She could feel her shoulders sag with relief as soon as she heard his voice. He was still here. He hadn't run like the coward that she had been. At least one of them could be strong. But it wasn't fair for that all to be laid upon Stiles. He had enough to deal with, both at home and here, being the only one of them to have arrived after the ritual. They were trying, they were always trying, but they always fell far behind before they had even come remotely close to catching up.
"I'm sorry," she began following the sound of his voice. He wasn't in the kitchen or the living room, the remnants of pasta left behind on the table still. Lydia could hear rummaging from their bedroom, and she continued to walk, hastily saying, "I just needed to breathe. This is all so much, and I don't know how to help you. I'm just worried that we need more time than we might have and you can't go through this much longer, you know?"
She cleared the door and her eyes narrowed imperceptibly, leaning against the frame as she looked at him. There were shirts and pants on the bed and he looked far too concentrated on the task. "Are you do-" Lydia stopped herself, not content with what where her train of thought was going. All their clothes were clean, after all, they had just done laundry over the weekend. So why were his things lying on the bed? "Wh-what are you doing?" Her voice sounded weak and pathetic to her own ears and she approached him, her hand finding his. "Stiles, what are you doing?"