Her touch is so gentle, almost imperceptibly light as her fingers smooth along the edges of the fresh gauze. But it was killing him. A few hours ago it had been so easy to put up a wall with her, so easy to let all the guilt and the self-loathing boil over into anger. He'd felt cornered in her car this morning, here he'd been doing everything humanly possible to act like nothing had happened in that library. Like he didn't have blood on his hands. The guilt and anxiety had been tying him into knots, for weeks. But he'd managed to keep it together, just barely. Then she blurts out that she had figured out his secret days ago and never said a word about it. Couldn't she tell how this had been eating him up inside? Didn't she care what this was doing to him? How could it not matter to her?
Anger and betrayal had rolled through him, burning hotter and cleaner than the rest of his messy emotions. So he'd seized it and let it burn all the way through him, he'd let it drive him to walk away. He'd kept it burning inside him, right up until the moment she'd sat down next to him on the edge of that bridge. She'd sat there beside him, terrified of heights, refusing to leave him. And that's when he realized that he wasn't angry at anyone but himself. She deserved so much better than him, because he had pushed her away today in his anger and fear. And yet there she'd sat, defiant. Of all the pack, of all of his friends she was the only one who came looking for him. The only one.
She wound't leave him behind, even though he'd given her every reason to.
He wants to take it all back. He wants to turn around and pull her into his chest, to hold onto her and never, ever let go. But as he catches her eyes in the mirror, something shifts in her eyes and she ducks her head avoiding his eyes, and quickly drops her hands.
"There, you're good. You can, uh, put your shirt back on." She says, tossing it at him. Stiles catches it and turns around to face her. Malia busies her hands with crumbling up the gauze wrapper and pitching in the trash. Stiles looks down at the shirt in his hands, before his eyes flick back up to look at her. Malia continues to skillfully avoid his gaze, which is admirable considering they are less than a foot apart, in a cramped bathroom.
Stiles swallows, "Thanks for patching me up." Malia shrugs folding her arms, still deflecting his eyes. He reaches out and cups her elbow, "I mean it." He says softly, looking at her intently. She lifts her head, meeting his eyes for a second. Those rich caramel brown eyes of hers were wary of him. And it was like a stab to the gut. He shook his head, inching closer, "Mal—"
"Stiles," she interjects, shrugging his hand off her arm, as she shifts her weight. "Just put your shirt back on."
Stiles blinks, confused his eyes dart down to the shirt dangling from his fingertips then back to her. Malia brings a hand up to her face, and kneads at her eyebrow. Stiles chews on his lip. Oh, so this wasn't just killing him.
He clears his throat, "Right, sorry." and shrugs the t-shirt back over his head. When he looks up Malia's eyes dart up to meet his, and she blows out a breath, crossing her arms tight over her chest. Her eyes are a shade darker than usual as she watches him and Stiles can't help but get pulled in by them and stare right back. He shifts closer, unconsciously and this time Malia doesn't give any ground she just keeps watching him. Then a high-pitched beep pierced the silence and reverberated through the old farm house. Stiles jolted in surprise his head darting toward the hall. Malia blinked, "That's, uh, the washer. I'm gonna go put your laundry in the dryer." She said as she stepped around him into the hall. Stiles watches her go then sighs and leans back against the sink.