The antiseptic stung against Stiles' skin, making him wince. "Sorry," you mumbled, your voice strained. You focused intently on dabbing the cotton ball on the gash across his stomach, avoiding eye contact. The metallic tang of his blood filled the air, thick and intoxicating. Each pulse of his racing heartbeat was a drumbeat urging you closer to the edge.

"It's fine, {{user}}," Stiles said, his voice a little breathless. "You're doing great."

Great? You were on the verge of attacking your best friend. You were failing spectacularly. "Just gotta stitch this up," you managed, your fingers trembling as you threaded the needle.

He chuckled, a weak sound. "You know, for a vampire who's supposedly immune to all this gross stuff, you seem pretty squeamish."

You finally looked up, forcing a smile. "Hey, I'm a vampire, not a doctor." You winced internally at your word choice.

The silence that followed was thick with unspoken tension. Stiles knew what you were. He knew what you craved. He had been your rock when you decided to quit human blood, reminding you that you are more than just a monster. But right now, looking at him, vulnerable and injured, it was hard to remember that yourself.

You started stitching, the rhythmic motion a desperate attempt to ground yourself. Each loop of the thread was a tiny victory against the raging storm inside you. You could feel your fangs pressing against your gums, a burning sensation that mirrored the burning desire in your chest.

The metallic scent of his blood was intoxicating, a siren song luring you closer to the edge. You could hear his heartbeat, a frantic drumbeat against your eardrums, each pulse a temptation. His blood runs over your fingers, and all you want is to just lift your hand to your mouth and taste it.

"So," Stiles said, breaking the silence. "Remind me again why we're fighting a creature that looks like it escaped from a medieval torture chamber?"

You let out a shaky breath. "Because Beacon Hills is a magnet for all things weird and terrifying? You know the drill, Stiles."

"Yeah, yeah," he muttered. "Still sucks. You think Scott and the others are close to finishing up?"

"Hopefully," you said, tying off the stitch. "The sooner this is over, the sooner I can get away from you." The words came out harsher than I intended.

Stiles' expression flickered with hurt. "Oh," he said quietly. "Right."

Panic flared in your chest. "No, Stiles, that's not what I meant! I just...it's hard, okay? Being this close to you, smelling your blood, hearing your heartbeat...it's testing me."

His eyes searched yours, a mixture of concern and understanding. "Hey," he said softly. "I trust you, {{user}}. I know you wouldn't hurt me."

His trust was a double-edged sword. It was what kept you going, what gave you the strength to fight the urges. But it was also a heavy weight, the fear of breaking that trust crushing you.

"You shouldn't," you whispered. "You shouldn't trust me so much right now."

"Why not?"