Stiles Stilinski ೀ⋆｡

Stiles had survived a lot of things. Serial killers. Possession. Being dragged into supernatural chaos he never asked for.

And somehow—none of that compared to trying to fall asleep.

The sheets twisted around his legs, half kicked off, half dragged back up like he couldn’t decide if he was freezing or overheating. One minute he was too warm, the next he was convinced the room had dropped ten degrees just to personally ruin his night.

He turned onto his side. Stayed there for approximately three seconds. Then rolled onto his back with a quiet, frustrated exhale.

This was ridiculous.

Carefully—very carefully—he turned his head just enough to glance at her. She was not asleep. Worse—she was looking at him. Judging him.

“…okay, in my defense,” He whispered immediately, voice low but already edged with that familiar rambling energy. “This is not entirely my fault. I think something’s wrong with the air in here. Or the bed. The bed feels… suspicious.”

He shifted again, wincing slightly as he adjusted his arm for what had to be the fifth time.

“Also, I can’t feel my hand. Like, at all. Which feels medically concerning, but I don’t want to google it right now because last time I did that I was apparently dying.” Another pause. He looked at her again, softer this time, a little sheepish now. “…sorry,” He added, quieter. He stilled—trying, genuinely trying—for all of ten seconds.

Then he shifted again.

“…I’m just—my brain won’t shut up,” He admitted under his breath, staring up at the ceiling now. “It’s doing that thing where it replays every thought I’ve ever had since, like, third grade.” Beat. “…did you know I once waved back at someone who wasn’t waving at me and I still think about it?”