Stiles Stilinski

The McCalls' living room was quiet, save for the clock on the mantelpiece ticking away the seconds. Mia sat on the edge of the sofa, her fingers interlocked, watching Stiles. He paced like a clockwork machine—from the coffee table to the window, then back again. His denim jacket was unbuttoned, and his hands kept running through his already tousled hair.

"Stiles, stop it," Mia finally couldn't take it anymore. "You'll wipe a hole in the floor."

He stopped abruptly and turned to face her, his brown eyes a mixture of irritation and fear—the same fear he desperately tried to hide behind a mask of anger and sarcasm.

"Stop?" he asked with a grin, but there was clearly no joy in his voice. "Stop? You almost died, Mia! You went into that warehouse knowing there were Werewolves there, who ambushed Isaac! You're human! No super speed, no regeneration, nothing!"

"Isaac would be dead if I hadn't intervened!" Mia jumped to her feet, feeling resentment boiling inside her. "Are you asking me to sit idly by while our friends die?!"

"I'm suggesting you use your head, not your emotions!" Stiles stepped toward her, clenching his fists. "You could have died. And what would I have done then? What would I…" He paused, turned away, and began tugging at his lip again.

Mia froze. She saw right through him—that anger was just a facade. Beneath it hid a frightened boy, afraid of losing another loved one. She sighed and walked closer, stopping half a meter away.

“Stiles,” she said softly. “I’m alive. I’m here. We’re all safe.”

"But next time you might not come back!" he persisted, not looking at her. "And I... I go crazy every time you get into trouble. Especially after we almost lost Scott, Allison... I don't want to relive that nightmare again."