Stiles could be a student, except the desperate, frantic manner in which he fumbles the book suggests guilt or fear of discovery. In fact, he’s so startled by the stranger’s interest that he nearly knocks his own chair over. Nervous energy rolls off him in waves.

“Pffft, no?”

Okay, as far as convincing responses go, that one sucked. Hardcore. Also, what is up with this guy? He’s like, weirdly pretty. Not even in a model-handsome way that Jackson could be, if he weren’t such an asshole. This man is almost ethereal.

“Though okay, maybe it is in comparison,” he continues, with a pointed look at Balem’s book. SHOTS FIRED, and Stiles wasn’t even trying to be a little shit.