"Are you okay?" She's worried, her anger subsiding a little. She isn't angry at him, he's right about that. She's angry at how futile it is. She can't tell her mother she's sorry or tell her goodbye. Malia leans back on her hands, watching Stiles with a concerned expression, now.

"Do you need help?" Beating it up, she means. She's not good at much, and she knows that. Maths, making friends, any of it -- but punching things is something she can do.