The door clicked shut behind you, barely registering over the quiet hum of Stiles’ desk lamp. His room was its usual state of organized disaster—papers and books stacked precariously, a half-empty coffee cup on the desk, and, of course, the board. It had practically taken over his wall, red string crisscrossing between blurry photos, newspaper clippings, and scribbled notes.

Stiles stood in front of it, fingers curled around a black marker, eyes locked on the tangled connections.

You leaned against the doorframe, watching before finally speaking. “Hey,” you hummed. “What are we obsessing over tonight?”

“Not obsessing,” he muttered, pinning something before stepping back. “Just… adding stuff. Still got no leads.”

You followed his gaze. “Right. Definitely not obsessing. Just standing dramatically in the dark, brooding over a murder board? Totally normal.”

Stiles let out a short breath—not quite a laugh, but close. “I’d turn on the main light, but then I’d have to acknowledge the state of my room. And we’re not doing that tonight.”

His knee bounced slightly, fingers drumming against his arm. He was caught in the same loop, pushing himself past exhaustion without realizing it.

“Take a step back,” you said. “Clear your head for five seconds.”

He stared at the board like he was waiting for it to talk, then sighed and let his arms drop. “Fine. But if I immediately figure it out, I’m taking full credit.”

You grinned. “Obviously.”

Rolling his shoulders, he gave you a sideways glance. “Alright. Distract me. What’s going on outside of crime and chaos?”