A/N: Even though "Stydia" sounds like some kind of STD you could catch, I have a feeling I'm going to be in love with this pairing, even more so, soon. So, here it is. My first Teen Wolf fanfic. Keep in mind, it certainly isn't my best, and there will be ones to top it in the future. This was right off the top of my head, so, please! Spare me the slightest! Rate and review. Love you all.

"Just admit it, Lydia. Just admit it to yourself, and we'll be done here."

The girl grimaced, taking a step backwards. She'd come here to talk—not to admit anything.

"You're killing me here." Her eyes flickered up to his. His voice came out again, hollow, course, and unprepared for the words he knew to come.

"I miss him," she said finally. She was shaking slightly. She pressed the palm of her hand to the rim of her forehead, sighing. "I—I miss him."

"Then why are you here?"

"Because," she spat quickly. Unlike their previous meetings, he left no room for her to talk. He seemed sick—sick of it. Sick of this. Sick of them. He no longer had time for a relationship (friendship, whatever; they never used a word to define her late night visits and his long hard stares when she spoke) that wasn't going anywhere.

"Because what, Lydia? I'm all out of ideas." He stopped himself suddenly; he was beginning to have an idea of where this conversation was heading. He blinked his eyes quickly, furiously, unable to make eye contact for the next few moments. He looked up, finally, to meet her steady gaze. She looked just as startled as he felt.

"I'm all out of ideas," he repeated with a slow shake of his head. "All out." He pressed his lips together, sparing her one last glance before tightly closing his eyes. "So, help me out here. Please."

She wasn't speaking.

"Please."

"You knew this was never going to work out! You knew all along! You knew I was in love with Jackson, and you know that I still miss him." She paused, gritting her teeth beneath pursed lips. She shut her eyes, frustrated, hurt, and confused. "So, why? Why'd you do it?"

"Do what?"

There it was again. That look. That stupid fucking look. The look of pure innocence; he had no idea, really. What did he do? Is he serious? If she wasn't so angry, she would've cracked a smile at his irony.

"You're smart, Stiles. Figure it out." She turned her back to him, her head falling into her hands. She felt a warm hand grip her wrist. Her eyes shot open. She let out a shaky breath.

"Do what?" he said again. This time, softer. This time, with that voice. That fucking voice.

He knew. He understood.

"You loved me," she said. She swallowed down the lump that grew in her throat. "You loved me, when you knew I couldn't return those feelings." She could feel the dumbfounded look he carried whenever she spoke like this. Or spoke. Ever. "Your fault," she said. "All your fault."

"Lydia." He tried to reason with her, but his hand was no longer on hers. She twitched slightly at the loss of contact.

He had to be angry. He had to be.

"Lydia, look at me."

He was.

"Lydia, please."

Wasn't he?

"Come on," he said. "Come on, Martin, it's just a look. One look. Then you can leave, tell Allison all about how much you hate me"—he laughed at this, though Lydia would never find that joke funny—"and do all that girly, gossipy stuff. And then you can forget."

He wasn't.

"And what would I possibly want to forget?"

He smiled. He knew this was coming. Her I'm Lydia Martin act—I've got strawberry blonde hair, a 5.0 grade point average, and everything any girl in Beacon Hills could ever want. Why in the world would I have anything I'd want to forget?

But what she forgot sometimes was the other Lydia Martin—the I write backwards on chalkboards Lydia Martin. The running naked through woods Lydia, who cried in front of Stiles Stilinski, Scott McCall, and others. So many others.

She never wanted anyone to see her like that ever again. And tonight would not be the night she broke that vow she made to herself. Not because of something like this—and certainly not because of Stiles.

"That's what I don't know," he admitted. To himself, and to her. Though her heart jumped, and nearly stopped for a minute afterwards, she smirked.

"Oh"—she was turning now—"but I thought you knew everything, Stilinski?"

"Actually, no"—smile here, smile there—"I'm pretty sure that's you."

Lydia began to hum to herself. She didn't feel like answering his question, and she knew certainly that he would mind. He would mind a lot. He would drive himself crazy until he figured it out, like he did with almost every mystery, enigma, thrown his way.

His eyes traveled every crook and cranny of her visible skin. She felt the slightest bit self-conscious, but did not let him figure so. She only smiled at him.

"So," Lydia began, "when you're done staring, you can let me know. But, for now, I've got to get going." She reached for the doorknob, prepared for his yell, his protest, his beg for her to stay. To just... stay.

"Lydia, wait!"

She smiled softly to herself.

"Lydia, this isn't right."

"What's not right?" There was a slight twinge in her voice. It was like a game to her now.

"The fact that you're still in love with Jackson. He did nothing but treat you badly. I, for one, would never—do you hear me?—never do that to you." She could feel him nearing her. His breath was on her back, shooting shivers up her spine.

"You... You can't help who you fall in love with, Stiles." She attempted to bit back a laugh, but to no avail, it came. "You, of all people, should know that." He froze slightly behind her, and she instantly regretted opening her mouth.

Her hand was the one on his now.

"Someday," she said.

His eyebrows shot up. All the while, she counted the colors in his eyes. For a moment. Only for a moment. They—his eyes—lightened slightly at the sight of her own. They were facing each other, finally, and neither one of them were on the brink of the emotional break down. Jackson, still there, still lingering in the back of her mind; never completely forgotten; but not haunting her. Just a nostalgic memory; unattainable.

But her hand was on his. And so were her eyes. On him—all on him, so she smiled. Again. He always made her smile.

"Someday," she repeated, and he smiled too.

"And, until then-"

"-you don't have a chance," she completed his sentence for him.

And though this left their ending open, unfinished, neither of them minded. Except for Stiles, maybe a little bit. But he knew, one day—one day, she'd find her way back to him, when she needed to; if she needed to; and that was more than alright with him.

Someday.