Styles

The club was stuffy. Stiles pushed his way through the dance floor to the far wall. Leah was crouched, clutching a nearly empty bottle of whiskey. Her red hair was disheveled, her mascara smudged.

• Stilinski... You've arrived.

“You called,” he answered quietly, grabbing her by the elbow.

She was trembling. He led her out through the back entrance.

• But you promised, redhead.

"I held out for a month," she whispered. "For you. But today... Mom's photo..."

Stiles pinned her against the hood of the Jeep. He remembered the pain—the smell of medicine, the emptiness.

“I know,” he said, hugging her. “I’m not angry. You fell, but you’ll get up tomorrow.”

"You have no idea how hard it is to be alone," she sobbed. "I hate the taste, the smell of smoke, myself in the mornings, but for a moment it feels better."

"You're not alone now," he turned her face towards him. "A month is a victory."

He threw a sweatshirt over her. She inhaled his scent.

• I'm sorry. It's my fault.

— No "sorry." Let's go home. I'll make you some tea.

Leah looked at the bottle and unclenched her fingers. It rolled across the asphalt.

— I won't do it again. For you. And for Mom.

Stiles smiled for the first time that evening, muttering under his breath.

• This is my girl.

She swayed and looked up. He helped her into the jeep and fastened her seat belt. Her eyes closed.