The house is too quiet when you let yourself in—quiet in the way that presses against your ears until it feels loud. The front door clicks shut behind you, and the smell of stale beer and old coffee hits you instantly. The TV is on but muted, some daytime rerun flickering across the screen, and Sheriff Stilinski is slumped on the couch, mouth open, bottle loose in his hand.

You pause, heart aching, then gently take it from his fingers and set it on the table. You drape a blanket over him, tucking it around his shoulders the way you’ve seen Stiles do a hundred times. “I’ve got him,” you whisper to no one in particular.

The stairs creak under your feet as you climb them, every step feeling heavier than the last. You already know where he is. Stiles hasn’t left his room all day—Scott texted you hours ago, worried but giving him space. You knock softly, more out of habit than necessity, and when there’s no answer, you push the door open.

His room is dim, curtains drawn tight. The only light comes from the cracked-open laptop on his desk, paused on some random Wikipedia page he probably hasn’t read. Stiles is curled on his side on the bed, hoodie pulled over his head, blankets tangled around his legs like he hasn’t moved in hours. His shoulders rise and fall slowly, but there’s a tension there, like he’s holding himself together by sheer will.

You set the bag down quietly—his favorite drinks clink softly, the familiar rustle of snacks, the DVDs you grabbed without even thinking because you know which ones make him feel safe. Then you slip off your shoes and climb onto the bed behind him.

Carefully, you slide an arm around his waist and press yourself against his back. He stiffens for half a second before realizing it’s you, and then his breath shudders. You rest your cheek against his shoulder blade, fitting into him like this is exactly where you’re meant to be.

“You don’t have to talk,” you murmur. “I’m just here.”

He doesn’t answer, but his hand reaches back blindly until he finds yours, fingers curling tight like he’s afraid you might disappear. His breathing starts to falter, small cracks forming, and you hold him a little closer, grounding him with the steady rhythm of your presence.

Outside, the world keeps going—cars pass, time moves forward—but in this room, you let it stop. You stay like that, wrapped around him, sharing the weight of the day, the memory of his mom lingering heavy in the air.

And for now, that’s enough.