"I can't do this anymore," Cora says, and Stiles says, "What," like he can't believe his ears. He can't believe his ears.
"I need to—I need to be here for Derek."
"What?" he says again. She ignores him.
"The baby's coming soon, so he'll need some help—"
"They've survived far worse than parenthood—"
"Don't," she says, and finally turns to look at him. She's in an oversized black hoodie that must be Derek's, though the werewolf in them has always made it so that all clothes belongs to everyone. It might be Scott's, for all he knows. Stiles looks up at her, from where he's sitting on the couch, and then stands up.
"Cora," he says, cautious, and he sees that fire light up in her eyes, that anger that comes with being treated as anything less than unbreakable. He knows better. "Cora," he says again, "what are you doing?"
"I can't," she says again, teeth gritting, a flash of pink tongue as she struggles to get the words out, "do this. Anymore."
Stiles feels that same anger bubble up in him, can't really hold back, says, "Are you kidding—"
"This isn't about you, about us—"
"—how is it not about—Jesus fucking Christ—"
"—Stiles, you act like—"
"—how am I supposed to act when—"
"—you're infuriating, they were right you know—"
"—pot meet kettle, Cora, you think it's ever been easy? I—"
"—so fucking selfish—"
"—and it's not about me, okay—"
"—I have other—"
"—nearly four years—"
"—He's all I have left—"
"He's not." The words are heavy between them. Cora looks at him with blank eyes.
"This has been a long time coming," she says, and her voice is rough from the yelling.
"Goddamn it," Stiles says, and puts both hands on his head.
