What is she doing here? Her feet brought her out of the woods and yet, she feels lost.
Lydia remembers packing and calling a taxi. She remembers feeling a little disorientated on her way from the inn to the bench in front of her. She remembers everything. Well, almost…
She knows what she has to do: drive back to Beacon Hills and find Scott. There's also a small piece of paper in her pocket.
It's folded four times. As if it's holding a secret.
In a way, it is... because she remembers writing Wild Hunt on it a few minutes ago and there's a dizziness inside of her she can't shake off. The sickening sensation that it doesn't make sense.
That something is missing.
As she walks to sit on the bench, she tries to not think about the last three days. Despite some inconsistencies, the last minutes are clear in her mind but she can't focus on what might have happened before.
She can't remember. It doesn't make sense.
Tears of frustration prickle her eyes and she stands up. Something pulls at her heart, compelling her to look back at the small path she just took, but there's nothing – only the trees and the faint breeze ruffling their leaves. A pang of sadness overwhelms her, chasing any other emotion away and leaving her once again with the certainty that something is missing. Tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, she winces at her sore shoulder.
When did she bruise it?
She tries not to give it too much thought and remembers the green and yellow suitcase on the bench. The moon is full, and its harsh light accentuates that incongruous color. Lydia frowns, trying to remember when she bought a suitcase in a color so far away from what she usually likes. Her mind dives into her memories, but only comes up with more questions. She can't remember buying it, and she can't remember traveling around Canada as the dozens of stickers on one side seem to suggest.
She wants to scream in frustration, but she closes her eyes and a voice rings in her ears. She can't understand what it's saying, but it soothes her. When she opens her eyes, she knows something is missing.
She stands still, staring at the suitcase in the silence of the night. It's not a first for her mind to be confronted with such a situation. It is used to dealing with memory lapses. Usually, she tries to find something familiar and it helps her unravel the events. The problem is that there's nothing familiar around her…
Except when she turns around and looks at the forest – at that moment, a warm peace spreads through her.
Everything else is foreign, cold and hostile. There's a straight road bordered by trees. It vanishes farther away in the horizon to her left and right. The bench is along that road with a sign indicating a taxi station. Behind her, the small dirt road plunges into the forest. Lydia doesn't know where she is or what time it is. There's no one else, she doesn't have her purse and her phone is gone.
And there's that suitcase… She is afraid to open it, afraid to find out what it contains.
Her fingers brush the folded piece of paper in her pocket and she takes it out. With a loud groan, she realizes for the second time that she can't remember why she wrote those words. She has to remember, it feels important for some reason.
Sitting down on the bench again, she scrutinizes the words, looking for something she could have missed. She breathes in and out several times with the clear impression that the wind is breathing with her, helping her lungs to expand to welcome fresh air. When she feels calm enough, it suddenly hits her that the Wild Hunt must have something to do with the Ghost Riders. That single idea is enough for her to find a faint light in the fog cluttering up her mind. She focuses on that, trying to remember everything she can about the Wild Hunt. The puzzle is slowly taking shape before her eyes, but still…
Something is missing. Something is missing and she doesn't know how much longer she can handle the pain.
As she looks down, she realizes that the blue hoodie she is wearing isn't hers. It's too big, too worn out, its scent is both familiar and foreign. It makes her smile, a soft and nostalgic smile that doesn't come across her lips very often. Someone told her once it was her secret smile, a smile she doesn't even realize she is making. It's the one she uses when she doesn't want others to know whose invisible fingers are grazing her lips and warming her heart. Because that smile isn't meant for just anyone. Somehow, she knows it's meant for the missing part that left a hole shaped like regrets in her heart.
The hoodie must belong to someone taller than her, the sleeves are so long that they cover her hands. She brings them to her nose and breathes in the scent, closing her eyes. There's a voice with that scent, even if she can't remember it, she knows that there is one and it brings back her smile. She feels as peaceful as if she had found the missing part in her memories and it gives her enough courage to open the suitcase.
She puts the hoodie over her head and zips it up to her chin. The feeling of protection she gets from being engulfed in that scent and warmth is incredible and she smiles even bigger. Carefully, she opens the suitcase, one latch at a time.
Her eyes catch a flash of orange in the right corner: Reese's. Her hand is shaking when she takes it and shivers run down her spine. She tears the paper open and puts a piece of chocolate in her mouth. It melts on her tongue and she tightens her grip on the hoodie, trying to bring the fabric closer to her skin.
There's nothing else of interest in the suitcase. Most of the clothes don't remind her of anything and she even begins to wonder whether or not – just like the suitcase – those clothes actually belong to her. Yet, she recognizes a black romper with flowers she bought a few weeks ago.
She closes the suitcase and glances around again. The road is empty; still no sign of her taxi. Heaving a sigh, she stands up and absentmindedly gnaws on another chocolate. Her brain isn't trying to fill in the gap in her memory anymore and seems to bathe in some kind of bliss state, but her heart is still beating erratically, as if trying to draw her attention.
Something is still missing.
Tears well up in her eyes and for a moment it feels like she will never know happiness again if she doesn't immediately go back to the inn. She felt soothed when she found a small piece of familiarity, whatever it was. But it feels worse now, because her heart still aches, and her brain won't listen to it.
A feeling of panic overwhelms her, and it's not one she is used to. It's not the panic she knows when she wakes up from her fugue states in some unknown place and with the fear of finding a dead body. This panic is different. It starts in her stomach, it forms a lump that goes up to her throat and chokes her, forcing tears down her cheeks. She knows what it is – she is heartbroken. Despite all the gossip, she has known heart breaks.
But never like this.
The sensation of loss is so strong that it reminds her of Allison, of those damp tunnels, and she crumples into tears. She thought she had found something to hang on to in those tunnels, but the feeling that it had slipped from her fingers and is now out of reach is crushing her.
There's no one around, so she lets her cries of desperation fill the night. They travel along the road and lose themselves in the distance when they don't echo against the trees and merge with the wind to come back to her ears just as loud.
Lydia huddles up on herself, desperate to cover her ears and sits on the ground. She buries her face in the hoodie, trying to lose herself in its scent, but failing to recreate the peace and quiet she felt earlier. When she realizes her tears could wash the scent away, she feels another kind of panic swamping her. Shaking, she stands up and takes the hoodie off quickly, repeating "No, no!" with such anxiety in her voice that it does nothing to soothe her. There's dirt on the back where she leaned against the bench and with frantic gesture, she tries to beat it clean.
She sobs more and more violently, not controlling anything. Her tears make everything blurry around her, so she doesn't see the silhouette running to her. She doesn't see it, but she feels it. A presence. Something that attracts her eyes and forces her to turn around. A sensation that makes her heart leap with joy at the realization that it has been right there all along. It beats stronger and stronger, she feels its pulse in her ears and against her temples, even in her throat. With a smile, she wonders if it doesn't want to jump out of her chest to melt into that other heart. The one that belongs to the young man running to her and calling her name in a cry that sounds like what the wind was carrying earlier. The light of the moon could turn that silhouette into something threatening, but it doesn't. It only reminds her that this time, she must not stay still.
Images from a distant memory flash before her eyes. She is both on that empty road and on a Lacrosse field. A monster with angry red eyes is throwing itself at her from behind, and the same silhouette hastens to get to her first. Finally giving in to her heart, which is screaming in her ears and tensing her muscles, she runs toward the silhouette, not turning back in case the monster is actually there. She knows she's running, but she doesn't feel it, she doesn't feel the ground underneath her feet.
She sees his face now, his eyes, his lips, she sees him… And the word "Stiles!" escapes her lips in a desperate tone. She doesn't know what it means. It's a word her heart seems to have made up to describe the void that had started to gnaw at her soul. When they collide, it's the most brutal and soft sensation she has ever experienced. His scent wakes her up from what seems to be a vivid nightmare. His voice against her ear, his hands on her back and in her hair… It's soothing and suddenly, she can't remember why she was sobbing in the first place.
His arms are strong under her hands and around her waist. She hangs on tight, afraid she would crumble under the strength of her emotions.
When she raises her head to meet his stare, something twinges in her heart because his face is bathed in tears, just like hers. She repeats what she knows as his name, wondering how she could have forgotten it and it comes again. That secret smile appears on her lips. She says his name again, and again, and again, letting herself drown in the sensation of his hands in her hair, his fingers cradling her face to bring her closer to him. His kisses are wet and hurried on her forehead, against her temples and she answers with the same desperation against his neck and on his jaw.
The same words graze her ears, again and again, "Lyds, I'm… I'm so sorry, so sorry… I shouldn't have, I need you too much. Please, forgive me…"
And she cries. She cries because she doesn't want to live that nightmare ever again. She cries because she hadn't forgotten him, but she had forgotten the taste of his skin, the weight of his body and the warmth of his love. It had all turned to shadows though he is everything but a ghost. He is full. He is whole. He is her miracle.
He is hers, and she is his.
The taxi probably comes by at one point, but neither of them cares because that road is suddenly the most beautiful place on Earth.
"Stiles," she eventually whispers when their bodies aren't trembling anymore and they are able to breathe normally. Raising her head from his neck, she stares at him. His eyes are filled with so much love that she loses track of her own thoughts, just like that day on the floor of a dusty locker room where a different light had underlined the curves and angles of his face the same way. His fingers keep caressing her face and she clutches harder at his waist. He pulls her forehead against his and closes his eyes. "Don't you ever do this to me again. Do you hear me?" Her voice is still shaking, just like her entire body. Lydia feels his lips on hers, but it's barely a brush, so furtive and faint that she probably imagines it.
Stiles slowly shakes his head, "Never."
He keeps her in his arms long enough for her to collect her wits. Lydia feels the last residue of her nightmare leave her mind with each exhale. She isn't sure if she wants to know exactly what happened, she likes her memories better.
How could she have forgotten?
How could she have forgotten that three days have passed since the night Stiles has been almost ripped from her arms? The night when Stiles could have been erased from her memories just like he has been erased from everyone else's.
Three days have passed… Three days that should have been made out of a few hours in class, three diners at home, and some meaningless conversations filling the empty hours with that substance making everything else vibrate a little more.
Those seventy-two little hours have merged with each other to create a mass in Lydia's memory. A mass blending her fears, her anxiety, and her constant tiredness. Those hours have stretched on for centuries, frayed until she thought they both would stay prisoner in them forever. Only one thing has kept them together, given them some consistency.
Stiles.
The fear of seeing him vanish from one second to the next. The fear of startling at the next lightning bolt ripping across the black sky, then turn to find a void where Stiles was supposed to be. What would happen then? Would she realize someone was missing next to her? Her mind refused to imagine that possibility, even out of a sense of danger.
Even today.
But even after all the pain and suffering that followed, she would still make the same choices. Nothing in the entire world would convince her to change them. If she could start over, if someone gave her the possibility to go back in time and let him be taken away to find a much simpler solution, she wouldn't. She would make the same choices over and over again. Even with the knowledge that a difficult time awaits her, she would make the same choices. Hour after hour, second after second.
Because that night, three days ago, Stiles had needed her.
x
In his eyes, Lydia found what she has been desperately looking for since a monster has emerged from the darkness of his mind to steal his soul.
She screams his name, and she thinks she recognizes something in his eyes when his beautiful stare falls on her. A spark that she thought had vanished forever, a treasure manhandled by people who should have never been allowed to touch it. For a moment, she finds the Stiles she has known her entire life and with him, she finds hope.
It's not the first time something like this happens, but there's something different about tonight. She finds him as he is running out of high school and they rush up into each other's arms. Giving in to a primal instinct, she tells him she won't leave him, she won't let him be alone. The spark in his eyes grows bigger and he doesn't answer anything. Not with words anyway. In that moment, Lydia realizes that he may have managed to save that treasure from all the demons and clawed monsters, from all the coyotes and other carrion eaters who had rushed to his weakening body. He saved it, put it somewhere safe and let enough clues in his wake for someone attentive to find it. She has followed the trail and she thinks that maybe… Maybe it has always been her. Maybe all those half-smiles and hidden tears he kept leaving behind him have always been for her.
That night, she makes a promise to herself. She will follow the trail until the end. Whether she finds him with his arms opened, or looking in another direction, she will go all the way to bring him back. Like she should have done the day of the sacrifices. Many times, she has told herself that if she had been stronger that day, she would have managed to pull him back without leaving an open door in his mind, she would have been able to stop the demon. This time, she wouldn't abandon him to the darkness.
Later, Lydia would realize that this resolution to protect Stiles wasn't new. It had appeared the day the teacher had swapped her floral dresses for a black one when she had told the eight-year-old kids that Stiles wouldn't be back in class for a little while because he needed time to say good-bye to his mom. When she heard those words, Lydia's stomach had knotted and she felt tears prickling her eyes. Death was that great unknown, a void that couldn't be filled, even with screams. The only question that would never be answered. There weren't a lot of things that made her dizzier than that idea, even more so when she was a kid. The thought of Stiles being forced to stare into that boundless emptiness and forced to find an answer had made her want to cry for days. Her mom had taken her on a Saturday to visit him. She wanted to give him an answer, she always had them in class. But nothing had come to her mind. When he had come back to school, she hadn't let his constant sarcasm fool her. She had understood he wanted to pretend that everything was fine, so she had played along. But sometimes, she felt the weight of his stare on her. There was something almost unbelievable in that stare.
He had found an answer.
She would stare at him back sometimes, just to see if she could decipher the answer too. She couldn't, but for a few seconds, his brown eyes would light up and in those moments, Lydia understood something crucial: sometimes, the illusion of an answer was just enough. So, she smiled at him, as if to tell him everything would be fine and as her lungs would expand, she would see him exhale all his accumulated tension.
Lydia kept doing this during the ten following years, sometimes unconsciously looking for his eyes in the crowd and in the hallways to reassure him, make him understand that whatever the questions in his head were, he had found the answer.
This is why it feels so easy for Lydia during those three days to help him stay grounded. If she is the last guardian of his memory on this earth, his last shield before darkness, she needs a will of steel. There is no space for her own fears.
Later, that resolution will be what she remembers the most clearly.
It doesn't matter whether she is safe or not, she has to save Stiles.
It doesn't matter whether he asks for help or not, she would help him because he needs it.
She sees it in the way he keeps casting worried glances in the rear-view mirror that first night, in the way he sometimes presses his foot harder on the accelerator pedal, and in the way his shoulders startle at a noise she can't hear. It's the first time something like that happens to her, the first time she can't hear a sound. It awakens old fears inside of her, the sinking feeling to grope around in the dark for the switch while the invisible monster under her bed waits to grab her feet. Except the monsters are real this time.
After a while, she understands that Stiles startles when he hears a gunshot, and after hours watching his knuckles turn whiter by the minute on the wheel, his eyelids get heavier and heavier, the reality hits her – the Ghost Riders are not trying to catch them. They are playing with them, teasing them like the lion teases the gazelle, knowing very well that all it has to do is wait for its prey to fall exhausted.
Lydia wonders if it's just sadistic, or if there's another reason underneath. They could have shot the car from the beginning and it would have erased them both. Maybe they can't because they are still invisible to her eyes? That mere idea is enough to make her blood run cold, but at the same time, it helps her keep her resolution alive. It's further proof that she is the only one who can save Stiles. She is the only one standing between him and oblivion. She won't allow him to disappear and she will find a way to bring him back to Scott, Noah, and everyone who matters.
x
They don't have any legal papers, they don't have any money or food, but as Lydia drives for the first time to let Stiles get some rest, she realizes that none of it matters. It doesn't matter because when she looks at his sleeping feature against the window, she catches glimpses of an eager hand caressing his cheek in the moonlight, as if the night or the Moon herself was reclaiming her due.
She won't allow it.
In those moments, she speeds up to find shelter in the shadows of the trees along the road, keeping him away from the light, keeping his body safe. If there are no lightning bolts in the sky, she stops for a little while and watches him sleep. She finds comfort in the knowledge that in this instant, the most dangerous creature is herself and that she would do anything to protect him.
The night had him once, not twice.
She won't allow it.
x
At one point, they made the decision to follow the road that would lead them to the lake house, hoping they would find a copy of Lydia's papers and some money. Driving back to Beacon Hills is out of the question. It's something that Lydia can't even picture and that Stiles eventually stops suggesting. She will save him, and she won't let him face the trauma of not being recognized by Scott, or by his own father... not again.
When she heard that story, she couldn't find it in herself to muffle her sobs.
After a first night spent driving as fast as possible, praying for the Jeep to not break down in the middle of an unknown road and leave them at the mercy of the Ghost Riders, they sleep for a few hours on the back seat next to a gas station.
Lydia is cold and hungry, but nothing would take her away from Stiles's arms at that moment. Without noticing, she falls asleep against him until a violent down pour wakes them up. She shivers and he gives her his hoodie.
The blue one.
The one she could claim as hers given the amount of times she has worn it in the last months during their nocturnal adventures in Beacon Hills.
The one that still smells like him.
He tells her in an undertone about his father's reaction and about Scott; both of them looking at him like he was a stranger asking for directions.
Stiles hangs on tighter and tighter to her as he talks.
No, she doesn't want to be safe. Not as much as she wants to save Stiles.
x
The rest matters so little that she doesn't even wince the first time she steals food, or when she manages to get them into a motel room without paying so they can sleep a few hours in an actual bed and take a shower.
Stiles's discomfort, however, is written all over his face. Lydia knows where it comes from. All she has to do is meet his gaze to understand. He wears the same expression he used to wear during those dreadful months after Allison's death: guilt. He blames himself for putting her in danger and in situations that could send her to prison. Lydia doesn't have to ask him, she already knows what's in his mind. She knows that beside the Ghost Riders who could annihilate them in a snap, there's everything else…
The probability that someone will report her missing, for starters. If she was found with Stiles, a teenage boy without identity, he would be taken into custody in Beacon Hills and nothing would be easier for the Ghost Riders than to take him from there.
Stiles has found a solution, she knows that. But she also knows that she doesn't want to decipher that one. That solution will take him away from her, she can read it in his eyes. So, she smiles at him, then looks away.
x
One day, the Jeep breaks down on a road in the middle of the forest. Without GPS or a map, it's impossible for them to know where they are. They walk for long hours on the road, and when night falls, the landscape is still the same. There isn't a single cloud in the sky and yet, lightning bolts tear apart the sky, forcing them to run and hide in the forest.
Eventually, they come across a tree house where they are able to take shelter. Stiles is even more worried than Lydia has ever seen him. Her heart breaks, her chest shrinks and forces the air out of her lungs. So, to divert herself, she blows on the ashes of her new found hope and it's enough to help her forget about the rest. In the end, she will save him, and everything will be alright.
They don't sleep the entire night.
When the danger has passed, they nibble some dry fruits and protein bars to trick their stomachs into believing they are full.
The adrenaline rush as stopped, yet Lydia's head spins so much that even in a seated position, she has to lean on Stiles, letting herself melt against his chest and his welcoming warmth.
She readjusts her legs and as she turns her head, she catches the way he is looking at her and she stays locked in his gaze. No words are exchanged, they don't need any. Their eyes contain them all. I'm lost without you. I love you so much. How do you do it? How do you always help me forget about everything else that isn't you? Stiles opens his arms and without a sound, they curl up against each other, closer than ever.
"Do you think they are gone?" she asks, eyes fixated on the first ray of sunshine that casts their shadows on the ground in a square of light.
Stiles tightens his embrace around her and lays his cheek on the top of her head. "I think so, yes. You can sleep, I'll watch over you." Lydia notices how hoarse his voice is. She doesn't know if she is allowed to like it, or if it's a sign of unshed tears.
So, just in case, she shakes her head and nuzzles closer to him. "No, you sleep… And when the sun is high enough, I'll sleep too."
But neither of them sleeps, rather they just keep trying to convince each other to close their eyes.
As the first birds sing, they stop talking. Lydia can't shake off the feeling of being an intruder and wishes she could shrink back until she isn't bothering them. There's a split in the wooden ceiling and she silently gazes as the stars slowly fade in the sky. Behind her, she feels Stiles's body tense and jolt slightly, as if he was trying to muffle sobs. She leans with her whole body against him without saying anything, taking in her hands the ones he had shyly laid around her waist and she squeezes them.
Wordlessly, she breathes deeply, trying to communicate her own rhythm to his body. She can feel him trying to follow her and once his sobs are gone, they breathe the same air. Lydia doesn't even realize how intimate this is until she becomes aware of his warm and sweaty body clinging to every inch of her own. Even through their layers of clothes, she feels him entirely and she wonders if getting addicted to someone is a thing. Yes, probably. She keeps caressing his forearm, lulled by the sensation of his chest raising and falling behind her back, imprinting its movement into her. His cheek is against her temple, protected by his breath tickling her ear and neck. She feels his lips right above her ear, whispering a faint "thank you" before lingering there in a kiss that echoes in her entire body and makes her shiver to the tip of her toes.
"Are you cold?" he asks her, pulling her even closer to him, his voice still wet from tears.
"No, I'm fine." Lydia closes her eyes. She is overwhelmed by his warmth, the one that shines right from his heart and it's probably the best sensation she has ever experienced. But then she feels him straightening and has to let out a light gasp of protest when she no longer feels his body against hers.
"Hold on a sec... I'll give you my shirt to cover your legs."
"No, I'm fine, I promise. I already have your hoodie, you're the one who'll end up freezing."
Turning around, she sees his eyes shine with some unshed tears, but a smirk lights up his entire face. He takes his plaid shirt off, leaving him in a simple black shirt. Black suits him, that's a thought that crosses Lydia's mind more than often. Black accentuates the spark in his eyes, it makes them even more magnetic. She smiles back and realizes she doesn't want to stop herself.
"I'm never cold, don't worry."
Then, he leans against the wooden planks again and pulls Lydia against him, not shying away and laying his hands on her stomach, awakening the hundreds of butterflies that were born the day she had given him his breath back. She doesn't resist him, feeling like a rag doll in his gentle hands, wishing for her body to melt into his to be sure no one would take him away from her. He straightens his legs and covers hers with his flannel. The fabric feels like a caress on her skin, heavy and soft. Nothing can distinguish their two bodies anymore and Lydia sinks with delight into the cocoon Stiles has built around her with his magic.
When a blue jay perches on the edge of an opening in the wall, probably a former window, they try to remain still, so as to not scare it. The bird flies away after a few seconds during which, Lydia has the feeling that time freezes.
"If I was superstitious, I'd say it's a good omen," asserts Stiles. His tired voice and its vibrations reverberate in her back.
"Why?"
"Blue jays are supposed to bring light and hope during hard times."
They don't speak for a little while, always trying to get closer to each other by moving a hand or titling a knee. Lydia's stare loses itself in the sea of green outside the tree house.
"Lydia?"
"Mmh?"
"D'you…" Stiles clears his throat. "Do you remember the Winter formal?"
A small laugh escapes Lydia's breath. "Of course." She is immediately overwhelmed with the memory; a nice warmth spreading everywhere inside her and creating new waves that make the butterflies in her stomach flutter higher. She slightly tilts her head to tuck it deeper under his chin.
"Did you know you were the first girl I ever danced with?"
Each word is pronounced with so much deference that it only adds to Lydia's need to crawl under his skin, to keep him by her side until the end of time. So, she turns with her entire body, leaning her left side against him and laying her ear over his heart. She encircles his hip with her arm, grabbing his hand on her knee with the other one.
"I didn't know that," she whispers with a smile in her voice. "It was nice. I had never felt so comfortable in someone's arms. Safe. As if… As if I could just relax because you weren't expecting anything from me." She gnaws at her lips, feeling her heart follow the erratic beating of Stiles's. "You know, we could… We could go to prom together… Would you want to?"
Stiles doesn't answer, but his heart races, and Lydia smiles. She tilts her head up to see the look on his face, but before she can meet his eyes, his lips are on her forehead. His eyes shine, but there aren't any tears anymore.
"Yeah, I'd love to."
A shy smile makes its way on her lips and she nuzzles against him again, lowering her head until she finds the beating of his heart against her ear.
"Do you remember the song?" she asks him after a little while, knowing she doesn't have to elaborate.
"Would I sound cheesy if I say yes?"
A silent laugh reverberates through his chest and she shakes her head. "No, absolutely not…" She waits a little and adds, "Would you sing it to me?"
Against her temple, she can feel him gulping down slowly. His fingers fidget against her knee. "I… I'm not sure I remember the lyrics."
She scoffs and whispers, "Liar…" Her lips brush his neck, and she starts filling dizzy again. Maybe it's the hunger, or the tiredness. Or, maybe it's just Stiles. Either way, her lips linger a little and she kisses his skin, right on his pulse point. It keeps jumping.
After a deep breath, Stiles tilts his head down until it covers Lydia's and he begins to sing, humming the few lyrics he remembers and making up the other ones. Lydia feels his arms around her. They tighten every time he sings the line: you're not just a girl. To Lydia, it seems like Stiles is saying that it's not just a song, and that's more than okay with her. That's what she is telling him when she intertwines their fingers and brings them to her lips.
When the light more precisely outlines their shadows on the ground, they start to fall asleep.
Right before being engulfed by a dream-less sleep, the memory of Stiles in her own bed during the last months comes back to warm Lydia up a little more. She remembers trying to convince him more than once to stay with her when he would sneak into her room through the window instead of going ghost hunting in the middle of the night. He only said yes a couple of times, telling himself that he had to protect her. Staring at the ceiling and stealing glances from the corner of her eyes, she never slept a lot during those nights. Stiles didn't either. They always ended up talking in the dark, filling the space between them with whispers that were worth all the caresses she had ever known.
When the sun would filter through her window, she never failed to realize that what she had mistaken for Stiles's hand in hers was nothing more than his pillow case. But her disappointment never lasted long because he seemed to always need to lay his arm over hers, numbing said hand. Still half asleep, Lydia would turn slightly to distance herself from Stiles... just a little. She wasn't ready to let the sun paint their intimacy with its brilliant colors, but she wasn't worried either. Whatever her decisions were in the daylight, she knew the moon would always help her fill the space between and around them with more promises.
But today, the moon is an enemy and there's no room for new promises.
Today, it's time to stop giving their words and start keeping them, removing the layers between them, one at a time. It's time to dissipate the fog that used to protect them, but that feels now more like an obstacle preventing them to truly look at each other.
Lydia brushes her lips against the skin of his neck – again and again – in the shiest kisses she has ever given. His entire body answers her: his heart when it echoes her own beating, his veins when they pulse against her skin, his breath when it sends shivers on her skin and his lips.
His lips that kiss her somewhere between her ear and her cheekbone, reaching a place somewhere behind her scars. Reaching her hope. Reaching her soul.
Then, it hits her – It had never been more obvious.
She doesn't want to be safe, she wants to save Stiles.
Because she can't live without him.
Because she loves him.
And nothing has ever felt more important than those words, so she says them.
"I'm going to save you, Stiles." She almost says them.
"You already did," he whispers so faintly and yet, it couldn't be clearer.
He got them anyway.