A/N: I'm so excited to finally start posting this! I've had it written for a while, but I stalled out on the third story in the series and didn't want to post this until that one was done (or at least very close to it). As I mentioned in the notes for The Edge of Everything, this series includes Stydia and Sterydia. If you're here simply for the Sterek you may not enjoy this, just as a warning. If you're like me and you adore both pairings, and think the three of them together would be hot as hell, by all means, keep reading. LOL Also, I know that sometimes leaving a public review on a rated-M story can feel uncomfortable, so please, feel free to PM me with any feedback you have. I really do want to know that people are reading and enjoying this, otherwise there's no point to me continuing to post it.

"Stiles?"

"Mmm?"

"What on earth is wrong with you?"

Stiles looked up from his world history textbook, a highlighter half-hanging from his mouth. It took him a moment to refocus his attention on Lydia, who was staring at him in concern. She was sprawled across his bed with her calculus book spread out in front of her, but she had apparently given up on taking notes in favor of watching him. For what reason, he had no clue.

"Um, beyond the usual?"

Lydia rolled her eyes. "You're shifting back and forth constantly, almost like you're in pain. As far as I know nothing has attacked any of us recently. So what's the problem?"

Stiles flushed uncomfortably. He was pretty sure Lydia wasn't ready for the truth-there were days he thought he wasn't really ready for the truth. He definitely wasn't ready for everyone else to know, although he had no clue how he and Derek had managed to keep their… thing, whatever it was, from Scott, Isaac, and even Peter for the last three months.

"Nothing," he lied. She eyed him skeptically but allowed the matter to drop so she could go back to her calculus notes.

Now that his concentration had been broken, Stiles watched her for a few minutes. He rarely took the opportunity to look at her anymore, really look at her, and he found he'd missed it. He missed the way he had seen her as the center of his world, even though he recognized that it had been an unhealthy way of viewing her. She was a real person and he had never treated her as such, only as a goddess on a pedestal who was too good for everyone, much less him.

He was grateful for their friendship. He was grateful for the way her presence in his life had evolved. But he missed how special and precious she'd been to him, before. It wasn't that she was no longer special, but that he didn't look at her with the filter that she was unattainable and somehow mystical because of it. It made him wonder if he'd ever really loved her the way he thought he had.

"You're going to burn a hole through the top of my skull," she remarked suddenly, and Stiles jumped.

"How do you do that?" he blurted, gaping at her.

"Do what?"

"How are you just so aware of everything that everyone around you is doing? You aren't even looking at me and you can tell I'm looking at you."

She glanced up again, tapping her pen against her lower lip as she considered his question. "It's a popular girl thing," she explained finally, and while the words would have sounded snotty and condescending a year ago, now they were simply matter-of-fact. "If I wanted to remain on top, I had to know what everyone else was saying and doing. Also, there's a certain feeling you get when someone is watching you, like it's touching your skin. Most of the time it makes my skin crawl, but sometimes it feels nice, comforting, like being out in the warm sunshine."

Stiles winced, wondering what end of the spectrum he fell on. Lydia saw it and half-smiled at him. "You're the sunshine, Stiles."

He tried hard to fight the blush that wanted to crawl up his neck, and he leaned backward in order to deflect her attention. Unfortunately he ended up squarely on his tailbone and he flinched, quickly shifting so that he was sitting mostly on his hip.

"Stiles. Seriously. The only time you ever fidget this much is when you've taken too much Adderall." She gave him a piercing look, almost daring him to lie to her again. He didn't even bother to try.

"My ass hurts," he answered truthfully. He was sitting on the floor with his back up against his dresser, facing the bed with Lydia on it, the way they always ended up. It had never been a question that she'd get the bed and he'd sit where he had the best view of her. Unfortunately, sitting on the hard floor was tougher than normal when his ass was so tender. Derek had been particularly rough with him that afternoon after lacrosse practice.

"Then get it up here," she responded, scooting over and patting the bed beside her. "I never intended to kick you out of your bed, anyway."

"And you think I'd kick you out of my bed? Because I wouldn't," he countered. Then he realized exactly what he'd said and drew a hand down his face, sighing. "I didn't mean that."

She raised an eyebrow in amusement. "So you would kick me out of your bed."

"No, damn it!" he sputtered. "I mean, yes! Hell, I don't know. I'd do whatever you wanted, I guess."

"Oh, really?" The cat-like grin that curved her ruby lips had him swallowing hard. He and Lydia might have become real, actual friends in the last year or so, and he might be having more than enough sex with Derek these days, but that didn't mean he was suddenly immune to her beauty or charm. He'd had to keep his feelings for her locked away in order to preserve the awesome friendship they'd developed, and now she was unlocking that hidden chamber and pulling them right back up to the surface.

"Lydia, don't," he said quietly, and she stared at him in surprise, her lips slightly parted. "You've known how I felt for a long time. Don't play with me because I'm falling victim to some hormonal teenage-boy brain meltdown. I have a beautiful woman in my bed, of course I'm going to say stupid shit." He was distantly impressed with his own maturity and ability to be forthright with her, but then, that had been a hallmark of their relationship long before they actually had a relationship.

Her face softened and she sat up, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed. With a decisive flick of her wrist she snapped her calculus book shut. He watched her warily, wondering just what was going through that beautiful, genius brain of hers. After a moment, she slid off the bed and took the three steps to cross over to him, sinking down on her knees and sitting back on her heels. It was reminiscent of their first kiss, though he disliked thinking of it like that because she was only trying to help snap him out of a panic attack. She hadn't done it because she wanted to, otherwise she probably would have done it again sometime in the six months since it happened.

"Stiles." He lifted his gaze from the fingers that were curled over her knees to see her watching him patiently. "Of course I know how you feel. I'm not stupid."

"Never said you were," he mumbled, dropping his gaze again. Her palms were pressed against her legs, right above her knees, and he pretended fascination with the way her hands looked so dainty against the purple material of her skirt.

Lydia was silent a moment and Stiles chanced a glance back up at her face, curious when he saw that she was biting her lip in quiet consideration. Before he could ask her what she was thinking, she leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek. He stared at her, wide-eyed, as she pulled back and gave him a sweet smile. She lifted her hand to his face, cupping his cheek with her palm and stroking it gently with her thumb.

He covered it with his own, tentatively lacing his fingers between hers and feeling euphoric when she didn't immediately pull away. He held her gaze steadily, trying to read the tender expression in her eyes and failing. It was the first time he felt like maybe he didn't know her as well as he thought he did.

Then came the moment when Lydia tugged her hand loose from his and dropped it back to her knee. "I'm going to go home now, but I want you to think about something. This thing between us? You're not the only one who feels it." She stood up, brushing the wrinkles out of her skirt and picking up her textbook, notepad, and purse.

Belatedly, Stiles scrambled up after her. His mind was racing, trying to understand what she was saying and why, if she was saying what he thought she was saying, she was leaving. "Don't go," he blurted, reaching a hand out to stop her.

She looked down at his fingers where they wrapped around her forearm, then back up at him. "I can't stay this time," she said, shaking her head ruefully. "You need to do some thinking before I can."

Stiles' brows furrowed. "I definitely don't need to think about wanting you to stay," he objected.

Lydia smiled patiently. "Sweetie, I've been spending the last four months coming to your house practically every other night to study. I've been in your bed more times than I was ever in Jackson's, and yet you always stay on the floor, next to your dresser. You're the one who has to figure out why you're so unwilling to cross the room."

"Wait, you wanted me to? I mean, you actually wanted me in the bed with you?" He was gaping at her, he knew, but the thought was so preposterous that he was having a hard time comprehending it. First Derek, and now Lydia. When had his luck changed so drastically?

She cocked her head and looked at him shrewdly. "The fact that you haven't yet picked up on that concerns me. Did that panic attack cut off the oxygen to your brain for too long?"

He narrowed his eyes at her, knowing the teasing was good-natured. "Ha, ha. As previously mentioned, I'm a teenaged boy. You'd pretty much have to take your shirt off and shove your boobs in my face for me to get the point."

"And here I thought you were so smart," she murmured, clucking her tongue in mock disappointment. He made a face at her and she grinned. "I suppose that means next time I'll have to go with a less subtle approach. Maybe I'll try it your way after all." She winked before slipping out the door, leaving a stupefied Stiles staring after her.

lllll

An hour later, Stiles found himself someplace that had become very familiar to him. He lifted his fist to knock on the door but second-guessed himself before his knuckles connected, instead putting them between his teeth and biting down in frustration. He wanted to be here. He did. But it wasn't fair to Derek to be used as a distraction from his confusion over Lydia.

The decision was taken away from him when Derek pulled the door open. "I feel a sense of déjà vu," he deadpanned, and Stiles brushed past him without acknowledging the dry wit.

"Is anyone else here? Is anyone else planning to be here soon?" Stiles asked, glancing around the loft.

Derek watched him carefully before replying. "No, I'm alone tonight."

"Not anymore." Stiles put his hands on Derek's face and pulled him in, their lips meeting hungrily. Derek hesitated for a split second before gripping the back of Stiles' head, holding him firm as his tongue thrust into Stiles' mouth and crashed against his. Stiles groaned softly and slid his fingers into Derek's hair, tightening them around the ebony strands. The kiss became almost desperately intense very quickly, and after a few moments Derek pulled away in confusion and concern.

"What's going on, Stiles?" he asked.

"Nothing. Nothing's going on. I just wanted to see you, okay? Or wait, is it not okay? Am I breaking some unwritten rule here? Because it's not like we've really defined what the hell we're doing, after all," Stiles snapped.

Derek frowned. "Of course not, you're always welcome here."

"Then stop stopping me," he muttered, grabbing the hem of Derek's white Henley and pulling it up his torso. Derek obliged by raising his arms so Stiles could finish removing it, but his eyes didn't leave the younger man's face. When Stiles attacked the drawstring on his navy pajama pants, Derek finally took a step back and held up a hand to stop Stiles from coming after him.

"Something is wrong," Derek said flatly. "Don't try to bullshit me and say there isn't. This isn't like you."

Stiles ran a frustrated hand through his hair, taking deep, shallow breaths to calm his erratic breathing. "It's just been… A hell of a day." He looked up at Derek guiltily. "I really did want to see you."

The wolf smiled. "I'm glad to hear it." The return sentiment, I wanted to see you, too, was left unsaid, but by this point Stiles didn't need to hear Derek say it to know it was true. Derek wasn't comfortable with declarations of feelings or emotions, not the way Stiles was, but he'd become adept at showing them in other ways.

"Don't kick me out, okay? I need a time out from real life, at least for a little while." Stiles crossed his fingers that Derek would understand.

Derek slid an arm around his shoulders and led him over to the couch. "Why don't you come lay down with me? Chill out a little and get your heart rate down from a hundred miles an hour." He gave Stiles' shoulder a squeeze and sat down on the couch, pulling Stiles down with him.

Stiles kicked off his sneakers and swung his feet up on the couch so he could lay back, placing his head on Derek's thigh and staring up at the ceiling. He was quiet for once; too many thoughts were clouding his mind and he didn't feel inclined to share any of them. Thankfully, Derek's quiet nature kept him from pressing, despite knowing something had to be really eating at Stiles for him not to be chattering away.

Derek picked up his book and resumed reading, his fingers brushing lightly back and forth against Stiles' chest, almost absent-mindedly. Stiles had a flash of realization that this was what a relationship was like. They didn't have to be talking or making out or having sex. They just wanted to be together, each doing their own thing; Stiles lost in thought, Derek absorbed in his book. On the heels of that understanding came the thought that he and Lydia had been doing the same thing for months, only with them it was always homework or studying or researching the latest supernatural shenanigans. But the level of comfort of just being in each other's presence was one of the defining elements of their friendship.

Thinking about it made him feel guilty and he tensed up again. Derek simply pressed his palm to Stiles' heart, which had an oddly calming effect. Stiles relaxed and lifted his hand, covering Derek's with it; Derek spread his fingers apart and Stiles' naturally laced together with them. They stayed in that position for several minutes without making a sound, other than the rasp of Derek's thumb against the pages of his book as he flipped from one to the next. Stiles tilted his head back just a fraction, enough to look up at Derek's face, and he caught the other man glancing down at him for a moment. Their eyes met, Derek smiled briefly, and then his attention returned to the book once more.

"What are you reading?" Stiles asked, his voice so soft that it barely disrupted the silence surrounding them.

Derek's lips twitched as he tried unsuccessfully to fight back a smirk. "White Fang," he replied finally.

Stiles snorted. "You are so clichéd it isn't even funny."

"Do you want to go home?" Derek asked mildly, and Stiles slammed his mouth shut.

"Actually, I want you to read to me," he replied, somewhat hesitantly. It was kind of an odd request, but the sound of Derek's voice was so soothing that he just wanted to bask in it for a little while.

Derek lifted an eyebrow but didn't object. He scanned the page, trying to find his place, and once he had, he began to read aloud.

"All night he ran, blundering in the darkness into mishaps and obstacles that delayed but did not daunt. By the middle of the second day he had been running continuously for thirty hours, and the iron of his flesh was giving out. It was the endurance of his mind that kept him going."

As Derek read, Stiles could feel his eyelids drifting shut. He was so tired. "We're White Fang," he mumbled sleepily, and Derek paused in his reading.

"What do you mean?"

"All of us. Scott, Allison, me, you… Lydia. We're all White Fang. We just keep running, no matter what happens, even when we want to give up, we don't. We keep going, because we have to endure."

Derek stared at the young man who was half-asleep in his lap. "I sometimes forget just exactly how smart you are," he murmured, his tone apologetic. Stiles attempted a shrug, but he was already closer to asleep than awake, so Derek resumed reading.

"He had not eaten in forty hours, and he was weak with hunger. The repeated drenchings in the icy water likewise had their effect on him. His handsome coat was draggled. The broad pads of his feet were bruised and bleeding. He had begun to limp, and this limp increased with the hours…"

By that point Stiles was fully asleep, his breaths coming evenly, and Derek's voice trailed off. Stiles' hand had gone limp and his hold on Derek's had relaxed, sliding off enough that he was able to lift it and place it on Stiles' head. His fingers worked through the thick brown hair steadily, and he paused in his reading, glancing down at his sleeping pack-mate. The tender, affectionate smile that spread across his face was unmistakable, and Derek wondered how much longer he would be able to fool the rest of their pack. It was certain he could no longer fool himself.