[Stiles has tried everything that he can think of from magic to sheer strength in an attempt to get out of this motel hell, and to say that he's frustrated that nothing's worked? Well, that'd be an understatement. He feels trapped, like some kind of caged animal, pacing the length of his room even as he finishes off his last bottle of Jack.
In the midst of making every possible attempt at escaping this place, he's avoided everyone the best that he can: Lydia, Scott, Erica...and most of all? Allison. He knows she's here because he's heard it from more than one person, including her doppleganger. He's not ready to see either of them -- Allison or anyone who looks exactly like her. Not for real anyway. Being haunted by her face every single night for the last couple of years has been enough all by itself.
But apparently his avoidance streak has come to an abrupt halt because he hears the knock and opens the door and there she is, smiling so bright it actually takes his breath away, and the familiar guilt swims beneath his skin. He stumbles forward when she reaches out and yanks his shirt, slamming a fist into his face. He only has time to turn his head a little and she catches his jaw instead of his nose, and he stumbles backwards with the force.
Considering that's how his meeting has gone with most of the people from home, he probably should have expected it.]