I will love you in open windows with gentle breezes,
in stormy nights where lightning lends shadow
to the goosebumps on your skin.
-Tyler Knott Gregson
It's July 1st. The first cool evening in Beacon Hills since the onset of summer. The windows in Lydia's room are partially open, gentle breeze wandering in and flowing through the linens that adorn her antiqued-brass canopy. Outside, the sky is ink stained, sliver of a crescent moon masked by random patterns of languidly migrating clouds. Lydia observes the pale golden light, flickering in and out of view. She is lying in bed, arms wrapped tightly around herself, wishing she was with Stiles.
He is at home, in his bed. The one they have been sharing as frequently as her own. She wonders if he is thinking of her at this very moment. Maybe he is sleepless in the dark...like she is, staring at the moon...like she is, profoundly aware of the empty space beside him...like she is.
Her heart quickens while she pictures him – his smooth skin...awaiting her touch, his beautiful eyes...searching for the familiar sight of hers, his silky hair...tousled with another flawless case of bed head for her to tame, his soft lips...craving her kiss, the visible pulse in his neck and the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest...both of which are intrinsically linked to hers. She imagines he has one arm behind his head and the other draped across his abdomen, thumb repetitively tapping on his ribs. His legs are probably partially tucked under blue cotton sheets, one foot hanging off the side of the bed, restlessly shaking off pent-up energy.
She misses him. She knows that she and Stiles can't spend every night together...at least not yet...but that doesn't make it any easier to be away from him. She misses him. Right now. Still. Whenever they are apart.
Lydia shifts her gaze to the nightstand, where there is a framed photo of Stiles and herself. It's from junior year, taken just days after their first kiss. They are looking at each other – Lydia with half-pursed lips, Stiles with a crooked grin, both of them relaxed and happy, both of them with stars in their eyes. Stars that, at the time, had been obscured by doubt and fear, but which now shine through – as clear and obvious to her as the only-for-you smiles on their faces.
She reaches out, surface of the glass cool against her fingertips as she strokes Stiles's cheek. Letting her hand travel, she finds the necklace that is lovingly draped over the corner of the picture frame. Not just any necklace. The one that Stiles gave her yesterday – when he turned an ordinary day into one that she will never forget. She winds the silver chain around her fingers and cradles the two heart pendants in the palm of her hand. As she traces their engraved initials with her index, Lydia exhales a few fragments of longing. She imagines them, sparkling little notes, floating through the open windows and being carried by the wind...all the way to Stiles, so he can breathe them in, inhale her love...until it fills him with serenity.
She lets the concept occupy her mind, then retreats to a recent memory of him.
On a Thursday morning at the end of May, Lydia and Stiles were holding hands across the kitchen table. It had been too long since they shared breakfast, just the two of them, without interruption. Three months too long. And Lydia fully intended to make the most of every second they spent together. She was watching Stiles, mesmerized by his every move, wondering how anyone could look so beautiful doing something as mundane as sipping coffee.
He was watching her too, like he was just as captivated by her. His head was tilted downwards, eyes peeking out from beneath thick lashes, mouth hitched upwards on one side. When he put his mug down and squeezed her hand, it felt like he was saying, I'm right here with you, and I need this just as much as you do.
Stiles always had a way of reassuring her like that – of making every touch communicate...more, of transforming even the subtlest caress, nudge, or change in pressure into a complete dialogue between them.
She squeezed back, hoping to offer as much warmth and encouragement as he so effortlessly gave to her.
Apparently, she had.
"What do you think about us...going on a date?" he asked with quiet confidence while gliding his thumb along the inside of her wrist.
Lydia felt her stomach clench with excitement. The previous night, they had made love for the first time, and she was still reeling from the experience; the pure affection, the intense desire and unparalleled pleasure, the heavenly afterglow – both of them blissed-out and clinging to each other. They held fast; the chance to be together for an entire night, as close as two people can be, finally realized. In the morning she woke, shortly before sunrise, contented and calm, eased out of a peaceful slumber by the sensation of his lips on her forehead...then her cheek...and her neck...and her chest...and her stomach. She delighted in the outward tenderness behind each of the I love yous he whispered, and the intimate freedom of being able to say it back, without hesitation. She hadn't thought the day could get any better, but somehow, it just had.
Noiselessly setting her fork down, she glanced at the plate of French toast and scrambled eggs Stiles made for her. Her smile flourished as she met his eyes – full of love and optimism. Then, she cupped his jaw with her palm and raised a soft voice over the lump of happiness that was pushing on her vocal cords.
"I think that sounds like...a dream come true," she told him with watery eyes.
He leaned into her touch and pressed sweet, slightly sticky kisses to the heel of her hand. "How about Sunday? There's this place I've always wanted to show you."
She felt a tear slide into her palm when she replied, "Sunday's perfect."
And it was.
Under the blanketing comfort of a beautiful memory, necklace still clutched in hand, Lydia drifts to sleep.
But not for long.
An hour later, the onset of a sudden storm frightens her awake.
It's the most haunting type of storm – one distinguished by howling wind, crashing thunder, and sporadic lightning strikes...but no rain. The kind of storm that reminds her of the Wild Hunt.
She bolts to a seated position, only one thought on her mind.
"Stiles," she gasps.
He doesn't sleep during thunderstorms, not since before... Before he was taken.
Last time the universe haunted them with a reminder of that awful night, Lydia was with Stiles. But now, he is alone. Alone and afraid.
She has to get to him.
Tossing the sheets aside, she springs from the bed. She doesn't bother changing out of her pajamas, just secures her necklace in place and slips on some flats. Then, she hastily shuts and locks the windows, grabs her keys and phone, and heads for the door.
There is a force of nature at work in her. It may be confined by a petite frame and tenuous human condition, but it's far more powerful than any storm. It makes its presence known in the furious pounding against her ribs, like there are two heartbeats inside her chest – his...and hers, wildly chasing after it.
In less than a minute, she is peeling out of the driveway; headlights cutting through the oppressive darkness, right foot heavy on the pedal as she zips down the street. Even though Lydia makes use of every shortcut, the drive to Woodbine Lane feels like an eternity. She thinks of Stiles the entire time, pictures him waiting for her...
Only now, the image she has of him is nothing like it was earlier. Now, he is tossing and turning; unrest spurred by apprehension, rather than longing. His formerly smooth skin is dotted with goosebumps, his beautiful eyes...blinking back tears, his soft lips...drained of color as they inevitably end up clamped between his teeth. The visible pulse in his neck and rise and fall of his chest are erratic and shallow...but still intrinsically linked to hers. His hands are probably gripping fistfuls of wrinkled sheets, and his legs must be kicking aside his plaid comforter, agitated by the pressing need to expend a wave of nervous energy.
Lydia feels it too.
She anxiously taps her neatly manicured fingernails on the steering wheel. Through the windshield she can see that the storm is becoming more volatile. It amplifies the pang of worry that has been compiling inside her since the moment she woke. With one block left to go, she resists the urge to drive faster, but it's painful to be so close...yet still so far away. She is hot and cold at the same time, scorching fire in her chest and icy tingle below her skin. The two elements compete for her attention, so she touches her pendant and the flame subdues the frost.
Pulling to an abrupt stop in front of the Stilinski home, she kills the headlights, shuts the engine, and shoves her phone into the pocket of her shorts. No sooner has she closed the door and clicked her key fob, than the skies open up; torrential downpour bombarding her with droplets the size of pebbles, gale wind whipping the rainfall in circular patterns, as if to ensure that she is thoroughly dowsed.
Lydia sprints to the front door; puddles splashing her bare ankles with each stride, lightning illuminating her careworn expression in the windowpanes. By the time she enters the safety of the house, she is soaked. She promptly locks the door behind her, flinching in response to a loud clash of thunder as she hangs her key ring on the wall hook.
Closing her eyes and taking a breath, she steels herself with the knowledge that she and Stiles are under the same roof. At last. Then, she abandons her sodden shoes in the hallway and tiptoes to his room.
Before she even crosses the threshold, he is halfway there, outline of his figure stumbling towards her in the dark.
"Lydia..."
"Stiles, Stiles..."
"Baby, what are you—?"
"I needed to see you...to make sure..." she explains, eager arms outstretched for him. "Are you okay?"
"I am now," his relieved voice says as his hands clamp around her shoulders.
One of her hands magnetically finds his cheek, fingers sliding back into his hair. The other connects with the center of his chest, and her equilibrium is immediately restored; two hearts, one beat, once again.
"Lyds, you're drenched," he comments, lips stamping a series of firm kisses to her forehead. "Hang on... I'll get you some towels."
He dashes out of the room, and she stands there, in the middle of the unlit air-conditioned space, whole body shivering in wet pajamas – cold – save for the warm hand and lip prints Stiles left on her shoulders and forehead. She wills herself to move, blindly yanking on the drawstring of her cotton shorts. They are dragged downwards by the weight of her phone, landing on the rug with a dull clunk. As Lydia steps out of them, Stiles returns. She feels another ember of heat; his hand pressing on her hip as he guides her a few paces in reverse. When the backs of her thighs bump the edge of his desk, he reaches behind her to turn on his lamp. They both squint into the dim flaxen light as he deposits a stack of towels next to his laptop.
"Here, let's take this off too... Huh?" he suggests, tugging on the hem of her tank top.
"O—k—kay," her teeth chatter.
She lifts her arms, and he pulls the clinging wet fabric over her head before tossing it to the floor with her shorts. Stripped down to a pair of cotton bikinis and her necklace, Lydia shivers again, but Stiles bundles her up in a thick, fluffy bath towel and brings her into a hug. Instant warmth.
She dissolves into him, nestling deeper and deeper as dynamic storm surges make the room flicker with light and the windows rattle with hostile vibrations.
They hold on to each other for a good prolonged moment before Stiles takes her face in his hands. He doesn't speak, just looks at her with cinched eyebrows and a beautiful awestruck mouth, like it's a miracle that she is standing in front of him. Then he kisses her; soft and sweet and slow. She feels his bottom lip tremble as it parts from hers. She wants to say something, but Stiles renders her speechless when he picks up a second towel and begins gingerly squeezing the water from her hair, the same way she does after she showers.
Such an action could seem insignificant, but it isn't – not at all – because Lydia realizes that Stiles has been paying even closer attention to her than she already knew. He loves her that much.
Once he is satisfied with his work, he drapes the towel over his chair and unravels the one that is wrapped around her, using it to pat every inch of her exposed skin; every single touch and every single kiss in between, so gentle she could cry.
And as if that wasn't enough to send her heart into overdrive...
Rather than leave her side to retrieve an extra pair of her pajamas from the closet they've been sharing, he simply takes off his white tee shirt and helps her into it. It's warm from his body heat, and it smells like pine needles...and crisp summer air...and everything good in the world – in other words, Stiles.
She stares at him; sun in his eyes evaporating the unshed tears in hers.
The ebb and flow of emotion and adrenaline is making her knees feel weak, and she is sure Stiles must sense it because he glides his hands down her back and lifts her off the ground. She lets out a small whimper of gratitude and winds her legs around him as he carries her to bed.
After they are tucked under the covers he whispers, "This is better... Isn't it?"
Lowering her head, Lydia nods into his shoulder. She can't quite fathom how she could ever be deserving of so much love. Her windpipe shrinks, and the nape of her neck prickles with embarrassment. She is supposed to be comforting Stiles, but somehow everything got flipped upside-down and he is the one comforting her.
"I thought you had an early appointment..." she hears him say.
"So, I'll be late," she answers dryly. In all honesty, Lydia knows what he was getting at, but she is inhibited by a haze of unpleasant thoughts.
Stiles refuses to let her get consumed by it, instinctively leading her back to him with his familiar, affectionate tone. "Come on, talk to me," he implores.
She kisses the little mole on the right side of his chest. "I was worried about you."
"I was worried about you too." He bumps her temple with his nose until she lifts her head to meet his gaze. Then he tucks a few damp strands of hair behind her ear. "Actually, I'm still worried 'cause I think you're feeling bad, and you shouldn't."
"But, Stiles... I came here to take care of you, and instead—"
"You have. You are. We're taking care of each other...right now."
"I don't think I'm pulling my weight," she confesses as lightning tampers with the brightness of the room.
"Well, I completely disagree." Shaking his head, he huffs out a sigh. She feels it breeze across her face, but the sound is smothered by another crack of thunder. "Speaking of taking care of each other... I should be asking... What were you thinking, driving here in a storm like this? You didn't even call to tell me you were coming."
"You would have told me not to, that it wasn't safe. Anyway, you knew I was... You felt it. Didn't you?"
He takes her hand and places it over his heart. "Yes, I felt you...long before you even got here."
"And...you would have done the same for me," she adds, focusing on the steady thump beneath her palm.
"Yeah, I would have," he acknowledges without hesitation, "but that's hardly the point."
"How can you say that? It's exactly the point."
"I didn't mean it like that, but... What about the fact that a whole list of awful things could have happened while you were on your way here? What would I have done if...?"
"Stiles, I know. Believe me...I know, but I'm not the least bit sorry," she informs him. "I needed to see you. I needed to, and—"
"Shh..." he interrupts, running his thumb over her pouting lips. "I don't want an apology. What I'm trying to say is... I've been thinking of you all night...missing you so much. I needed to see you too, and I'm so glad you're here."
"Where else would I be?" she asks...
and then, she remembers.
She remembers the first time she almost told Stiles she loved him...
There was a storm that night too; driving rain, harsh winds, and wrathful lightning. There was also turbulent thunder – both in the atmosphere and in her chest. She remembers the acute fear that was pulsing through her veins. It told her that Stiles was in trouble.
She hadn't seen him for days, and it was burdening her, heavily. She missed him, missed all of the things between them. She missed their talks, often hours-long, about everything and nothing at all. She missed reading together. They had just finished their book about the northern lights, one she chose specifically with him in mind. She missed taking spontaneous drives out of town...just to get a break from the madness that was their lives. Things always seemed clearer outside of Beacon Hills, especially when they were together. She missed the melody of his laughter and the way he said Lyds...always with a glimmer of a smile on his lips. She missed meeting him by his locker. She missed him stealing mints from the pockets of her cardigans and the shy kisses he would brush against her cheek when he whispered a thank you. She missed sneaking glances at him during class while drawing dots in the margins of her notebooks that mirrored the constellations of moles on his cheeks. She missed falling asleep next to him when they studied or researched until they were worn out. Even more, she missed waking up to the pure gold in his eyes the following morning. Last time, she woke with her forehead leaning into his chest and his arm draped over her side. She missed the calm he instilled in her, the solace he transmitted with the touch of his hands. Hell, she even missed arguing with him...on occasion, because Stiles always insisted that they hadn't made up unless they hugged, and his hugs were superior. She missed all of that...and so much more.
Lydia attempted to distract herself, but it was pointless. There was a Stiles-sized hole in her life, one that nothing and no one else could dare to fill. His voice called to her...wherever she was, and her heart was practically screaming for her to answer him, to be there for him, like he always was for her.
Until this night, she hadn't been able to gather the courage to do so. Not after she failed him so miserably.
Stiles had gone missing, four days earlier. He was out in the bitter cold – on the coldest night of the year in fact, his life was in danger, but she couldn't find him. When it mattered most, her so-called banshee abilities had been useless. She had been useless. She led his dad in the wrong direction, wasted precious time and resources, and she was wrong. Stiles believed in her, and she let him down.
Regardless of her incompetence, he was found, and Lydia was so relieved that she could have cried in front of everyone. But she didn't...because the icy sting of guilt instantly crept in and froze the entire river of tears in her eyes. And, later that day, when Scott asked if she wanted to go to the hospital to see Stiles, she used the excuse of being hypersensitive to noise to hide from one of her best friends, from the boy she loved more than she knew how to express.
And then, things got worse. Stiles vanished again. Lydia blamed herself again. Two whole days passed, and when he reappeared, still she stayed away. She allowed herself to be paralyzed by fear. Fear of how much she felt for him. Fear of looking in his eyes and seeing them riddled with hurt and disappointment. Fear of confronting the terrifying possibility of losing him forever.
But when Allison dropped her off at home that night, Lydia felt something shift inside of her; tugging in her heart as fiercely persuasive as it had been when she waited sixteen hours for Stiles to emerge from an icy tub of water. It was as though she could feel him slipping away. She couldn't let that happen. Suddenly, all of the complicated thoughts, all of the doubts and insecurities became irrelevant. What mattered was that Lydia was certain Stiles needed her, and that she could be the one to pull him back.
She had to get to him.
She remembers driving to Woodbine Lane, just after ten o'clock, and rushing to the porch in her pale blue, hooded raincoat.
Scott opened the door; his expression haggard, one hand braced against his abdomen as he ushered her inside. She remembers the uninvited trail of wet leaves and debris that followed her into the Stilinski house – a place that felt more like home to her every time she entered.
"I take it you talked to Kira..." Scott said while locking the door behind them.
She looked at him, puzzled, as she scraped her boots on the doormat. "No, she called a couple of minutes ago, but I was driving."
"Then, how'd you know to come here?"
"I just knew," she replied, shrugging out of her raincoat and hanging it on the wrought-iron rack in the foyer. "Where's Stiles?"
"In his room."
"Does his dad know yet?"
"No. He's stuck at the station. It's complete chaos over there... There was a bomb."
Her eyes widened with shock. "Is he okay?"
"Yeah, but a lot of the other officers aren't."
Lydia remembers the anguish in her friend's eyes. It told her that things were far worse than she anticipated.
Stepping nearer to Scott, she asked, "What about you? What happened to you?"
"The Oni...they're looking for Stiles. Kira and I were trying to get him into the clinic, but they surrounded us. She's alright but—"
"Did they hurt him too?"
"No."
His response provided no respite; the quiver in his voice only made her more uneasy. Lydia's need to see Stiles, with her own two eyes, grew more urgent.
She began advancing towards the hallway that led to his room. "Then who?"
"Wait..." Scott's hand quickly closed around her wrist. "There's something you should know first. He's not himself right now."
She reluctantly stopped in her tracks. "I know that. That's why I need to see him. You can tell me the rest later."
"Lydia, listen. All the things that happened today...Coach...the decoy on the school bus, the bomb at the Sheriff's Station..." he trailed off, dark eyes pooling with moisture.
"Scott?"
Head ducked, he maintained hold of her wrist and set his other hand on her opposite shoulder, like he was about to give her really bad news.
"What are you saying?" she pressed.
"When I got stabbed...instead of helping me, Stiles...he knocked Kira out, and then...he twisted the sword."
She remembers the way her ears started ringing, making it difficult to hear a single syllable that came after. She tried reading his lips, but she was so distraught that the only words she could decipher were Stiles and nogitsune. When the ringing ceased, Lydia managed to catch the end of his statement.
"It's taking control of him."
She stared at Scott, horrified. The pain was unbearable, far worse than any other she had the misfortune of enduring.
"Deaton had to give him some kind of lichen...something to poison the nogitsune. Stiles is pretty out of it. Maybe you should wait...until we're sure it's safe."
For a fleeting second, she was tempted to listen to him, to retreat from the overwhelming feelings she had for Stiles. But then, her mind caught up with her heart. She didn't want to run from Stiles. She wanted to run to him. She loved him that much.
She shook her head, backing away from Scott. "No, I want to see him."
"Lydia—"
Determination loosened her tongue. "If it were Allison...would you stay away?" Deep down, she knew that Scott could sense her feelings for Stiles, but he probably never thought she would admit them through such a thinly veiled counterargument.
His jaw slackened with surprise. "No, I wouldn't."
"Then don't expect me to," she rigidly protested.
He surrendered an empathetic sigh and let go of her. "Okay...but I'll be right here, so if anything seems off to you...even a little, you call for me."
"It's Stiles. I know it's him, and he wouldn't—"
"Lydia just—"
"Scott, I trust him."
"I know you do," he acknowledged with a small smile. "I was just going to say... Watch out for the line of mountain ash by the door. If it's broken...the Oni...they can get in."
"Oh, right." She pursed her lips, waited for the awkwardness to pass, then lurched forward and put her arms around him.
Even though he was weary, and his wound must have been extremely sore, Scott returned the embrace wholeheartedly, like always.
"Try to get some rest. You'll heal faster," she advised before heading down the hallway.
Lydia remembers approaching Stiles's room, the tugging easing with each step closer. She remembers the constant murmur of rain, drowning out the click of her boots on the wood floors, and the thin band of amber light that was peaking beneath the door. She turned the knob, letting it swing open while she remained in the hallway. The bedside lamp provided just enough light for her to see him. Stiles.
He was sitting at the edge of the mattress, elbows propped on his knees, head in his hands, completely motionless; a shadow of the energetic, often hyperactive boy she knew...and loved.
When her lungs reflexively expanded with a sharp inhale, his body reanimated; hands falling slowly from his face as he sprung from the bed.
"Lydia..." he exhaled, before even turning towards her.
"Stiles, Stiles..." she answered, practically leaping over the line of mountain ash to get to him.
They collided in the middle of the room; arms enveloping, hands searching, bodies pressed together. She remembers the way he repeated her name, LydiaLydia...Lyds, and the welcome sensation of his lips grazing her skin. How long had it been since he kissed her cheek? Days? A week? It felt like longer. She remembers the way his taller frame precipitously sagged against her smaller one. She could feel his exhaustion all the way down to her bones, but she locked her arms tighter around him.
"I've got you," she assured him.
And she did. By some force of unknown inner strength, Lydia kept Stiles upright.
"I knew you'd come. I knew it," he told her in a low raspy tone – as if he were acknowledging a secret pact, just between them.
Perhaps such a thing existed. Her presence, the fulfillment of some unspoken vow they had made, a promise to always find their way back to each other.
Lydia remembers the certitude that swiftly washed over her. Maybe she couldn't rely on her banshee abilities, but her heart had led her exactly where she was supposed to be – her heart had led her to Stiles.
"Where else would I be?" she questioned.
He quaked with emotion; either an upshot of the inner turmoil afflicting his body, or the shock waves of her own...reverberating through him. She didn't know which.
"I missed you so much, Lyds."
"I missed you too."
Sliding his hands from her back to her shoulders, he sought to make eye contact.
His appearance was altered; red-rimmed lids, cheekbones slightly more pronounced, unnatural hollows casting blue-violet shades on pale skin. She could feel him struggling to stand, but his hand moved to her cheek, then his fingers explored the braids that were encircling her head and the loose ringlets that framed her face. He steadied a bit, less of his weight leaning into her.
"I've never seen your hair like this before. It's really pretty... I mean it always is but..."
He was still the same Stiles; sweet and observant as ever, same spark in his irises too. Lydia, however, was changing. She remembers it – her first real heartbreak; not a single wound, but rather a multitude of tiny fissures forming between the already tender fibers of her heart. It was a novel kind of pain, one that somehow strengthened her resolve, enabled her to focus on Stiles. He needed her, and she figured the best way to help him was to make things feel normal...or as close to normal as she could, under the circumstances.
So she smiled at the compliment and said, "Thanks," while returning his caress as gently as possible. His hair was damp, scent of rainwater wafting from it as she carded the mess she made when they were hugging. "Yours is... Well, let's just say it's looked better," she joked feebly, hoping to inspire one of his crooked grins.
Lydia got that and more. Stiles exhaled a laugh, and she followed him. Their eyes locked for an extended moment. Then they both broke down, crumpling to the floor beside the bed; a pile of shaking limbs and free-flowing tears.
The storm continued to lash out with a furious amalgamation of rain, wind, lightning, and thunder – all of it driving Lydia and Stiles further and further into the safety of each other's arms. She remembers clutching his tee shirt and breathing him in through abbreviated gasps. She remembers never wanting to let go of him or the bond that was growing between them. From the way he was holding her, with his hands spread across her back and his nose buried in the curve of her neck, she understood that he didn't want to either.
But it was Stiles who abruptly pulled away. "Wait a minute... What am I doing? Lydia, you have to get away from me right now."
Her response was instinctive. "No, I'm not leaving you," she refused, grasping his forearms.
"Lyds, it's not safe. I'm not safe."
"That's not true."
"I guess Scott didn't tell you what I did," he assumed.
"He did, but that wasn't you."
"All those things today...what I did to Kira...to him..." He looked down, scrutinizing his upturned palms with disgust. "I remember it. I could have... And you—you can't heal like he can."
She took his hands in hers. "I won't need to. I'm with you right now, and you would never hurt me."
"I never want to... But how can you be sure I'm me?"
Because I love you, she immediately thought.
She almost blurted it out too. Almost.
"Because I—" She caught herself midway through her declaration.
She couldn't tell him like that. It didn't seem right.
As a rule, Lydia never put much faith into those three words. They were too like the tide; inconstant and easily swayed by external forces. They could be sincere and reassuring, like when her mother or Allison said them, or they could be phony and hollow, like when her father carelessly tacked them to the end of another one of his blanket apologies. Some people said those words often – a quick "love you" as they hung up the phone or walked out the door. Others never said them at all. They were three words that she herself had uttered...without fully comprehending the feelings that should anchor them.
But then, she fell in love with Stiles...and everything changed. She believed an I love you between them could be different. She imagined telling him...at least a dozen different ways so far...but never like this. When it finally did happen, she wanted it to be about them – Stiles and Lydia – nothing else.
So, even though, for the first time in her life, Lydia physically ached to say those three words, she withheld them. She remembers how her mind raced, searching for different words, ones that could describe the incomparable feelings she had for him, and alleviate his fears as well.
He mistook her hesitation for doubt and started to pull away again, but she tightened her grip. Then Lydia spoke from the heart, hoping that Stiles would understand.
"Because...I can feel you...right here." She remembers his eyes widening as she moved his hand to her heart and the way they rapidly blinked as she asserted, "We're tethered. Do you remember that too?" She waited for him to nod, then continued, "I'm sure because...only you would have known it was me standing in your doorway...before you even saw me. I'm sure because only you would hold me the way that you did...or notice that I tried a new hairstyle. I'm sure because you called me Lyds, and because I know the real you... Stiles, I'd recognize you anywhere."
A few more droplets spilled over his lashes, then he sucked in his bottom lip and dropped his head to her shoulder.
"How did I let this happen?"
"You didn't."
"But...if I had just been strong enough..."
The implications of those words poked her right in the chest, and the fractures in her heart expanded. Stiles thought himself weak...and that couldn't be further from the truth.
Lydia set her hand on the side of his neck, feeling his pulse throb beneath her thumb as she spoke softly to him. "Did you think I was weak? Last year...the terrible things I did..."
He lifted his head, eyebrows pinched together as he responded, "No, of course not. That wasn't your fault."
"What you're going through...it's not so different. I know what it's like to have some thing in your head, making you do things you don't want to do. But Stiles, you're strong. You're the strongest person I've ever known...human or otherwise. If anyone can fight this – it's you." She paused to swipe the tears from his cheeks. "You're not alone either. Scott, Allison, Kira, Isaac... They're all going to help you. And I'm here. Okay? I'm going to do whatever it takes to get you better. I promise."
"Lydia..." he choked out.
"I'm not leaving you," she repeated, touching her forehead to his – a secret kiss.
"I'm scared," he whispered, pressing into her.
"So am I, but remember what you said to me that day...when you were walking me home from the bookstore and...and I bansheed out on you?" She felt him shudder with a release of tension, and she knew she was going in the right direction. "I was so scared, and I thought it would be safer for you to stay away from me, but you said... 'It's less scary when we're together.'"
"I meant it," he sniffled.
"I know you did, and I feel the same. So, we have to stick together then... Right?"
"Right," he exhaled slowly.
The next time their eyes met, he was smiling – a genuine smile. His countenance was calmer, and brighter, and much more like her Stiles.
"Lydia?"
"Yeah?"
"Does this mean we're using bansheed out now?"
She rolled her eyes but couldn't suppress a grin.
"I'm taking that as a yes," he remarked, lightly tapping her left dimple.
"Stiles..."
"Admit it. You sorta like it."
"You should get in bed. It's too cold on the floor," she deflected.
"Yup, I knew it. You do," he insisted.
Once she helped him up and straightened his jumbled comforter, Stiles got under the covers. She remembers the way he reached for her, arm outstretched, hand ever so slightly trembling until it connected with hers. She remembers what it felt like when their fingers curled around each other, the ever-present electricity between them more powerful than the storm outside. She kicked off her boots and climbed in beside him, sitting with her back propped on two of his pillows and the headboard.
"It's alright if you want to sleep," she told him, massaging his shoulder. "I don't mind."
"I don't want to sleep. I want to talk to you... Tell me about your day."
"You don't want to hear about that."
"Sure I do. We always..."
She had briefly averted her eyes – a reflex, and that was all he needed.
He looked at her curiously. "What are you trying not to tell me? Did something else happen?"
"No," she denied in vain.
He raised his brows.
"You're not going to like it."
"Okay, now I've gotta know," he persisted.
She remained silent.
"Lydia, spill."
"Fine," she caved. "P—Derek's uncle was lurking around the school today."
"What? Where?"
"In the hallway... I saw him talking to my mom. He said he was from the Health Department and that he was there to schedule hearing tests."
He narrowed his eyes. "What the hell?"
"So, after school I...I went to the loft."
"Wait—What? What were you thinking?"
He moved to get up, but she set her hands on his shoulders.
"I didn't go alone. Allison was with me – and she brought her stun gun."
"Good," he relaxed, dropping his head back onto the pillow with a sigh. "She use it?" he asked with a wry smirk.
It faded as quickly as it had taken shape when she answered, "Yes..."
"What did he do?"
"The usual...taunted both of us, talked in circles, generally made me sick to my stomach..."
Lydia brought her knees up to her chest, hugging them tightly. She didn't want to talk about Peter, how he bragged about what he did to her and the way he used her, how he took sick satisfaction in having awakened a part of her that frightened and confused her more than anything else. She didn't want him invading the space she was sharing with Stiles.
He responded to her discomfort, pushing off from the bed to sit up, and that time, Lydia didn't stop him. She remembers the irrepressible desire to be held by him, so when he put his arm around her, she leaned into him without a moment's delay.
"I know you don't want to talk about him. I don't either. He isn't worth our time." Putting his hand on her knees, he guided her a little closer. "I do want to know about you though. Are you alright?"
"No."
She remembers the building pressure behind her eyes and the compassion in Stiles's tone when he coaxed, "Please tell me."
"When I tried to leave, he grabbed me..."
"Son of a—" he muttered with a clenched jaw. "Did he hurt you?"
"Not much... Mostly, I'm annoyed – at myself for letting him get to me and for even going there in the first place. Allison warned me it was a bad idea. I knew she was right but, Stiles, I had to try. I need to know how this banshee thing works...sooner rather than later."
"I get it," he nodded. They were sitting so close, she could feel his chest swelling with every breath and see the iridescent shine on his eyelashes whenever another flash of lightning lit up the room. "You're frustrated. We've been at this for months, and we still have a lot to figure out but... Why today? What got your back up against the wall, made you think he was your only option?"
She blinked; her eyes were getting blurry. She wasn't sure how to tell Stiles that she went there for him...because she was more terrified of losing him than she was of facing off with a monster like Peter.
"I... I don't want to fail again."
"You haven't. What you've been able to do is incredible."
"But...the other night..."
He cautiously lifted his hand from her knee, as if he were afraid any sudden movement might frighten her. When she didn't shy away, he gingerly brushed a few tendrils of her hair aside and cupped the left side of her face.
"It's okay. You can tell me," he encouraged.
"I heard your voice. I heard you. You said... 'Come find me', and I tried for you," she hiccupped. "I tried so hard, but I couldn't do it. If Agent McCall hadn't been able to—" Her voice cracked, and a stream of hot tears escaped the corners of her eyes.
"Aww...Lydia. I had no idea. Come here..." Without a trace of hurt or disappointment, he brought her into a secure embrace.
She shut her eyes and clung to him. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
"Shh...don't be."
"I should have been able to help you."
"Would you believe me if I told you that you did? That some part of me knew you were trying to find me?" he asked, rubbing her back in smooth strokes. "You're helping me right now too, just by being here for me...and by letting me be here for you too."
"You mean that." It wasn't a question. She knew he did.
"Yeah, because every time I think about giving up, you give me a reason not to. It's always been like that... It's not just one of us helping the other. We're a team, and it means so much to me."
"It does to me too," she said, planting her cheek on his shoulder. "Stiles?"
"Hmm..."
"I don't want to lose you," she whispered into his neck, heat of his skin transferring to her lips.
"You won't. I'll fight harder...do whatever it takes... Once we figure out how to get rid of this fox spirit, we're gonna go right back to banshee research, and we'll figure that out too."
She remembers the way his body shook as he finished his statement. She worried that he was crying, but when she looked at him, Lydia could see that Stiles was laughing.
"What's so funny?"
"Can you believe the conversations we have? Banshees...and fox spirits...and psychotic, wannabe alpha werewolves that lurk around high schools..."
After a stagnant pause, she laughed too. If she hadn't, she would have kept on crying. So, Lydia laughed with the boy she loved. She wound her arms around him and held him close. Just like that, all that had been weighing on her started to lift.
When they parted, Stiles passed his hand over his face. "I wish we could do something normal. You know? Like go for a drive or read together...but this storm is ridiculous, and my eyes are too tired."
"How about I read to you then?"
"Would you?"
"Yeah, of course – anything you like."
"Uh...there's a copy of The Hobbit on my nightstand. I usually read it this time of year. Do you mind?"
"No, not at all. I haven't read it in a long time. It'll be nice." Leaning to her left, she located the book under a stack of papers. The corners of her mouth uplifted as she observed the familiar blue hardcover, years of careful wear marking the binding and edges. "I used to have one just like this, but I lost it." Resting the book in her lap, she opened it and skimmed the copyright page. "It's even the same edition...except mine would have had a butterfly drawn on the inside of the back cover. I had this habit of—"
She remembers the warmth of his palm, excitedly clasping her forearm. "Lydia, you're kidding me!"
"No. Why?"
"Look..."
Her lungs stilled and her stomach swirled with suspense as he quickly flipped through the text, fingers enthusiastically swiping the last several pages aside.
Sure enough, there was a drawing of a butterfly. Her drawing. The one she sketched with colored pencils when she was only eight years old.
Lydia released the breath she was holding and began outlining the intricately detailed, orange butterfly with her index.
"Stiles, look here... These are my initials. I had read somewhere that certain artists like to hide their signature in their work, so it doesn't distract from the content...and I used to put mine in the design of the wings."
Reverently, his finger followed hers, tracing the script LM at the base of the left wing. "That's really smart," he commented.
Her heart accelerated as she remembered another time he said that to her. The day she kissed him until the panic left him. The day she knew that what she felt for him was Love.
His arm was still around her, and he gave her a gentle squeeze when he explained, "This...it's more than just a book. I...um... I found it at the park in Andrews Hill, a week or so after my mom died. I read it cover to cover in a couple of days. Then I read it again...and again. It was one of the few things that took my mind off how awful I was feeling. It gave me...an escape for a while. This book got me through a lot of sleepless nights."
"Really?"
"Yeah, Lyds," he confirmed.
She remembers the way his lips sculpted her nickname with the hint of a smile.
"Well...I'm glad I lost it then," she told him, gazing directly into his eyes, which were glossy with nostalgic awe and already fixed on her.
"I'm glad you found it again too."
He covered her hand with his, and she smiled; the knowledge that she had consoled Stiles, even indirectly, all those years ago, affecting her in a profound way. She remembers the burgeoning impression of heat in her chest. It was as if the molten light he radiated was miraculously healing the fissures in her heart – not closing them up, but rather filling them...with the same pure gold that glinted in his eyes, leaving her heart bigger and brighter than it was before. Lydia remembers understanding that her love for Stiles was no longer something she held in her heart – it was part of her heart...and it always would be.
They sat in silence for a moment; astounded and emotional. Then together, they sank below the covers; their book between them, his left hand bound to her right. Outside, the storm was still raging, but being with Stiles made all of the discord fade into the distance. Lydia remembers the way he was looking at her – like he had just found the calm he had been seeking.
"Ready?" she asked.
"Yeah," he replied.
He held her hand, thumb repeatedly gliding over her knuckles as she read the first paragraph aloud:
"In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit. Not a nasty, dirty, wet hole, filled with the ends of worms and an oozy smell, nor yet a dry, bare, sandy hole with nothing in it to sit down on or to eat: it was a hobbit-hole, and that means comfort."
She read page after page, continuing until her throat was dry and her voice was raspy. All the while, she thought of how much she loved Stiles, how much she wished they could escape Beacon Hills someday, start over in a new place – one that wasn't determined to hurt them.
She remembers the last words to pass his lips. He was half-asleep, eyelids fluttering shut. "Me too, Lydia," he murmured.
And she wondered if she had thought and wished so passionately that Stiles could sense it.
Using the aged satin bookmark to hold her place, she closed the text and nestled it between them. She remembers pressing her lips firmly to his forehead, hoping against logic that all of the care and affection tied to her kiss could be enough to protect him.
The last thing Lydia remembers is resting her head on Stiles's pillow, sight and scent and nearness of him enough to soothe the lingering ache from her heart and lull her to tranquil sleep.
Present Day
Lydia inhales deeply. It's quiet now. The storm has passed, and Stiles is twirling the ends of her hair with his fingertips.
"Where's your copy of The Hobbit?" she asks.
She sees the spark; the curious delight that ignites in his eyes whenever she remembers something that brought them closer together.
"I think you mean our copy... It's over there, on the bookshelf," he smiles.
"We never finished it... Did we?"
"No, but we could – anytime you want. The bookmark is right where you left it."
"You mean, you didn't...?"
"I didn't want to. Not without you," he enlightens her.
Once again, she is blown away by the unwavering virtue of his love. All this time, he was waiting...for her. He loves her that much.
Suddenly it dawns on her – She didn't tell him.
The revelation hits her hard, like a punch in the center of her chest, impact making it difficult to breathe. "Oh... Stiles," she gasps, as her body tenses.
He wastes no time responding, drawing his arms tighter around her. "Hey, what is it?"
"I just realized..."
"What?"
Her volume is hushed by disbelief and remorse when she clarifies, "I didn't tell you that night... I wanted to – so badly, but I didn't. I didn't tell you today either. I thought it so many times, but I didn't say it. I let a whole day go by and—"
"Lyds, slow down a little," he soothes, cupping the back of her head with one hand. "What are you talking about?"
"I didn't tell you...I love you."
His expression shifts from one of confusion, to that of relief and tender recognition. "Yes, you did."
"No, I—"
"You did...at least ten times. I counted."
Stiles is so certain that she immediately relaxes, eyes and heart focused solely on him as he wipes her tears.
"Here..." He picks up her hand, then kisses the pad of her index finger. "They were the first words you said this morning. You weren't even fully awake yet, but your lips were pressed to my neck, like this..." he ducks his head down to demonstrate, "and you said, 'Mmm...Stil—es... I love you soooooooo much.'"
She giggles at the vibration of his voice against her skin. "Did I really?"
"Yeah, you did...and I felt it everywhere."
"I feel it too," she willingly confesses.
"And that was just the beginning. You told me in a bunch of other ways too," he proceeds with an adoring smile, kissing her fingertips, one at a time, as he lists each unspoken I love you. "Like...by pouring coffee for me before yourself at breakfast, and in the way you washed my back in the shower." He rolls her ring finger between his thumb and index. "I heard it in the tone you used when we were curled up on the couch and you said, 'Let's stay like this forever'...then again, in your laugh at that joke I made at dinner – the one that no one else got. There was the moment on the back porch too...when we were watching the sunset. You looked at me, in that way that you do, and you asked what I was thinking. Then you listened, like my answer was the most important thing."
"It is," she assures him, inching nearer, until their foreheads are touching.
"I felt it in the way you held my hand when I drove you home, and in the way you kissed me good night, like you didn't want to stop."
"I didn't want to."
"Me neither."
His lips connect with hers, and she matches his movements with ardent devotion.
"You're wearing this..." he notes, touching her pendant necklace, "and the fact that you're here tells me you love me too...'cause you knew I needed you, and you didn't hesitate." Grazing his knuckles over her rib cage, he leads, "Know what else?"
"What?"
"I have never felt more loved than when we are together...even if neither of us says a word."
"Me too," she smiles. "I still get to say it though... Right?"
"As often as you want... I'll never tire of hearing it."
She sneaks another kiss. "I love you, Stiles."
"I love you, Lydia."
They hold each other, reveling in the calm after the storm, each caress, nudge, and change in pressure between them...part of a silent conversation.
"What do you hear now?" she inquires as she snuggles closer.
"I love you."
She takes his hand and intertwines their fingers. "What about now?"
"I love you."
"Now?" she asks once more, tracing a butterfly over his sternum.
"I love you."
When she wakes the next morning, after having peacefully slept the entire night, Lydia can't stop staring at the beautiful image of Stiles, glowing in his sunlit room. She feels his smooth warm skin against hers. When his eyes open, they are brilliantly reflecting the light from within him. She combs through his hair with her fingers and admires his soft parted lips. She can feel the pulse in his neck and the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest, both in perfect harmony with hers. His arms are wrapped around her, and their legs are entangled under blue sheets. Together, they are still, and comfortable, and calm.
There is an I love you on her lips when she kisses him good morning.
"That's one," he replies with a smile.