Context: Stiles is an insane germaphobe and falls in love with his favorite barista
The thing about love is that you don't know you've fallen until you're already on the ground. The dirty, nasty, germ covered ground.
He bit his thumb nail, a nasty habit that usually only happened when he was nervous.
"Would you stop that?"
"If I stop biting, my foot will start tapping and I know how much that annoys you." The boy countered, easily winning the small battle against his father. Taking a deep breath, he leaned back in his chair and started to count the ceiling tiles, ignoring the constant flip of magazine pages from the lady next to him. He had already assessed everyone in the room: woman with a young child, very quiet, sitting five chairs away. A man with a suspicious sniffle on the other side of the room. The boy felt his phone through his pocket but didn't pull it out. The woman next to him turned a page or two.
"There are ninety. . . Three ceiling tiles. Ninety three tiles and twenty one light fixtures, one of which doesn't work." The boy could have told his father without having to even look; he memorized this pattern years ago.
"Stilinski." A nurse called and immediately Stiles shot out of his chair.
Goes to this coffee shop where Lydia works.
"Hey Lydia."
"What's your name today?"
"You know, I'm really feeling Marcus."
"You don't look like a Marcus."
"Do I ever really look like anyone I say I am?"
"Are you ever going to tell me your real name, Marcus?"
He smiled. "Real names lead to attachments and I'm the last person you'd want to be attached to."
She begged to differ. What he failed to tell her is that he occasionally gave her his real name just to hear the way she said it. The first time he used it, she told him that it was her new favorite.
"I changed my mind, let's be Stiles today." He said. Lydia grinned and gave him the pleasure of her silent excitement. He smiled too and settled into his regular seat at the coffee bar. It was never too busy so conversing with the girl was usually no problem and he figured if she didn't want to talk, she wouldn't talk. He watched her make his order like he did every day, making sure she did everything in the right order and with exact precision. She always did, but he had to make sure.
(There was another part to this I had written where he freaks out about the germs but I think it was on my old phone...)