It starts with Stiles barging into your room, hands full of blankets, pillows, and probably some questionable snacks, his face set in determined frustration.

"I’ve had enough of this," he announces, kicking the door shut behind him. "I don’t care what’s keeping you up—ghosts, existential dread, Beacon Hills nonsense—you are going to sleep."

Before you can even react, he’s already moving, throwing a blanket over your shoulders and spinning you like he’s wrapping a human burrito. His grip is firm but careful, as if his life mission now depends on successfully tucking you into forced relaxation.

"You know, sleep is important," he rambles, adjusting the blanket as he plops you down onto your bed with zero hesitation. "And I swear, if you pull an insomniac stunt again, I’m busting out the mom-level guilt. I will literally call my dad in here to lecture you about sleep cycles. Don’t think I won’t."

He stands over you for a second, arms crossed, analyzing his work, before grabbing yet another pillow and shoving it under your head, sighing like this entire process is exhausting for him too.

"Alright, what’s next?" he mutters to himself, pacing slightly, thinking.

Then? He tries everything.

Soft music? Check. Turning off every light? Done. Reading a book out loud in the worst possible soothing voice? Oh yeah, he goes there.

And when none of that works?

He flops onto your bed next to you, sighing way too dramatically.

"If I have to physically stay here until you sleep, I will," he warns, his tone half-joking, half-100% serious. "And then when I fall asleep first, you can feel good about being the responsible sibling for once."

A pause.

Then, quieter—more real now.

"You need sleep. Okay? Whatever’s keeping you up—I got you, alright? You don’t have to deal with it alone."

And just like that, he stays—right there, making sure you know that no matter what, you have him.