Dylan O'Brien Imagines

Worth Your While // Stiles Stilinski

A melodious tune broke out into the atmosphere, suspending itself in a tight cloud that covered you like a warm blanket. As your fingers plucked the strings of your guitar, you felt your eyes slide to a close from its beautiful notes. You and stringed instrument were one; there was no need to see what you were doing. Much like the standard capabilities such as breathing or swallowing, it was second nature to you. There was no true explanation for your ability to play anymore, it just happened.

Your fingers had been accustomed to guitar strings ever since you could walk. In fact, you may have farther excelled at playing the instrument than walking in your early age. Neither of your parents were granted the talents that acquired them with the ability to be musically inclined; your aunt, however, was truly blessed with countless attributions to share with you. Playing the guitar was one of them, of course.

"Still as beautiful as I remember." Your brain struggled with the recognition of the fact that you were no longer alone, jumping in surprise.

Your heart ached at the sight of Stiles Stilinski at your window. Even after a full year, nothing pertaining to your feelings for the spastic boy have changed. You swallowed nervously in attempts to bring moisture back to your throat that was suddenly dry as the sahara. Now that you were torn from the safety of your music bubble, you figured you'd indulge in the boy's antics. "Last time I leave my window open."

You paused to sigh, before continuing. "What are you doing here, Stiles? It's late."

"I couldn't sleep." Came his simple reply, and a scoff escaped your lips before you had time to stop it.

"That doesn't explain why you're here."

"Your playing always used to help me fall asleep." He elaborated, already inviting himself into your room as he clambered through your open window. You weakly rolled your eyes at his lack of knowledge on boundaries.

Nonetheless, you continued to mindlessly strum at your guitar, accepting anything as a way to distract yourself from your ex-boyfriend standing just feet away from you. Throwing a quick glance his way, his unease was obvious. "What makes you think I'm going to let you stay?"

"The fact that you haven't punted me out the window yet." You could sense the silly grin in his voice, and willed yourself not to be entranced by those mischievous amber eyes again.

"My parents are home. If I don't kick your ass, you sure as hell know my dad will."

"I didn't see any cars in the driveway other than yours."

"You don't think we use the garage?"

"Filled with too much clutter to fit a car in there, remember?"

With another roll of your eyes, you remained silent, thus admitting defeat. He was right. He was right, and you hated it. Even after all this time, he still knew how to make you tick like a goddamn timebomb. It was a matter of minutes before you actually would punt him out of a window.

"Can I sit?" He questioned, gesturing to the unoccupied space on the bed beside you. Sometime during the exploration of your rageful thoughts, Stiles grew nearer to you, and now stood right next to you.

"Sure, make yourself at home." You grumbled, a sarcastic bite to your words. Seeing as Stiles still knew you like the back of his hand, he detected the venom in your tone right away, and had to hold back his laughter. You really hadn't changed, and that made him happy.

"Thanks!" He said jovially, like you were still his best friend, clearly choosing to ignore the bitter attitude you exuded.

"How's Malia?" You asked. Not like you actually cared, just wanted to know if he was still dating the girl that he left you for. They must have just broken up if he was coming to you now. He finally comes crawling back, you think bitterly.