A/N: Hey guys! I'm reposting this fic from an old fanfiction account of mine, so if you've seen this before, that's why! I wanted to consolidate everything onto this account. :) You can find me at notwithoutlydia on tumblr!
Lydia Martin knows a thing or two about waking up next to a complete stranger.
It doesn't happen often, necessarily, but it does happen.
So, when she wakes up to the feeling of a warm body pressed against her back and an arm slung across her waist, she isn't that surprised. The pounding in her head tells her she'd had just a few too many shots of vodka the night before, landing her in this rather precarious position.
She needs a drink of water and about ten aspirin, but she also needs to escape the unknown man's grasp to make that happen. Not really wanting to face whatever lapdog she's landed the night before, Lydia slowly and carefully touches the man's wrist and begins to lift his hand.
Which, of course, is the precise moment he chooses to sigh her name.
"Lydia."
Her fingers press into his pale skin and she freezes.
Stiles. She would recognize his voice anywhere.
Stiles. Lydia is in bed with Stiles.
Stiles. Lydia slept with Stiles.
Her green eyes grow impossibly wide as she lays there, one foot dangling off the bed. Lydia Martin slept with Stiles Stilinski.
If only high school Lydia could see her now.
It takes about two seconds for Lydia to realize it's imperative she escape the room. If she can't remember sleeping with him, maybe Stiles wont, either. Maybe he'll wake up to his own naked body and think...
Well, maybe he won't think at all.
Lydia moves carefully as she slips from the bed, doing her best not to jostle him. She keeps searching her mind for even a glimpse of a memory of him, of what they'd done the night before, but she keeps coming up empty. She slept with Stiles and she doesn't remember even a second of it.
Is it weird that the realization disappoints her?
Biting back a groan at her own thoughts, Lydia hastily begins to gather her clothes. Bra, panties, skirt, top, heels - check, check, and check. She dresses as quickly as she can, only stumbling a few times in her haste. Once dressed, she peers around his room in the dark, trying to see if she's left anything that would tell him who he slept with last night. Finding nothing, she dashes for the door.
Just before she twists the handle and leaves, she looks back at him. He looks so peaceful stretched out across his bed, his arm now flat against the mattress where it had been holding her only moments ago. It surprises Lydia to find a small part of her wants to sneak back into his bed, to let him pull her close and forget about the rest of the world for a little while.
But that part of her is a part she's kept buried for years, a part she doesn't dare to explore or give into. Stiles is her friend, and that's all he can ever be.
With that thought in mind, Lydia slides from the room, fully intent on never telling Stiles what happened between them.
Unfortunately, what Lydia fails to notice is Stiles's bleary gaze settling on her just as she flees the room.