Chapter 14: You owe me a Pizza.
They all left the library—or what remained of it—after Hope healed Erica. The once quiet sanctuary of books was now a battlefield. Bookshelves lay toppled like dominos, glass glittered dangerously across the floor, and pages fluttered from torn bindings. It was a wreck.
Unbeknownst to them, Gerard was watching.
Through the monitor, his eyes narrowed as he witnessed what Hope had done. He zoomed in on her face, a whisper escaping his lips.
"A witch..."
Meanwhile, Scott and Allison were at the hospital with Matt, who was recovering from a concussion. Stiles had stuck by Hope's side, and Erica followed them, her eyes fixed on Hope's back—curious, confused, but above all, hesitant.
She didn't like this feeling.
After the bite, she'd felt like someone new. Someone powerful. Confident. The kind of girl who turned heads in the hallways. Boys wanted her. Girls envied her. She basked in the attention, in the envy. For once in her life, she wasn't the bullied, invisible girl. She belonged.
But around Hope Mikaelson?
That confidence slipped like sand through her fingers.
Near Hope, she felt like the old Erica again—small, unremarkable, insecure. And she hated it. She was sure Hope hated her, too. So... why did she help?
It wouldn't kill her to ask. Right?
What's the worst that could happen? Hope throws her into another trash can?
Hope was heading toward Stiles' Jeep when Erica finally found her voice.
"Hope!" she called out.
Hope turned, raising a brow. "Yes, Erica?"
Stiles, sensing the moment, took the hint. "I'll be in the Jeep," he said, and walked off with a shrug, giving Hope the space.
Erica crossed her arms in a half-hearted show of confidence. "Why did you help me?"
She hoped her voice didn't tremble.
Hope saw right through her. But she didn't call her out on it. Instead, she smirked. "Let me think… I did say that wasn't for free, didn't I?"
Erica blinked. "What?"
"You owe me a pizza," Hope said, smiling innocently.
"A pizza?" Erica repeated, clearly thrown off.
"Yeah. I'm broke, no money, no real home, and a job that doesn't pay nearly enough. Honestly, I think child labor laws have been violated. They work me to the bone. And I skip half my shifts because of supernatural drama. I'm exhausted. I want justice. And pizza. You'll buy me one, right, honey?" Hope gave her a mock-threatening glare, though she looked more like a grumpy cat than anything truly scary.
Erica stared at her. "You saved me… for pizza?"
"No kidding. A girl's gotta eat."
"The Valentino Rockstud heels and Chanel perfume say otherwise," Erica pointed out flatly.
"Oh, these?" Hope glanced down at her heels and grinned. "Courtesy of my sugar mommy, Lydia. Lovely gal."
Erica looked thoroughly flabbergasted.
Then her expression shifted, becoming more serious. "No, really. Why did you help me? You hate me."
Hope's smile faded.
"I don't hate you. Why would you even think that?" she asked, her voice suddenly soft but firm. "You can be a bitch sometimes—but I'm bitchier. Doesn't mean you deserve to suffer. If I can help, I will."
She paused, then added, "Honestly, if you dropped the mean-girl act, I might actually start to like you. You don't need to play a stereotype. You can be strong, beautiful, and kind. You are beautiful, Erica. You're gorgeous. You don't need to prove anything to anyone. Just be you. Just… be Erica."
Erica stared at her, thrown off by the unexpected kindness.
Hope added casually, "Also… you keep bullying my sweet Stiles. So maybe I'll consider being civil if you stop slamming him into walls. Have you seen his face? How do you even resist? Those moles? Those hazel-brown eyes? I could get lost in them—ugh! Dammit, I'm rambling."
Erica's lips curled into a grin. "You like him."
Hope blinked. "Say it louder for the world to hear—"
"HOPE LIKES STI—"
"OH MY GOD, NOT LITERALLY!" Hope cut her off, slapping her palm over Erica's mouth.
Erica giggled, muffled by Hope's hand.
"Shut up. For the love of God," Hope muttered.
Erica raised her hands in surrender, still smiling.
From the Jeep, Stiles watched the scene play out. He couldn't hear what they were saying, but he did see Hope covering Erica's mouth.
"I hope she's not strangling her," he mumbled. 'Can a werewolf die from suffocation? Will Erica survive Hope the Slayer of Dragons? Wait… are dragons even real?'
While Stiles spiraled into existential questions, Hope finally let Erica go—though she shot her one last warning glare. Erica, unfazed, looked more amused than ever. It was strange, seeing this side of Hope. Softer. Goofier. Almost… cute.
As the girls approached the Jeep, Erica was clearly trying not to laugh while Hope looked like she regretted all her life choices.
"I'll leave you two to spend some alone time together," Erica said with a teasing lilt, emphasizing each word. Hope looked ready to murder her. Stiles, ever the clueless one, just blinked.
"You two seem to be getting along well now," he commented, opening the passenger door for Hope and slipping into the driver's seat. "Had a nice heart-to-heart?"
"Don't start," Hope muttered, hiding her embarrassment as she slid into the seat.
"So... where to?" she asked, eager to change the subject.
"To the woods," Stiles said brightly, "for a long, lovely chat."
Hope deadpanned. "That's literally what a serial killer would say."
"Okay, fine. I'm taking you to my house to discuss who's controlling the Kanima. You know, the serious stuff."
Hope froze, guilt flickering behind her eyes.
"You didn't forget your drunk talk, did you?" he added, glancing her way.
Of course she hadn't. She'd spilled too much. Except the most important secret—that he was a character from a TV show in another universe. That one? She would never tell.
Some truths were better left unsaid.
When they pulled up to Stiles' house, Hope stepped out of the Jeep with a sigh of relief. A light drizzle had begun, the cool breeze brushing through her hair. Stiles led her inside like he was guiding her into a top-secret bunker. Half-expecting military-grade lasers or tripwires, Hope was surprised to find herself in a dimly lit room overflowing with notebooks, maps, printed articles, red string—so much red string—and what appeared to be a half-eaten pizza crust on the desk.
"…Should I be concerned?" she asked, eyebrows raised.
Stiles panicked, flailing as he tried to tidy the mess, only making it worse. After a moment of futile effort, he huffed dramatically. "No, this is the part where I reveal I'm a genius. Welcome to my lair, Miss Mikaelson."
Hope scanned the room, unimpressed. "It smells like teenage boy and conspiracy."
"That's my signature scent, thank you very much."
He darted toward a corkboard and launched into rapid-fire explanations. "So. I've been researching hybrids—not just supernatural ones. I mean interdimensional hybrids. Multiverse theory. Parallel timelines. Collapsing universes. People who don't belong in the timeline they're in." He jabbed a finger at a thread connecting newspaper clippings. "This right here? Proof that people from other realities might exist here without anyone realizing it."
Hope froze.
Her heartbeat stuttered, breath catching in her throat. He didn't know—he couldn't know—but he was close. Too close.
"You've… been researching that?"
"Yeah," Stiles said, pulling out a wrinkled notebook labeled MULTIVERSE STUFF (do not let dad see). "I got the idea after you came to town."
Hope blinked. "Me?"
"Well, yeah. You're powerful, unpredictable, and mysterious. Also really pretty in a terrifying way—like you'd kiss someone and then set their house on fire."
"…That was oddly specific."
Stiles shrugged. "What can I say? You inspired me."
Hope stared at him. He had no idea how right he was. No idea what she really was. Yet there he stood—excited, curious, smiling—completely accepting the possibility of worlds beyond their own, without demanding answers.
And he never asked how she knew what she knew.
Her throat tightened. She was so used to people digging, distrusting, dissecting her. But not Stiles.
He just believed.
She softened, eyes dropping to the floor, heart aching with quiet gratitude. "You're insane," she said gently.
"And you like that about me," he replied, grinning. "Soon you'll be home. I'll make sure of it."
"Is it possible? Can I go back to my universe?" she asked, disbelief lacing her voice.
"Some time ago, I thought werewolves and witches didn't exist," he said, leaning in. "But here you are—a mix of both." His tone implied nothing was impossible. "But the real question is… would you want to go back?"
The answer came instantly. "No. I don't want to go back."
The brightest smile bloomed on his face, and she loved it—loved how she could make him smile like that. Unconsciously, they drifted closer, drawn like magnets.
Just before their lips met, a crack of thunder startled them apart, faces burning matching shades of red.
Hope recovered first, brushing past him to snatch up a map. "Okay, Einstein. What else do you know?"
Stiles snapped his fingers, still blushing. "Ah, yes. Kanima theory. You're gonna love this." He rummaged through his mess, flipping to a board labeled SCALY CREEPY LIZARD THING in bright red.
"According to the patterns—attacks, victims, locations—there's a clear connection to Harris, but my number-one suspect is still Matt."
Hope nodded. "He's the master. Controlling the Kanima through fear and obsession."
Stiles blinked. "Wait, what?"
"I mean—allegedly," she backpedaled.
Stiles gaped. "Did you just predict the future again? Witchy vision thing?"
Hope gave him a tight smile. "Something like that."
He rubbed his chin. "Witches, man. At this point, I don't even question it. You guys are basically magical GPS systems with anger issues."
"You're not wrong."
They shared a look, that familiar spark flaring between them—teasing, electric, unspoken.
"Still," Stiles said, stepping closer, "you always know what's going on. Like you've read the script."
Hope laughed nervously. "Maybe I'm just that good."
"Mm-hmm. Or maybe you're a time traveler sent to save the timeline."
"You watch too many movies."
"And you look like you walked off the set of one," he countered, eyes trailing over her in a way that made her chest tighten.
Hope looked away. "Don't flirt with me."
"I'm not flirting. I'm admiring."
"That's worse."
Stiles grinned. "Can't help it. You have main-character energy."
She shot him a warning glance, fighting a smile. "Stiles."
"Hope."
They stared, the tension between them crackling—charged with unspoken possibilities.
"Are we gonna solve a murder," Hope finally said, "or make out dramatically in the rain?"
Stiles blinked. "I mean… can it be both?"
Hope laughed, shaking her head. "Focus, Stilinski."
He sighed theatrically. "Right. Murder. Kanima. No kissing. Got it."
But neither of them stopped smiling.
Stiles decided to head to the police station for more clues, and Hope agreed. They grabbed takeout on the way—after a playful argument over who'd pay (Stiles won).
"I hope you don't mind me joining, Mr. Stilinski," Hope said, settling beside Stiles as he unpacked their food.
"Of course not. Call me Noah," the sheriff replied, smiling between his son and the girl who might one day be his daughter-in-law (yes, he'd already thought that far).
Stiles slid a double-cheeseburger and matcha smoothie toward Hope, then passed a veggie burger to his dad.
Noah grimaced. "What the hell is this?"
"Veggie burger," Stiles said, sipping his soda. Hope bit into her burger with a satisfied hum.
"I asked for a hamburger," Noah grumbled, chewing reluctantly.
Stiles lifted his salad. "Veggies are healthier. We're being healthy." He peeled open the lid and smirked. "Mmm… Heaven."
Hope moaned exaggeratedly. "This is amazing."
Noah shot her a mock-offended look. "Are you mocking me, Hope?"
"I would never, Noah," she said, cheeks bulging like a chipmunk.
Noah dug through another box, only to find carrot sticks. "Why are you trying to ruin my life?"
Hope offered him a bite of her burger. "Only one."
Stiles protested, but she nudged him. "Let your father live."
Noah took the bite with theatrical bliss while Stiles sighed. "I'm trying to extend your life. Now eat the veggies and tell us what you found."
"I'm not sharing confidential police work with teenagers," Noah said sternly.
Hope's gaze flicked to the board behind him. "Is that it? The board with the pictures and arrows?"
Stiles craned his neck. Noah blocked his view. "Don't look at that!"
"Okay—"
"Stop!"
Stiles squinted. "I see… arrows pointing at pictures."
Noah relented. "Fine. The mechanic and the murdered couple—they all had something in common."
"All three?"
"One's an incident. Two's a coincidence."
"Three's a pattern," Stiles muttered.
Hope straightened. "What about Isaac's dad? He wasn't twenty-four."
Noah nodded. "Which brings me to this." He handed them a military file. "Isaac had an older brother, Camden. Died in combat. Guess how old he'd be today?"
"Twenty-four," Stiles and Hope said in unison.
Stiles and Hope walked outside into the chilly air, him sipping his cola and her trying (keyword: trying) to drink the green smoothie.
"You look disgusted," Stiles laughed.
"I told you you wouldn't like it. Now here we are," he teased, taking the matcha smoothie from her hands. "Here," he offered his cold drink, and she gratefully took it, swapping with him.
"I wanted to have something green too. You were all 'living healthy' and blah blah blah," she said, sipping his drink—now her drink.
"It's not that bad. It's sweet," he shrugged.
"Suit yourself," Hope mumbled.
"So when do we tell them about Matt?" he asked.
"Not yet," Hope replied.
"And why are we not telling them about Matt?"
"Because, Stiles, everyone will be busy catching the puppet. I, on the other hand, will catch the puppeteer," she said with a confident smirk.