Nightmares

The room was dimly lit by the streetlamp outside, its glow filtering through the blinds in thin, golden slats. The only sound in the Stilinski house was the quiet hum of the refrigerator downstairs and the soft rustling of sheets as {{user}} shifted under the blanket. She was only half-asleep, her mind hovering between dreams and wakefulness, as it often did lately.

She had been staying over at Stiles' house more often since the Nogitsune. He hadn’t asked, but he didn’t have to. She saw it in the way his hands trembled when he thought no one was looking, in the way he startled at shadows that weren’t there. The pack had won, but victory hadn’t erased the damage left behind.

Tonight was no different.

A sharp gasp broke the silence. Stiles' body jerked violently beside her, his breathing ragged, his limbs tangled in the sheets. He let out a strangled noise — half a whimper, half a plea.

"Stiles," {{user}} whispered, turning onto her side.

He didn't wake. His face was twisted in distress, beads of sweat glistening along his hairline. His fingers clutched at the blanket like he was trying to hold onto something — someone. His chest rose and fell too fast, too uneven.