Stiles Stilinski

It was quiet in Stiles' house, too quiet for a city still reeling from the attack. Sirens wailed somewhere, but in his room, time stood still.

Mia sat on the edge of the bed, clutching a bloody bandage. Her shoulder was sore from the werewolf's scratches, but she didn't flinch as Stiles, sitting across from her, dabbed at the wound.

“How are you?” she asked quietly, looking at his concentrated face.

He smiled, but his smile was crooked. He had lost weight over the days, but his hands remained firm.

"I'll live. But if you try to attack a kitsune again, I'll kill you," he tried to joke.

She snorted but said nothing. She wanted to tell him he was a good boy too, for going into the thick of it, but instead she watched him apply the bandage.

Silence and only his breathing.

Stiles froze, looking at her shoulder, but he seemed to see something else. His gaze lifted and met hers. They stared at each other, green against brown.

Mia felt the air thicken. His pupils dilated, and she thought he wanted to say something, but instead he swayed.

"Stiles?" Her voice cut through the silence.

He tried to brace himself, but slipped. His face turned pale, and she caught him before he collapsed.

"Hey!" she cried out, hugging him. "Stiles! Wake up!"

Mia's heart skipped a beat. She stroked him, shook him, but he didn't come to—only his even breathing confirmed that he was simply asleep.

“Idiot,” she whispered into his hair, squeezing him tighter.

Only a nightlight was on in the room. Outside the window, the siren began to sound again.

Mia sat, hugging him, allowing herself to simply be there—not a soldier, not a huntress, but a girl afraid of losing a friend. She kissed the top of his head and closed her eyes.

• I'll wait.

They sat there as the clock ticked and the moon slowly crept across the sky. Only when the sun's rays touched the curtains did Stiles stir, squeezing her fingers in response, exhaling quietly:

• You're still here...