[Dara hasn't even let herself all the way into the room before the scent of sickness hits her like a ton of bricks and she presses her lips together, brow knit. Okay, now she really can't deny that she feels bad, she just does.

Making her way further into the room, Dara curls her fingers around the back of Stiles' rolling desk chair and drags it over toward the bed, dropping down onto it.]

That's all? Nnng? No lecture about how this is totally my fault? Who are you and what did you do with the real Stiles Stilinski?