"Stiles... I can't love you."

Those were the last words she said to him on that beautiful, beautiful spring-to-summer day. June 14th- Beacon Hills senior graduation. She can still see the image, brilliant in her mind, the green of the grass stark against the blue of the sky, the face of a boy with dark-roast eyes, the bright pink of her designer heels when she couldn't stand to look up anymore. She remembers, how he stood there in his long gown, cap crushed in his hands with the weight of everything he had given up on the moment those words left her mouth. His face was heartbreaking, and her face was heating, heart thumping as she smoothed a piece of hair and walked away like she didn't need him. It's a blessing, it's a curse, but she will never be able to forget one second of it.

Teenage Lydia Martin was not one for second chances, and she was not one for chalking up the inevitable to 'fate' or 'destiny'. She was about facts and feelings, often interchangeably, she kept them separate in her mind as to not get them in the way, because Lydia Martin was pretty goddamn near a genius and you better believe she knew it.

No, Lydia Martin was someone who used boys as a distraction, often to prove a point, punctuated by the glossy coat of Tarte, heavy over pink lips, curved up around men, down around herself, and moved into a thin line when she was forced to deal with people like Stiles Stillinski.

Of course he had a crush on her- who didn't?- but it's not as if she cared anyway, way back in sophomore year. She can almost laugh at the thought. How different was life, then? Before the mess, the clean-up, before she became a survivor, lost her mind, her best friend, her life, grew up. Damn, she remembers how simple it was, forgetting herself in someone like Jackson. How easy to lift his shirt and pull down her skirt and not think for a while...

He was a perfect distraction because that's all he was. Maybe she did let herself love him, but maybe, (and this is far more likely), she only did it for his benefit. He was something to play, a game, but nothing intricate, nothing delicate, something rough and jagged-edged, too hard when she was too soft, too soft when she was so tired. Jackson was easy, because he would never fall in love with her.

She didn't want anyone to fall in love with her.

The moment she saw the gangly boy (he really was a boy) reach for his cap, she knew this was going to be trouble. Just the fact that Stiles had pulled it into his hands and was certainly ruining the cheap cardboard within it meant that he was nervous. Lydia had never known Stiles to be nervous, not once, and this scared her, because she already had six ideas of where this could go, and she didn't like any of them.

"Hello." She said, nodding to him. He took a deep breath, and suddenly, she knew exactly where this was going and was filled with the heavy urge to run.

"Lydia, we've been best friends for two years, and I need to say it. I just need to say it."

"Stiles, don't."

"And maybe it's the dumbest thing ever but I don't give a shit. I'm tired of pretending and I know you feel something too, and so here I am, making the move, and I should have done this a long time ago-"

"Stiles."

"-because, Lydia, I love you, and I've loved you for as long as I can remember and I'll still love you tomorrow when you hate me and fifty years from now when you don't and through all of it, I'll love you."

It was in that second she had noticed his eyes were the color of burnt coffee, bright in the daylight, a shot of caffeine. It was in that second she could see herself, falling in love with him, being with him, having two kids and a crappy house with him, giving up a dream for him while he gave up his, growing old with him, and she was scared.

"Stiles... I can't love you."

She still can't remember his face in that moment. Her perfect memory has a timeskip- her heart protecting her from unwanted feelings, ones she buried years ago. She hadn't thought about Stiles much- at least, not on purpose.

Once, when she had drunk far too much Cabernet she called his house but he had moved out, of course, and she laughed when she heard the Sheriff say that, glad to know he had moved on, but then the voice at the other end got tinny and things got blurry and she had to put down her head for a while.

Another time, she called Scott and told him everything, made him swear not to tell a soul, replacing Stiles' name with some stranger's, knowing that someone as loyal as Scott could never keep a secret for longer than a day when it came to his friends. Scott still asks about 'John' sometimes, but she always cuts him off and says she doesn't want to talk about it, and he accepts it, damn that noble bastard, but then he asks if she's talked to Stiles lately and she stops for a second before stating a smooth excuse and waving off the idea of animosity.

Because the truth is, it's been ten years, and she hasn't seen Stiles for any of it.

But somehow, here she is, June 14th, Beacon Hills high, staring at the impeccable green grass, preparing for their school reunion and wondering how in the hell she got herself here.

A/N- Welcome to my first Teen Wolf fic! I have no idea where I'm going with this. Like, at all. But the idea came to me and so here I am, writing it. Shoot me a review if you'd like- always love 'em. Thanks to all! Disclaimer- not mine.