We sure could have, nonnie. Alas, it wasn't meant to be.

*

It’s tank top and shorts weather, and even still, Scott feels like he’s wearing too much. He wishes it were socially appropriate to walk around Beacon Hills naked, but he doesn’t want to get arrested. Again. Is there anything more humiliating than getting arrested by your best friend’s dad when your dick’s out? Probably. And he’s probably been through whichever situation it is, but he doesn’t want to invite the imagined memory all the same. He lazes on his couch, an electric fan whirring next to him and a mist spray bottle in hand’s reach. 

There’s a perfunctory knock at the door and then a blast of hot air. It could be any pack member, they all have keys and permission to cross through his wards, but it’s Stiles. He can tell by footfall, heartbeat, breathing patterns, and the heady mixture of chemo-signals that follow him wherever he goes.

“Scotty?” Stiles calls.

“Polo,” Scott answers back, lackadaisically flinging one hand into the air so it’s over top of the couch.

“I brought you ice cream,” Stiles. “Honeycomb and french vanilla.” Stiles stops in front of Scott. Stares. He has the same look of concentration on his face he gets when he’s trying to solve a riddle, and he smacks his lips together with a pop.

Scott pulls himself up, sits on one side of the couch so Stiles can sit next to him. Stiles hands him the cup of ice cream. Their fingers brush and Stiles smears condensation against Scott’s knuckles. 

“Did I ever tell you you’re my best friend and I’d do anything for you?” Scott says quietly, casually, but with feeling.

Stiles grins, his whole face lighting up like the burning hot sun outside. “Not for small acts of kindness,” he says. “Life and death situations. That one time I captured that spider for you. But not confectionery.”

“Well I want you to know it’s always true,” Scott says, emphatic. 

One of Stiles’ eyes blinks and the hollows of his cheeks take on a new, brighter shade of red. 

Stiles has peanut butter ice cream with reeses mini-cup mix-ins. It smells delectable. 

“Hey, can I have a taste?” Scott asks, nodding at his cup, too hot and bothered to ignore his wants.

“Sure.”

Scott leans in, but instead of digging his spoon into Stiles’ cup, kisses his lips and presses entry. Stiles melts into him, one hand coming to clutch at the strap of his tank top. The kiss is sweet literally and figuratively. Stiles kisses with purpose, and Scott kisses to explore.

When they pull apart, Scott smiles. “Delicious,” he murmurs. “Just like I imagined.”

“Oh my God,” Stiles says. “If I’d’ve known this is all it would take to seduce you, I would have tried years ago.”

“You should’ve,” Scott intones, kissing Stiles again with heat.