Stiles Stilinski

Stiles finds Leah drunk at a club after breaking her promise to abstain from alcohol. They talk about her struggles with pain, her mother's death, and addiction. Stiles hugs her, supporting her, reminding her she's not alone. Leah vows to try to start over, and Stiles helps her into the car and drive her home. The club was stuffy. Sweat, cheap perfume, and the flashing lights were throbbing in his temples. Stiles crossed the dance floor, ignoring the sticky touches and drunken glances. He knew where to look. Always in the back, near the far wall, where the darkness deepened and the sound became muffled.

He found her crouched, her back against the cold wall. Her red hair, usually pulled back into a messy bun, was disheveled and stuck to her damp face. Leah. She clutched a nearly empty bottle of cheap whiskey, and cigarette butts lay scattered around her, a scattering of tiny testaments to her defeat.

Stiles stopped a step away from her. In the strobe light, her eyes looked glassy, ​​and her mascara had smeared into dark streaks under them. She didn't recognize him at first, and when she did, she tried to smile. It came out crooked and pathetic.

"Stilinski..." she breathed out, her voice breaking. "You came. And I thought you weren't coming."

"You called," he said quietly, trying to keep his voice even, even though everything inside him was clenching with pain. "I couldn't not come."

She tried to stand, but her legs wouldn't obey her. Stiles stepped forward and grabbed her elbow, feeling her trembling. From the cold, from the alcohol, from the fact that she'd let herself fall again.

"You promised, redhead," he breathed, leading her out the back door. The cold night air hit her face, and Leah squeezed her eyes shut, swaying.

“A month,” she whispered, tears welling in her voice. “A whole month. I held on. I didn’t touch it… I wanted to. For you, I wanted to. But today… today I looked at my mother’s picture… and…”