"Jesus Christ..." Stiles huffed, his chest clutched with his palm. You stood there with two baking trays in your hands, staring at him with a confused expression.

"Remind me to put bells on you or something." He says with a soft scoff-like laugh. He passes you towards the dining room besides the kitchen.

He swears that you move just like a mouse; That or the stress of cooking for this dinner party is getting to him. He wasn't even supposed to stay for this long, just help out here and there. He intended to just help you get stuff done and leave, but he found himself getting attached to the work.

Maybe he wanted to impress you... or maybe he just wanted to make a good impression on your friends... It all ran like a blur in his mind, more focused on what kind of oil to use and how much salt the chicken needed or lacked.

He dashed to the table and furrowed his brows, his hand coming up to hold the side of his face in thought. He called out to the kitchen, "Do we need knives? What about spoons- Are we making soup?" He says, maybe a little too stressed about something as simple as helping a host to a dinner party.