Hello, fellow Stydia lovers! This idea has been in my drafts for a long time, and I finally finished it for your perusal and pleasure. Enjoy! :)

When she woke up, Lydia couldn't quite remember why she wasn't afraid.

It took her a few seconds to realize that she wasn't at Eichen House anymore, that the hole in her head was no longer dripping blood or threatening her life.

It took her a few seconds to place the warm, familiar smell all around her, the enveloping article of clothing that wasn't hers, the arm slung around her even in sleep, the owner of the body pressed up against hers.

Stiles.

He was here. With her.

He had refused to leave her side the night before, the intensity with which he clung to her overriding any objections her mother might have raised. He hadn't let go of her the entire ride home, allowing her to completely melt into him in exhaustion.

She didn't remember getting in bed, or sliding into Stiles's huge flannel, or who had cleaned and bandaged the wound at the base of her skull.

She had not allowed herself to relax so completely in weeks, not since her admittance to Eichen. She'd been hyperaware, fearing for her life every minute under Valack's care. Even in unconsciousness, she'd wandered the halls, searching for safety, answers, escape...

Now she was home. And Stiles was here. Stiles, who had burst into her cell, declaring with an unnerving certainty, we're getting you out of here. Stiles, who had followed her through the twisted tunnels where Valack had dragged her. Stiles, who'd replied to her warnings of danger shut up and let me save your life.

Stiles, who had refused to run, even to save his own life. Stiles, the voice that had assured her over and over that she would be all right. Stiles, the first face she'd seen when she opened her eyes again. Stiles, who had held her hand when it was all over.

Stiles, who was next to her now in bed, one arm wrapped protectively around her shoulders, holding her to his chest. As if this would protect her somehow.

It was working. Lydia felt protected. Safe.

He stirred suddenly, as though able to sense her wakefulness. Eyes blinked sleepily, squinting in the soft, late-morning light.

"Hi," Lydia murmured to him.

Stiles didn't answer right away, instead reorienting himself to the unfamiliar surroundings. The arm around her twitched, registering her presence. Once his eyes finally focused on her, he nearly hiccuped in surprise. "Good morning."

A smile crept over her lips. Only Stiles could be so spastic, so awkward, yet so endearing at the same time.

His thumb moved from stroking her shoulder to lightly press against her lips, her soft smile. "How are y—" he paused to clear his throat, raising his voice from a low whisper. "How are you feeling?"

Lydia conducted a quick assessment. The achy feeling in her bones had diminished, the pounding in her head dulled to a mild headache. Her permanent exhaustion had drained away after a long, uninterrupted sleep. "I'm okay." Better, now that you're here.

He pressed the back of his oversized hand to her forehead. "Okay?"

She nodded under his fingers.

"How's your head? Your—" Stiles gestured to the back of head, presumably the bandaged area behind her ear. "Your mom cleaned it up last night and covered it."

Lydia moved one hand gingerly to feel the cotton layers below her temple. "It doesn't hurt anymore."

"Do you want some pain meds? Or some food?" Stiles extricated his legs from the tangled sheets, lifting his head from the pillow and propping himself up on one elbow. "I'm pretty sure your mom—"

"Stiles." Lydia cut him off, voice suddenly sharp with apprehension. Her eyes were locked on the pillow, on the circle of red staining the fabric with an unmistakable tint.

He glanced downward, face morphing into a mask of panic as he registered the sight. Blood.

"Lydia, you—are you—" He rocketed upright, hands reaching for her, turning her head to inspect the bandaged section.

Her hands, tiny in comparison, stopped his frantic movements, mirroring his actions as she turned his head to the side. "It's not me."

His left ear, the same one that had taken the brunt of her screams last night, was the source of the alarming stain. Blood crusted from his ear canal all the way down to his jawline. Stiles poked at the offending region, wincing at the minute touch. His hand came away dotted light red, blood diluted by a clear, runny fluid. "Oh."

Lydia ran her fingertips down the outline of his ear, looking for the damage. Aside from the blood, he seemed perfectly intact. She snapped her fingers twice, once beside his right ear, once beside his left. "Can you hear that?"

"Not that one," he admitted, and this time Lydia noticed that his voice was pitched louder than usual. "Must be ruptured."

He couldn't hear. Lydia's screams had knocked out hearing in one of his ears. Stiles was deaf in one ear thanks to her.

Her mouth dropped open in horror. "I did that," she murmured, withdrawing her hand. She had hurt him.

Stiles huffed a halfhearted laugh. "Relax, Lydia. It's temporary—it'll heal." The heel of one hand scrubbed at the blood dried on his cheek.

"But I hurt you," she said hoarsely. After weeks of working to control her scream, to channel it into a weapon, she had still wielded it like an untrained child swinging a baseball bat—out of control, dangerous. She had hurt one of the people closest to her. And unlike some of her friends, Stiles couldn't heal supernaturally fast.

"It's fine. Lydia, I'm fine. At least you didn't take off my hea—" Stiles stopped speaking abruptly, the impact of his words sinking in as he realized what he'd said. What that triggered in her.

Images, flashes of a man holding a mask, her scream shattering glass, metal, bone, a body falling to the floor where a bloody mess already lay, half the skull gone like a chunk of sandwich bitten out—

"Oh g—Lydia, I'm so sorry. I didn't think. I...I'm sorry." Both his hands darted downward to cover hers, to squeeze them, to quell their trembling.

Lydia could hardly lift her head to meet his eyes, warm and apologetic. "I did that too. I killed him."

Stiles gripped her upper arms, squeezing them gently in reassurance. "What he was doing...it would've killed you. It was you or him, Lydia. You got that?"

"I know. But..." Lydia shuddered at the memory branded in her brain, of Valack's remaining eye rolling back in his head, blood pouring like a fountain from the gaping wound, gray matter leaking out of his split skull. The picture, no doubt, would haunt her for quite some time.

She couldn't say it, what she was feeling. The words, which usually flowed from her brain into fluid, eloquent sentences, seemed to halt in the face of overwhelming emotion. Like the gears in her head had suddenly gummed up, and she couldn't tell Stiles how powerful she felt, and yet so helpless at the same time.

Somehow, even without words, Stiles understood. "C'mere." He drew her into his chest, arms encircling her tiny body with ease. One arm held her waist, practically cradling her in his lap. The other arm rested strong and sure across her back, his hand—still bloodied from nursing his ear— reaching around to brush her cheek.

It was times like this, when he became so, so gentle, that it was easiest for Lydia to love him. When her most vulnerable moments cracked her open, when he held her raw, exposed, throbbing heart in his bare hands, in a way she'd never trusted anyone else to.

It was so obvious, at times like this.

Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes, tears for the events of the previous night, for the hollow feeling of imprisonment still residing in her, for the hole in her head, plugged only by a mystical concoction of herbs. For the damage her voice had done, for the broken part of the boy who held her now in spite of it, and for the tragedy of her love and his love, reaching out but never quite touching.

She rested her head on his shoulder, listening to their breathing synchronize. Her stomach quivered with pleasure, wrapped in the embrace of this boy who loved her so openly, without shame or reserve. "You know I do, too," she heard herself whispering.

"What?" Stiles leaned back, squinting at her in confusion. "I can't hear you."

Of course he couldn't.

Lydia curled her lips inward, dropping her gaze to hide her self-conscious smile, the blush blooming in her pale cheeks. "I...we match. We have matching head wounds."

Stiles laughed, a soft, quiet huff of realization. "You're right. That's...that's a little disturbing." Gingerly, he tilted her head sideways again to inspect the bandage taped to her scalp. Making sure there was no blood leaking from her head.

"You know, you should probably clean your ear," Lydia said, her tone pitching back toward brisk and matter-of-fact. "You don't want to be dripping that stuff for the rest of the day."

Stiles clapped a palm over his ear. "Yeah. Guess so." He dried his hand on his t-shirt, swinging his legs over the side of the mattress. "No—no, Lydia, you stay in bed," he added hastily as she moved to follow him. "You don't need to get up. I promised your mom I would take care of you today."

Lydia shot him a disparaging look. As she had pointed out less than a minute ago, she wasn't the only one with an injury. "Who's going to take care of you?"

He pretended to think about it for a minute, cocking his eyebrow in a feigned expression of contemplation. "You will. From your bed."

She snatched up the pillow stained with his blood and threw it at him. Her aim was quite good, catching him in the shoulder before he could turn away. "Hmph."

Stiles picked up the pillow, kneeling down as he replaced it on her mattress. "Seriously, Lydia, please stay in bed." His amber eyes were a deep well of tenderness. "I don't...I don't want anything else to happen to you." One hand reached for her, hesitating before it could reach her.

Lydia couldn't catch her breath all of a sudden.

She had never known someone who just cared so much. His gentle concern was...captivating.

"Stiles..."

"Lay down, okay? I'll bring you some breakfast. What do you want to eat?" A soft smile quirked at the edge of his mouth.

With only a tinge of reluctance, Lydia settled her head back on the clean pillow. "Eggs. Over easy. With hashbrowns. And ketchup. And don't forget pancakes and syrup."

"Don't—don't push your luck," he grumbled, pushing himself into a standing position. "I'll be back. With some of that."

As he left the room, he reached up again to touch his bloodied ear. The ear that Lydia had damaged.

Lydia wasn't afraid anymore. She wasn't trapped in Eichen House, wasn't being used for a madman's diabolical scheme. Wasn't slowly dying from a hole in her head.

Yet her emotions were all over the place—mostly because of Stiles. Guilt for hurting him, exhilaration from his rescue, peace in knowing he still cared, certainty that she loved him too, and a paralyzing confusion of what to do about it. How to act around him, how much of herself to reveal.

Lydia Martin didn't like not knowing something.

So she closed her eyes, reliving the sensation of Stiles Stilinski cradling her to his chest. Breathed in his scent, reveling in the warmth of his flannel, and put her uncertainty off until tomorrow.

Again, I HATE myself for how easy this title was. I already had the concept written down, and the song lyric popped into my head without any effort whatsoever. So yeah, sure, I guess I'm a genius. Anyway, I'd love to hear what you think! Leave a review!