"I cannot sleep
without you
anymore,"
you said, soft and lost
in my tired arms,
"Nor I, without you,"
I said, the weight of your
head on my chest.
We are built to be one,
one thing in the dark hours,
one breath rising
into the ether above us.
Move closer, still closer,
until no space exists between us,
until this skin becomes
that skin,
and all I am is shared
with all you are
- Tyler Knott Gregson –
Ghosts hide in the doorway. They hide in each sharp click of the key turning in the lock.
When Stiles opens his childhood house, they invade his memories. He watches them, powerless against their will to escape. How long have they been waiting for this? Waiting for a draft. Waiting for a release. Waiting for this house to be inhabited by something else than regrets and longing.
But Stiles can't give them what they want. He can't let them free. He doesn't know how to do it. So, he lets them play like a broken record in his mind, bump like fish against their aquarium walls.
One waves at Deaton on the nights he would take him home after tending to one of his wounds. He crosses the threshold, biting his tongue to keep from shouting when his hesitant steps throw him against the sharp edge of a piece of furniture, pain blurring his vision. And he crosses the threshold again. And again. Stuck in a loop.
There's a lump in Stiles's throat. It's stuck too.
One more behind his sternum when he sees a second ghost.
This one is worried, coming back from a pack meeting, forgetting to carefully put the keys in the fissured entrance bowl that belonged to his mom and forgetting not to slam the door with his foot because the paint is starting to wear off. But he is too lost in his own thoughts to realize any of it. They loop too, over and over…
Only the sound of his dad's footsteps, somewhere in the house or outside, forces him to come back to a reality he wishes he had never left. Home.
Stiles wishes he could make them all go away. He is afraid of what memories those footsteps could hide, but he is helpless against those ghosts. They have been trapped here for too many years.
He sees himself. He is thirteen years old, reeking of vodka for the first time because he and Scott found a bottle hidden in the back of a cupboard in Melissa's kitchen.
Noah is there too. He yells a lot, grounds him, until the mask of anger he was wearing splinters and he collapses on a chair in the kitchen, sobbing uncontrollably with his head buried in his forearms on the small table. The ghost stays frozen, and Stiles remembers how scared he was to move even slightly; nausea and dizziness slowly mixing with a terrible shame when his dad articulated a few words.
"I'm sorry, Stiles… It's my fault. I…I know it."
What his dad was implying couldn't have been clearer to Stiles. His despair was as obvious as the five empty whiskey bottles lying next to the trash can. Stiles remembers his tiredness, but he mostly recalls that nothing on Earth would have made him leave his dad in this state. He sat by his side, encircling his arm with his two hands and resting his head in the crook of his elbow like he used to do when he was younger.
"I'm sorry, dad. It's not your fault. I won't do it again, I promise."
For a long moment, Noah had run his fingers through his son's hair, letting his tears, self-disgust and sadness drown in the gesture of a father trying to lull his kid to sleep.
A soft pressure around his waist and a weight against his back helps Stiles come back to reality. Lydia plants a series of slow kisses between his shoulder blades, her hands lightly rubbing his stomach. She doesn't say anything at first. When the kisses linger, when she stills against him, he can feel her trying to reach him, trying to soothe him in this dance they keep perfecting. Inhaling deeply, he squeezes his eyes shut and allows his frozen soul to trade the icy memory of the ghosts' touch with Lydia's warmer embrace. Slowly, the ghosts mingle with the howling wind and go back to where they were hiding.
"Talk to me, Stiles. It will be easier if you talk. Tell me about you and Scott. I'm sure you have plenty of good memories."
Her words build a lifeline in front of him and he hangs on to it with all of his strength. He follows these tiny letters until they lead him to Scott and his PlayStation: the main reason for his returns in the middle of the night. Whenever Melissa had the night shift and they knew Noah wouldn't be home for a while, Stiles would sneak into the McCall's house, and they would play for hours, even on school nights.
Laughter bubbles behind this memory, and he catches a glimpse of Lydia behind him.
"She always had enough leftovers for us both in the fridge. Convenient, right?" He adds with a nostalgic tone, "Vegetables mostly. We must have been the only kids who would eat green beans or spinach with salmon while playing video games."
She chuckles behind him, nuzzling up behind his shoulder blades. "That's cute…" Her affection and serenity immediately spreading through his layers of clothes, skin, and bone. Before taking the final step, he brings one of her hands to his lips, breathing her in, breathing her calm and love in.
"Okay, let's do this."
With mechanical gestures, he wipes his feet on the doormat and opens the door, stepping aside to let Lydia do the same as he swiftly scans the wide space in front of him. Like Scott told him, they kept every piece of furniture. This is the house he remembers but…it's also…not. He wants to feel at home, but he doesn't, and a lump starts forming in his throat. Maybe it's the scent, maybe it's the imprint left by all the people who inhabited this house for years, maybe it's the ghosts, maybe it's himself… but something is wrong. Everything is the same and yet, it's all different.
This house is no longer his home.
A part of him wants to investigate further, find something to hold on to in this emptiness. But the other part desperately wants to take Lydia with him and go. Go far away, forget about this, forget about everything and live with her on a deserted island with penguins and northern lights, until they don't even remember who they used to be. He has already imagined a house for them, he could learn how to build one. Hunting, fishing... Why not? It can't be so hard. Lydia is a quick learner, and he is sure she has a lot to teach him too. Maybe it would be difficult at the beginning, but they would be happy…
Something soft in his hand snaps him out of his thoughts.
Lydia.
She took his hand and Stiles can't help but meet her eyes.
Her eyes…
They are brimming with so many things that he doesn't know how to tell her, how to explain…even to himself. He can't explain the feeling that is insidiously seeping through his veins.
Disappointment.
He barely dares to give it that name. How can he be disappointed? Was he expecting to find the house just like it was when he left? Or maybe even with his parents waiting for him with welcoming arms? He doesn't get to be disappointed. He is the one who left. Frustration and shame are starting to put pressure inside his skull, but with the softness of a summer breeze, Lydia's voice draws him back to her.
"Is this where your mom would measure your height?"
She is facing the wall to the right of the door. When most families keep records of their children' heights in a health journal, or discreetly on the edge of a wall, Claudia had used an entire wall. In one smile, all the bitterness and anger escape Stiles's mind. A balmy silence settles in when he closes the door behind him, letting the wind and the ghosts howl outside.
Lydia approaches the wall, her face illuminated by an amazement that helps him remember why being here matters.
Because it's just as important for her.
"Yeah," he answers, not even trying to strengthen his wavering voice and pointing at the different parts as he talks. "She worked on it several times. At first, she would only mark my height with the date next to it. She loved calligraphy, she had this special brush and India ink… She loved to use it. When her memories started to falter and she had to stop working, the doctors told her she should try manual and creative activities. She started painting. She was good at it… She came back to that scale and added the drawings."
Lydia doesn't say anything. She seems to barely dare exhaling, mouth agape and pupils widening every now and then to take everything in. "That's you…" she eventually utters, half as a statement, half as a question.
"It's um… Yeah, it's supposed to be me at every age. She used to say she was painting all of me, not just the visible."
A silhouette could be recognized in some drawings, but it was mostly colors, shapes, and movements. Lydia nods and Stiles realizes what she is doing.
She acts like she would in a museum.
With her arms folded over her chest and her mouth wide-open in a mix of concentration and awe, scrutinizing every detail… There is something reverential about her attitude that touches him deeper than he had imagined.
She gets it.
She gets what his mom did, and she gets all the rest. Everything about this house, about his family's history. She gets it…and Stiles understands.
It's her… The reason why he will be able to stay here longer.
It's Lydia.
It's not just the fascination on her face or the knowledge that it's important for her to learn everything she can about his past. It's her entire being.
It encircles the house, the past, the present... She gets it, she soaks up everything and lets her soul expand, turning a hostile environment full of ghosts and reminders of what happened into a safe haven, a place wide enough where his agitated emotions can rest.
Overwhelmed with love and gratitude, Stiles moves behind her to wrap his arms around her and bury his lips in her hair.
"It's… It's beautiful," she manages to articulate as she lets her upper body dive into his embrace. "I… I never saw you like that… Sometimes I get a glimpse, but it's always so fleeting."
Somehow, her words are perfectly clear to him.
She means the same thing he does when he can't help but keep his stare on her while she laughs, when he can't help but fall in love with her all over again whenever she smiles so genuinely that it makes her look slightly different. It's her soul, he thinks, her soul taking shape in her smile, her soul dancing like a flickering light in her irises.
"I know," Stiles whispers in her soft locks. "I know."
With a mesmerized slowness, Lydia hooks her hands around his forearms, absently playing with the hairs under his sleeve and squeezing. Then, she stills. Stiles can feel all sorts of emotions wash over her, they seep through everything. Through him, through the walls, through the pieces of furniture and through every atom in the air. Like a reflex, Stiles brings his feet around hers, hugging her with his whole body to give her something to concentrate on, help her stay anchored, and it works. Eventually, her presence all around him is stable again, peaceful, and he asks her if she wants a tour of the house.
He lets her questions lead him through memories. There are small details everywhere, details he hadn't noticed at first, but that take up the entire space now. Tiny things that Scott and Melissa made sure to preserve, all the "flaws" of the house that witnessed an entire life. It's through those marks in the walls, scrapes in the wood, and traces of moisture, or stains that Stiles is finally able to repopulate the house with something familiar. They stay away from his bedroom and his parents'. It would be too much for now.
Stiles has no idea how long they stay, exploring and recalling stories. Some are heavier than others, but Lydia is there, and she brightens the whole house with her mere presence. She pushes the shadows away.
But it all eventually collapses around him, when they find the door leading to the room Scott and Melissa used to store the Stilinski's personal effects. Stiles lays a hand against the wooden door and tries to stay still while a storm is battering everything in him.
He is still able to sense Lydia's encompassing presence, her soul trying to support his with all her strength, but he needs more, he needs her. The heat of Lydia's hands against his back is all it takes for him to shatter. Unable to stand any longer, he lets his knees drag him to the ground, knowing that Lydia is there to steer him in the right direction.
She sinks down next to him and opens her arms to him, calling him softly. Without any hesitation, he takes refuge in the crook of her neck. He is engulfed by her, wrapped up in her caring arms, in her love that she tries to infuse into him with tender caresses in his hair and along his nape and back. Sobs and whimpers make his body tremble, but Lydia keeps him sheltered while her voice gives his thoughts something to follow.
She is magic, he thinks as his adoration for her makes everything else vanish.
"We can come back later," she is whispering to his ear. "You already did so much, my love, I'm so proud of you."
Her warmth and her love are surrounding Stiles, and he nestles into it, letting her soothe him slowly, letting her pull him back to her. Once he has collected his wits enough to speak, he brushes his fingers against her waist and sniffles faintly.
"I… I wanted to show you the photo albums," he starts before straightening up in her arms. "Scott told me they ordered them chronologically and took care of the photos that were still in boxes. There are so many from elementary and middle school, I thought you would like to see them and I… I wanted to see if there were pictures of you, or just with you in the background. But um…" Sadness takes hold of him and his vision blurs. "I'm not sure I can go in that room. Not today."
Lydia keeps caressing his hand. Gradually, the sensations it creates all along his arms are the only things that reach his brain.
"I might have an idea," she eventually says, her fingers smoothly brushing his tears away. "We could go to the B&B across the street, check if they have a vacant room. I can come back here while you rest, pick a few albums and bring them to you. That way, we'll be in a neutral environment, and you won't have to deal with everything all at once. How does that sound?"
No question has ever been so easy to answer. The mere idea of having a place of their own, even for a short day gives him the impression that the air around him and in his lungs is circulating again. He nods, "Sounds perfect."
She beams at him, and he can't help adding, "Like you", because he knows that deep down, she is as shaken as he is.
Like he knew she would, she blushes and all of a sudden, it's all worthwhile. The pain, the loneliness, the heartaches and anxiety. It's all worthwhile because he knows the words that make the blood rush to her cheeks, he knows the words that make her forget about her own fears.
They stay curled up against each other for a while. Long enough for their hearts to synchronize again, find an appeased pace. Long enough to bring each other comfort and affection with simple touches.
The McCall house is empty when Stiles enters it. He remembers today is the day Kira and Scott leave to visit three houses they spotted in Oregon. They are probably gone by now. In their own bedroom, he finds his backpack and puts some clothes and other things he and Lydia will need for the night.
Outside, as he locks the front door, a sudden biting draft funnels through the coat he just put on. He shivers, swiftly buttoning it and turning up the collar. Something jingles in the pocket with the movement and his stare is drawn to the Jeep. For the first time in three weeks, he is calm when the idea to take it for a quick drive to the grocery store crosses his mind. Automatically, his thoughts go to Lydia. He isn't sure he wants to do it without her.
When he calls her, she picks up with a laugh he can't help imitating. They haven't called each other since that day, a month ago, when they couldn't find each other in a supermarket.
"Are you lost again?" she asks.
"No, why would you think that?" Remnants of laughter are still in his voice, and it makes it impossible to sound falsely offended. "I was thinking I could buy us some snacks…"
A hush falls over them and Stiles pictures her pursing her lips, considering that the nearest grocery store is too far away to walk there. He resumes, to save her having to ask the question. "I thought I would take the Jeep… Would you mind? I mean, I can pick you up if you want to take the first ride with me—"
"Stiles, don't worry about me. If you feel ready right now, you should go ahead. I understand."
"You sure?"
"Yeah, we'll take a drive together another time."
"I'd like that…" There are too many emotions in his lungs, and he needs to clear his throat. "And you, how are you?"
"I'm fine… I can't wait to show you what I found. I think you'll like it...and also...I miss you already."
Her voice is so soft that Stiles doesn't even remember where he is or what he is supposed to do. Maybe it's everything he has been through ever since he and Scott stepped into the night to dig into the dirt and bury their past. Lydia's words seem to mingle directly with his oxygen, with the blood in his veins and heart. Wishing he could evaporate in the wind to reach her and envelop her in an endless embrace, he doesn't realize his knees are weakening until he needs to lean against the Jeep.
"I miss you too. I'll be quick, I promise."
"Okay. Good... And Stiles?"
"Yeah?"
"I'm really proud of you."
It's the second time today she tells him that, and he wonders if she knows she's the reason why, that she's the one who made all of this possible.
"Thank you, Lydia...for everything."
"You're welcome. I'll see you soon, my love."
"Very soon."
He hangs up and keeps smiling as he sits behind the wheel, shoving his phone in the pocket of his coat and throwing his backpack on the passenger seat. Everything is familiar, the scent, his gestures, even the sound of the engine when it starts.
It's easy.
Easy to remember the way to the store. Easy to drive further into his neighborhood and further into his memories. Easy to feel protected in this car, in his Jeep. No ghost can reach him here. He is home.
In the grocery story, he blocks everything out, all the lingering stares, the thoughts going through his mind and knotting his stomach… He thinks of Lydia, about what would make her happy. He spotted a kettle in their bedroom, and if there is anything Lydia enjoys about winter, it's drinking something hot under the blankets…in his arms.
The thought opens a door in his mind, and he loses himself in a daydream and everything else vanishes, immersed in the strong and steady waves of his boundless love. It seems to give him a new focus. All that matters is her and what they are building. If ten years of misery couldn't keep them apart, nothing will. They are forever… How could anything bad weigh against that?
With leisurely gestures, he picks up teas and instant soups, examining labels by reflex because that's what they do with Lydia when they buy food in a new country. Beacon Hills is slowly turning into any other place where they would simply treasure the days spent together. The same as they have done in countless places for the entire year. Staying with Scott, Kira and Melissa was a blessing, but he is slowly becoming aware of how much he craved this: some time with Lydia, some time for them, just them.
When she sends him a message to let him know she is back in their bedroom, his heart leaps with excitement along with the corners of his mouth. He speeds up, randomly filling his basket before heading to the cash register because he can't wait to get back to her.
Lydia is already sitting cross-legged, wrapped up in a blanket at the foot of the bed when Stiles comes in. She has gathered everything she could find to build them a comfy nest.
The five red photo albums she brought are spread about the floor still unopened, their memories locked inside. Stiles is nervous when he sits next to her, anticipation and frenzy running through his veins, making him restless, torn between diving into the photo albums or preparing something hot for Lydia, who looks like she has stayed in the cold for hours, and keeping her in his arms all night.
When she picks up the first album, he can't help offering her a soup.
The fond laugh in her voice as she answers, "Great idea", soothes him.
She truly is magic. He has no idea where she finds this strength, especially here in Beacon Hills, but she does. As if that were not enough, she gives it all to him so he can do this – face his past, his own tragedy… He loves her. He loves her so much.
Two or three minutes later, he returns to her side with two mugs of soup on a tray. Then, with a newfound serenity, he opens the first album.
The first chuckle finds its way out of his constricted memories on the third page. Another story follows, another laugh, jokes… Soon, Stiles feels good. Lydia picked the albums so carefully, maybe she even removed some photos... Whatever she did, he is grateful. He knows he is safe. He knows his heart is safe, and it makes all the difference.
She seems at ease too, bumping his knee with hers on occasion and sneaking under his arm after wrapping the hoodie he was wearing around herself.
Retrospectively, Stiles understands that he should have taken this as a sign – that underneath her amusement, she was starting to crumple, that the cold darkness inside of her was growing too fast, after weeks of doing everything she could to keep it locked inside.
For him.
She is motionless when he comes back from the bathroom after they finish the first album, bundled up in the wool blanket. Something has gone wrong.
Swiftly, Stiles sits next to her, calling her name to draw her focus to him, but she only points out her index finger on a picture of him and Scott. They were eight or nine years old and they were at a farm, petting a sheep, grinning like kids do. The sparkling energy coming from that photo is incredible and despite his concern for Lydia, he can't help sniggering at their faces.
"Were you happier before…before everything?"
The question knocks the breath out of his lungs. No, of course not, he wants to answer, but all he manages to come out with is a hesitant, "Wh—what do you mean?"
She repeats her question, but Stiles doesn't hear her. There is no answer other than no to that question anyway. One day, he was preparing for the new school year to begin, and the next, his best friend was bitten in the woods. He often asked himself what would have happened if they hadn't been in the woods that night, but it never occurred to him to compare the before and after. It did happen, and his life had changed… He met Lydia.
"No, no I wasn't." He slowly states, trying to swallow the lump in his throat. "It was just… different."
"But," she shifts, averting her gaze from the picture to his arm, "you didn't have all of these," her fingers trails over his bicep, over the tiny scars he has there, then maps the rest over his shirt. She doesn't need to see him bare to know where they all are; a few big ones that never completely faded away and small ones that she slowly noticed. It makes his heart ache, etches its love deeper into his rib cage.
Tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear and hooking her wrist with his fingers, he moves to face her. "Don't go there, Lyds, don't torture yourself like that."
She doesn't react, blankly staring at his torso as she swallows with difficulty. Her voice is constricted when she replies, "But I… I've never seen you smile like that. I've never seen your true smile."
"Lyds..." He closes the photo album. "Listen to me."
She still doesn't react, and it makes him realize that he doesn't sense her presence around him as much as he did earlier. It's still there, but barely. Trying to keep his own anxiety under control, he waits until her pupils are fixed on him to take both of her hands in his. Inside, there is an urge to find the right words to reassure her, find a way to make her come back to him, but his mind is blank.
One certainty takes up all the space anyway: There is no world, not a single version of himself where he would be happier in a life without her.
"I wasn't happier then. I was just a kid. Even in high school, before everything happened, I was still just a kid. Kids are…carefree, but it doesn't make them happier. What I'm looking for here… It's not who I am. It's…it's a part of me, a part that I need to make peace with, so it stops dragging me down every time I think of it. But mostly, so I can be whole for you."
Lydia listens to him quietly, lowering her eyes and not taking them off the circles Stiles's thumbs draw on her knuckles. Stiles doesn't take his eyes off her either, noticing with a pang in his stomach that her stare keeps getting glossier until a bead of water escapes, rolling down her cheek. From his fingertips, Stiles gathers it and the ones that follow, finally drawing her attention to him.
Pointing his chin towards the photo albums, he continues, "And this…this is not my true smile. What my mom saw and painted on the wall, that isn't it either. It's one kind, one long gone, but it doesn't make it truer. Do you think Scott, or my parents ever saw me smile like I smile at you?"
He grins at her the way he knows always make her blush, and it doesn't fail. She bats her eyelashes once to get rid of unshed tears, before looking down and nibbling at her lips, her chest quivering with nervous laughter. Stiles lets his lips find her forehead before leaning against it.
"Do you?" he repeats.
"No, probably not."
"I can assure you they never did."
She relaxes a bit, he knows it when her thumbs hook his, but it's not enough. She needs more from him, this is just a recess, a way to give a direction to her thoughts.
"D'you know what we're gonna do?" he speaks low, keeping their exchange like whispered secrets between them. "We're gonna take a burning hot bath. I'll hold you in my arms – for hours if you need me to – until we are all wrinkled, and the water is freezing. Then, we'll grab something to eat downstairs, and we'll sit next to the fireplace, or we'll stay here, and I'll hold you under the covers. How does that sound?"
"Sounds perfect…" She finds refuge in the crook of his shoulder before adding a bashful, "Like you," that makes Stiles smile.
"It's gonna be alright, Lyds. Just breathe and focus on me." She nods and, like magnets, his arms wind around her back before helping her up and steering her to the bathroom.
They sit on the edge of the bathtub. Stiles keeps her hand in his while he tests the water temperature. The sound it makes when it splashes against the white enamel is too violent, too loud for her. She needs him. She needs the softness of his voice, the tenderness of his care, and he gives it to her. He gives her all his love in every way he can, hoping it could turn into a beacon for her, a cornerstone for her soul to wrap around.
But Lydia's words are stumbling upon each other, faltering instead of flowing. Soon, they will collapse, and she will follow. To stay anchored on reality, she talks to Stiles. She talks about Scott and Kira in Oregon, but she doesn't mention the rest. The part about them asking if she and Stiles wanted to join them to check out the houses just in case… It's not a discussion for now. Before she can grasp her mistake, Stiles tells her about the garden behind the B&B, how beautiful it is, how beautiful it will be once it starts snowing.
She answers him and keeps rambling on with thorough attention to all his movements. After the plug is set in the tub, the room slowly gets swallowed by a forest of vapor clouds. She stays with him.
In this instant, Stiles knows she is with him. He can feel it in the way she responds to his gestures, in the way her dimples discreetly expand, and in the way her pupils follow him. But she is clinging to him like to a lifeline.
She still is when they consider the possibility that the fireplace won't be free. They can always stay in their room and eat what Stiles bought, the soup and the snacks.
Soup… He brought her soup. Of course, he did. She doesn't know why it matters so much to her, but it does, and she tells him.
Her laugh is beautiful, it's small, but it bursts through the fog. It's precious because a few years ago, Stiles knows she wouldn't have found it in herself to laugh when the darkness would take up so much space in her. But today, she laughs, and bliss melts with delight on his lips and in her eyes.
When the bathtub is filled enough, Stiles turns off the water, and the silence is so deafening, that they both stop talking. Lydia wordlessly calls him nearer, fingers clenching his shirt and toes creeping between his ankles. He scooches closer without her having to ask for it, fingertips drawn to her waist and coaxing her to stand up with sweet words whispered against her ear.
He helps her get rid of his hoodie and the rest of her clothes, leaving her in her bra and panties. Then Lydia helps Stiles take his shirt off. He understands her heart is shattering when her fingers leave the cottony fabric to follow the trail of his scars over his stomach and hips. His arms are still raised up when all of a sudden, she is hugging him tight. She sobs, quivering faintly and calling his name, only calming when he wraps her in his arms.
"That's it, Lydia, let it go, let it all go. I'm right there. Just follow my voice, follow me, and let the rest go," he whispers as her tears find their way along his arms. "You'll feel better once it's all gone, I promise. It's just this town… You've been so strong for me since we got here. It's perfectly normal to be overwhelmed."
"I hate them, Stiles… I hate them so much, all those people who did this to you. I hate this town too, what it took away from you! I hate them, I… I wish they were all dead and decayed like Peter…" The name startles her, her irises briefly taking on shades of distress. When she speaks again, her voice sounds like one she used to have when she was still terrified by her nightmares. "Did he hurt you too… That night… Did he hurt you?"
Her question takes him by surprise. She raises glossy, red eyes to him, and his heart sinks like a rock into the pit of his stomach.
"Wh—What?"
"You were there… The night he attacked me...you were there. I remember. I remember waking up at the hospital and hoping nothing had happened to you, but I must have passed out...and when I woke up again, I didn't remember anything but Peter. But now I do… I wanted to make sure you didn't have a single scratch so badly, and I forgot. How is that possible? Did… Did he hurt you after?"
Her question hangs in the air, and Lydia clutches Stiles's harder, her chest quivering distantly against his. She is taking his astonishment for a yes.
"N—No… No, he didn't." His answer seems to appease her a bit, so he insists, "I promise, he didn't."
"I'm sorry I forgot."
"It's okay, Lyds, I—"
"No," she cuts him off. "No, it's not! Imagine what our lives would have been if I had come to you after I—"
It's his turn to cut her off. He doesn't know how to reassure her, so he repeats the same thing, trying to anchor his stare deeper into hers, trying to bring their skin closer so she can really feel him, feel all his love for her running through his veins. "It doesn't matter. It's okay…"
"Why?" Her pleading voice breaks his heart because the truth is, he has no idea why.
"I don't know, I don't have a simple answer for you, babe. I just know that it doesn't matter."
The despair in her stare pierces through his lungs. If only he could show her…
She sniffs, calling his name and it wrecks him even more.
"Don't cry, my love, please, Lydia. It's alright… You're making me cry…" he adds as he leans his forehead against hers, already sensing the too familiar pressure inside his skull. But suddenly, it stops, and the solution appears to him. "Look," he gently clutches at her waist to draw her pelvis against his. He traces the length of Lydia's scar and stops under her breast. "Yours ends were mine starts."
Lydia lets out a gasp, frenzy in her veins slowly dying down, washed over by a certain serenity. With a shaking finger, she traces Stiles's scar. It's almost faded now, but a faint white line runs until his shoulder.
"It has to mean something, right?" he continues, grinning broadly through his watering eyes.
Lydia's stomach shakes from a tiny wave of relief.
"Lyds," he lifts her chin to anchor her a bit more to him. Her eyelashes are soaked with tears, it makes her gaze even more intense than usual. "Our story is what it is… We lost a lot of things, you and I, but what we found, it's…" He can't find the appropriate words and shakes his head.
"I know."
"Yeah, you do…" they smile at each other and slowly, her entire being seems to be brimming with joy and fervor. It's all around him, wrapping him in a perfect embrace. It feels so good that Stiles heaves a laughing sigh. "That's why it doesn't matter. In the end… It's you and me."
Lydia's answer comes in a hug when she hooks her arms around his neck. She is a lot heavier than before against him, finally letting go of her anxiety to let him in. He clings to her a bit tighter, listening to the music of her heart echoing everywhere, consuming his mind completely.
"Your heart is beating so fast," he tells her in a drowsy voice.
"I know… Yours too," she nods, her hair tickling his nostrils. "I can feel you pulling me back, you know?"
"You can?"
"Mmh…"
They hug in silence, and when they untangle, Lydia looks so drained that the itch to ask her about what she remembers from the night Peter attacked her naturally quiets down. It will have to wait. Making quick work of undressing each other, they dive into the water, Stiles holding Lydia's hands as she steps over the edge and sits in front of him.
Silence settles again. The tranquility is only interrupted by the soft sound of water dripping and splashing when Stiles plunges a washcloth into the water before softly brushing it against Lydia's skin, wiping away the last remnants of tears and anguish on her cheeks.
"I feel it too, you know," he eventually states just as softly. "You said you could feel me pulling you back. I feel it too."
With a jolt, she raises her head, hopeful eyes boring into him. "You do?"
"Yeah, I do. It's like… Like you're anchored all around me… It feels good."
A smile illuminates her entire being, and Stiles sees her. "There you are…" he murmurs in his own smile, running the washcloth over her face, hoping it would be enough to keep that expression of genuine happiness on her a little longer.
"I'm sorry we had to cut it short," she resumes apologetically. "It was working, right? You seemed to be more at peace with the photo albums than you were in the house."
"Yeah, it was a good idea, it worked. But don't be sorry, we can go back tomorrow if you feel better, or another day. We have time, okay? I want to do it with you. All of it. You waited for me to be ready to go back to my house, and I'll do the same. I'll wait for you too, alright?"
"Alright."
Something peaceful is washing over her, making her features relax all at once. Stiles senses his questions about the night of the attack, making him nervous again. Absently, he passes the washcloth over her legs and averts his gaze to the movements it creates in the water.
"So… You remember, huh?"
A sudden burst of glee and excitement radiates from her. It reaches Stiles from the inside, making him think that they probably didn't completely untangle yet. The thought brings him an incredible comfort. How long can they stay tangled up like this?
Lydia sneaks her knees under Stiles's thighs and intertwines their fingers, riveted by the tiny waves they create in the water. In her voice, Stiles spots a certain timidity, a restrained thrill he hadn't detected in months.
Seeing Lydia being so freely vulnerable has always moved him. Afraid to open up, but never hesitating to do it because he is there. Because it's him, and she trusts him. Reverently, he listens to her. He can't move once he lifts his stare to hers, captivated by the aura emanating from her. She is beyond beautiful at this moment. She is herself.
And she remembers.
She remembers the night Peter attacked her. She remembers that he was there, building a barrier between her and the monster. She saw his eyes, heard his voice, and she hung on to it with all her strength.
Nothing is simpler and yet more incomprehensible than this truth: The darkness had started to swallow her, and Stiles reached out, lending her his entire body, then his entire soul to bring her back. He carried her to the surface. To life.
Stiles remains speechless when Lydia tells him that ever since she remembered, she senses his energy, his aura and soul everywhere, at every street corner, in front of every house, and that's probably what gave her enough strength to support him. Remembering him allowed her to modify this memory. It's no longer the memory of the night Peter attacked her, drawing her into a world of violence and fear. It's the memory of the night Stiles saved her, showing her a world of wonders. A world where she feels connected to everything, where they can cherish each other without the weight of society and without the weight of their own fears and uncertainties. He changed that memory for her and the domino effect resulting from it has been prodigious.
Lydia isn't aware of all the changes yet, but she can hear them rumbling inside of her, shivering like the first buds that will resist until the end of winter.
Stiles has always hoped she would remember, but the reality leaves him speechless. Remembering him made her forget about Peter. He has been reduced to a detail in their stories, an impediment that wasn't enough to keep them apart from each other. A cry of relief wants to escape his lungs, his love for her, a boundless joy throbbing inside his ribcage. But it's all stuck, he feels hindered, trapped by his own flesh and bones, this dimension that has never been wide enough to contain all his emotions.
"I love you," he tells her instead in a voice he barely recognizes. But Lydia meets his eyes, and he reads in hers that this voice is probably more his own than any others. It's cracked, broken and through the fissures he thinks maybe she is able to get all the emotions, all the feelings and words he wishes he could tell her. She peers at him so intently, with the most hopeful hue of green he has ever seen in her. It fractures his voice even more to let other words out, to let him give her his breath entirely. "It's ours now, Lyds… Everything left. It's ours. Our future, our past. Everything."
"Ours…" Lydia looks mesmerized when she repeats his word and takes his hands in hers, grazing them with the tips of her lips before placing them over her breast. "This is ours too."
Under his palm, Lydia's heart beats steadily, softly. It's a distant vibration, one that Stiles never tires of seeking. All the rest seems so far away that he quickly loses his train of thought when he hears some agitation outside. Maybe it started snowing… There is only Lydia anyway. Lydia and him, their love, this soft beating that seems to be calling them closer, coaxing them to bundle up further inside one another to admire what they've created.
"I can try to take us there," Lydia eventually whispers as an answer to his thoughts.
"Where?"
"There," she brushes Stiles's heart, then hers.
The caress is faint, but it runs through his entire body in a delicious throb of exhilaration that renders him speechless.
"I want to see what it looks like."
"How?" he asks.
"I don't know… Do you trust me?"
"I trust you, Lyds. Always."
He already feels swept away in her wake, gingerly thrown into one of these places where their minds meet and mingle, when she stands up, smiling and extends her hand to him. He takes one, then the other, intertwining their fingers as the water splashes around their ankles.
She shivers against him when he brushes his lips on her cheek, and whispers from the tip of hers, "Come on."
He is barely aware of their gestures, of the towels they use to dry each other and wrap around themselves. Not holding Lydia against him is unbearable. As he is about to scoop her up in his arms, she is already winding her hands around his neck. Her stare is hooked on his when he bends to pick her up; her knees in the crook of his elbow and her precious head automatically finding his cheek. He carries her to the bed, led by the softness of her hair against his nose and the graze of her nails over his torso. His own blood pulses at his temples, the beating and its echo in her starting to build a cocoon for them, a place isolated from the world, a place of their own.
They lay on the bed, facing each other and without neither of them needing to say anything, they let their minds wander.
Lydia isn't facing Stiles anymore when she regains consciousness. Above her stretches a sky full of stars. There are so many that their balmy white light softens the dark of the night, imbuing everything around her with a deep and peaceful blue.
The only night there were so many stars in the sky was along a deserted road with Stiles. It was hot, and they had lied down outside on a plaid blanket. There was a stillness in nature that night, every insect and nocturnal bird probably exhausted by the heat. Lydia remembers the soft breeze cooling patches of humidity on her skin and leading a concerto of grass and wildflowers all around. She remembers Stiles, and his voice giving birth to constellations she was certain he was making up. But she didn't care, she just wanted to hear him talk and let him invite her into his imagination.
When it was her turn. She read their names between the thousands of bright dots, even spotting Stiles's face, the expression he has in his sleep, and the nostalgic one he has when he loses himself in memories.
Today, lying in a wheat field, Lydia reads his name even quicker than she usually spots the Big Dipper. She understands that they are in this memory when next to her, Stiles's voice tickles her ears, stirring the atoms in the night air with its deep tone.
"Do you think we loved each other in former lives?" he wonders aloud.
She lets each word slowly penetrate, letting the unadulterated sincerity radiating from his encompassing presence infuse her with passion that nurtures a soft fire in her stomach and in her veins.
He continues, rekindling a scene she will cherish until the very end. "My dad used to tell me that what we saw in the sky, in the stars, or in the clouds were memories from former lives. He said that once all my mom's memories would be gone, she would be able to find them in the sky until her next life."
A rustling in the wheat ears around brings him closer to her, and she tilts her head towards him because she knows his next words are only for her. For them. Her heart is already slowing down, carving each second with its beating in her memory.
"I see you everywhere, Lydia. There's only you."
There are tears somewhere trying to make their way through the butterflies in her sternum, but Lydia pushes them aside, as far away as she can. "Me too… Me too, I only see you."
Stiles props himself up on his elbow, glorious brown irises absorbing the whole celestial dome as the color of the wheat changes around Lydia to blend with her hair. An autumnal golden red that pervades the atmosphere with sweet nostalgia.
She lifts a hand to him, and he catches it, lowering himself to kiss her, but he never seems to reach her. He melds into her instead, completely. Wholly.
The wheat field around them is suddenly the one in the painting that was once above Claudia's desk, but Lydia is the only one Stiles sees in it. A small bundle of energy and love right in the middle. Their souls…intertwined after what felt like centuries spent seeking each other. Loving each other.
In the distance, there is a house, the one Stiles has imagined for them. There are entire sections missing, but it's not difficult to picture the whole house. Each fragment, each speck of dust or paint is brimming with Stiles's love.
Easily, Lydia fills it with her own dreams for them, the ones that slowly germinated and flourished, nurtured by her hope and the strength Stiles gives her every day. She knows he can see them, and she bares her mind for him as much as he does for her.
She shows him a studio for her, a place where she can draw and paint. He adds a full-length window facing the field, curtains flying in the wind, and a library that doesn't seem to end with long staircases reaching the ceiling. Then he adds a fireplace too. She shows him a restaurant space with a dozen tables and a kitchen where he can cook his mom's recipes...maybe some of his own too. He adds Lydia's paintings on the wall, and when she takes them off, he puts them back. For them to lie on, he imagines a colorful mattress. She puts it inside a cozy bedroom, the smallest room in the house – because they don't need anything big, not when they have each other. Stiles is all the space Lydia has ever needed.
Together, they build a vegetable garden, later adding a family of goats and a cow. A dog. And trees. Lots of trees. Also, flowers for Stiles to pick and for Lydia to decorate her hair. Mountains too maybe. Why not after all?
They could spend nights stargazing, embracing and making love in a nest they built by the sheer power of their hopes, renewed after every cruel blow and after each open wound they bandaged together. Wounds healed with hands only able to weave tenderness, with mouths that only exist to whisper the sweetest words and to plant kisses like seeds of promises on every corner of skin they can find.
A fire is seeping through Lydia's veins, in her muscles. She no longer knows where she ends, where Stiles begins. Maybe he is the one running through her veins, the one shivering on her skin when she raises her arms in an attempt to reach him and is met with the most tender caress. It's surreal and even a little frightening. All that space…
It overwhelms them with the urge to love each other harder, longer. To blow up the ridiculous limitations of their own bodies, of the space around them, and dwell in all the blank emptiness between each atom. To find more ways to write each other's names through dimensions and stretch each letter over light years, patiently waiting for the echo to come back to them.
Lydia is there, with Stiles, her hand in his. It's such a simple wonder that it makes him ache. He aches for her, longs for her. It's too wide here, too empty. He needs her. Her body, her physical presence.
He tries to lower himself a few inches, but he still doesn't reach her, and she is panting, trying to articulate what sounds like his name, her chest swelling too fast. He wants nothing more than reassure her with his presence, show her that he is right there in this immensity… He has always been there. Whether she knew it or not.
The air thickens, rubbing out the house in the distance to keep it safe for the days to come. Eventually, it all merges with the fluffy blanket of their small bed. Slowly, the arms they seek around each other, the caring presence they crave, take shape.
When Lydia's eyelids open, she heaves a sigh of relief and instinctively gropes in the dark to find the back of Stiles's head. She draws him tighter against her, lips seeking solace in a kiss which he gives her the instant he emerges from their shared dream. His hands are already parting her towel to reach her aching skin. Lydia feels the strokes of his tongue and fingers down to the deepest recess of her soul. They must still be intertwined somewhere, somehow… She lets her hand fall from his ear to his chest, to his waist, squeezing the fabric of his towel because she needs him above her. He understands, and she whimpers into his mouth when his body gives a shape and a weight to his presence.
"I still feel you," he whispers, breathlessly. "I feel everything."
"I feel it too."
They gawk at each other, gasping, and Lydia can read how much Stiles needs her in the way he ardently takes her in. Cupping his cheek, she brings him lower to plant a small peck on his lips, deepening it with a timid moan as soon as the tip of his gentle tongue teases the seam of her lips.
And he smiles.
She senses it on her skin before she sees it…
His smile.
A whole smile, one she had never seen. It juts out from his mouth beyond the boundaries of his frame. It translates his words from earlier. This smile isn't the one his mom painted on her walls. It's not the one from the photos either. It contains these smiles, but it's more than that... It's whole.
With a gesture so tender it almost makes her dizzy, Stiles wipes her cheekbones, soaking up the remnants of her emotions.
"You make me whole, Lydia. You and no one else."
Her answer comes right from her lungs with her exhale. "I love you." It's an alleviation, a proclamation. It's not the first time she pronounces these words, but they taste different when her tongue articulates them, like the echo of something that has been forged before the universe itself. The vibration through the universe of what has shaped their mere souls.
They gape at each other. Stiles's stare has a new intensity, a new focus maybe, one Lydia has never seen. If it's possible, he is even more whole, more handsome than usual. It wrecks her completely in the most pleasant way. He trusts her with his love, and she takes it.
She feels herself grow bigger, grow wider for him.
Him… It has always been for him.
Softly, he kisses her cupid bow and the corners of her mouth. She knows he is grinning just like she is as their fingers are delicately trying to unravel each other's towel in between spellbound caresses. All she feels against her lips are his dimples. When he lowers himself against her after discarding his towel, the hotness of his skin and the heaviness of his stomach instill a yearning so strong she is sure he can read it in her eyes.
"It's you, Lydia. It has always been you," he murmurs as he takes her cheek in his soft palm, his fingers cradling her hair and leaving trails of electricity everywhere they massage her skull.
Lydia is mesmerized, watches him with an open mouth until his lips are on hers. He kisses them, taking in each of her exhales before kissing her thoroughly as she lets her hands worship every inch of his burning skin. Everything in her is tugging with need for him. He is right there, but she needs him more. She needs him inside of her. She needs him happy and confident, strong and vulnerable, loving and caring, trusting. She needs all of him.
Her stomach clenches with need again when he wraps an arm under her lower back, cajoling her closer to him and positioning himself right against her. When he enters her, she heaves a moaning sigh and swallows his with a kiss. He feels so good, and it's not just physical, it's everything about him – it's his love, it's his soul inside hers. And she tells him.
She tells him again, not even realizing that a few year ago, her first rule was to never open up to people, never tell them, never let them know… But how could she not tell him? Nothing has ever been as real as their love, nothing as worthwhile as him.
So, she tells him.
She tells him again, and again how good he makes her feel. Hooking her legs a little higher around his waist with each thrust of his hips, she exalts in each of the moans and groans that flutter out of his lungs. They are like poetry for her mouth, for her neck, her breasts. She isn't afraid to let go completely, to lose herself in him, to give herself entirely.
Wholly.
She lets him read the elation and ecstasy on her features when he shows her with simple caresses how much he pays attention to her, how much he listens to her, knows her. She gives him her most intimate notes, all her smiles. Her words have turned into a loop of beautiful and love you so much along the road. She gives him what he desires too, every stroke, every poem, and every kiss that makes him shudder and throb against her. Because she knows him too, she listens and pays attention. She cares just as much as he does, and it would be unthinkable to not show him. Every rush of blood that makes his heart jump, every sudden strong emotion going through him, every sound he makes before it's even born… She feels everything, and she loves him, she loves him so much…
She meets each of his movements, her way to show him how much she trusts him, how he helped her get rid of every shred of shame, guilt, and prejudice she could have. She keeps talking to him and his gaze keeps intensifying. His whole body is starting to tremble above hers, his muscles twitch more and more. When his arms begin to give way, like they always do, she welcomes his lovely head in her arms. His free hand, beside her ear, is turning into a fist, and the other one stiffening around her waist, making it harder for her to arch up. She adores him like that, giving himself completely to her, trusting her, not being afraid to crush her because he knows he doesn't. He knows she never feels threatened by him. He knows he gives her safety when he is whispering the sweetest things to her. She holds him tight against her, knowing that he'll always need more space for his love, for his entire being, knowing he can find it in her. And he does. He does, and he is so beautiful in is his release that it leaves Lydia speechless. He watches her when a last wave of electricity runs through her veins and muscles, an expression of marvel printed all over him.
They catch their breath in an eager kiss, and he watches her again, sheer beads of sweat making his skin glisten in the faint snow light.
"D'you know what I see when I look at you?"
Lydia shakes her head, still unable to speak, hypnotized by his shortness of breath and this serene force in him.
He tilts his head, blinking and letting his affectionate stare seek details about her that he doesn't know yet but wants to learn.
"Your laugh, your smile. You used to hide them from me. When we first met...even our first nights together like this, you would look away, or hide. Now… Now you let me see everything. I'm so grateful, Lyds. I want you to know that… You do know it, right?"
"Yeah…" she can't help outlining his face from the tip of her fingers, knowing these words will loop in her memories for centuries. It awakens a throbbing in her veins. It should be impossible to still be longing for him. How can she still feel this pang in her core, this yearning when she can still sense him everywhere? But she does, and he fills the void again, leaving trails of his affection along her throat, chin, and mouth. "You make me whole, Stiles," she sighs as he stills against her mouth.
In this moment, she knows words are failing him, but it doesn't matter. Lack of words has never been an issue between them anyway. He wets his lips with the tip of his tongue, the faint brush sending shivers down Lydia's arms. She can't help but smile, sighing again as he shifts to lie next to her. He watches her, still smiling because she won't let her former self hide her happiness from him, her euphoria. He loves her…
She glides her hand through his hair, ruffling it the way he does in the morning. He looks proud, proud of her and maybe even a bit proud of himself. He has every right to be, she thinks. She can't resist drawing him into a kiss, whimpering into his mouth as she feels his touch against her rib cage, warming up her breasts with his entire palm before encircling her waist to keep her in a snug nest against him.
In his hands, in his kisses, with his soul bundled up in the crook of hers, she is whole.
Words are failing her too. All she has left is her love.
Her love and the certainty that her soul is the only space big enough, wide enough for his emotions, his love, the way he feels about everything. She gives him solace, a chance to bloom even more.
And he is the only one burning warm enough to keep her alive.
Everything has gone quiet outside, and the night is pitch black. It makes it easy to curl up against each other and find refuge in their wheat field. They talk for hours, wandering in each other's minds, discovering things they had never seen. Things that make them fall in love with each other all over again. They talk and they talk. They kiss and they hold each other until their bodies wake up. Then, they open their eyes to a reality painted in golden hues of brown and green.
It's late in the morning. Lydia knows it because the Sun is already high in the sky. After showering together, she and Stiles went down for breakfast, then took the Jeep here: to the part of the beach where she asked him to prom in another lifetime.
Scott told them it was abandoned, but she hadn't realized what that meant.
It's barely recognizable.
Where the ice-cream bar used to spread its tables and deck chairs, lies a wide expanse of sand, scarred with traces of regular campfires, surrounded by burst open couches, sleeping bags, and rubbish. From where Lydia stands, she can see a few chairs and tables; stained by the passing of a decade and held together with a strong chain against one of the last remaining Ice Corner walls. She hides her frozen nose in her scarf and takes her hands out of her pockets just long enough to bury her head further into her forest green beanie. The icy wind is biting her nose and every bit of skin it can find. She feels raw, exposed, and something keeps twitching in her stomach, making her restless and uncomfortable.
It's more than the desolation of this beach. It's Stiles's absence. He isn't far away. He just went back to the Jeep to get some blankets, but she feels his absence in her bones, deeper than ever.
Something wonderful happened between them… Not just last night, when she could touch it in the air and taste it in his panting kisses… The truth is, it started changing ever since they arrived in Beacon Hills.
Coming back here has been challenging, but it allowed their souls even closer, it allowed them to meld. And in that melding, they exchanged a bit of who they are. There is a glimmer of her strength inside of him now, something new, something that will help him find his balance if he loses it.
For her.
And she found freedom. She soaked up everything that makes Stiles who he is, and she found her balance too. Not in science like she used to, but in a new family, in love, and in acceptance.
In him. It has always been him… Stiles. The only cardinal point she ever needed.
Her soul is drawn in his direction when she senses him not far away. She makes out his silhouette in the distance, and her mind leads her to last night – to the way he held her, the way she sensed his soul seeking hers when she was starting to lose her way in the dark. He is still there, somewhere curled up in her soul. His name is written in the stars, above a house that is surrounded by a wheat field. She thinks of Scott and Kira in Oregon, of their offer. After all, why not?
Stiles is at her side before she has the time to miss him more. They bundle up under the blankets against the trunk of a fallen palm tree and just like that, she recognizes the beach she had in mind. The sky is a perfect wintery shade of blue after an entire night of snowfall. Bright, almost white, on the horizon...and brisk too. Even the wind has turned into a soft breeze that plays with the lose strands of her hair.
Lydia and Stiles stay silent. She listens to the sound of the waves; breathing in each time they roll over the shore, breathing out when they retrieve their gems of sand and snow. Against her head, Stiles's chest rises and falls at the same rhythm.
"I can't do it…" he eventually murmurs, gently coaxing her out of her daze.
From her place against him, she tilts her head up. "What?"
"I can feel your soul. I can still feel you reaching me, and I'm trying to reach back, but I… I don't know how I did it last night."
He flashes her a quick, embarrassed smile before getting engrossed in something at his feet. Affection overwhelms her, and Lydia sneaks one hand out from beneath their nest of blankets to steer his chin to her. "It's okay, whatever you're doing, I can feel it… But I'll show you, I'll teach you if you want."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah… Yeah, I will."
"Thanks…" He clears his throat and continues, "You know, I was thinking… It's a big country… Maybe we could use some time in a place that isn't Beacon Hills...to think everything through and…settle for a while. Kind of like we did in Poland. I'm not talking about buying something, just renting a nice place for a while… A year, maybe more, maybe less. Long enough to make some money, maybe for you to take painting class and for me to work on my mom's recipes. I… That house we saw… I really like the idea…What do you think?"
He is nervous, she recognizes it in his voice, and she sees it now on his features when she sits up.
It makes her answer even quicker. "I'm thinking that Beacon Hills isn't in Oregon."
As predicted, gleams of winter sun flicker in the honey of his irises, and he is so beautiful she thinks she will never be able to live without him looking like that every day for the rest of their lives. "You wanna meet Kira and Scott tomorrow? See where it leads us?" she resumes.
"Yeah. Yes, I do." He gapes at her and continues in a voice so earnest and vulnerable that it makes her lungs swell with passion. "You're amazing… It… It means a lot to me, you know. The fact that you…" He shrugs, spotting a couple of seabirds playing above the glistening waves. Lydia is almost certain she knows what he wants to say, but she lets him find his words. "That you like them, that they make you feel good. It was important to me."
"I know, my love."
He tastes like bliss and chilly wind when she kisses him, and she can't get enough of his lips, of this kiss, of him.
"I liked it yesterday," she timidly voices after catching her breath. "I came back to your house on my own and opened the door with your key… It felt…like I belonged, like…it was my home too."
"Because it is. You do belong there… You've always belonged there, Lyds. You know…" he tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, letting his fingers trail all the way down her neck, soulful eyes roaming over her face. "You're the reason why I could stay in my house yesterday. Without you, I would have given up."
His words make her stomach flutter, warming up her entire body. He leans to drop a kiss on her forehead, and she can sense the excitement in him before he voices it. "How about I take you home with me?"
His voice mingles with the curls of the wind, with the soft susurrus of the ocean, and Lydia nods against his lips.
Ghosts hide in the doorway. They hide in each sharp click of the key turning into the lock.
Stiles watches Lydia, his hand in hers. She wipes her shoes on the doormat before taking them off and putting them neatly on the inner mat, like she probably did a thousand times in another life.
Once inside, she turns around, nothing but patience and affection printed on her features.
"Go ahead," he answers her unspoken question. "I just… I need a moment."
She simply brushes her lips over his cheekbone with a soft, "Okay", before stepping further into the house.
The wind is still howling through the porch, and when Stiles crosses the threshold, it stops. A split second maybe, but enough for him to glimpse back and realize that the ghosts are gone… Free.
All of them.
He relishes in the peacefulness surging inside of him. The doorway is now empty, ready to welcome new memories, ready to welcome this one. Lydia trying to find two tea bags in the empty kitchen cupboards, filling the house with sounds of yesterday, sounds of forever… sounds of home.
In the end, it will always be Lydia. His compass. His everything.
He hears her humming a song they heard over breakfast and with a smile. He enters, pushing the door closed with his foot.
