His full name was Mieczyslaw Stilinski, but everyone just called him Stiles. He was rather pale-looking and slender, with chocolate brown eyes and dark, spiky hair. He had long, shaky fingers, and altogether always cold, large hands, that he would rub together for comfort whenever he got anxious. He was tall and lean, but never stiff. He was of those kids who could go anywhere unnoticed, his lips pursed together, witness to everything and anything he was not supposed to hear. It was funny how this runt knew when to shut his noisy mouth so that people would forget up to his mere existence whereas, most of the time, he had always something witty or sarcastic to say to spice things up a bit.
Because Stiles, if anything, wasn't a stupid, sassy brat, failing classes and roaming through the most despicable places in town, like one could think upon meeting him for the first time. No, Stiles was nothing like this. He sometimes looked like a thug, and often acted as one, but the boy was a real genius. He had perfect grades, and perfect teeth, and was a very knowledgeable person, quite surprisingly able to discuss many topics from the very mechanism of the human body to the evolution of the postal services through the centuries. And he was extremely curious, whatsoever, spending most of his nights surfing the web, trying to find out a pattern, a mobile, a clue; he was hyperactive and looked always tired, dark circles under his eyes from the lack of sleep.
He laughed quite often, to put it mildly. He always had somewhat of a smirk plastered on his face, when he was not busy complaining about something else. He had a rather warm and pleasant laugh that would fuse most of the time to reflect a certain uneasiness or irritation rather than a genuine feeling. He would always see the one detail no one else did, and would always be the one to figure it out, regardless of the complexity of the problem he had to face. And he'd never brag about his successes, he'd never show off, because of how poorly he thought of himself. And when it came to a life or death matter, he'd always have this look of incredulity glued on his face, as if he were surprised to have made it when not a single person around him would have dared to doubt him a second. He'd be the one to hold your hand through difficult times, just to be sure you were alright, because he was so selfless and concerned. Stiles would always be the one whose touch, no matter how cold, would never bother you because of how sincere and soothing it was.
Stiles was unique in everything; his face, his voice, his skin and his smile, his warm breath and his heart, slowly and steadily pounding in his chest. There wasn't anyone like him in matter of wit and wits, as well as in humility and gentleness. There weren't two like him; there was only Stiles, the one and only son of Beacon Hills's sheriff, the one boy who ran with wolves. He was only human, and yet he was part of the Pack, because without him, the Pack was like a night without any stars to light it up.
And as his lips felt right, so right against her own, Lydia wondered how in the name of God she could have forgotten someone as brave, as human, and as incredible as Stiles. She felt his hand on her jaw, his breath on her tortured face. It felt good, and at the same time it hurt, to have him standing so close, to be able to touch him at last.
Lydia's fingers ran over Stiles's face, on his cheek, and on his neck, firmly grasping the fabric of his shirt as she kissed him again with all her soul. Her eyes were dry, but an uncontrolled sob escaped her lips as their mouths parted before finding each other again. She had been waiting for this, she'd be dying to do it ever since she remembered; remembered him, remembered these words he had said to her before vanishing into oblivion.
Remember, his voice ringed in her ears. Remember I love you.
But she had forgotten. She had forgotten, and she couldn't forgive herself for not remembering, for having lived on without him by her side. So Lydia kissed Stiles with every single fragment of her shaking body, hoping that he would get it all, hoping that he could forgive her by showing her how much he still loved her. She wanted to cry, and she wanted to laugh at the same time, and it felt like her head was exploding as he returned the kiss.
It was brief and intense, so much so that the redhead had to pull away to catch her breath. She opened her eyes in disbelief, reassured to find him there again, tangible and touchable as she held on to him like grim death so that he wouldn't disappear once more.
Stiles was back and he wasn't going anywhere, not on her watch. Not again.
She looked at his face, counting all of his beauty spots to make sure that none was missing, stared into his warm eyes ringed with fatigue just like she remembered, and pulled him into a tight embrace. He didn't protest, gently stroking her face, his nose buried in her silky hair and his eyes closed. For a moment, they both stood there, and nothing else mattered. They'd forgot the Ghost Rider of the Wild Hunt, the Nazi Löwenmench, the whirling train growing closer and closer and the time running out. For a moment, the only thing that mattered was that they were reunited, and that nothing was growing them apart ever again.
Lydia loved Stiles, and Stiles loved Lydia; and everything was right with the world.