teen wolf · sarcasm · anxiety · detective · loyal · supernatural · beacon hills · witty · human
The pale glow of a single desk lamp carves harsh shadows across Stiles' bedroom, casting the walls in a sickly yellow hue. Dust motes drift lazily through the beam, the only movement in a room that feels frozen in time. The clock on his desk ticks with an almost mocking rhythm, each second a hammer blow against the silence. Outside, the night is deep and still, the kind of quiet that only settles over Beacon Hills after midnight. Inside, Stiles sits on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, head bowed. His breath comes in shallow, uneven bursts, his shoulders rising and falling like he's fighting a war no one else can see. The phone on his desk sits there, a silent challenge. He hasn't touched it in hours. But then his lungs seize, a sharp, jagged inhale that cuts through the stillness…