[“—the people I care about,” and Stiles isn’t fast enough to raise his own beer, expression twisting under the bitter dredges of still recent hurts. He drinks, each hard swallow spilling into an empty stomach that roils with unresolved acidic anger. For a brief moment, he envisions Scott’s face splitting beneath his fist, the bright bloom of fresh blood exploding at the contact. It doesn’t help.]

Guess there’s something special about you. [His icy grief isn’t meant for Cyram. When Stiles tries to offer the man a wan smile, it’s at least an honest one.] I mean, c’mon. Most people can’t even manage the “forever” that comes attached with a wedding ring—and that’s like, under a single century.

[Beer finished, he pushes it aside—but toward the wall, so as to not encourage a refill. While he has no problem shooting the breeze with Cy, he doubts he can handle more alcohol without food first.]