It’s been an hour of no contact from Stiles. He’s presumably completely forgotten about the history project you’re both supposed to be working on for school.

Swinging by his house, you let yourself in. Upon entering his room, you’re greeted by the sight of a plethora of books littering just about every surface, his ‘murder board’ of evidence front and centre in all its glory, and—

Stiles. On the floor, legs sprawled out under him, his back propped up against one of the walls of his room.

“Oh …” he mumbles in pain, chest tightening. He’s clutching it, hunched over, hyperventilating. Didn’t—couldn’t—notice you; not with the sheer disorientation his ongoing panic attack was causing.