Morning in the Stilinski household didn't feel like morning at all.There was sunlight, sure — warm, golden rays slicing through the thin kitchen curtains — but none of it managed to touch Stiles the way it used to. The air felt thicker. Every sound felt sharper. Even the clink of the spoon against his cereal bowl echoed like it was happening inside his chest.
It was happening.Today was the day.
He was leaving Beacon Hills.
Not forever, but long enough that the word goodbye felt too heavy and too real.
Stiles sat at the kitchen table, one leg bouncing uncontrollably. His father pretended not to notice, though his eyes flicked toward it more than once. Sheriff Noah Stilinski was trying — trying so hard — to look strong for his kid, like he had been doing the entire week. But Stiles saw what others didn't. The tightness in his jaw. The way his hand lingered on his coffee mug like he needed the warmth to keep himself steady. The tiny tremor in his fingers when he reached for the newspaper.
Sheriff Stilinski didn't tremble.He didn't falter.Not unless something truly mattered.
And this? This mattered.
Stiles swallowed. "Dad?"
Noah looked up immediately, eyes gentle. "Yeah, bud?"
"Do you… think this is a mistake?"It came out smaller than he intended. Not scared — not exactly — but uncertain.
His father exhaled, setting his coffee down."Stiles," he said softly, "look at me."
Stiles did.
"You're smart. You're capable. And if this is what you want — if this program gives you something that helps you grow, helps you heal — then I'm proud of you for choosing it." He paused, voice wobbling just slightly. "But does it scare me? Yeah. A little."
Just hearing him admit that made something tighten in Stiles's throat.
"I'll call every day," Stiles said quickly, urgently. "I swear. And if I ever feel weird or unsafe or anything, I'll tell you and I'll come home immediately. Ronan said so. He said there are rules and check-ins and I'll always be with the team, and—"
Noah held up a hand, smiling faintly."I know, kiddo. I trust you. And I trust this organization. They've been doing this for years. A program with supervision, certified trainers, group travel, scheduled calls… It's not like you're running off into the wilderness." He gave a small, shaky chuckle. "Besides, you're too… you. You'd never last without talking my ear off at least once a day."
Stiles cracked a smile. A real one, even if brief.
A soft knock sounded against the front door.
Both of them froze.
Noah cleared his throat. "That must be him."
Stiles's stomach dropped like an elevator.
Sheriff Stilinski walked to the door and opened it.
There stood Ronan.
He looked exactly the same as the day they met — calm, steady, structured. Grayish-brown hair tied back loosely, dark green jacket, boots that looked like they'd traveled more countries than most people could name. But today, he had something softer in his expression. Something respectful.
"Morning, Sheriff," Ronan said with a polite nod. "Morning, Stiles."
"Morning," Stiles murmured.
"You ready?" Ronan asked gently. Not pushing. Not rushing.
"Almost," Stiles said. "I just need to grab my last bag."
"Take your time. We're in no hurry."
Stiles ran up the stairs two at a time, heart thudding. His room was messy from the storm of packing — open drawers, shirts draped over the bed, notebooks scattered on the floor. He grabbed the final duffel, the one with his sketch notebook, the mental-training exercises Ronan gave him, his favorite hoodie, and his mom's old worn paperback mystery novel he refused to leave behind.
He slung the bag over his shoulder and paused.
The room felt emptier already.
He glanced at the doorway — at the frame where his mom used to stand when he was sick, checking on him without even saying a word. Memories hit like a punch: her laugh, her hands, her warmth. She'd never walk through that doorway again.
And he…He'd be gone too now.
Not forever.Not even for bad reasons.But still gone.
"Mom," he whispered under his breath, "please let this be the right choice."
He took a deep breath and headed downstairs.
Ronan was in the living room, giving Noah a folder with printed schedules, emergency contacts, and the program's travel itinerary. Everything was official, stamped, documented — exactly what a legitimate training initiative would provide.
"The team is already assembled in San Francisco," Ronan was saying. "Three instructors, two coordinators, and eight students in this year's intake. Stiles will be with a supervised dorm structure when we aren't traveling. All days off are logged, all external activities require permission from two staff members. I'll be his primary skills instructor, but he'll always have at least one additional adult present during any session."
"Good," Noah said firmly. "I want him safe above everything else."
"He will be," Ronan replied with certainty. "He's talented. But talent needs grounding. That's what our program is built for."
Stiles stepped into the room, and both adults turned.
"You sure you're ready?" Noah asked, voice soft.
Stiles's throat tightened again. "Yeah. I am."
They walked together to the front door.
Outside, parked at the curb, was Ronan's car — a sleek, dark green Ford Mustang Bullitt. The kind of car that made you stop and stare even if you weren't into cars. Classic lines, a growl in the engine you could practically hear even when it was off. It looked like it belonged in an action movie.
Stiles blinked. "Whoa."
Ronan laughed lightly. "Reliable on long drives. Sturdy. Safe. And she's been with me a long time. You'll get used to her."
"She has a name?" Stiles asked, curious.
"That's a story for another time."
Noah smirked. "Of course the mysterious outdoorsy trainer drives something dramatic."
Ronan shrugged. "It gets the job done."
But Stiles barely heard them. He was staring at the car. Because that car wasn't just a car. It was the vehicle that was taking him away from Beacon Hills. Away from everything familiar. Away from the version of himself he used to be.
He suddenly felt small.Younger than nine.Younger than ever.
His dad seemed to sense it.He knelt down so they were eye-level.
"Hey," Noah murmured. "Look at me, Stiles."
Stiles looked up with burning eyes.
"You are not running away from anything," his father said. "You are running toward something. Toward growing. Toward healing. Toward becoming stronger. And I will be right here when you come home."
Stiles nodded, tears threatening.
"You're my kid," Noah said, voice thickening. "My whole world. And nothing — nothing — changes that."
Stiles threw his arms around his father, squeezing fiercely. Noah hugged him back even harder, one hand holding the back of Stiles's head like he was afraid letting go would make him lose something precious all over again.
Ronan respectfully stayed back. Quiet. Letting the moment belong to them.
After a long minute, Noah gently pulled back.
"You call me tonight," he said firmly. "Before bed. Every day, okay?"
"Every day," Stiles promised.
"And if you ever feel like it's too much…"
"I'll come home," Stiles finished. "I know. I promise."
Noah smiled shakily. "That's my boy."
Stiles wiped his eyes quickly, trying to look composed as he stepped toward Ronan.
"You ready, Stiles?" Ronan asked softly.
Stiles nodded. "Yeah."
Ronan opened the passenger door for him. Stiles climbed in, his bags tucked behind the seat. The leather seats smelled like old stories and long roads — not bad, just… lived-in. Familiar, in a strange way.
Ronan closed the door gently and walked around to the driver's side.
Noah stood on the curb, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, trying and failing to look calm. His eyes glistened every time he blinked.
Ronan started the engine.The Mustang rumbled to life with a deep, smooth growl.
Stiles leaned toward the window. "Bye, Dad! I'll call!"
"I'll be waiting!" Noah called back. His voice cracked on the last word.
Ronan put the car into gear and pulled away from the house.Stiles twisted in his seat, watching his dad grow smaller and smaller in the rearview mirror, until Noah Stilinski was just a figure on the sidewalk… and then he disappeared behind the trees.
Beacon Hills slowly faded behind them — familiar streets, familiar stores, familiar houses filled with people who didn't know how strange and dangerous the world really was.
Stiles finally turned forward, sinking into the seat.
The road stretched out ahead like an open book.
Ronan kept his eyes on the highway. "You doing okay?"
"I think so," Stiles whispered.
"You did something brave today," Ronan said. "Not many kids your age could make that choice."
Stiles stared out the window, watching the pine trees blur by.
After a long moment, he asked quietly:
"So… where are we going?"
Ronan's mouth curved in a small, mysterious smile.
"To the first place you need to be," he said. "Where your real training begins."
And the chapter ends there.