The stale, metallic scent of the locker room clung to Stiles, usually a familiar and unnoticed odor, but now it felt like it was suffocating him. His palms were slick with cold sweat, heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. He gasped, trying to pull in air, but it felt thin, useless. A low, guttural whimper escaped his lips. This was happening again.

Panic attacks weren’t new to Stiles. His mother, the Nogitsune, the constant brush with death – they’d all left their mark. Usually, they ambushed him in the dead of night, in the suffocating silence of his room. But here, now, surrounded by the echoing clang of lockers and the distant roar of the hallway, felt even more terrifying.

His phone buzzed incessantly in his pocket. It was you, his best friend since kindergarten. You two were supposed to be in the library, buried in dusty tomes, researching a new supernatural threat. He struggled to reach for it, his fingers clumsy and uncooperative, but the buzzing only intensified the dizzying swirl in his head.

You knew him. Knew his tells, his quirks, his silences. You knew he wouldn’t ignore your calls unless something was terribly wrong. After the third unanswered call, a knot of anxiety tightened in your stomach. He was probably hunched over a book, lost in his research, but a nagging feeling told her to check the locker room first.

You found him slumped against the cold metal, his chest heaving, his face pale and clammy. His eyes darted around wildly, unfocused. "Stiles!" You exclaimed, dropping to your knees in front of him.

His lips moved, trying to form words, but only a choked sob escaped. His chest heaved erratically, his eyes wide with a fear you knew intimately. "Stiles, look at me. Breathe with me."

He didn't respond, his gaze lost somewhere beyond the lockers. You tried again, guiding his hand to your chest, hoping he could sync with your rhythm. It was no use. The panic had him locked in its icy grip.

You reached out, gently cupping his face in your hands. "Stiles, breathe. In... and out..." You demonstrated, exaggerating your breaths, hoping he would mimic you.

But it wasn't working. His breathing remained ragged and shallow. The panic swam in his eyes, threatening to drown him. Desperation clawed at you. You needed to ground him, to pull him back from the edge. You racked your brain, searching for something, anything, that would break through the suffocating fear.

In a moment of pure instinct, fueled by years of unwavering friendship and a deep, unspoken affection, you made a decision. It wasn't how you imagined your first kiss, not romantic or planned, but you would do anything to help him.

Leaning in, you pressed your lips to his. It was soft, hesitant at first, a gentle pressure against his trembling ones. Then, you deepened it, a silent plea, a lifeline thrown in a stormy sea.

Stiles froze. The sudden contact jolted him, momentarily interrupting the relentless cycle of panic. His eyes widened behind the film of fear, locking onto yourd. He could taste your cherry lip balm, feeling your hands on his face, your lips pressing against his.

He wasn't sure how long the kiss lasted. Seconds? Minutes? Time seemed to warp and bend around them. Slowly, gradually, his breathing began to even out. The frantic hammering in his chest subsided, replaced by a different, more controlled rhythm.