Stiles Stilinski

Stiles's room on the second floor was filled with the usual chaos.
Mia sat on the edge of his bed, her legs tucked under her, watching Stilinski. Stiles ruffled his already disheveled hair, nervously darting between the desk and the window. He would quiet down, staring at the city map, then suddenly begin gesturing wildly again, muttering his endless hypotheses under his breath. But beneath this usual hyperactivity, Mia could clearly see his tension. In recent days, he seemed to avoid her direct gaze—as soon as their eyes met, Stiles would immediately look away, switching to diagrams, his father's reports, or the latest tales from Scott's pack.
“Stiles, stop for just a minute,” Mia asked softly, getting out of bed.
"I'm fine! Absolutely, one hundred percent fine," he blurted out, adopting his signature ironic tone. "Just trying to figure out why the kanima... I mean, the chimera... well, you get the idea. My brain's spinning, you know how that is."
"Stop looking away," she said quietly, peering into his rumpled, tired face. "You've been looking everywhere but at me for a week now. If you regret it... If you miss your old life, or Martin, or are simply tired of all this and want to look at someone else, someone who won't drag you into more trouble... just tell me."
Stilinski froze.
"Are... are you serious right now?" His voice suddenly lost all sarcastic confidence.
“Miya, I only avoid your eyes because when I look into them, I forget how to breathe,” he whispered, leaning in slightly.

• But I love your eyes too much to look into someone else's.