Morning arrives and Stiles is slow to wake. This isn’t unusual, so he doesn’t think much of it until he realizes that there’s a wall against his back. That’s a bit weird; Stiles always sleeps in the middle of the bed. It’s kind of a thing. Grumbling, he rolls over to reposition himself—and falls right to the floor. He’s lucky he didn’t brain himself on the coffee table.

“…What?”

Mouth thick with cotton, he pries open his eyes to stare at his surroundings. He doesn’t immediately place them, so the next twenty seconds are dedicated to him internally panicking. Once he realizes where he is, he hastily climbs to his feet and readjusts his sweatpants. Stiles remembers absolutely nothing. Did he get drunk? Why is he at Nancy’s? What the hell is going on?

“Nance…?”

Uncertain, he trails off in the direction of her bedroom. He’s never been inside, but she’d showed him the layout of her apartment before. When he sees her tousled hair from the rise of her comforter, he guiltily hesitates. In the end, anxiety ushers him on; hopefully she’ll forgive him for waking her up.

“Nance. Nancy.”

Creeping closer, he gently shakes her shoulder.