Gym class had never been kind to either of them.
Stiles Stilinski was leaning against the bleachers, rambling to Scott about how dodgeball was “basically legalized chaos,” when the sound hit—hard and wrong. A body against hardwood. Not a trip. Not clumsiness.
Stiles turned.
For a split second, his brain refused to catch up to what his eyes were seeing. A girl on the floor near the far wall. Convulsing. Students stumbling back in alarm. A whisper of laughter that died the moment her limbs jerked again.
And then he recognized her.
“Oh—no,” Stiles breathed.
His body moved before the rest of him could think. He crossed the gym in seconds and dropped to his knees beside her, heart pounding so loud it drowned out the noise around them. He didn’t touch her—he remembered that, remembered his dad’s voice—but he shoved her backpack away from her head and kicked a stray ball out of reach.
“Everyone back up!” Stiles shouted, spinning on the crowd. “Give her space—now!”
Coach froze.
“Coach!” Stiles snapped. “She’s having a seizure—call the nurse! Time it!”
He turned back to her, voice dropping, soft and steady the way it used to be when they were kids and she got overwhelmed and hid behind the bleachers during recess.
“Hey,” he murmured. “It’s okay. You’re safe. I’m right here.”
He stayed with her through it all—through the jerking movements, through the uncomfortable silence that replaced the noise, through the looks people cast that made his jaw clench.
Memories hit him all at once.
Waiting for the bus together. Sitting cross-legged on his bedroom floor while he talked too much and she listened. The way they drifted—slowly, quietly—until “later” became “never.”
The seizure eased. Her body stilled, breaths shallow.
Stiles didn’t move.
When her eyes fluttered open, unfocused and scared, he was still there, crouched low, blocking the worst of the stares with his body.
“Hey,” he said gently. “You’re in gym class. Beacon Hills High. You had a seizure, but it’s over now. The nurse is on the way.”
A beat. His throat tightened.