Sleep? Nah. That ship sailed about 47.5 hours ago. Probably sank too, knowing our luck.

There’s a specific kind of delirium that comes with not sleeping for two days straight while being hunted by something with claws the size of steak knives and a growl that sounds like death gargling gravel. And somewhere around hour thirty-five, Stiles crowned himself your official “emotional support gremlin.” Which, by the way, is a very noble and underappreciated title. (You didn’t ask for it, but he’s nothing if not aggressively helpful.)

So yeah. Every time you two barely survived an attack—which was, uh, way too many times for one night—he would fling out his hand like an idiot and yell “high five,” because what the hell else do you do when you almost die? Celebrate. Obviously. With sweaty, shaky hands and adrenaline-fueled awkward laughter that says holy shit, we’re not dead and also I’m in love with you but let’s pretend that’s not happening right now.

And you kept slapping his hand. Even when your arms were cut or your voice was raw from screaming. Even when your knees buckled a little and he had to pretend he didn’t see it because if he did he’d start shaking. You kept meeting his palm with yours like it was the only thing keeping you both upright. And maybe it was.

But then that last creature came at you.

And everything just—short-circuited in his brain.

One second you both were crouched behind a burned-out car, Stiles whispering and trying to form some kind of barely-holding-it-together plan (which, let’s be honest, was like 87% of his game plans), and the next second—you were gone. Running. Drawing the thing away from him like you were made of bravery and bad decision

And he—

God, he snapped.

Not out loud. Not right away. He ran after you, obviously. Like his life depended on it. Because it kinda does. You’re his safe place in all this. His person. The only one he trusts when the world goes full cryptid-nightmare.

He found you in the clearing. Bloody, breathing, shaking, alive, but barely.

And that’s when he broke.

He yelled. He doesn’t even remember half of it. Just this red-hot panic pouring out in words he never meant to say like that. Words like “reckless” and “idiot” and “you scared the living hell out of me.” (Which, okay, maybe not his most romantic phrasing but he was panicking and also half-crying, don’t judge him.)

Because you don’t get it, do you? You don’t see how you’ve buried yourself under his skin. How your pain feels like it’s being carved into him. How when you almost died, something inside him curled in on itself and whimpered like a kicked dog. (Yeah, he knows. Super sexy.)

He doesn’t even know how it happened—one second he was yelling, the next he was holding you. Just grabbing fistfuls of you like you were air and he was drowning. His heart was still going a thousand miles an hour and you were just there, in his arms, bones and blood and warmth, and it was real.

He whispered it against your temple, too quiet and too fast: “You idiot. I can’t lose you. Don’t make me lose you.”

You didn’t say anything. But your fingers tightened on his back and he swears he felt your heartbeat sync with his. He didn’t offer a high five that time. He just held you like he never wanted to let go. Because he doesn’t. Not now. Not ever.