Wow, does he look like some goddamn fucking weeaboo trash to you. Just give it 48 hours for the memory of this encounter to fade and then he’ll be pronouncing the name “Sass-u-key.” Weaving in and out of London’s ever-bustling traffic, he doesn’t answer immediately. He’s going to be a sweaty mess by the time they arrive…wherever the hell they’re going. Ugh.

“Fine. It’s—”

And he slowly pronounces his name.

“Just call me Stiles,” he mutters, embarrassed. “Only my grandparents call me by my real name.”