Lydia Martin doesn't think before she knocks on Stiles' door. For one time in her life, she ignores the brewing hurricane of thoughts, worries, and consequences in her head, and she just raps her knuckles on the Stillinski's front door. It's been 3 weeks, and her chest is caving in on itself. She's seeing her best friend everywhere. In the mirror, at school, in herself. She can't take it anymore.
When the door creaks open to reveal a haggard, red eyed, barely dressed Stiles; Lydia's breath catches in her throat. Her green eyes caress his cheeks, brushing over his long eyelashes, dropping to his cupid's bow. When she finally hauls her gaze back up to his eyes, she lets out a breath she didn't know she was holding.
"Lydia." His voice is husky, but his eyes are awake, probing her like hers did him. The air is stale, the two of them still trying to decipher why exactly they were seeing each other before the sun had risen.
Lydia brings herself back to reality. She takes a deep breath, straightens, and tosses some hair over her shoulder, only momentarily stunted. This isn't how she planned. In truth, she hadn't planned anything. But nothing could knock Lydia Martin off of her feet. "Stiles."
She's wearing Allison's shirt, which is only one size bigger, and pyjama shorts that barely cover her butt. Her strawberry blonde locks are probably tangled, but for once in her life, she didn't look in a mirror before leaving. She didn't have to, with Stiles. She never had to do anything for Stiles.
But still, she shuffles her feet and fixes her gaze on him. But he knows, the steel in those green eyes is just a cover for a jittery plea for permission. Permission to show up her at 5:28 am, permission to grieve, permission to crumple.
He shakes his head, moonlight casting shadows on the hollows of his cheeks. "That doesn't work on me, you know that." He breaks out a crooked grin, but it's hollow. He runs a hand through his inky hair, which is up on end as if he were struck by lightning, and gestures her inside.
Relief trickles inside her chest, warm and comforting like summer rain. Her sandals scuff the porch as she steps inside. "Where's the sheriff?" Her voice hitches.
Stiles shuts the door behind her and leads the way towards his bedroom. Lydia's eyes travel as he stretches, the hem of his shirt rising. She forces them back to the floor and follows. "He's at the station, early call." He pauses for a moment. "Break in."
It's just a variation of the same conversation, protocol that they follow every time they see each other. Is everyone okay? What's happening? Is it anything supernatural? The same three questions, every time. Often they don't have time for anything else. She plops down on his made bed. He hasn't been sleeping at all, she notes. She doesn't think she can hold herself together for another minute.
He sits beside her and wipes his palms on his bedspread. "Lydia, you know it's oka—" She cuts him off.
"I can't keep myself together around you, Stiles. You know. You've been ogling me since 3rd grade, you can accurately describe me to police, you can see through the façade I try so hard so keep up. I feel so exposed. You know I devour college level textbooks in my spare time, I can't hide anything from you and frankly it's terrifying. Damn it, Stillinski, and I still can't stay away from you." Her voice rises an octave in the last sentence, and she looks up at the ceiling, forcing the tears not to spill, clasping her hands together so hard that her knuckles go white.
Stiles isn't alarmed. He doesn't even flinch. "Yeah. I know."
Lydia's brow furrows and she looks at him. Something, just something, washes over her like a tidal wave. She opens her mouth to say something, but then he smiles. Oh god, I'm in big trouble, she thinks.
He reaches over and takes her hand in both his, lacing their fingers together like it's the most normal thing he could do. His thumb traces constellations on her porcelain skin, his eyes shining with a mixture of pity and pride. Lydia feels her stomach twist into knots, her whole body stiffening.
"Do you want me to stop?" There's a grin in his voice, though it doesn't break over his face. He doesn't mean holding her hands, this she knows. He means everything. He means talking to her, blinking, breathing, looking at her like she's the sun and stars. He knows the answer.
No. She thought she'd never admit it but oh god no she doesn't. Her chest threatens to break, her heart nearly giving out. It's a revelation, warm relief flows through her veins and comes back to her heart, but fear chills it ice. She's still as a statue. "No." She breathes.
He snickers, the grin finally spreading over his face. Lydia tries not to smile, but eventually gives up because she knows she can't hide it from him. They sit in silence for a moment, their smiles slowly fading away as gravity pulls them back to the ground. The weight between them is defined, and neither of them conceal it.
"How is Scott?" This isn't small talk. Lydia's found that she really cares about them, without Jackson around to be the reason the sun came up in the morning, she needed others to take his place and help her back to her feet. It was them. She was part of the pack before she even knew there was one.
He swallows hard, and she immediately regrets asking. She's struck a nerve. "He's moving forward. He knows she wouldn't want him to let it beat him down." A ghost of his earlier grin flits across his face, leaving as quickly as it came.
Without a word, Lydia draws back the covers and climbs into his bed. Earlier, her mind had been a livewire, but now she found it shutting down, like city lights as the sun rose.
He watches her, curiously, unsure how to react. He wrings his fingers nervously, and something inside her catches it's footing again. Usual, dorky, nervous Stiles. But she knew, she knew that he would never do anything unless she wanted it. He looks at her for a minute, and she gives a small, nearly imperceptible nod.
He climbs in beside her, and slowly, ever so tenderly curls himself around her. He's stiff, muscles taut and nervous. He's not sure if he's doing this right at all.
"Aren't you tired?" Her voice is barely above a whisper.
He lets out a breath. "Yeah. I'm tired." He shuffles a bit. Lydia can tell he's trying to make her more comfortable, he's so nervous that she can feel it in her very bones.
He shuffles more, his brow furrowing. She puts a hand on his chest, his warmth spreading over her palm. "Stiles." It's enough.
He relaxes, taking a deep breath, and drapes an arm over the curve of her waist, the other cradles her head. She smiles and he knows now, yeah. He's doing it right. They align like stars, connect like constellations, their breaths falling in time with each other.
It's 10:28 am.
Lydia wakes up to birds outside Stiles' window. At first she's confused, but then relieved. He's there, he's okay. She's here, she's okay. Carefully, she disentangles herself from him. Sunlight pours in from the window, washing over his face, illuminating his cheekbones, eyelashes, and lips.
She smiles.
He's the most beautiful thing she's ever seen, she just had to look a little harder.