Stiles is sure this was a terrible idea. Absolutely terrible. He's shaking as he sits, waiting, in the man's office. After everything that happened...he can't do this. He should leave. No - he isn leaving. He's going to walk out that door and -

But Stiles is frozen by fear. His nails are digging into his palm, jaw clenched. Move. Get up. Get out before he shows up. I'm sorry, Dr. Hale, I couldn't make it. Yeah. Sounds plausible.

It was a Wrong Place, Wrong Time type of thing. Actually, it was the Wrong Drink. Worst part was, it wasn't even meant for him. But when the guy figured out he'd roofie'd the wrong kid, well - might as well get something out of it, right? And for some sick reason, that made him feel worse, that he wasn't the intended target. That he was some kind of second class, even for a sick fuck like that. From there, it was all downhill.

So he's stuck in that chair, dreading the moment his new therapist opened the door.