"All ready?" Sheriff Stilinski asked, placing the last duffel bag into the trunk of his son's beat-up, old Jeep and slamming the door. He was reluctant to let Stiles go, especially when the boy seemed to find trouble wherever he went, but he knew he would have to let him go sooner or later. (Sooner seemed the better choice considering that the Sheriff was picking up heavier cases at the police department, many of which involved unnerving things that would only lead to trouble for the teenager.)

Stiles swallowed the saliva that had been collecting his mouth before speaking. "Yeah." He placed his hands into the pockets of his jeans and leaned onto the tips of his shoes, closing his mouth (for once) and casting his eyes down to the ground. "Who is going to keep you from eating every hamburger in sight, though? I should stay here in Beacon Hills, dad. I can just become a cop, I don't need to go to an expensive college and study something that could become impractical when computers take over everything anyway."

Sheriff Stilinski was already shaking his head, the familiar frown/grin appearing. "Stiles, get going. You have a drive ahead of you, son." He reached his arms around his son, giving him a short clap on the back and pushing him toward the door of the Jeep. "Everything will be fine. I promise to make sure I don't eat too many hamburgers."

Stiles shook his head as he climbed into the seat of his old vehicle. "That's so pathetic. Even Ms. McCall could lie better than that, dad."

His father laughed, the crinkle of skin at his eyes showing his age, which made Stiles more nervous. "I love you, son. Call me when you get there so I'll know you didn't get lost." Before Stiles could respond, his father shut the door of the Jeep and gave it a light slap. He gave his son a smile before turning back towards the door of their house. "You'll do great, Stiles."

†

Stiles had his various duffel bags and suitcase stuffed under his arms as tight as he could possibly manage as he tried to maneuver through the campus. The trees were still a luscious green for the summer and everyone who was present for freshman orientation seemed to be out in the grass talking to each other and finding friends.

He tried to stay on the sidewalk as he moved through bodies of students toward the main building. He had in his possession a key, a room number, and a piece of paper with his roommate's name scrawled on the back in old ink. Rooming with Scott, his best friend since he could remember, was not an option. Ms. McCall was not too keen on the idea of her trouble-making "sons" (which she included Stiles in, of course) spending more time together than they needed to. Of course, this idea might have stemmed from all of the trouble they got into in Beacon Hills. As Stiles would say, though, she shouldn't have been surprised; Stiles's father was the Sheriff, which meant he knew everything that was going on, even if he had to get it out of his dad by encouraging him to drink a little extra of his favorite whiskey on those rough nights home from the station.

Stiles shoved the piece of paper into his mouth as he pulled the duffel bags even tighter to his body (if that was possible) so he could easily get through the crowd. He had told Scott he would meet him outside of the main building around eleven, but he wasn't so sure he would make it that far without being trampled to death.

These people are probably all geniuses with GPAs of, like, 4.5, he thought, shaking his head and taking a deep breath as he passed a group of hippie-looking straggles sitting on the ground passing around a guitar. He still wasn't sure himself how he had gotten accepted into the college of his dreams – even worse to think about was how Scott managed to get in. His good looks, Stiles thought, and that jaw probably got him a lot of sympathy votes. He laughed to himself as he walked on through the yard, tossing the key he had over in his hand.

His plaid over-shirt should have been making him feel far too warm in the California heat of August, but he looked as if there wasn't a care in the world, where the ninety-eight degree temperature was involved, at least. His mind, though, was very occupied.

Every student on the courtyard looked as if they belonged to a club where only very attractive people were allowed in. Even the hippies he had crossed a moment managed to look semi-attractive with the hundreds of feet of hair they owned between the seven of them. He knitted his eyebrows together, happy that he had at least let his hair grown out a good inch-and-a-half over the summer. The buzz-cut was okay for high school in Beacon Hills, but here at Stanford, combined with his wardrobe of plaid over-shirts, geeky T-shirts, and jeans, it might have made him stand out as The Stoner Guy Who Is Way Too Smart – which he would have been okay with, too, if it wasn't for the scholarship he needed to maintain so his father wouldn't need to work two jobs to pay for his college. Teachers don't often take a liking to students who look like they just rolled out of bed, so that wasn't exactly what he needed.

He reached the main building across the courtyard and saw Scott standing by himself near an old archway.

"Hey, man. Did you get lost?" Scott laughed, happily taking one of the duffel bags from Stiles's arms to lighten the load on his best friend.

"Har-har, good joke, Scott. Remind me to use that one later," Stiles grinned after grabbing the piece of paper out of his mouth. "What room are you in?"

Scott reached into his pocket and pulled out a similar-sized piece of paper. "I'm in B-210. That sounds like there are steps involved." Scott grimaced, his mind already wandering to the inhaler stuffed into his right pocket.

"If I have to, I'll carry you up there every day. Don't worry, Scott. I'm in B-something. Same dorm building?"

Scott pulled out a map of the campus from the bag slung over his shoulder. "It's right beside of the library, too. That's definitely a good thing, especially if we want my mom to think we aren't causing trouble," he laughed, folding back up the map. Scott's mom would be happy to hear they could be closed to the library and study – which Stiles was really hoping there would be some (or a lot) of.

Stiles looked at his piece of paper and smiled. "Mine's 211, that has to be near your room!"

They made their way through the campus, across the courtyard again, and to the large, old building that was housing dorm rooms with Bs attached to the number. Stiles made sure that they took their time getting up the steps to where 210 and 211 would be, cautious to not irritate Scott's asthma.

The rooms were across the halls from each other. Room 211 on the left and 210 on the right. Scott was thankful that the rooms were the very first ones when you got to the second floor.

"Yes! This is going to be awesome," Stiles said as his mouth formed into a wicked grin. "I have a feeling that this won't be so bad after all, Scott." He dropped his bags onto the floor and laid his arm across his best friend's shoulder and smirked.

Their moment was quickly shattered as a blond-haired boy walked past them to door 211.

"Hey, are you in room 211?" Stiles asked, moving from Scott's side to the wall beside his door.

The blond-haired boy turned and looked at Stiles as if he had no reason to be speaking to him. His jawline looked as if it had been drawn by the gods themselves and carved by angels. His eyebrows were perfectly shaped, yet his nose and lips looked too big for a face his size, but somehow these features fit perfectly on him. It was like an Abercrombie & Fitch model stepped into the hallway beside of Scott and Stiles.

"Me? You're asking me if I'm in 211." He didn't ask, he just stated.

"Uh, yeah. That's what I asked," Stiles said, his mouth opening and an eyebrow shooting north.

"Why? Are you in 211?" The blond (who Stiles could now, rightly, assume was a douchebag) sneered at Stiles.

"Actually, yeah. Are you Jackson Something-or-other, the guy with the long last name that is way unnecessary?"

The guy leaned in towards Stiles and laughed mockingly. "That's funny. Yes, I'm Jackson. We can just stay on first name terms, last names are unnecessary."

Stiles frowned. "Why unnecessary?"

"I don't feel like we'll be very close. In fact, I'm already hoping I don't see you very often." With that, Jackson Something-or-other opened the door to 211 and walked in, closing the door in Stiles's face.

Stiles let out a breath that he wasn't even aware he had been holding. "Well, I can see this will be fun."

Scott gave his best friend an apologetic smile and shrugged. "At least this means my roommate can't be worse. Yours looks ready to eat you for breakfast."

"Thanks, Scott. Always helpful."

Scott laughed and handed Stiles his bag that he had been holding earlier. "Good luck," he said, walking over to room 210.

"Great. Thanks. I hope your roomie hates your guts," Stiles grinned, grabbing his bags and putting his hand on the door knob of 211.

Scott turned around long enough to clear his throat and smile with a hint of uncertainty. "Who can resist this jawline, Stiles?"