Lunch smells like cafeteria pizza and bleach, the kind of smell Stiles usually complains about under his breath while picking olives off Scott’s tray. Today, he’s mid-rant—something about Coach banning lacrosse sticks from the hallway again—when the seat beside him scrapes back.

She drops into it without a word.

That’s the first thing he notices. No sarcastic comment. No dramatic sigh. No stealing one of his fries just to annoy him. Just the quiet thump of her backpack hitting the floor and the way her shoulders stay tense, like she’s bracing for something invisible.

Stiles turns toward her automatically, already opening his mouth to ask what’s wrong—then she does something that makes his chest tighten.

She pulls a Sharpie out of her hoodie pocket.

And gently, carefully, sets it in his hand.

Then she pushes her sleeve up and rests her arm on the table between them, palm up. The scars are faint, white against her skin, old enough that most people wouldn’t notice unless they knew to look. Stiles knows every single one. He knows when they happened, what weeks were the worst, which ones came from nights she didn’t think she’d make it through. He also knows how hard she’s fought to get here.

His throat closes.

Around them, the cafeteria noise blurs—Scott laughing too loud across the table, Lydia arguing with Allison about homework, the clatter of trays—but Stiles is suddenly very, very focused on the way her fingers tremble just a little.

He doesn’t say why. He never does. He learned early on that she doesn’t need explanations or lectures or panic. She needs grounding. She needs him.

So he curls his fingers around the Sharpie instead.

“Bad day?” he asks softly, like the words might break her if he says them too loud.

She gives a tiny shrug. Not yes. Not no. Just here.

Stiles nods, uncaps the marker, and shifts closer so his knee bumps against hers under the table—anchoring her. His free hand settles over her wrist, warm and steady, thumb brushing a slow circle there.

“Okay,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you.”

He starts to draw.

Little stars first, uneven and goofy, scattered along her forearm. A tiny cartoon bat because she once said they were misunderstood. A spiral that loops and loops until it settles. He adds dumb commentary under his breath—“This one’s me, obviously,” “This star is Scott but less annoying”—just enough to coax the tiniest huff of air from her chest.

Each line is slow. Intentional. Replacing the urge with something else. Something safe.

He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t look away. And when she finally relaxes, when her fingers stop shaking and her breathing evens out, Stiles leans in until his forehead presses lightly against her temple.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he whispers. “But you’re not alone. Not today. Not ever.”

And for now—here, between doodles and Sharpie ink and the steady beat of his presence—that’s enough.