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“Want this?” Scott extends half of his sandwich towards Stiles, raising his eyebrows as his friend wrinkles his nose and shakes his head.

“Come on, bro! You know you want it.” Scott prompts, dangling the sandwich. “I made it myself, dude. I thought you’d be proud. I’m practically a fully qualified chef.” His heart lightens as his poor attempt at humour (he gives himself points for being self-aware) pries a smile from Stiles, although it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. It’s still something.

“All the more reason not to eat it,” Stiles says, his voice soft and dull in a way that betrays none of his emotions. Not for the first time today, Scott finds himself wondering what could be going through his usually expressive friend’s mind.

“Have you had more Adderall than usual?” he asks, chuckling lightly. “You sound dead, dude.”

Stiles snorts but doesn’t respond, laying his head on the cafeteria table. The silence clogs the air as Scott scours his mind for something to say, anything to salvage the conversation. He gives up. He never did possess Stiles’ natural talent for words.

They stay like that for the remainder of lunch and Scott can confidently say that has never felt more uncomfortable around his long-time best friend until this very moment. Eventually, the bell rings to signal the beginning of the third period and he sighs. He taps Stiles’ shoulder and waits for him to get up.

They walk through the corridor together in silence until they part ways at Scott’s locker.

Scott pretends not to notice when Stiles slips the uneaten sandwich into the garbage.