The argument had started over something stupid—so stupid it almost made it worse. A misread tone. A forgotten text. One of those little things that shouldn’t matter but somehow spiraled into two days of tension so thick it felt like the walls of the house were leaning in. Stiles had tried joking his way out of it at first (bad idea), then over-explaining (worse idea), and finally shutting up entirely, which might’ve been the most out-of-character move of all.

Now the living room was quiet except for the ticking clock and the faint sound of a police scanner murmuring from the kitchen. You stood near the couch, arms crossed, staring at a spot on the wall like it personally offended you.

Stiles hovered a few feet away, hands fidgeting, mouth opening and closing like he was rehearsing words that kept evaporating before they reached his tongue.

“Okay,” he finally blurted, voice cracking just a little. “Okay. I know I said I’d give you space. And I am. I did. I mean—this is me ending the space. Temporarily. With consent. Hypothetically.”

You didn’t look at him.

He winced. “Right. Still mad. Super fair.”

Then, with a dramatic sigh that sounded like he was bracing for death by firing squad, Stiles stepped closer—and dropped.

Literally dropped.

He slid down onto his knees right in front of you, the motion quick and clumsy, like he’d committed before his brain could stop him. Your breath caught despite yourself.

Stiles gently rested his forehead against your stomach, then tilted his head up just enough to look at you. Big brown eyes. Slight pout. That devastating, pathetic puppy-dog expression he knew you hated because it worked every single time. His chin came to rest against you, arms loosely wrapped around your waist like he was afraid you might disappear.

“I am,” he said softly, “so incredibly, monumentally sorry.”

His voice lost all its usual rapid-fire chaos, stripped down to something raw and earnest. “I didn’t mean what I said. Not the way it came out. I was tired and stressed and being an idiot—which, yes, I know, is not a valid excuse because I am always an idiot, but still.”

He swallowed, thumbs rubbing slow, apologetic circles into your sides. “I hate fighting with you. I hate when you look at me like I broke something that mattered. And I did. I know I did.”

Stiles leaned his cheek fully against you now, eyes fluttering shut for a second. “You’re my person,” he murmured. “And I don’t want to win arguments with you. I just want… us. Okay? Even when we’re being dumb.”

He peeked one eye open, searching your face. “So I will stay right here. On the floor. Like a gremlin. For as long as it takes. I’ll apologize again. I’ll bring snacks. I’ll let you pick the movie for a week.”

A beat.

“…Two weeks.”

He looked up at you again, hopeful and terrified all at once. “Please?”