“Does it change your mind if I tell you I have a fraternal twin sister whose name is Winter? And has black hair?” She’s not trying to upstage him. Not /really/. But it’s hard to imagine something more irritating than being not-twins with matching names. Either people are making fun of your names, or making fun of your claim to be twins.
She doesn’t really expect an answer, and heaves a sigh before dropping down into the papasan chair to take off her shoes. “You,” she informs Helios, washing his paw, “are a stinker. I’m going to lock that cat door if you pull this again.”
“Nnnnnnnnnnnnope.” Stiles says, blithely, as he’s disappearing into the bathroom. He ends the word by popping his lips apart, exaggerating the sound of the ‘p‘ until it seems like he left it there just to occupy his space while he’s ‘gone’.
It doesn’t take long before he’s re-emerging, the ice pack still in one hand. Granted, now Stiles appears to be trying to walk more or less hunched over to the side, pressing the ice pack to his right knee, and it’s about as gainly and dignified as it seems it would be, which to say not at all. “Well—uh. If you were…worried. No lasting harm done. I’m gonna have the worst bruise ever on this knee but that I basically did to myself anyway so…you know, no harm, no foul, right?.”
It’s awful of her to be continuously laughing at him, she knows. It’s just hard not to, with the limbs everywhere and the flailing — and yet he’s somehow attractive through all that. Or maybe because of it. She can’t keep an edge of that awareness out of her gaze while she points to the couch.
“You should sit down before you fall down,” Summer suggests. “I think there might be some arnica gel in the first aid kit, do you want me to check? I’m sure the bruise isn’t that bad.” Helios strolls over to give Stiles a sniff, then headbutts his leg — the left one. “By the way, how /did/ you find him?”