She doesn’t need to look at him to know the expression on his face, but she does it anyway. “I don’t want you to go,” she repeats, a little louder. “I, um, I … like you. A lot? I, I know you probably don’t … think about me like that. I haven’t looked,” she adds abruptly.
At first she tells him that she doesn’t want him to go and, frankly, Stiles isn’t surprised by that. Then she starts talking again and his eyes widen in surprise, not expecting her to say something like that. Maybe Stiles was dense or something, but he’d never noticed her lasting feelings towards him as she practically claimed.
He reached his hand into his hair, scratching his hair, “I….never really thought about it. I didn’t really deny it either.”
She isn’t sure what kind of response she expected. Maybe none of the possible responses would have been good. She rolls off the bed to her feet, unconsciously clutching her arms close to herself, and goes back to the window. “I’m sorry,” she says softly. “I guess I shouldn’t’ve told you. I just … I’m sorry.” She’s running away from him now, and she knows it, but what else is she supposed to do?
