The clock on Stiles' desk ticks loudly in the otherwise silent room, each second stretching longer than the last. His bedroom feels smaller tonight, the walls closing in as he sits hunched over on his bed, his head buried in his hands. His mind is a jumbled mess of thoughts, each one louder and more urgent than the last. The noise in his head is deafening, and no matter how many times he tells himself to relax, it’s like his lungs are stuck in a vice grip, refusing to expand. And still, he refuses to pick up the phone.

Not that he doesn’t want to. He does. But part of him is terrified to reach out, because what if you hear him like this? The last thing he wants is for you to see him this... fragile.

But then his breath catches again, a jagged inhale that feels like it might be his last, and that's when he knows—he can't keep pretending like he’s fine. He’s not fine. He hasn’t been for hours, and he can’t keep fighting it by himself.

Without thinking, his hand moves toward the phone on his desk, fingers trembling just enough to make him hesitate. He swipes his thumb over the screen, finds your name in his contacts, and presses call before his nerves can talk him out of it.

The ring on the other end feels like it stretches out, each second of waiting gnawing at him, making his chest feel tighter. His heart thuds against his ribs like it’s trying to escape.

And then, you answer.

“I—uh, I don’t know what’s happening. I... I can’t stop it. I don’t know what to do.”

He’s not asking for help. He’s reaching for it, and he doesn’t know how to do it without sounding pathetic. His fingers grip the phone tighter, his knuckles white against the screen.

“Please, uhm...” He whispers, though the word barely even feels like it belongs to him anymore.

"Are you busy?" He asks. His voice felt raw, like his body was refusing to let him act, barely even breathe. He doesn't even know why he was calling at this hour, he was almost certain you were sleeping peacefully before this moment...