Swallowing, Stiles tries to meet that intense, unblinking stare straight on. He’s still learning to read Malia, but he’s fairly confident he hit the nail on the head about this. Maybe having a werewolf best friend has predisposed him to picking up fast on shapeshifter idiosyncrasies. Or maybe he was totally off-base and she’s drawing out the suspense before slapping him. Actually, she seems more like the type who’d go for a closed fist. And right after the bruise from Apollo finally faded.

There’s no punch. There’s no punchline either, and Stiles doesn’t try to deliver one. Some things aren’t meant to be joked about, and her discomfort is almost palpable.

“I’d prefer it,” he lies smoothly, already packing up their order in the brown bag it arrived in. “I hate sitting in here. Stinks like coffee and makes me nauseous.” Actually, he adores that smell. “You ready? I'll let you pick where we go.”