As prideful as a man he was,

proud my father never was of me

I did it for survival, but I look like the asshole anyway…

…and I don't care much for wishful thinking; it's heavy as I breathe.

Jeb Stilinski wasn't a fool. He knew his son was hopelessly in love with a girl he rarely talked to, he knew his son was in a local band that was gaining popularity, and he knew his son was mixed up in some strange events going around town, involving the former suspect, Derek Hale. Stiles figured what his father didn't know couldn't hurt him. Stiles didn't know how Jeb felt every time Stiles crept through the front door in the wee hours of the morning, likely covered in wounds he would never give a real explanation for. Jeb convinced himself that his son wouldn't keep something big to himself if it wasn't for a good reason. To keep that resolve strong, he worked longer nights at the station, letting him worry about the town in place of the hyperactive boy who he swore was skinning his knees two weeks ago.

Underneath the lies, half-truths, and quick escapes, Jeb noticed something building within Stiles; something that was there before, but only barely. He saw it in the way his son walked, back straight and head held level to the horizon. He heard it in Stiles' voice. There were always tones of concern, but they were usually buried underneath tangents upon tangents. Lately, Stiles sounded more serious. He still rambled, but there was intent behind the wildly-driven thought processes. Jeb always knew his son had a big, strong heart; he was the one who held together when his mother passed, and he was the one last to fall apart, only to build himself back up, learning to rely on Scott when he couldn't handle things himself. As a father, he wanted to be proud of his son, finding something, whatever it was, to feel so strongly about that it began to harden him in other aspects of life. As a sheriff, he feared for his son's safety, as well as the legality of whatever he was finding himself in the middle of.

To find Stiles cooking and joking around in the kitchen with the girl he'd crushed on for so many years, to see his son so relaxed around her, was a bit of a shock. The good kind of shock. Father-mode kicked in rather quickly, though, and demanded to know what Lydia and Stiles were doing, alone, together, in his house. The pair glanced at one another, and immediately collapsed upon themselves, convulsing on the floor in fits of laughter. Jeb was speechless.

Stiles was the first to stand, leaning heavily on the refrigerator. "It's not what it looks like, dad," he gestured between him and the redhead currently grasping the counter for dear life. "We're bros now." Lydia, still fighting to inhale, snorted at the b-word and lost any progress in regaining regular use of her lungs.

Jeb knew that he needed to sit his son down and force the truth out of him, sooner than later, but as usual, there was a moment that he didn't have it in his heart to interrupt.

"You said you'd cook, tonight. She can stay for dinner if she wants." The sheriff allowed himself a grin, small yet warm, before heading up the stairs. Echoes of laughter followed him up and into the hallway.