"Whoa, now...hold up, come on now," Stiles counters, although he's only half-serious with his rebuking of her implication that she's going to actually try to paint his toenails. "We don't need to go down the sleepover road that far, Sawyer." Although, admittedly, he probably won't stop her if she really does want to; he just can't really see the appeal for her in decorating his feet. But, hey, to each their own.

A smile pulls up the corners of Stiles's mouth when she says she welcomes his crashing her plans to stay in for the night. He remembers how hard he took it when his mother died too and he, like Sawyer, had to watch her waste away in her own way. Claudia Stilinski's dementia ate away at her mind until she hallucinated terrible, horrifying-sounding things. There had been more than one occasion when she'd screamed for his father to "get him away" from her because she'd been convinced he was a demon trying to kill her. That was one of the less painful things he'd experienced at the ripe old age of eight. He knows how easy it is to fall down the rabbit hole of depression when grief seems like it will never let up and somehow, when the death isn't sudden, it almost feels like the grieving process drags out in a parallel fashion, at least in Stiles's experience. He's just glad she isn't turning him away and holing up alone even longer than she already had been in his absence.

"All right, any preferences or hard no's for genres or anything?" he asks as he leans forward and reaches for the remote control on her coffee table. "I'd hate to ruin our very first sleepover picking something you hate and slowing us down. Everybody knows that you can't start eating until you've picked the perfect thing to watch on Netflix. It's a law, I think. I'll have to check with my dad, but I'm pretty sure," he jokes.