumption of processed meat.”
McCormick grins like he’s satisfied with that.
“Or, your consumption of my meat,” Stiles adds with a smirk.
McCormick laughs, but the rest of the group bombards Stiles with yarn balls and knitting needles.
“There’s my cue to find the door,” Riggs says, getting to his feet.
Texting Chaos
The Trouble With Smart Technology
Pharo:
