A/N: Hello there! This is my first Stydia one-shot, so if the situation comes where it turns out horrible, please excuse me and i sincerely apologise.

Granted, my writing skills are yet to develop. But, nonetheless, do enjoy as much as you can. Review, favourite, and follow.

Keep calm and ship Stydia! :)

She was shivering. The wind was cutting through her thin t-shirt and sleep shorts likes knives, goosebumps rising on her bare skin.

Lydia staggered onward, running frantically through the woods, past leafless trees, trampling on broken branches. Through a maze of dirt, wood, and moonlight above, she finally tripped over an arched branch and fell to the ground.

Her skull was pounding along the right side of her head, making it hard to stand up; she did so anyway. Brushing off small twigs and leaves off her clothes, she brought her attention forward. In the middle of empty part of the woods, where dirt and leaves lay forlorn and dead, was a shirt.

Lydia brought herself – with a slight pain still throbbing against her head – toward the shirt to take a closer look. She should've just ignored it; it was only a shirt. But, there was something about it that seemed vaguely familiar. Picking it up, she noticed that it was grey, a small hole torn at the edge and… and blood soaked across the hem.

With a sickening realisation, Lydia knew whom this shirt belonged to.

Stiles, she thought dreadfully.

He was the only one she knew who owned a grey shirt with a hole along the edge, near the seam. She shivered once more, although this time, it was not from the wind.

Lydia clutched Stiles' shirt with white knuckles and tried to settle her breathing.

Maybe it wasn't blood, she thought hopefully. It could've be something else. Anything else.

Wishful thinking, Lydia.

She shot her head up towards the trees. What the hell was that?

"Hello?" She called out, attempting to hide the shakiness in her voice. She clutched the shirt even tighter. "Who's there?" She called out, louder this time.

No one answered.

The only sound that accompanied her was the wind recoiling back against the trees, blowing dead leaves off the ground and into the night.

Instinctively, Lydia closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She then exhaled slowly and opened her eyes once more. It was one of the very few things she ever did when her mind wasn't in the clear. She only hoped that now, with her focus back on the shirt, she wouldn't hear anymore voices. She didn't care whether they were real or not.

You cannot deny the harsh truth, Lydia, the voice spoke again, but this time it wasn't in her head. It was resonating throughout the woods. He is dead and you know it.

Lydia shook with fear, holding the shirt against her chest. The voice, she couldn't make out who it was. It was just… a whisper – a harsh, metallic whisper.

"No." She rasped out. "No, you're lying."

Don't be such a fool. The whisper echoed around the circle of trees surrounding her, becoming louder. Stiles is dead. That is his blood, on his shirt, which you are holding.

Lydia shook her head violently, dropping the shirt and covering her ears with her hands. "That's not true!" She cried.

Stiles is dead. Your husband is dead. Despite covering her ears, she could still hear the whisper, invading her mind.

"Shut up!" She yelled. Her knees gave away, she collapsed to the ground, still blocking her ears, but to no avail did it help. It was futile. It was hopeless.

The voice was still speaking, still torturing her with its words.

All that danger the two of you went through as teenagers, and even now you are not safe. There was a crude sense of humour lacing its voice.

"Go away!" She shut her eyes tight.

Your husband is dead.

"Leave me alone!"

Stiles is dead. The voice grew louder, from a whisper to the sound of a man speaking, a gravel tone edged to its words.

"Stop!" She cried.

And now! The man's gravelly voice yelled violently. You will die too!

Lydia then opened her eyes, brought her hands down to the ground, grabbed a fistful of leaves and dirt, and did what she did best. She screamed.

Lydia screamed as loud as she could until it completely blocked out the voice of the man. All she could her was her own voice, high-pitched and loud that it woke her up.

She sat bolt upright from bed and screamed until her voice faltered. Taking in her surroundings, she realised she'd been having a bad dream. It was still midnight outside, the moon shining down through the blinds, leaking white lights across the floor in stripes. Her breathing slowly returned to its normal pace.

Lydia closed her eyes in relief and clutched the blankets. She was wearing the same shirt and shorts as she did in the dream.

"Lydia?" A voice croaked right next to her.

She turned sideways and saw Stiles – alive – lying down, covered in blankets, one arm lying across her pillow. He was wearing the same grey shirt as the one in her dream, the hole still visible toward the edge. Stiles looked up at her with squinted, tired eyes.

"What's wrong?" He asked.

Lydia caressed her hand across his face softly, and fell back against her pillow. Stiles's hand stroked her hair soothingly.

"It was just a nightmare." She said quietly, lying on her side to face him. Stiles moved his other arm across her waist under the blankets, pulling her close and holding onto her tightly.

He closed his eyes and smiled a tiny bit. "It's alright now." He assured her, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead. "Go to sleep."

Lydia drowned in his warmth. She had come to realise over the years how assuring and safe she felt when she was with Stiles. Sure, he was still that funny, charismatic, cheerful and goofy teenager she came to fall in love with – Lydia often saw that in him, despite him being her husband now – but there was something he gave her that no other guy ever did: warmth and adoration. In more ways than one, she loved him even more for it. And no nightmare would ever take that away from her.

And so Lydia tucked her arm in-between her chest and his, relaxed under his presence, and fell away into a peaceful, dreamless sleep.