The ceiling had never been so interesting.

Stiles lay on his side, staring at the bookshelf across the room, but his mind was anywhere but there. You sat on the floor, legs crossed, fingers mindlessly picking at the hem of your hoodie. Neither of you spoke.

“I hate this,” he muttered, voice barely above a whisper.

You exhaled, leaning your head back against his bed. “Me too.”

He finally turned his head to look at you, his brown eyes heavy with exhaustion. “We should be out there.”

“We can’t be,” you reminded him. “Scott’s orders.”

Stiles scoffed, rolling onto his back. “Since when do we listen to Scott?”

“Since the last time we didn’t, and you almost died,” you deadpanned.

Silence stretched between you. Then, softer, he said, “I don’t like feeling useless.”

You hesitated before reaching up, gently poking his arm. “You’re not useless, Stiles.”

He didn’t answer, but the way his fingers lightly brushed against yours before retreating told you he heard you.