Stiles leans his hands against the cool tiles, letting the hot spray of the shower rush over him. Sucking in deep gulps of steamy air. He stands there unmoving, for the longest time as as the hot water sluices down his body, unlocking his tense and quaking muscles. As heat flushes his skin, and sinks deep into his muscles, he's convinced that nothing has ever felt this good. He stays beneath the spray until the water runs tepid. Only then does he spin off the taps and shove the shower curtain aside. He snags a towel down off the rack and runs it through his hair before wrapping it around his waist.

Heat prickles across his skin, and all his muscles are incredibly lax. He's suddenly drowsy, his eyelids heavy, and drooping. He runs a hand through his wet hair, and rests his head in his hand for few seconds, exhaustedly. When he lifts his head he blinks up at the bathroom mirror. He tilts his head curiously, when he notices that she's left him a message in the condensation on the mirror.

Put these on.

Stiles follows the arrow that she's drawn beneath her message on the edge of the mirror downward, to a stack of warm clothes set on the corner of the sink. Warmth curls in his chest, and his throat tightens. Thanks, baby.

He gratefully tugs on the grey sweatpants and reaches for the t-shirt. He's about to pull it over his head when he freezes. The last item folded neatly left on the corner of the sink is a very familiar old shirt. Stiles reaches out and runs his fingers along the ridiculously soft, worn cotton. It was a thick, dark olive green and navy blue plaid shirt, with snags in the fabric and frayed edges. He drops his hand. It was just a beat-up old shirt. But she'd held onto it for a year. And every time he seen her wearing it, this primal sort of satisfaction would settle in his chest.

Seeing it sitting there now, abandoned on the edge of the sink left a bitter taste in his mouth. He was jarred from staring at it by a knock at the door.

"Yeah, c'mon in." He calls out, gruffly as he shrugs the t-shirt over his head. Malia appears in the doorway, wearing a bulky maroon sweater, dark sweatpants and with a thick, grey toque pulled down over her ears. His mouth twitches at the sight of her in the thick wool winter cap.

Malia steps into the small bathroom, and turns a small red bag over in her hands, unzipping it.

"Take off your shirt," she says without preamble. Stiles raises an eyebrow at her. Malia sets the first-aid kit down on the edge of the tub. "I need to change the bandage on your shoulder."

Stiles tenses up, "Malia, it's fine."

"It'll get infected, if you don't keep it clean," she says, determinedly as she sets out a fresh gauze pad and tube of anti-septic, on the sink.

He crosses his arms in front of himself. "I've been taking care of it," he says tightly.

"How are you taking care of it? You can barely reach it!" Malia snaps. She presses a hand to her forehead for a moment and takes a steadying breath. His hands fall to his sides as he watches her, guilt swelling in his throat. "Stiles," she tries again quietly, as she lifts her head. "I've already seen the bite. So please just let me help you."

It the sadness and confusion in her eyes that is his undoing. He sighs and grabs the collar of his shirt, tugging it off.

Author's Note: God bless and Happy Easter! (happy long weekend to those of you who don't celebrate) And Happy Stalia to us all ;) P.S. for those of you who don't know what a toque is it's Canadian for (beanie, winter cap, skullcap) I'm just too much of a Canadian not to call it a toque it seems like fundamentally wrong to me to call it something else lol.