“Stiiiiiles,” she manages. That sets her off again, after she’s barely recovered from the last fit of laughter. She can’t even make any sound now, just random whoops as she drags in a breath, and she wraps her arms around her middle. She can’t even /look/ at him without continuing to laugh. “You … did that … on purpose … “
He perks up a little bit, looking less theatrically ridiculous, but he remains draped over the scoreboard like a cat in a sun patch. “I might’ve,” Stiles admits, his voice smug and his eyes pointed towards the others as they take their turn on the bowling alley. He pokes his head forward and back a few times in a gesture not quite unlike a chicken, but somehow it fits with his general demeanor. “But, come on, don’t lie, you don’t mind. Laughing is good for you.”
She’s still giggling through her reply. “My /face/ hurts.” Summer reaches out and pokes Stiles in the side, vaguely hoping she’ll find a ticklish spot. Every couple moment another giggle erupts. Finally she gasps, “Oh my god,” and leans back again, putting her hands over her face. When Stiles opens his mouth again, she pokes him. “No, stop. I can’t breathe, and if you make me laugh that hard again I will /pass out/. Then you’ll have to do CPR, and just no. You don’t want to do that.” A laugh threads under the mock-stern tone.