Stiles slammed his laptop shut as he walked over to the widow, cracking it so he could speak to Summer. “H-hey… Uh… Whatcha doing?”
“It was like being hit in the face with a paintbomb of emotion, okay?” Summer bit her lip and dragged herself to her knees. “And whatever is going on with you, if I touch you it goes right past my shields. It’s practically fucking contagious, and I’m /still/ not leaving you alone without trying to help. Real help.”
“Help if you’re going to freaking help, Summer,” Stiles said, pressing himself against the wall.
She wasn’t even sure she could do this /without/ touching him, and touching him was a short-circuit for her brain. Planting both hands on the floor, she spread the fingers out and stared at them, trying to feel her way into emotion without drowning in it. It was an overlay, that was incredibly clear. If she had to put it into words, she would say it looked like someone had wrapped a cloud of translucent fabric around his normal self. Or like heat, pouring off his body.
Summer looked up at Stiles, green irises wide around pinprick pupils. Unconsciously, she lifted a hand. She imagined what she was doing as wrapping him in coolth, like spraying him with water, driving away the heat.