The drive back to town was uncomfortably silent, save for the low rumble of Roscoe's engine. Paul sat in the passenger seat, his hat tipped forward slightly, shadowing his face. Stiles kept glancing at him from the driver's seat, his fingers tapping nervously against the steering wheel. Scott, in the back, shifted awkwardly, his eyes darting between the two brothers.
"So," Stiles said finally, breaking the silence. "You just... show up out of nowhere and save our butts in the middle of the woods. No explanation. Nothing."
Paul didn't respond immediately. He tilted his head slightly, watching the headlights carve through the darkness ahead.
"I could ask you the same thing," Paul said eventually, his voice low.
"Ask me what?" Stiles shot back.
Paul turned his head, his cold blue eyes fixing on Stiles. "What the hell you were thinking, dragging your friend out there when you clearly knew something was wrong."
"Hey, I didn't drag him—" Stiles started, but Paul cut him off.
"Save it." His tone was sharp, leaving no room for argument. "You're lucky you're both still alive."
Scott cleared his throat nervously from the back seat. "Uh, we didn't really have a choice. There was—"
Paul twisted in his seat to face Scott, his expression unreadable. "You. Wolf boy."
"Scott," Stiles said hastily. "His name is Scott."
Paul ignored him. "What's your deal? You're a... werewolf?" The word sounded strange coming from his mouth, like he didn't quite believe it even as he said it.
Scott hesitated, glancing at Stiles for reassurance. "Yeah," he said finally. "I was bitten a couple of months ago."
"And now you're... what? Running around the woods chasing things that shouldn't exist?" Paul asked, his voice dripping with skepticism.
"Technically," Stiles cut in, "the things that shouldn't exist are chasing us."
Paul's gaze snapped back to Stiles. "You think this is funny?"
"No," Stiles said quickly, his face reddening. "I just... it's been a lot, okay? We're doing the best we can."
Paul leaned back in his seat, his arms crossed over his chest. "That's not good enough."
The sharpness of his words stung, and Stiles' knuckles tightened around the wheel. "Okay, well, sorry we're not exactly experts at dealing with the supernatural," he snapped. "Maybe you'd like to give it a shot, oh great and mighty Paul, since you seem to know everything."
Paul raised an eyebrow. "I don't know everything. But I know better than to wander into a situation you don't understand."
"Oh, yeah? Is that why you disappeared for three years without a word?"
The words hung in the air, heavy and unspoken for far too long. Even Scott winced, leaning back in his seat to avoid the tension.
Paul's jaw tightened, his cold demeanor cracking just slightly. "That's different," he said quietly.
"Sure it is," Stiles muttered under his breath.
The rest of the drive passed in strained silence.
The Stilinski House
Stiles parked Roscoe in the driveway, cutting the engine with a sharp twist of the key. He glanced at the house, its windows glowing faintly in the darkness.
"Dad's gonna flip," he said, more to himself than anyone else.
"Good," Paul said, opening the door and stepping out.
Stiles gawked at him. "Good? Why would that be good?"
"Because maybe he'll knock some sense into you," Paul said bluntly, slamming the door shut.
Stiles groaned, slumping back against the seat. "He's going to ground me until I'm thirty."
"You probably deserve it," Scott mumbled, earning a glare from Stiles.
Inside the house, the kitchen light was on, and Sheriff Stilinski sat at the table, nursing a cup of coffee. He looked up when the door opened, his expression immediately shifting from concern to disbelief as Paul stepped inside.
"Paul?"
Paul froze, his hand still on the doorframe. For a moment, he looked like he might turn around and walk back out, but then he squared his shoulders and stepped fully into the room.
"Hey, Dad," he said, his voice quieter than usual.
The Sheriff stood slowly, his eyes scanning Paul as if to confirm he was real. "Where the hell have you been?"
"It's a long story," Paul said, rubbing the back of his neck.
"I've got time," the Sheriff said firmly.
Paul sighed, his usual stoicism faltering under his father's intense stare. "Look, I'm back now. That's what matters."
"Like hell it is," the Sheriff snapped, his voice rising. "You disappear without a word, no calls, no letters, nothing! Do you have any idea what that did to us?"
"Dad—"
"No, Paul. You don't get to just walk back in here and act like nothing happened."
The tension in the room was thick, and Stiles hovered nervously near the doorway, glancing between his father and his brother.
"Dad," he said hesitantly, "maybe we should—"
"Not now, Stiles," the Sheriff said sharply, not taking his eyes off Paul.
Paul straightened, his usual coldness returning. "I didn't ask for this reunion," he said flatly.
The Sheriff's face fell slightly, but his anger didn't waver. "Then why are you here?"
Paul hesitated. For a moment, he looked genuinely unsure of what to say. Finally, he settled on, "To keep Stiles out of trouble."
The Sheriff barked a bitter laugh. "That's rich, coming from you."
Paul's expression hardened, but he didn't reply.
The Sheriff exhaled heavily, dragging a hand down his face. "We'll talk about this later," he said finally. "For now, just... don't go disappearing again."
Paul nodded once, then turned and headed upstairs without another word.
Paul's Room
The room was exactly as he'd left it—clean, orderly, untouched. It felt strange, stepping back into a life he'd almost forgotten. He set his hat down on the desk and sat heavily on the edge of the bed, running a hand through his hair.
The events of the night churned in his mind. The creature. Stiles' frantic explanations. Werewolves.
It didn't make sense. None of it did.
But one thing was clear: Whatever was happening in Beacon Hills, it wasn't normal.
And he was going to figure it out.