These were the thoughts I dreamed,
connected, but meandering:
Life is gorgeous.
Every tiny thing about it,
even the things that make our eyes wet,
even the things that feel
like they are strangling our tiny hearts.
This is one gigantic picture, and we
are all a part, we are single stiches on a
tapestry of human emotion,
we walk on a quilt of laughter
and tears and heartache and
such immense joy
and it just shines.
If you just look,
through it
all,
everything radiates.

- Tyler Knott Gregson –

With one hand on the light switch, Stiles waits for Scott, Kira, and Melissa to reach their bedrooms upstairs.

The last staircase cracks under each of their steps.

From that faint crack, a cascade of memories floods his mind. He lets them wash over him with a bashful elation. Hours have gone by since he entered that house for the first time in a decade, but everything still wears the halo of miracles.

He eventually turns the light off, letting a night as black as ink engulf the house. Nothing filters from the outside. The clouds, still soggy with snow, won't let the Moon or any star illuminate the Earth tonight. A long yawn forces him to shut his eyes. It must be around midnight which means he has been up for more than thirty hours. The thought only stiffens his muscles.

Trying to make as little noise as he can, he turns around to reach the spare bedroom where Lydia must be already sleeping. She went to bed around 9 p.m. when Stiles woke her up because she was falling asleep on his shoulder. He is already considering the idea of sleeping in his underwear. He won't have the strength to go through his stuff to find his pajamas, and he won't be able to do it quietly anyway… But he opens the door and finds Lydia sitting cross-legged in the red armchair next to the bed. She has turned on the bedside lamp and is leafing through their notebook, her pretty head resting heavily in her right palm as the corners of her mouth curl up the way they always do when she daydreams. She doesn't hear him entering the bedroom right away, and Stiles gapes at her as all signs of fatigue are getting swallowed by a much more powerful force. The door closing makes her lift her head, and she beams at him in a way he hopes is reflecting on his features.

"I thought I would find you asleep."

Lydia lets her stare drift to the photos in the notebook, caressing something he can't see.

"I was…" She turns to look at him when he sits next to her on the bed, her dimples making her entire face gleam with love, a pretty hue of pink coloring her cheeks. "But I can't sleep alone anymore… I could blame you for that."

"Yeah…" She is already reaching out to him when his hand seeks hers to intertwine their fingers over her knee. "I know what you mean." He winks at her before leaning in and pecks her lips. The same things seem to hypnotize both of them for a while, they let the seconds pass and stretch all around them. "Why didn't you come back if you couldn't sleep anymore?"

A shadow darkens her smile, and Stiles brings her knuckles to his lips. "I uh… I wanted to, I almost did. But I… I couldn't."

"You got scared…" He doesn't have to ask her, a simple glimpse at her face is enough for him to know. He sits on the edge of the mattress and props his elbow against her armrest to cradle her cheek. "Why?"

Hesitating briefly, Lydia eventually turns her head towards the wall adjacent to the door and points at it with her chin. Stiles follows the direction and freezes as her jaw twitches faintly under his thumb and her fingers hook his wrist. It's a set of photos, magnified and framed; family pictures from over the years. His heart leaps into his throat, and he slowly stands up to get closer. He recognizes almost all of those pictures, he remembers them because he was there, because he is part of them. But two pairs of eyes hypnotize him more than others. The deep blue ones of his dad and the laughing browns of his mom. The only pictures he has of them are in his mom's notebook. These photos are both old and new, they awake in him the echoes of an earthquake he thought had destroyed everything. But underneath the dirt and ruins lie those eyes and within them, his parents in flesh and bone. He had never felt their presence so strongly in years. Like a reflex, his index is already moving towards them, maybe a part of him wishes he could reach their ghosts through the glass and the glossy paper, beyond the memories and the veil of death. But he doesn't dare, holding still when the skin of his index starts to tingle from the contact with the cold surface. He sniffs and slowly tucks his hand in his pocket.

Lydia is right behind him, he can sense her. He turns around and sees her fidgeting in a really familiar way. He doesn't need more to understand.

"You belong too, you know," he says softly as he moves towards her, close enough to soothe her restlessness.

The contact with his skin coaxes her muscles to stop twitching and she gapes at him, nodding. "I… I just need some time."

"I know," Stiles lets his body answer hers like it always does and cups the back of her head, wrapping his other arm around her waist. Lydia hugs him tightly back, her fingers interlocked behind his back. "I want you to feel good here – at home. Take the time you need."

"Thanks… I do feel good." She shuts her eyes, her head nestled against his collarbone.

He hears the sound of her inhales. She is breathing him in, and even after so many months, it still astounds him. He does the same, peaceful joy tugging at his lips.

After a moment, she resumes in a more relaxed voice. "It will be alright, I know it. And you looked so happy that it made me happy."

Stiles lets out a faint chuckle before kissing her skull.

"Yeah… I would have never dared hoping it could go this well."

Silence settles in, and they start swinging from side to side. Stiles thinks he could fall asleep like this when Lydia calls him back to reality.

"Go put on your pajamas so we can keep talking under the blanket."

"Mmh, good idea," he whispers, her hair tickling his skin.

He follows her movements as she unwinds from his embrace to snuggle under the thick blanket, her head nestling on the pillow with a sigh of contentment. Only her eyes are peeking through, but he can spot her smile in them; a smile as obvious as her tiredness. She struggles to keep her eyelids open. Keep them open long enough to watch him come to her. Like she knows he always does.

The shadows that were dimming the light in her beautiful green irises are all gone, she seems peaceful. As Stiles rifles through his luggage to find his pajamas, he lets a wave of relief wash over him. He has been so afraid. Last week, the entire day… Now, they are here, and Lydia is waiting for him to join her with a smile. A tired smile, but a smile. It's all that matters.

Stiles has observed Lydia a lot since they found Scott at the airport. He has been on the lookout for any signs that would betray her anguish, but the only ones he saw were easily dismissed with a word whispered in her ear, or a firm embrace.

Entering Beacon Hills had been difficult for both of them.

The instant they passed the highway sign, silence had descended on the car like a lid. Stiles and Lydia weren't leaving each other, his arms still wrapped around Lydia's shoulders from behind and her hands clutching his sleeve.

Her pulse beat against his wrist when they had crossed the road leading to their former high school. Stiles held his breath as something strong was irresistibly drawing him in that direction, completely deaf to his own heart pleading him to look in another direction, any other direction.

"It burnt."

Scott's voice had cut the air like a knife, sending shock waves reverberating through Stiles's body and making the tension in the car falter slightly. He felt Lydia quiver too and laid his lips on the back of her skull.

"Everything? Even the… outside? The lacrosse field?" she asked; the question leaving her mouth in a choked and barely audible voice.

Imperturbable with his stare fixed on the road, Scott had answered in a composed voice, "Everything."

Stiles saw him swallow thickly and understood in his tone of voice that there was more to that story, that Scott knew more than that. After pondering whether he should continue the conversation or not, Stiles eventually asked, "What… What happened?"

Their eyes met in the rear-view mirror, sending a shiver down Stiles's spine. There were a lot of things in Scott's stare. Determination and something more vulnerable, something like fear, guilt.

"It was a long time ago during a summer break. There was nobody around at the time, and everything burnt in a few hours. They don't know what happened."

From his position, Stiles could feel Lydia's lungs swell, her heart beat fast. "Good." It was the only word she managed to articulate, but her entire being sagged against the backseat with a relieved sigh.

"Yeah, good." Stiles and Scott had glanced at each other in the rear-view mirror as Stiles had repeated Lydia's words. Unwinding his embrace from Lydia for a second, he had patted Scott's back. "It's a good thing."

The trace of a timid grin played on Scott's lips and with a last glimpse in the mirror, Stiles saw every sign of vulnerability fade from his eyes.

Time had accelerated when the Jeep took the last turn, and Stiles spotted Melissa and Kira outside the house, their sight making all the ghosts haunting those streets in daunting parades disappear.

Melissa hadn't changed much. Light wrinkles started to imprint an eternal joy on her face. She had always smiled. That's how Stiles remembered her during all those years, giving him the same genuine and large smile she gave to her own son, knowing she couldn't offer them a lot more to help bear the weight they had taken upon their shoulders. Some days, that smile had been harder to maintain than others. After Allison's death, Noah's… The ground had collapsed under Scott and Stiles's feet. Their legs had been too weak to lift them up, so despite her own pain, she smiled at them.

Every single day.

Stiles had always been aware of the strength she summoned to send them that frail light in the darkness. He had always known that once she was alone, that smile would quiver, that it would be made uncertain by her tears until it got wiped away by the stream. Today, an eternal happiness was playing on her features, a way life had found to relieve her from a terrible weight.

She hugged Stiles as soon as he stepped out of the car, and her perfume funneled into his memory, bringing back more fragrances and colors, more life. He had to bend down a little to hug her, but he had never felt smaller or younger. In her arms, he felt like a child. Letting out soft sobs, he had barely noticed her hand rubbing his back. And her voice – her voice was the voice of a mom trying to soothe her son after a nightmare. "It's over, Stiles. It's over now. You're home."

With the same affection, she welcomed Lydia too.

Then, there was Kira. Years and pregnancy had transformed her. Stiles still remembered a slender teenager, a bit shy maybe, but full of light and with an easy smile. She was different; something had changed. Stiles didn't know if it was her hair, the way she dressed, the way she was… It was as if the kindness that had always been inside of her decided it was time to come out of its hiding spot and adorn her entire being, her every gesture. She kept a hand on the small of her back and extended her other arm towards him with a grin, then kissing his cheek. Neither said a thing, but she tightly gripped the collar of his sweater and her breath quivered, holding back sobs. They both wiped invisible tears on their cheeks when they pushed back.

Stiles introduced her to Lydia, and they had all started to talk outside until a gust of brisk wind forced them to go inside.

The afternoon, or what was left of it, went by in a snap. Stiles couldn't even say precisely what they had talked about. Neither he nor Lydia was hungry, but they didn't refuse a peanut butter and jelly sandwich when offered. It tasted like childhood, like a 4 p.m. snack, like those long afternoons spent in their backyards, pretending to be someone they weren't, living adventures in faraway lands and dreaming of the life they have today.

Lydia was peaceful, but her small hand would tremble sometimes, seeking his under the table. He would hold it over his knee, caressing her skin and squeezing – softly enough to not hurt her, but tight enough to anchor her. She had whispered to him in the dark of the night once that she had no idea how, for years, he could have endured what he had been through. While she never really had a family and suffered from it, Stiles had one… and lost it. He didn't answer but opened his arms for her in one of those cuddles that would always take over when words were failing.

This past afternoon, the same emotion made her tremble. A wave of love that engulfed her wholly. Stiles had felt it too. The only thing he could do was to reach out, to hold her however he could, and help her keep her head above the water. He had asked her several times if she wanted to slip away with him to isolate themselves as he had promised at the airport, but she had refused each time.

When they had gone back to the Jeep to get the rest of their luggage, it was already night. Lydia grabbed Stiles's elbow, taking a step back from the others.

"It's going well, right?" All her attention was riveted on him, nervousness written all over her features, her body communicating a tension she had tried to keep at bay until then.

Stiles smiled at her while some memories of the afternoon washed over him: The delight in Melissa's voice when she had told Lydia everything she could remember about the child Stiles was. The way Scott had paid attention to her, making sure she wasn't left alone when Kira or Melissa would take him aside. The words Kira had whispered to him with a satisfied grin and a wink in the kitchen, I like her. She's fun, and she's even smarter than you are. Keep her.

"It's going perfectly," he had answered with a peck on Lydia's temple, squeezing her hands in his.

Stiles is brought back to the present when Lydia asks him the same question. "It went well, right? They didn't find it odd that I went to bed so early?"

Her question and the vulnerability in her voice tugs at his core in an affectionate smile. As he turns around, adjusting his pajama shirt, she is still looking at him, her face half covered by the blanket and half bathed in a dim yellow light. Kneeling beside her with his chin resting over his forearms, he reaches out with one finger to pull the blanket down and free the rest of her face.

"You were perfect." He doesn't speak too loudly, just enough so that his words reach Lydia. "As always." Outlining her chin with the tip of his thumb, he connects his lips to hers in a slow and warm kiss. Everything is soft, from the sound of their breathless sighs, to the rustling of the blanket, to her languid caresses in his hair.

"Come join me," she whispers against his mouth as a delicate whimper escapes Stiles.

He stands up and his fatigued body crashes on the bed with a loud sigh, it feels like finally resting on the shore after hours of swimming against the current. Lydia turns around and without a word, helps him get under the blanket. Being pressed against her under a heavy and thick blanket is a blessing. It feels like melting into her arms, like they can finally be one. He could fall asleep right after Lydia turns the light off, but he won't. There is a question he needs to ask her.

"Lyds?"

"Mmh?" Her voice vibrates against the skin of his neck, waking him up enough to shape his worries into words.

"How do you feel?"

"What do you…" It's too dark to see her, but the soft pressure of her head leaves its spot and Stiles cups her cheek to meet her gaze.

"Oh… You mean the…" She can't finish her sentence, so she nestles her nose in the crook of his neck again, stiffening her grip around his waist.

As she takes a deep inhale, Stiles slowly caresses the back of her skull. They had talked about it. It's Beacon Hills after all, and it's possible that the nightmares, the voices, and the darkness would come back and haunt her.

"Do you sense things here?"

"It's um… It's heavier. Kind of like in the car when we were driving through town. I can sense something but…"

To help her find her words, Stiles hugs her tighter against him.

"It won't hurt me, not like Peter. It's just…dark, heavy...cold. You know?"

"Yeah, I think I feel it too. I think I always have, but I had forgotten what it really felt like…" At those words, her muscles around him relax.

"It's lighter in this house…or when you hold me like that."

A soft snigger escapes Stiles's breath. "Well, then I guess we'll have to stay like this forever." A long yawn stops him, and he resumes, "It's fine by me."

Her breath travels upwards, warming up the skin of his neck and chin, until it reaches his mouth and the wet, comforting presence of her lips is against his. She kisses him slowly but firmly, fighting the fatigue that is slowly taking hold of every one of her muscles and bones. Stiles helps her, hovering over her until his muscles can't support his weight anymore, and they both let their heads sink into their pillow.

When Lydia speaks, Stiles recognizes that drowsy tone she always gets in her voice when she is already half asleep. "It's gonna be alright, Stiles. Don't worry. We just need to pull, each on our side."

"What do you mean?"

"That connection between us… It's gonna be alright because I'm holding tight onto my end of the thread. You just need to keep pulling me to you."

"Always, Lyds," he kisses her eyelids as he clutches her to him, wrapping her whole body as if she would crumble into pieces without him. "I'll always be there."

"Mmh…"

He feels the soft graze of her skin running over his thigh and hip before settling on his lower back.

"Me too," she whispers in a sigh before falling asleep. Stiles follows her immediately.

When Lydia wakes, she isn't expecting to find Stiles against her. They haven't moved the entire night, she realizes. She relishes in the feeling of his warm neck right against her nose, his hands and arms draped around her frame under the covers, some hot points of contact between their skins, their legs tangled up… It rarely happens. One of them usually has to find their way back into their nest. But they were so tired when they drifted off, sleep must have weighed on them more than she had thought it would.

Stiles isn't awake yet, she can tell by the way he lightly snores, his regular intakes of breathes, and his complete stillness. The window is behind her, and she can hear the wind. She imagines a grey sky covered in thick snowy clouds. The thought alone makes her shiver. She buries herself deeper under the blanket, gingerly bundling up closer to Stiles and letting the heat of his skin seep through the layer of his pajamas until it reaches her. He is so warm, the blanket so thick, and everything around them is so soft…

The word "nestling" has never been more accurate. She could spend an eternity or two like this – the sound of his breathing, the steadiness of his pulse, his scent, the weight of his limbs, and the wetness of his lips against her forehead. It all builds up around her until it almost feels like they have merged into one being. Everything is still and quiet inside, while outside, the sound of the wind and the screech of one or two birds fighting the breeze creates a perfect contrast. It's impossible to hate the cold in Stiles's arms, she thinks, beaming against his chest.

The memory of her first English winter comes to mind. It had been a shock, but she had quickly developed an unconditional love for those scarfs the size of a small blanket. She used to wrap them around herself until they covered her shoulders and nose, and it felt like she hadn't left her bed.

Winters have never been this cold in Beacon Hills. Stiles had gently scoffed at her at the airport in Reikjavik when she had realized she wouldn't be able to wear those scarfs anymore. It saddened her, but she doesn't think about it this morning. In her veins, a sudden frenzy is pulsing. A craving for a milder cold, going out in the winter wearing only a jacket and a thin scarf maybe. She wants to rediscover all her old habits that shaped her childhood, but mostly, she wants to experience adult life here. Here, in her country.

She had never thought about what that meant – her country. It never had any meaning; nothing positive happened here. She has never felt attached to any country in particular, never felt like she had a country. But now, with Stiles, she is home everywhere, and she thinks maybe they will be able to put something behind the words their country. If they can do that, she knows they'll be able to be anywhere in the world and still know where their roots are.

As she lets her mind drift towards daydreams, she remembers a coffee shop halfway between her house and the high school. Every morning, she would see people in suits coming out of it with cardboard cups the size of two hands. Every morning, she envied them, wanted to do the same. That was her idea of adult life at fifteen years old. Stopping mid-way in her way to work in the morning to get a fancy coffee and take sips at every red light until she gets to her office and puts it next to her computer. The thought makes her scoff, and she nuzzles up closer against Stiles's neck. If she had known… She remembers being determined to buy a coffee like those people. In preparation, she had taken notes of every drink and studied them so she would know exactly what to order. There was no way she would go there and make a fool of herself.

But she never had the chance to try. Peter happened, and nothing was ever the same.

Maybe that coffee shop doesn't exist anymore, but it feels like she owes it to herself to check.

With Stiles.

Stiles…

Her stare floats towards him, her sleeping angel, his lips parted against the pillow next to her forehead. She knows it wouldn't take much to wake him up. Even if her limbs are heavy with tiredness, she can also almost sense every one of his cells being drawn to her, their entire attention focused on her. All it would take would be to shift slightly and kiss her way up from his neck to his mouth, let herself get engulfed by his warmth, his comforting body and his morning voice. But Lydia restrains herself. He needs his sleep.

She knows she will have to continue to do the same in the days or weeks to come because there is something else she is dying to see. His former house, his home, the place where his parents brought up the perfect man he has become. But he isn't ready, and she would never force him. Who knows in what condition they will find the house? Even discreetly asking Scott would be out of place. She will have to give Stiles all the time he needs.

Noises from somewhere in the house are reaching her ears, telling her that the day is slowly beginning. She groans faintly, not wanting to leave the shelter Stiles has built for her with his body.

Maybe if she closes her eyes, sleep would reclaim her… but there is too much excitement in her muscles, too much twitchiness. Agreeing to lose this fight, she gets lost in her contemplation of Stiles. Watching him sleep has always brought her serenity. She can't say it relaxes her because her entire being is begging her to cuddle deeper into him, but she is serene. Nothing else matters. She is where she is supposed to be. All their troubles, their questions, they are all still here, but they are no heavier than a feather. Everything will be alright.

She can tell he feels the same. Peacefulness is written all over him. As the day slowly emerges, she takes in the sight of him; his moles highlighted by a faint ray of light, his cheekbones, how the brown of his hair turns the color of chestnuts, brighter, richer…

Against her, he eventually stirs, faint twitches in his muscles making his arms tighten around her. She tries to conceal her grin at the thought that even in his sleep, something in him can feel her, can feel her happiness, her love, and that he is eager to answer it. Slowly, his head moves down, his digits on her hip starting to regain consciousness. As he is rousing himself from a deep sleep, stretching in the exact same way he does every morning, Lydia can't resist snuggling closer and straightening her head to sense every inch of his lovely shape awakening. Without any forewarning, his lips are on hers and she responds with a kiss and a sigh of contentment that Stiles welcomes as his own oxygen.

"G'morning, sunshine." His voice is gravelly, still coated by sleep. It runs along her skin with the softness of a caress.

She can't help but gape at him and melt in a sigh, seeking to draw a bit more of that substance they use to weave their future from his lips. Words get stuck in her throat by an emotion that makes her chest swell and constrict everything else. Tears are accumulating somewhere behind her sternum and she presses herself closer against him, fastening their embrace. His eyelashes are just as humid as hers. They can't do anything else than breathe each other in, witness their exhales melding and helping their souls to merge, trying to find the plane of existence, where one plus one equals one.

Curiously, Lydia has the feeling they can find it here. After all, there is a balance in everything. There is always a breathing space, a safe haven that helps the mind escape for an instant. Even here.

After what could have been a few seconds, a few minutes, or hours idling into each other arms, Stiles softly caresses Lydia's hair, coaxing her to lift her stare and look at him. He is beautiful, even in this grey morning light, his eyes are so bright...or deep – Lydia doesn't know anymore because the way he gazes at her always makes something tug around her heart and reality fades behind that feeling. Always. She beams at him in wonder. She knows he can read her happiness, her boundless love for him in each of her gestures, and she refuses to hide it. It makes him grin broadly. It even makes him blush. She giggles, letting her fingers tinkle along his cheek and lips as he slowly lowers his hand from her head to the small of her back to encircle her waist and pull her a little nearer.

She is happy. Lydia is happy in Beacon Hills and it's all thanks to Stiles, her miracle.

Happiness in Beacon Hills is something she never thought she would know, but here they are, and it's easy, like it always is with him. As she anchors her stare to his, bringing her nose closer to his and tenderly brushing it, the same amazement glows through him with an intensity that would put any star to shame.

"You ready to go?" There is still a husky tone to his voice, and Lydia feels her eyelids smoothly fluttering closed to let it work its way through her, quickening the pace of her heart and spreading panic among the butterflies in her stomach.

She opens her eyes and shakes her head, straightening when his hand starts rubbing her back under her shirt in that way he knows she likes. It makes her seek his mouth in a whimper, and her fingers find that spot on his skull that always coaxes him to make the most enticing noises. They kiss lazily until Lydia finds herself in the soft cocoon of his body above hers, her head buried in the pillow. She parts her lips to welcome him deeper and his moan sparks the most pleasant fire inside of her.

"I missed this," she manages to articulate after they stop panting. For a week, tenderness between them hadn't vanished, but tension and anxiety at the idea of returning to Beacon Hills had stolen those lazy morning hours. Those moments when time is replaced with kisses and caresses. When their minds are on the edge of waking up yet decide to linger more in that blissful state made out of soft lights, thick voices, airy laughter, and overwhelming love.

"I missed this too." He answers in a smile, no doubt or fear clouding his features.

They stop talking for a while. She loses herself in his eyes above her, in the feeling of his arms, of his hair, of his heart making his chest rise and fall.

Lydia wants Stiles to kiss her, again and again, until her lungs don't remember what it means to breathe their own air. Before she has the chance to shape her thoughts into words, he is already lowering himself to connect their lips in the most tender greeting.

The wind is still blowing outside, stronger and stronger.

Lydia has never felt safer.

A little while later, Stiles dresses quickly and shows Lydia the bathroom, two doors down the hallway. When he closes the door behind her, she is sure he left with her one of his smiles, a smile that accompanies every one of her gestures. She remembers to keep it on her lips to give it back to him after her shower.

It takes her less than fifteen minutes, after which she almost has to refrain from running to the kitchen. He must have sensed her coming because when she sees him, he is already pulling out a chair at the table for her to sit beside him. Only Kira is with him. It's already late in the morning, Scott and Melissa have long left for work.

Lydia sits and happily accepts the coffee Kira is offering her. She feels so good, so relaxed and welcomed that she only remembers she is in Beacon Hills when Kira talks about it. Stiles is discreetly rubbing her lower back, as he usually does in the morning. It floods her memory with images: A sunrise on a beach. Breakfasts in the cozy heart of winter. Opened windows in spring, organza curtains languorously stretching in the balmy breeze, swelling and twisting in sync with the sound of a bird singing. The wind carrying the scent of lilacs to her nostrils. And just like that, Beacon Hills takes on the colors of the whole world. The colors of Stiles's irises when the light hits them in that particular angle, the colors of his love. The town that had always felt like a prison now feels like a crossroad.

Each morning for the following three weeks, they dive into a routine they've been perfecting for months. Lydia has never known happiness like this. She will realize later that this was her first true experience of a family.

Scott and Melissa come home for lunch every day. Sometimes, Stiles and Lydia wake up early enough to have breakfast with them. It feels more and more like second nature to Lydia, and every day brings her closer to what she never imagined could be hers. Conversations come and go, smiles above steaming mugs and laughter rising higher than those clouds. Every day, Lydia gets to know each member of her newfound family better. She gladly talks to them about her research, feeling like she is talking about a Lydia she was in a former life. Every day, she finds it easier to talk about her childhood, to share some laughs about it. Kira quickly becomes a good friend, especially after they realize that they went through the same struggles as they learned to accept their supernatural natures.

Stiles and Lydia go for walks every day. Every day they travel further into the neighborhood. Lydia can't help noticing that there's still one direction they are avoiding; probably Stiles's childhood street. She doesn't mention it, preferring to bubble with anticipation and curiosity rather than urging him to do anything. The ghosts that had scared them when they entered the town in the Jeep are slowly fading against the white sky, the bad memories withering to leave space for the better ones. New ones.

They find the coffee shop Lydia had always wanted to try. It's not the same one. It has been repurchased by a chain of coffee shops, but they still buy something. A way for them to tell Peter he hasn't stolen everything from them. They keep strolling through the streets, recognizing a bench here, a tree there… Small things. It's better to focus on small things. It helps keep the unpleasant ones at bay. Sometimes, they allow a wave to pass their dam, but never more than one. One when they catch sight of their elementary school from afar. Another when they pass by Lydia's old house, and she sees a slide in the garden. The family who lives there must be a real one, she thinks, and she realizes she feels more happy than sad.

They never go out for more than two or three hours. After that, it becomes too difficult, too hard. It's easy to remember that they have a home to come back to when they are out for just a few hours.

For the same reason, Stiles still hasn't found it in himself to drive the Jeep, so they walk. Every day, as they leave the house, they go past it. It's parked in the driveway, only waiting for its owner. Every day, Stiles stops for a moment. He watches it, makes the keys rattle in his pocket, and loses himself in his thoughts, twisting his lips. Then, he lets the keys go and replaces the cold contact of metal with Lydia's warmth. He whispers the same word, "Tomorrow…", letting it descend to the ground settle into the gravel next to the driver's side door. Maybe he thinks that after a week, two weeks, the pilled-up tomorrows will reach the door handle and a flower will grow.

From time to time, Lydia catches glimpses of the way Stiles and Scott look at each other. It's heavier than usual, a little more charged. She understands it means the time will soon come for them to reopen some old wounds in order to help them heal better.

That is exactly what happens on a morning in the third week of their visit.

The Sun isn't up yet but Stiles keeps tossing and turning in the bed, keeping Lydia awake. He eventually stands up, laying a kiss on her forehead that makes her pulse race under the pressure of an anxiety she knows too well. From the way she senses his stare lingering on her right before he stands up, she thinks he doesn't know she is awake.

"Stiles?" She was about to let him do whatever he had to do, but the lump in her throat was getting too big.

His hand was on the door handle when he turns around at the sound of her voice. A low "Lyds" makes its way to her ear, and in less than three strides, he is by her side on the mattress. He doesn't say anything, and she barely sees him in the darkness. His gentle touch follows the outline of her cheek before losing itself in her hair. He leans and kisses her again, on the lips this time and slower.

"I'm sorry. I didn't want to wake you." His hands are running through her hair and time seems to stop. "I'm coming back, my heart. Alright? I promise, I'll come back to you."

Her throat is too constricted for any word to make its way to her mouth, so she presses her hand over his to make sure he can feel her nod. It's like saying goodbye to a shadow. He needs this, she knows it. She knows he'll come back to her. He always does, but fear is already strangling her, and she is afraid of the imprints it might leave on her skin. Another reminder of the ugliness in this world.

The mattress shifts when he stands up, and she knows that if she blinks, he will be gone; she won't feel him next to her, and his absence will leave more space for her anguish to infuse its scrawny coldness into her blood. The faint click of the door handle startles her and she leaps to her knees on the bed, calling him one last time. The door is ajar, and when he turns around, a ray of light outlines his features, tearing up the darkness, and Lydia feels like she can breathe again. He is here.

He comes closer to her, her name emerging from his gasp like a sigh of relief as he takes shape against her and finds his way out of the shadow to reassure her one last time. Their tongues connect without even trying, and he takes her against him, one of his arms encircling her waist as the other one is already reaching for the mattress. Lydia lets herself collapse backwards in a slow and soft fall. Stiles's body alive and hot above hers, anchored in the present. With her.

She makes out his gaze in the obscurity and dives into it. There is something different about him, there has been for days and Lydia marvels at it every morning. It's painted all over his face, but she can't name it. At this moment, she sees it again and it helps her find the strength to let him go.

"Go back to sleep, Lyds. I'll come back."

"Okay." It's a murmur filled with hope and love that passes through her sore throat. Some tears get trapped on her eyelashes, and she is afraid Stiles won't hear her, but he does.

She knows it when he kisses her again, so tenderly that she can't help her sob from turning into a moan. His thumb brushes lightly over her wet cheekbones to help her get rid of the salt her sadness left behind, then follows the shape of her mouth and rests on her chin. Then, it's her turn to kiss him. She raises her head just enough to reach his lips.

He eventually stands up, helps her under the blanket, and turns towards the door, taking the I love you she sends along with him.

After that, Lydia isn't sure she will be able to fall back asleep. Her heart is in her throat, her blood pulsing in all her muscles and tears are building up somewhere, everywhere. The knowledge that Stiles will come back isn't strong enough to keep at bay the despair consuming her stomach.

Time passes anyway and takes care of her anguish. Her eyelids must have given up at one point because Stiles's voice and the brush of his voice against her cheek wake her up.

"Lyds, wake up."

His kisses leave a wet imprint on her skin, and he is crooning her name against her ear, his voice lower and lower until a faint Stiles escapes her mouth, reshaping it into a smile. Her eyes flutter open, she is on her side, facing the window, the blanket tucked over her chin. Stiles is sitting on the mattress behind her, his torso draped over hers. Outside, the sunlight barely filters through the clouds and trees, but it's there – low on the horizon, promising a new day.

Lydia turns around to face him. His beautiful brown eyes are reddened by tears, but his lips are flaring with a radiant exhilaration. It's enough to instill a marveling glow inside of her. It makes her blood pulse faster and her muscles twitch under the pressure of a love she can't and won't contain. He came back. She never doubted it, but it doesn't make it any less prodigious.

As if she is rediscovering him all over again, she lets her fingers run over his face, along his cheeks and his neck, curling her hand around it and pulling him towards her to kiss him until her lungs are screaming for oxygen.

He kisses her back, again and again, exploring the skin on her neck and collarbone as she keeps him against her. And just like that, her lungs remember how to swell. Happiness and relief make her chuckle, even more so when his fingers sneak under the blanket to tickle her ribs. She laughs, and he watches her, his lips curling into the same grin he wears when he convinces her to eat something she has never tried.

"Get dressed, I wanna show you something," he eventually says.

At those words, Lydia's stomach flutters and excitement bursts through her entire body. Stiles seems calm. He stands up and reaches out to her, planting a kiss on the back of her hand when she gives it to him.

"Hurry up, I'll make you breakfast," he tells her.

Lydia barely has time to understand what is happening when he is already at the door. She manages to catch him by the back of his sweater.

"Stiles!" The realization that she might have woken up alone without knowing where he was hits her. But it didn't happen because he always comes back, because she can have blind faith in him. He knows how to take care of her heart, of her. A wave of relief and love overwhelms her, so she laughs, "Aren't you gonna tell me more?"

"Nope…" Stiles winks at her and lays a loud smooch on her forehead before opening the door. Lydia doesn't hold back her smile as she stands in front of the closed door.

It must have taken him less than three minutes to wake her up and leave. With him, the entire winter burst into the bedroom; the chilly wind, the rosy cheeks, and the foggy breath. Sometimes, Stiles can turn into a tornado, and it's up to her to meet him in his quest, to tag along and experience the world with his eyes, knowing that what can look like a crazy mess protects a heart of peacefulness, that it protects life itself – what it's made of and everything that is worth living for.

That's why it has never been difficult to follow him, she realizes as she dresses. A long time ago, she had let him convince her to order the dish that sounded the tastiest. She had known from that moment that she would follow him everywhere.

At the breakfast table, they are all together.

The boys have the red eyes and the clear voices of those who have cried all the tears they had in them before finding solace in each other's arms. No one asks. They don't need to.

Lydia doesn't know how long the two of them spent in the darkness of dawn erasing the past, but if Stiles wants to tell her about it, she knows he will, and she'll be there.

The air is cool outside, but the wind has died down a bit. Over the last week, some snowflakes have descended to melt on the ground, but everyone is still waiting for the promised snowy January. Today, the clouds are more scattered, their layer thinner. They allow a few rays of sunshine to give a sense of glow to everything they graze. The colors of the sky are beautiful. The sunlight merges with the cumulus in a faint yellow, almost white hue, illuminating the clouds from the inside. Each of them carrying its own frozen, ivory Sun.

Like a dutiful gardener, Stiles sows another tomorrow by the door of the Jeep. At the same time, a ray of warmth peeks through the clouds to cast the shadow of the car on the ground. Stiles lifts his head to look at Lydia, and she winks at him, making him smirk. Something is happening. Hand in hand they head towards the street they have always avoided, leaving budding seeds behind them.

"I can't promise you to show you my old bedroom today, but I can show you my house if you want," he says after they walked long enough for the McCall house to disappear behind them.

A smile colors her already flushed cheeks and she nods, "I would love that."

"Good," he murmurs, looking down with an expression that makes him resemble a young boy relieved that the girl he loves liked his surprise.

Lydia lets go of him to wind her arm around his waist. Immediately, he answers with another kiss on her skull and encircles her shoulders.

They walk in the middle of the street in silence, relishing in those empty morning hours when everyone is either already at work, or still home. Only birds and some cats wandering remind them of what movement and sounds are. Their pace is so slow that Stiles doesn't need to do more than apply the faint pressure of his thumb on her shoulder for Lydia to understand that he needs to stop for a while.

They find a bench and sit side by side. Lydia leans her head on Stiles's shoulder, waiting for him to talk and they hold hands in silence. After a while, he clears his throat and takes a set of keys out of the pocket of his pants.

"Scott gave these to me earlier. Melissa fought with the notary for a long time to buy the house after I left. She regularly rents it, and it's free right now. That's why I wanted to… I…" His words were flowing with ease, but suddenly, as if his mind realized their weight, his voice breaks. "But I…" He can't continue.

A heavy darkness is rapidly thickening around them, choking Stiles. In an attempt to stop it, Lydia closes his fist over the key and draws his face to hers so she can lay her forehead against his. With the key hidden between them, she tries to breathe enough love and courage into him to help him talk.

"Where is it? Where is your house?" she eventually asks.

Stiles pulls back to stare at something behind her shoulder and points towards a street on the left, "That street. That's the one."

She turns her head back to him as he lowers his arm. "We don't have to go. We can come back tomorrow if you want."

Without even needing to consider the idea, Stiles shakes his head. "No… No, I want to go further. At least until we reach the street."

"Okay." Lydia drops a kiss on his lips in a very slow movement, encouraging his brain to slow down, reminding his heart that everything is alright.

They lean back against the bench. In front of them, the colors of the sunrise are slowly fading into the white of the thickening clouds. The air gets colder, the wind stronger. But the changes are subtle and slow. Lydia had forgotten how much slower the sky changes here, and she marvels at the range of colors gradually melting into one.

Stiles's soul is somewhere against hers, vibrating and seeking more closeness. She gives it to him. She will give him everything she can, letting the rhythm of his pulse lull her. It's more and more peaceful, it merges with the wind that carries his scent and the caresses of his thumb on her skin. After a long while, she understands he is ready before he even says it, and they stand up.

They start walking quietly, mirroring the pace of the sky changing, keeping their hands intertwined between them. That street brims with stories, and Stiles dives into it, sifting through his childhood memories for a refuge that will keep him safe until they reach his house. Lydia listens to him, having no problem picturing him and Scott hurtling down the street on their bikes. It's wide and slightly downgrade. She hears their laughter, their shrieks, and she can imagine the worried expression or annoyed glare on the neighbors faces when they were going too fast, or too close to a stroller or a dog.

They turn left, and they don't stop. Lydia is watching Stiles expectantly, but nothing in his behavior indicates that he needs to take a break. So, she kisses his knuckles and averts her eyes to the houses around her, wondering with a beating heart which one it will be.

In terms of distance, it's not long, but images and memories flood Lydia's mind and stretch each blink, each step. Across her memories, ancient feelings are waving at her. They knock at her core like old friends, so Lydia opens the door to them, and she remembers.

Beacon Hills doesn't have a lot of streets like this one. Most of the others hide underneath the same shiny surface, the same one her old house wore. Lydia knows what they mask – lies and pretense. But this one... It's exactly the kind of street she liked to find on her bike, when she tried to lose herself in her thoughts, take a walk in landscapes and lives she had imagined, or to let herself drown in the notes and lyrics of her favorite songs. Here, the houses are all different from each other; this garden keeps its Christmas lights up until February, that one that isn't regularly tended… Here, each house has its own story, a story that could be read on their façade, one that she could guess.

Feelings are out in the open; happiness, sadness, weariness, and excitement. Everything can be read as easily as on the face of the boy she used to notice more and more in the crowd… Stiles. This street looks like him.

And like everything that is related to him, something tells her she has always known it…

But it's more than that. Deep down, Lydia feels that this street not only reminds her of the places she sought on her bike, she knows it. First, she thinks it's just her highly emotional state which makes her imagine things. Then, she notices a garage between two houses. Her heart keeps leaping like a kid tugging on her mom's hand to show her the miracle of a ladybug lazily climbing a wall.

She doesn't pay attention to her voice forming Stiles's name when she stops in front of this ordinary garage. Just a white door and tire tracks in the gravel of the driveway. But Lydia would have sworn that years and years ago, it was the workshop of a jewelry designer. She recognizes the spot where she would lay her bike, there is even a fading square on the wall where a sign used to be. She remembers enjoying stopping by to buy a bracelet, a necklace… But moreover, to chat with the designer. This woman would travel a lot to find new inspiration for her jewelry in new gems or colors. Lydia was fascinated by what she told her.

If she isn't wrong, if she remembers well and actually knows this street, then several houses further down…

She lets her memories guide her and a little further down on her right, she recognizes the fences.

"I know this street, Stiles." Words first come out of her mouth in a whisper. Lydia doesn't realize she is already moving forward, pulling Stiles behind her. "I know your street!" She exclaims as they stop in front of the façade of a house turned into a bed and breakfast since long before they were born.

"You do?"

"I loved to come to see that house, they always had decorations for each month, each holiday. I…" She lets her memories carry her far away, taking a firmer hold on Stiles's hand and hoping she can take him with her.

How many times had she stopped here? Catching herself dreaming about landscapes she had never seen. Picturing herself wrapped up in a woolen scarf and a forest green beanie so she could securely observe the snow falling on high fir trees, safe and happy in a cabin in autumn with a mug of hot cocoa while she watches cartoons all day under a blanket. Other sensations, some more blurry than others come back to her, simple urges to fly far away from her daily hell, from this town that only respires thanks to arteries like this one. She should have known there was a reason why the life and light of this town had settled here, in his street.

With a heaving chest, she turns to Stiles, repeating the same words. "I loved their decorations…"

His face is illuminated with a grin containing all the wonders that had started to take shape in her memories. He clutches at her and turns towards the house just in front of that one. "Me too… I could see them from my window."

At this moment, Lydia is sure that their heartbeats must have created a mini earthquake somewhere.

Stiles resumes and Lydia follows his stare. "That's my house."

There are two keys in Stiles's hand, one that opens the front door and another one that opens a small room that Melissa and Scott added.

Renting the house with its ghosts seemed impossible but forcing them away was unthinkable. So, they decided to leave the house like it had always been, storing the Stilinskis' personal belongings in a spare room at the end of the corridor. Occasionally, Scott and Melissa would come by to clean that room.

When Stiles tells this to Lydia, they are sitting on the front porch. After several minutes spent with the keys in his hand, unable to decide to open the door, she had made him sit down. Then, he started to tell her what happened with Scott earlier in the morning. Eventually, the house became Melissa's project. People and families in need of medical care can come and see her at the hospital, and she rents them the house for a short-term period.

After more than a year without settings a foot inside the house, Melissa and Scott had broken into tears when they first opened the door. Those empty months had wreaked havoc, it looked like all the life that had always inhabited those four walls had been ripped out. Deciding to not let their pain keep them away from the house, they went back the day after, like soldiers returning to a battlefield, with their minds focused on one goal and one goal only: restoration. Dusting, lifting the shroud that had spread over every frame and furniture. Opening the windows, letting the Sun back inside, the warmth, life. Every day, they put a few more things in order. Renting it the first time had been tough, but Melissa chose the families very scrupulously, explaining to each one why that house was so important, its story, and holding on to the certainty that one day, he would come back. That Stiles would come back.

Now that she is more familiar with Scott and Melissa, Lydia has no problem picturing them regularly coming to remove all the cob webs and fluff from every corner. She understood why they would do it again the week after, and the week after that, without once losing sight of the reason for what they are doing. Whom they were doing it for. Because Stiles would come back, and it was their own way of telling time not to settle in that house, to keep going. The ghosts will come back to life.

In some ways, it reminds Lydia of what she had felt the day she had seen Allison's grave. Someone was coming regularly to clean it and bring fresh flowers, bringing life to keep the memories intact. Allison had kept on living through that person, and thanks to Scott and Melissa – Claudia, Noah, and Stiles had never left their home.

Without having to ask him anything, Stiles continues to talk, telling Lydia about the rest of his conversation with Scott. He doesn't rehash all of the details. Lydia is certain to know all of them anyway.

He explains that, when he came out of their bedroom, Scott almost seemed to be waiting for him in the kitchen. They wrapped themselves up in their coats without a word and walked out into the night, witnessing that blue hour just before dawn and feeling in their bones the sudden heavy silence all around them. Their feet brought them to the same skate park where they had reconciled so many years ago. Some things never change.

Together, they relived everything that happened to them in Beacon Hills and the years after, the ones of loneliness and devouring pain. They cried a lot and dried their tears in a silent embrace. They only broke when the first rays of sunshine had pierced through the night. On their way back, they considered passing through Stiles's street, but he refused. He wanted to do that with Lydia.

"She doesn't talk about it, but I know it's important to her. I can't do it without her," he had said.

When Stiles stops talking, he and Lydia lean into each other and stay still for a while. The wind ruffles her hair, and some strands tickle his nose, but he doesn't move. Her jacket and thin scarf are no longer enough to keep the cold at bay, but Stiles is, and it feels good. She nestles closer to him, relishing in the softness of his burgundy sweater, and as always, he catches his breath. She could stay there for hours, with their two souls slowly melding, creating this warmth, this link binding them in the most intimate way possible.

One rainy day, years ago, Stiles had seen Lydia outside of the local movie theater, six blocks from his house.

With her bike next to her, she was shivering, waiting for a downpour to stop before going back home. Stiles was inside, helping his neighbor Mr. Owen to re-arrange the candies next to the cash desk.

In a perfect world, he would have listened to Mr. Owen who was offering him some Reeses's peanut butter cups and who told him with a knowing smirk to go out and invite her to watch the next movie with him.

In a perfect world, he would even have had the courage to offer her the sweater he carried in his bag.

But the world wasn't perfect, and he hadn't dared.

In this imperfect world, he stayed with the chocolate in his hands, frozen behind the cash desk, his eyes glued to Lydia outside who was listening to her music.

The movie started, the rain had stopped, and she was gone.

Today, Mr. Owen, still lives next to Stiles's former house, and the elderly man recognizes him from behind his fence. After throwing at each other indecisive glances, they answer his greeting. He has the same knowing expression when Stiles introduces Lydia to him. Just like he did as a teenager, Stiles blushes. As the wind is increasing, Mr. Owen invites them in his house for a cup of coffee and some sandwiches. Before Stiles knows it, they are sitting around the table, talking, remembering, laughing.

Stiles isn't completely comfortable though. It doesn't make any sense. He wishes he could ask Lydia because she seems to be able to read between his old neighbor's words and silences, and in the way he sometimes looks at Stiles with heavy emotion.

Mr. Owen still runs the movie theater with his wife. He tells Stiles that everyone in the neighborhood will be happy to know he is back, that they have all waited for this moment. He tells him things Stiles doesn't quite understand. Things about people waiting too long after others to take care of the problems of the world. Things about how everyone could have done something and did nothing. Things about regrets, hope, and faith. With his wife, they only play movies about love, about the beauty of the world, and the beauty of life and its worth.

"We hope it can help people remember that they all matter, that they all have a role to play, that they belong and can make a difference." The old man cries a little, wiping his tears with shaky gestures.

Stiles isn't sure he understands, but it constricts his chest. Under the table, Lydia's hand seeks his and squeezes.

Mr. Owen must have seen them hesitating in front the Stilinski's house and offers to let them inside the movie theater for a private screening of It's a Wonderful Life. It could give them the time to decide, so they say yes.

Before Stiles joins Lydia inside the theater, Mr. Owen holds him back to hug him and give him a paper bag full of candies for old times' sake.

When he finds Lydia, Stiles still isn't sure he understands.

"What did he want?" she asks him when he sits on her left, putting the paper bag on the seat next to him.

"He um…" he passes a hand behind his neck and over his face before propping his elbows on his knees. "He hugged me and thanked me. But I… I don't get it. We were never that close. I mean, he was always kind to me, I helped him here sometimes, and told him about you once in a while. He always gave me free candy, but that was it." Leaning with a thud against the thick red seat, he turns to look at Lydia. "I don't get it. All of this… It's nice, and it feels good, but I don't get it."

"He's just happy to see you back."

"But…why?"

He doesn't stop staring at her, knowing she has the answer. He follows her as she leans on her side against the seat, folding her legs as much as she can underneath her. She nibbles at her lips, searching for the right words and eventually raises her head to look at him again, gently brushing aside some strands on his forehead.

"You heard him. What happened to your family and to you changed a lot of things here. From what I remember, people in this town were never especially welcoming or open minded… But they changed. They are doing everything they can to make people care about each other so things like that never happen again. They must have been waiting for you to come back for years… They hoped for it, they believed you would. I guess if you hadn't come back, they would have felt guilty for not being more involved, they would have felt responsible for what happened to you. You being here brings them peace of mind. It's an incredible gift."

"But I… I didn't do anything. I was just a kid."

Nerves and frustration are starting to make him raise his voice and he only realizes he is fiddling with the seams of the armrest when Lydia stops him. Her touch startles him and draws his attention back to her.

"It doesn't matter. The important thing for them is that you are here now, safe. You're the happy ending to the tragic story that happened right next door. And besides…"

She is focusing on their fingers slowly intertwining above the armrest when a smile plays on her lips. Stiles is hypnotized. Her caresses run along his skin, helping his heartbeat to slow down to a tranquil pace. When she speaks, their stares meet and her voice soothes him even more.

"You did a lot. You saved a lot of people here in high school, and I'm sure I could find a lot of people across the ocean who still remember that handsome and enigmatic man who saved their lives before disappearing into the night." She punctuates her statement with a soft peck and resumes with a lower voice, reclining her head against the edge of his seat. "And you saved me, I'll never say it enough. Where would I be today without you? You know this, but… I was desperate when you found me, Stiles. I was empty. You gave me everything. You still do."

"I just give you back what you give me, you know."

His words make her blush adorably, but she continues. "You're my hero, you're their hero too, and no matter what meaning they put behind it, it's a title you've earned. You saved so many lives… That hug he gave you, it's the thank you all those people never gave you."

Stiles needs a moment to process what she is telling him. It's a strange feeling. His blood is pulsing strong against his temples, but he isn't overwhelmed by its surge, he feels anchored. His entire being and soul are swelling, uplifted by an incredible love. He gives her head more space on his seat and slowly kisses her mouth, her nose, her cheekbones, then with a smile, he rests his head next to hers on his seat.

"What?" she asks him from the top of her smiling lips as a thought is occurring to him, already reshaping his mouth in a crooked grin.

He lets out a faint chuckle before answering.

"Are you my personal and much more beautiful Clarence?"

"Your what?"

Looking away from her for a second to point his chin towards the screen, he answers, "The angel in the movie. The one who saves the hero from killing himself… The one who shows him why and how his life has always mattered…" They both hold their breath, Stiles needs to collect his wits because despite his grin, he is on the edge of breaking into tears. "Because you saved me too, Lyds and you still do." A tear rolls down his cheek, Lydia brushes it from the tip of her finger, murmuring his name.

They are so close that they both feel the kiss before it even happens. It's soft and so full of love that Stiles swears his heart stops beating the entire time. As the light gradually gets swallowed by the dark, they push slightly back.

"I'm not done with you." Lydia kisses him one more time before straightening up a little.

And because it actually is a perfect world, Lydia accepts Stiles's sweater when she shivers from a draft. She wraps it around herself with the same expression she has when they come home after an exhausting day and they dive into a cozy embrace.

In this perfect world, she also accepts the Reeses's peanut butter cup Stiles hands out to her. She feeds him a bite, letting her thumb linger and outline his mouth.

They spend the entire movie snuggled up against each other, eating candies and stealing pecks when the other one isn't paying attention.

When the movie ends, Lydia keeps Stiles's sweater because in this perfect world, Lydia loves to dress in his clothes, and he loves seeing her in them. They wave at Mr. Owen on their way out, thanking him from afar. Stiles is cold despite the long sleeves of his shirt, but Lydia is too beautiful to ask her to give him his sweater back. So, he doesn't and when she offers to give it back anyway, he shakes his head.

He doesn't ask Lydia where she is going. Their feet seem to bring them both in the same direction: his house.

The keys are in his pocket. They form a heavy lump against his thigh. A lump like a landmark, an anchor, reminding him that whatever happens, he is here and now. With Lydia by his side. Maybe it's her that he feels against him, her weight, her soul. It carries him where he has always been supposed to go. So, he follows, rather than asking.

When they arrive under the porch of his front door, there is not a single question in his mind anymore, and he glances at Lydia one last time. She sends him back a smile he wasn't aware was on his lips and leans on his forearm to kiss him. Again, and again.

And because this world has always been perfect, she tastes like chocolate and peanut butter.