I know it hurts
It's hard to breathe sometimes
These nights are long
You've lost the will to fight
You are not alone
I've been here the whole time singing you a song
I will carry you
*Title Inspiration - Carry You by Ruelle
Hide the tenderness
in a place you'll remember
to never forget
-Tyler Knott Gregson
Lydia and Stiles woke late, had breakfast late, and got back into bed together. It's almost noon now, and that is where they have remained, still cloaked under a lightweight layer of flannel, still wrapped up in each other. He is lying on his back, and she is beside him with her head nestled into the crook of his shoulder and her arm draped over his chest. With one hand he twirls the ends of her hair, with the other he holds up a book.
Last week, they finished The Hobbit. Since then, they have moved on to The Sorcerer's Stone. It's Stiles's turn to read, and Lydia couldn't be happier about that. She loves listening to him – the soft quality of his tone, the distinctive pattern of inflections and pauses, the way his mouth punctuates specific words to impart meaning and emotion. As it is, she could listen to him all day, but today... Today, there is something especially lyrical about the cadence of his voice as he reads from the final chapter:
"If there is one thing Voldemort cannot understand, it's love. He didn't realize that love as powerful as your mother's for you leaves its own mark. Not a scar, no visible sign...to have been loved so deeply, even though the person who loved us is gone, will give us some protection forever."
A single tear escapes the corner of Lydia's eye as the last three syllables traverse the air.
It's not just the way Stiles annunciates the word forever, not just the way he squeezes her tighter as his chest elevates with an inhale. It's the whole passage...the whole moment...everything. Stiles makes her feel so wanted, and those words reach a part of her that they hadn't when last she read them. Their message used to be an abstract notion – something beautiful...yet unattainable for someone like herself. But now, it has substance. It speaks directly to her soul, reminds her that love, true love – whether it be familial, friendly, or romantic – love like that leaves a permanent mark, one that cannot be altered nor erased. Lydia knows it, feels it all the way down to her bones.
It was proven to her beyond a shadow of a doubt, just five months ago.
Because even when Stiles was taken from her – ripped from her grasp along with all the precious memories they shared, she still loved him with every fiber of her being. Because even when she couldn't see or touch him, she knew he was real. She could feel him – everywhere, like he was never gone. Because the imprint Stiles left on her heart when he looked her in the eyes and told her that he loved her carried her through the darkest months of her life.
Her solo tear is accompanied by a few more, each of them skimming her cheekbone before landing on his shoulder.
"Lyds, you okay?"
"Yeah, I'm fine," she smiles – because she is. She really is. Stiles is with her, and all is right with the world. Still, her voice cracks when she urges, "Keep going."
He shakes his head and closes the book. "We can finish later."
She gets enveloped by him when he stretches over to lay the worn-out paperback on the nightstand. It feels good. Really good. She wants to keep him there, so she rotates until she is on her back and gazes up at him.
He takes the hint, stays on his side, half-hovering over her while he patiently waits.
"It's just..." she idles, lightly kneading her fingertips into his shoulder while she collects her thoughts. "I've read those lines before, but they seem different today."
"How so?"
"It's hard to explain, but...it's like I can feel them now too. You know?"
"Yeah, I do."
"Do they make you think of your mom?"
"Mm-hmm," he nods with a wistful smile. "And you too," he asserts, playfully bumping her nose with his, then pressing his upturned lips into hers.
Keen for more of his affection, Lydia pulls Stiles closer, but as he strays from her lips...roaming along her jaw and throat, she begins to squirm and giggle.
He stops, hair a flawless mess when he unearths his face from her neck. "What?"
She touches his face. "You're scruffy today."
"You don't like it," he pouts.
"It's not that," she replies. "It looks pretty hot actually."
"Yeah?"
"Very," she emphasizes.
He narrows one eye and raises the other brow. "But..."
"It kinda itches."
Stiles laughs, rubbing his jaw while he concurs, "Yeah, I guess it does. Wanna help me get rid of it?"
"Really?"
"Yeah, come on."
They climb out of bed and head down the hallway to the bathroom where she switches on the overhead light and he collects a few toiletries from the medicine cabinet; razor, shaving gel, aftershave.
Lydia is regulating the tap water when she feels the pleasant weight of Stiles's hands at her waist...followed by the warmth of his bare chest against her back and the softness of his lips as he drops a series of pecks on her shoulder. She looks up to admire their reflection. Her – small and curvy with freckled fair skin and sun-kissed ginger hair. Him – tall and lean, golden summer skin beauty-marked with an array of tiny moles, and hair the color of dark chocolate. By outward appearances, she and Stiles are polar opposites. But on the inside, they are one in the same; kindred spirits, composed of the same elements as the stars and harmonized by a shared heartbeat. No knowledge has ever been more profound, more comforting, more beautiful than this.
She tenderly kisses his head, silently thanking whatever force of nature is responsible for propelling someone as magnificent as Stiles into her orbit.
Once the sink is half full, she shuts the faucet and turns to face him. "So, what's first?"
"First...one more scruffy kiss," he answers, mouth descending on hers before she can even blink.
She kisses him back wholeheartedly, because nothing compares to his kisses; superior – every blessed one...even the scruffy kind.
"Mmm..." he purrs, and she can feel the vibrations of that muffled sound all the way down to her toes as they push off from the cold tile floor to bring her nearer to Stiles.
Hands still at her waist, he leisurely parts from her to say, "Next, have a seat," while lifting her up onto the counter. Then he dampens his face and moves to stand between her knees, little droplets of water splashing on her thighs when he passes her the shaving gel and adds, "Okay, have at it."
Lydia pumps a generous dollop into her hand, eyes on Stiles as she works the fresh-scented emulsion in her palms. She sees his smile, feels her own; neither of them willing nor able to withhold their giddiness as she meticulously spreads the silky lather across the lower half of his face. She takes her time, lets herself enjoy the sublime sensation of it. When she is done, only his sweet mouth is uncovered, masterpiece framed by a thick layer of foam.
Her smile persists as he uncaps the razor and hands it to her, grows when he sets his palms on the counter and leans closer, but once she gets the blade within an inch of his face, suddenly Lydia is nervous.
Stiles instantly picks up on her apprehension, thumbs raking along her thighs when he asks, "What's the matter?"
"Maybe this isn't such a good idea."
"Why not?"
"What if I cut you?"
"You won't," he refutes with an incredulous expression...like it hadn't even occurred to him, trust he puts in her absolute and infinite.
Maybe she is being overly cautious, but she has reasons – good reasons. Stiles has bled more than his fair share for her. She can't bear the thought of hurting him or any part of his perfect face.
"What about your moles?"
"They'll be fine."
"You could get razor burn."
"Not likely. Just go slow. Like this..." he instructs, taking her hand and demonstrating a few strokes. "See?"
She nods, but as soon as he lets go, she drops her arm, negligible mass of this small steel blade feeling more like that of an axe.
Stiles nudges her chin upwards, making sure her eyes meet his before he says, "Babe, generally speaking, I love the way that beautiful mind of yours works, but right now it's putting you at a disadvantage. I can practically hear you overthinking this."
He's right of course. She does tend to do that; still a struggle sometimes to just relax and trust herself the way she trusts him.
"I am overthinking it, aren't I?" she admits.
"Yeah, and the way I see it...nothing bad can come of this. It already feels like the set up for one of my many, many fantasies about us," he replies, waggling his eyebrows at her.
A flash of heat strikes her cheeks. "Stiles..." she weakly reprimands, covering a rapidly regenerating grin with the back of her hand.
"What? Didn't I tell you about that one?" he teases, hands gliding up her thighs, fingers skating along the edge of her red boyshorts.
It should be difficult to comprehend how someone can be so effortlessly charming and seductive when half of his face is masked with shaving cream. But it isn't. Because he's Stiles. And as it turns out, those three words are the irrefutable answer to most of the unresolved questions in her life.
"Seriously though," he goes on, "I trust you with my life. This little razor is nothin' to worry about."
At this point, he has already convinced her, but his hands are doing all sorts of delightful things...so she arches into him and flirts, "What if I mess up your sideburns?"
He accepts the bait with a smirk. "They'll grow."
"What if you have to sneeze?"
"I'll warn you."
"What if there's an earthquake?"
"I don't think I'd feel it."
"Why?"
His palms are at the small of her back, fingers wandering beneath her white camisole. "Because, Lydia, when you're this close to me, I pretty much always feel like the ground is moving."
"Stiles..." she sighs her adoration, "I really wanna kiss you right now."
"Well, unless you also wanna end up with a face full of shaving cream, you'd better get to work...so we can do that...among other things."
"Okay," she agrees, "but until then, maybe this will tide us over..."
She opts for pressing her lips to his forehead once...twice while he walks his digits up the ridges of her spine, little tingles sparking with each elusive touch.
"It helps but...I think I need one more."
She willingly obliges with a third kiss, lets her lips linger for a bit. Then, she takes a breath to steady herself and dedicates full attention to her task; right hand maneuvering to hold his skin taught when needed, left loosely clasping the razor while drawing light, even strokes across his cheek. She is mindful of the angles of his jaw, relies on memory when it comes to his sideburns, is extra careful when she tends to the area above his cupid's bow and the slope of his chin. He is just as considerate of her; tilts his head to make things easier, guides her hand when she hesitates, smiles reassuringly whenever she pauses to check her progress. It's almost as if they've done this before, ease between them ever-present, ever-blossoming.
"Look at that... Not even a single nick," he praises as Lydia rinses the razor and puts it aside. "Are we a team or what?"
"Yeah, we are." She caresses his clean-shaven cheeks, admiring the amber glint in his eyes as the corners of his mouth curl up. "What's next, love?"
He drains the sink and rinses his face, then passes her a towel so she can pat his skin dry. She takes her time, relishes the opportunity to pamper him. It's peaceful, quiet save for the tapping of rain on the window and the recurrent gush of cool air blowing through the overhead vent.
When Lydia is done, Stiles directs her to hold out her hand so he can squeeze some aftershave into her palm. She takes her time with that too, warming it with her body heat, then gently massaging the soothing balm into his face and neck, all the while appreciating the ritual of it. Such a simple thing...but it feels so real.
Sometimes, she still can't believe she gets to be with Stiles, like this. She has dreamed of this life; all the normal, everyday things they would do...someday. Always someday.
But today, they are living it, just as they have been for the past eight weeks.
And it's bliss. Bliss how ordinary things become extraordinary because they are together. Like sharing responsibilities, and closet space, and hopes for their future. Like searching for sea glass in the sand, finding significant fortune in a cookie, or carving their initials inside of a heart. Enjoying lazy mornings in bed, afternoon adventures in the Jeep, and cozy movie nights at home. Making magic out of otherwise predictable weekdays, celebrating holidays and birthdays...even belated ones.
"What are you thinking about?" Stiles inquires as she slides her hands down to his shoulders.
She watches him, eyelids lowering, like he is tempted to close them but doesn't want to lose sight of her either.
"A lot of things. Mostly us, how good things are..."
"They sure are."
"How happy I am..."
"Mmm...me too."
"I'm also thinking about this Saturday."
There is an obvious twinkle of excitement in his eyes when he clarifies, "You mean your eighteen and one-third birthday."
"Uh-huh."
"That's nice," he remarks with a nonchalant air.
So far, he hasn't so much as dropped a breadcrumb about his plans, and the suspense is driving her crazy.
"Stilesss..." she groans.
"Lydiaaa..." he mimics.
She clicks her tongue and blithely huffs at him.
"Lyds, you're familiar with the term surprise, aren't you?"
"Yes, I am," she banters with a roll of her eyes. "But can't you at least give me one little hint?"
"Nope."
"Why not?"
"Because you are too smart, and you'll figure everything out."
"What are the chances I'll figure it all out from one teeny tiny clue?"
"Enough that I'm not willing to risk it."
"Pleeeease," she coaxes, looping her arms around his neck while dramatically batting her lashes and pouting at him.
He laughs, crisp chime echoing in the small space. "You are completely adorable."
"So are you."
"Thank you... But the answer is still, no."
"But how am I supposed to know what to wear?"
Still chuckling, he swipes the last bit of shaving gel that is oozing from the dispenser and dabs it on the end of her nose, making her bubble with laughter.
"Wear something comfortable, something you won't mind getting a little dirty."
"That's really all you're going to tell me?"
"Uh-huh," he confirms, buffing off her nose with their towel.
"Fine," she yields with a protracted sigh.
"Annoyed at me?"
"No," she smiles, giving him a hug. "I'm sure it will be worth the wait. Just like you were."
"Lyds..." he melts.
They hold each other for a long moment, then he whispers, "Speaking of things worth waiting for. Do I get my kiss now?"
"Mm—hmm," she languidly nods, completely absorbed in their embrace.
Together, they shift like magnets, faces turning into each other until their foreheads are touching.
When their noses bump, Lydia's heart spasms, triggering something inside...some kind of muscle memory – so strong it's intimidating.
"Stiles?"
"Yeah?"
"This feels really familiar... Should it?"
"In a way..."
"Stiles, I'm scared."
"It's okay, angel. You're safe. I won't let go of you," he promises, edging closer still...until their lips are barely grazing.
That's all it takes for Lydia to remember.
She remembers a night, six months ago, when she needed his light more than ever...
The first thing she remembers is a familiar sight; a modest, single-story house, nestled between two tall maple trees. She remembers those trees, black silhouettes towering above the surrounding treeline, contours of their distinguished, winter-bare limbs outstretched like open arms. It wasn't just the trees that beckoned her closer. It was the house. Not just any house. The post-war bungalow that Noah and Claudia bought and restored together. The place where Stiles grew up, and where Lydia has spent countless hours in the past few years. The place she has come to call home.
She remembers exactly how it looked that night...from the frosty shimmer of moonglow highlighting the shingled roof...to the pitched eaves, slate-colored exterior, weathered cedar shutters, and dew-glossed windows. All of it so vivid that she had to shield her eyes, wait for them to adjust to the dazzling emission that seemed to be radiating from every feature of that cozy dwelling. In fact, while the rest of Woodbine Lane was cloaked in darkness, number 129 shone like a lighthouse beacon in the densest of fog.
Fog, like the kind that was sluggishly clearing from her mind. The kind that had made her unwittingly venture out, in fifty-degree temperatures – without the protection of a coat and...as she deduced from the painful numbness in her feet...also without shoes.
Lydia remembers that she had gone to bed early that night, another one of her headaches prompting her to seek respite in sleep. What she didn't remember was how she ended up outside her best friend's house – nearly three miles across town.
She remembers the despondency that followed when she realized she had been compromised by yet another fugue state. The episodes had become more frequent after her forced confinement at Eichen House. That is, after Valack, the monster posing as a doctor, performed a barbaric procedure on her brain with the intention of amplifying her banshee abilities to a dangerously high level.
Lydia cringed, hand instinctively covering one side of her skull, left temporal region now permanently vulnerable. The mere memory of the agony she suffered was bad enough, but this relapse added insult to injury. Having gone almost two months without a fugue blackout, Lydia was starting to believe she had progressed passed them, that all the efforts she and Stiles had put towards her recuperation were finally paying off.
Apparently, she was wrong.
She remembers the brusque disappointment, eyes teeming with tears. She remembers the sickening despair that told her she was damaged, broken...and always would be.
As if on cue, the porch light flickered on, drawing her attention to the front door. Lydia watched it swing open, watched as Stiles came bursting out, open hoodie billowing behind him.
She took a tentative step forward before she heard him articulate her name with the utmost care and concern. She remembers the triplet of notes, Ly-d-ia, blending with the two that set the tempo for her heart – Sti-les.
Keys in hand, he came to a halt in the path that led to the driveway, entire comportment indicating that he had just found what...or rather whom he was looking for.
"Lydia," he repeated.
The next thing she remembers, he was at her side, hands clutching her shoulders.
She flinched. A reflex; her nerves always on edge after she is fugue.
Stiles reacted as he always did. He didn't let go, didn't push further, just spoke to her, gentle and unassuming. "Lyds, it's alright. It's me."
They were right outside his house, yet she couldn't believe her eyes or her ears, couldn't imagine what stroke of luck brought Stiles to her at the very moment she needed him. No matter how many times that happened, it still always left her spellbound.
"S-stiles," she stuttered.
When he hunched down to meet her gaze, she touched him to make sure he was real, frigid hands groping his warm face.
"I'm here. You're safe," he assured her, never recoiling from the chill she transferred. She remembers the way he covered her hands with his, pressing them closer. She remembers the way his breath began to thaw her fingertips as he said, "God, you're freezing. What happened to you?"
"I went to bed with a headache," she despondently recounted, "and then I... I don't know."
She remembers comprehension influencing his body language; lips pressing into a grim line, weight of defeat she had been battling sagging his shoulders.
For the first time in a long time, the knowledge that she wasn't alone in her distress intensified the bitter sting of defeat instead of alleviating it. It felt like the ground was being ripped out from under her, provoking an ugly downward spiral.
But Stiles spoke again, and she listened.
"It's okay. We'll figure it out."
Lydia teetered forward, relieved and aching for the solace of his embrace. Stiles immediately took her in; arms tightly encircling her, welcoming her heart closer to his.
"Wh—what were you doing out here?" she chattered, burrowing deep inside his hoodie.
"I had a bad feeling. I called... I texted... When you didn't answer, I had to check." He pushed his mouth against her forehead; a thinly veiled attempt to monitor her temperature. "Do you have any idea how long you've been out here?"
"No."
"Maybe we should get you to the hospital."
"No," she refused, abruptly stumbling backwards.
Stiles kept her within arm's reach. "I know you don't want to. Trust me when I say it's the last thing I want too, but—"
"I'll be f—fine," she interrupted. "I promise. I just n—need to get warm."
"We can't mess around with this. You could be hypothermic. You could go into shock."
She adamantly shook her head, knotting her fingers into the hem of his tee shirt as a frantic jumble of words escaped her lips. "B—but we'll have to explain why I was out here, and...and they'll take me away. Stiles, please... I don't trust anyone but you. Let me stay with you."
He shut his eyes and hastily passed a hand over his face. "Alright, let's get you inside," he surrendered, steering her towards the porch. "But I'm calling Melissa if..." he began to revise, trailing off mid-sentence when Lydia grimaced.
She remembers the way he gasped when he noticed her bare feet on the cold cement; skin tinting blue, recently pedicured nails marred by dirt and blood.
"Oh... Lydia..."
She awkwardly tried to take another step forward, but her knees buckled under the shooting pain in her legs.
Stiles moved in front of her, kept her upright. "Wait, you're hurt. You can't walk like that."
"I've had worse."
"This isn't the time to be stubborn. Okay? If you're going to stay here, then you have to let me help you."
She remembers the equally stubborn resolve in his bright eyes and the decidedly soft tone he used when he amended, "I want to help you", then draped her arms around his neck without waiting for a response. "Just hold on to me," he whispered. "I've got you."
Lydia remembers how easily Stiles lifted her up, how respectfully he encouraged her to hook her legs around him. She remembers what it felt like to be that close to him; how perfectly they fit together, and the powerful...albeit inappropriately timed fluttering in her stomach. Upon hearing her own whimper, she let her head drop to his shoulder and tucked her nose into his neck, gratefully receiving the warmth that only he could give her.
She remembers motion; her body lightly jostling against his as he carried her to the stairs and climbed four steps to the porch. She remembers the creak of the door opening, the snap of the deadbolt, and the spiced scent of heat in the house as they entered the foyer.
Stiles walked past his bedroom to the bathroom at the end of the hall, switched on the light, and sat her on the vanity. Lydia reluctantly loosened her grip on him, allowing just enough space for him to shrug off his hoodie. He promptly wrapped her small, shivering frame inside of it, then wrapped her right back up in his arms. She remembers clinging to the collar of his tee while his palms vigorously rubbed her back and shoulders until the shaking stopped.
"How's that? Is that better?"
She listlessly nodded into his neck, muscles exhausted from the way she had been trembling and also buzzing with the heat he was so selflessly sharing with her.
He held her for a while, occasionally smoothing her hair while she took slow breaths that were paced to the rise and fall of his chest. Then, keeping one arm around her, he ran the tap and plugged the drain.
"Is it okay if I um..." He swirled his index finger in the air, pointing to her green plaid pajama pants. The ones she bought because they reminded her of him.
Lydia nodded again, eyes welling as quickly as the sink when she realized what he was asking.
Stiles had seen, even held her naked body, yet he never took anything for granted, still sought permission to do something as innocent as rolling up her pant legs. It was the sweetest most care-filled gesture, and it made her love him more.
The room grew quieter when he turned off the faucet, quieter still as he neatly rolled the flannel to her knees – slightly timid on the first attempt, a little more confidently the next. She remembers that when he was done, his right hand lingered on her left leg, thumb skimming the hollow below her knee. Just for a few seconds, but that was all it took to make her stomach flutter again, lightest of his touches as impactful as the rest.
Continuing to support her spine with one arm, he directed her legs over the rim of the sink. "This might sting a bit," he cautioned before submerging her sore feet in the sudsy water.
Lydia remembers involuntarily wincing at the initial discomfort; bruises on her soles reacting to the solution, sudden change in temperature sending goosebumps up her calves.
"Sorry, sorry," he compassionately repeated.
"It's alright," she exhaled, letting her tired head rest on his shoulder.
After that, the only sounds to be heard were the hushed nuances of their respiration and the intermittent sloshing of water as Stiles scooped handfuls onto her shins and thoroughly massaged the life back into them. She remembers how delicate the contact was at first, fingertips scarcely grazing her skin. She also remembers that the more she relaxed into him, the more deliberate his next touch became.
She glanced at their reflection in the mirror, fascinated by the sight of it, of them – two people, together. Two people who were becoming more a part of each other with each passing day. It gave her hope and frightened her in equal measure. She remembers how the divergent emotions battled for command of her thoughts. She remembers trying to ignore the fear, to dismiss the circumstances that brought her there so she could just be with Stiles. She wanted that so much.
When all the soap bubbles had vanished and the water was no longer warm, Stiles drained the sink and tended to her wounds. Lydia lost track of how many times he checked to make sure he wasn't hurting her, but she doesn't remember feeling any pain. Not when he patted her skin dry, nor when he meticulously applied ointment to every cut and scrape. Definitely not when his lips graced her temple while he retrieved a roll of gauze bandaging from the medicine cabinet.
"I should warn you..." he said as he tore open the package. "I suck at this."
"I doubt that," Lydia replied.
As far as she was concerned, Stiles was good at everything.
"Lyds, I'm serious... When Scott and I were Cub Scouts, my bandaging skills...or lack thereof, cost me a merit badge in First-Aid."
"I'll take my chances," she told him.
"Let's see if you still feel that way when I'm done."
She smiled fondly, quirked corner of his mouth tugging at her heartstrings.
For the next several minutes, she couldn't help staring at him. She remembers how focused he was on his task. It was written all over his face; visibly evident in his cinched brows and rosy cheeks, kinetically expressed in his rapid blinking and in the way he was worrying his bottom lip...like he was striving for perfection.
Little did he know, no matter how those bandages turned out, they would be perfect to her.
When he was finished, he set his palm on her ankle and tendered a hesitant smile. "I guess it's not the worst I've ever done."
She surveyed his handiwork; a bit untidy but no less secure – kind of like his room...especially after a long night of studying or research.
"I'd say there's still hope for that merit badge," she complimented, placing her hand on top of his.
That was when she felt it.
From that single touch and the way Stiles's eyes glistened when he said, "Eh...who needs a merit badge when they've got Lydia Martin in their corner?", she felt how deeply they were bonded.
It wasn't the first time of course, but on that night, with her mind still reeling from a fugue state, such an affirmation struck a dissonant chord. And while her ears were ringing with those harsh reverberations, Fear seized the opportunity to advance. Lydia remembers how it exploited her vulnerability, delivering its most devastating blow by turning a beautiful moment of connection against her. She tried to fight back, but her adversary was merciless...aggressively persuading her to believe that the greater her link to Stiles, the more damage she was bound to do. It reminded her that her failures weren't hers alone – every time she let herself down, she would be letting him down too.
She couldn't let that happen. Stiles deserved so much better than disruptive bad feelings that left him sleepless and anxious, so much more than the kind of stress that sent him rushing out in the middle of the night to search for her.
It wasn't fair to him. None of it was fair.
Painful thoughts quickly became even more painful feelings, manifesting in the sharp jab behind her sternum and a pressure in her stomach that made her nauseous.
For more than two months, she allowed herself to get carried away with this dream. One where she and Stiles would surpass every obstacle that tried to keep them apart and slowly come together in their own time – the same as they had been doing ever since he took her aside in a crowded department store and asked her to the Winter Formal. She remembers thinking that maybe it started even before then...like that day in the hospital waiting room when she read his lips as he said, I always thought that we just had this kind of connection, and then stupidly pretended not to understand.
It was time to stop pretending though. Time to admit that no matter how much she wanted to be with Stiles, this unpredictable force inside of her was going to ruin everything.
And that was when Lydia came to the agonizing conclusion that she was going to have to let go of him.
She remembers the oppressive sorrow that struck as she watched him straighten out the counter. It was like a sledgehammer to her heart – her heart...which she was sure had frozen solid by then. She remembers the violent tremor that moved through the rest of her body as it shattered into millions of tiny pieces.
An instant later, she felt Stiles's hand on her shoulder.
"Still cold?"
"A little," she fibbed, voice as vacant as her stare.
In truth, she was desperately cold. Cold and lost at the thought of a life without Stiles.
"C'mere," he crooned, inviting her into another embrace.
Lydia remembers thinking that she shouldn't let him hold her. She shouldn't, but she wanted him to. She needed one more of his hugs. Just one more...
She remembers the escalating tension, pursed lips strangling a forlorn cry. Stiles picked up on her distress. She could tell by the cadence of his speech, rambling but poetic verses – like the ones he would naturally drift into whenever he talked her through one of her headaches.
"I've been thinking about next weekend... We should get out of here for a day or two...maybe drive up to Pine Canyon with Scott. He's been missing Kira, and I think it would be good for the three of us to spend some time together...away from here. I'm sure Deaton will give him the time off. He's been working extra hours since the holidays anyway. It's kinda cold for camping, but maybe we could rent that cabin... You know, the one in the valley, by the evergreen forest. It's almost always available this time of year. I heard it's been snowing up there, and you could take your art supplies, paint that spot by the stream that you love so much...the one where we found all those snowdrops last year. Would be nice, wouldn't it?"
Lydia could picture it – every blissful second...that she would never have. Stiles made her want to forget what she was about to do, to just utter a resounding YES, then kiss him over and over...until he knew she loved him and all her pain was gone. So much pain... So much that she choked on the sob she had been withholding.
Stiles backed up to look at her. Curling his hands around her upper arms, he asked, "What's wrong? Is it Kira? I'm sorry... I know you miss her too."
She did. Kira was the only true girlfriend she had since Allison, and no one had heard from her in months. Lydia didn't know how long she would have to train with the Skinwalkers, didn't even know if she would ever see her again. But there was nowhere to put those feelings just then. The broken pieces of her heart were already scattered on the floor. She thinks she remembers finding a pattern in the wreckage shaped like the letters S-T-I-L-E-S.
"I do. I miss her a lot, but that's not—" She put some extra distance between them, wriggling back along the vanity. She remembers something visceral and raw, pulling under her skin as she looked him in the eyes and said, "I can't go with you."
"Oh," he baulked with obvious disappointment before suggesting, "Well...how about the following weekend? We won't have as much time, but we could leave Friday afternoon, get a head start, come back late Sunday."
"I can't then either. I can't go at all."
"Why not?"
"Because..." she stalled, "we can't keep doing this."
As she waited for his response, she remembers wondering how doing the right thing could feel so completely wrong.
Clearing his throat, Stiles questioned, "Uh...doing what?", but his enunciation was a tad too innocent to be genuine. "Making plans for a long weekend? Because I think that's exactly what we need."
She swallowed thickly. "That's not what I mean."
"Okay...well, you're gonna have to spell it out for me, Lyds, 'cause—"
"We can't keep pretending that what I am isn't going to ruin everything," she blurted out.
His eyes narrowed, but his tone was calm. "Don't say that."
"One of us has to."
"No, neither of us has to because it isn't true," he snipped, then softened, taking both of her hands and sandwiching them between his. "Lydia, come on... You've been doing so well. We just have to keep up with your therapy, and it'll get better. You'll see."
"And in the meantime, if I keep blacking out?"
"Then I'll keep looking for you. I'll look for you every night if I have to. And I'll find you too. I will always find you," he emphasized.
"Stiles, we have to be realistic."
"We are. We're doing the best we can with the hand we've been dealt."
"But that's just it. This is my problem. It doesn't have to be yours too."
He withdrew from her, insult splattered across his face. "After everything we've been through, everything we are to each other... How can you say that to me?"
She reached for him, but let her hands drop to her lap when he began pacing. She remembers how the small space only allowed uncomfortably short strides for his long legs, making the room seem more like a cage.
"I'm trying to give you a way out of this."
Agitation swiftly mounting, he roughly ran his hands through his hair. "I didn't ask for one!"
"I know. I just mean...this can't be what you want – a lifetime of worrying and looking for me in the middle of the night?"
"Of course I don't want that. I don't want it for you either...but it isn't always like this and—and we can't give up because of one bad night."
"What about the fact that graduation is less than five months away? I know it's been on your mind as much as mine."
"Ugh..." he groaned. "You're not going to use that as an excuse, are you? 'Cause that's not part of the plan. The plan is for us to stay together – no matter what."
"Stiles, please listen to me," she appealed, cuffing his wrist to stop him from pacing. "You've always listened to me."
She saw the internal conflict play out in his eyes before he sighed heavily and finally moved closer.
Closer than she expected.
The extreme proximity threatened her willpower, but she continued, "You could be free of all this."
He immediately started shaking his head, but she finished her statement.
"For once...think of yourself. Think of what this could mean for you. You're so smart. So smart and so capable. You could do anything – you could leave this place, have a normal life. I want that for you. I want you to be happy."
Bracing his hands on the counter, one on either side of her legs, he contended, "I can't. Not without you."
"You can and you should. You should leave me behind. You should—you should get as far away from me as you can."
It hurt so badly to say those awful words. She remembers the violent tremble that rattled her body until the hoodie slid from her shoulders; a reminder that without Stiles, she would never be warm again.
"Lydia, I'm begging you... Don't do this to us."
"Do you think I want to say these things to you?" she sobbed.
He stared at her, lips twitching with pain and anger that faded into perceptive determination. "I know you think you're helping me, but you're not. All you're doing is hurting us both," he discerned while considerately repositioning the hoodie on her shoulders and holding it closed with one fist. "And I know that's not what you want because I know you – the real you. I always have."
An inhale lodged in her throat when he suddenly lassoed his other arm around her, drawing her into him until their foreheads were touching. Lydia remembers how her racing heart diminished her resolve, fingers clawing at the sides of his ribs to encourage him nearer, legs struggling with the desire to wind themselves around him.
"Stiles..."
By the time their noses bumped, her eyes had fallen shut, but she felt him edging closer still...until their lips were barely grazing, left side of his mouth dovetailed with hers.
Lydia remembers the anticipation as they exchanged a silent breath. She remembers being so sure that Stiles was going to kiss her. She wanted him to. So much. But she knew if she let that happen, she might never be able to stop.
So when he started to dive deeper, she turned her face, letting his lips land softly...below the corner of her mouth.
And then with excruciating difficulty, she pulled away.
"I'm sorry... I tried... Stiles, we have to let go."
She remembers her pain reflecting in his eyes when he implored, "Lydia, please...don't break my heart."
Peering up at him, she saw a boy of fifteen – same as he was that day at the hospital after having so bravely opened his heart to her, same crushing rejection flatlining his brows and arresting any potential for a smile.
She had never wanted to see that look on his sweet face again, and she hated herself for being the one to put it there.
Present Day
For the first time since Stiles came home, Lydia doesn't want to remember anymore.
So, when he calls for her, "Lydia, come on... Just focus on my voice. Come back to me..." she does.
And with her nose buried in his neck, she unreservedly sheds tears of remorse.
Her love is holding her as securely as he was when she drifted into their past, and he is rocking her lightly while he soothes, "Aww...Lyds, it's alright. Shh... It's alright."
"No, it isn't. It's all my fault. I'm sorry... Stiles, I'm so sorry."
"What for?"
Her pitch climbs as she weeps, "That was one of the last times we were together. We were so close, and I—I pushed you away. I let... I let them take you from me."
"Them? What are you talking about?"
"I told you to leave me behind, and then a few weeks later..."
Stiles hunches down so they are face to face, big gentle hands cupping her cheeks. "Baby, listen to me. That wasn't your fault. Not even a little."
"But maybe if I hadn't, the—the Ghost Riders never could have taken you. Maybe I..." Arduous shame crawls up the nape of her neck, withers her voice.
"What?"
"Maybe I weakened our connection."
"No," he says simply, unblinking. "No, you can't think like that. It's not even possible, and I'll tell you that as often as you need to hear it."
Stiles hugs her until she calms, heart consistently nudging against hers, pushing the fear and sadness further away. When she sniffles, he reaches for a tissue – the soft kind with aloe in them that he stashes in the back of the linen closet, just for her. He blots her eyes and wipes her cheeks, then redampens her entire face with saccharine kisses until she gives into a half-smile, tinge of regret still dragging at one side of her mouth.
"There's something else bothering you."
She clutches his hand, presses it into her chest. "I hate how much I hurt you that night."
He nods. "Okay, granted there were some...tough moments, but if that's the only way you're remembering it, then you're not remembering the whole night. I swear that's not how it ended. We didn't leave it like that," he enlightens her.
Gripping his hand tighter, she reiterates, "We didn't. We would never..."
"That's right. What's the last thing you remember?"
"You asked me not to break your heart, and I was afraid to remember the rest."
"You don't have to be. I promise, it's safe. Actually, it turned out to be one of the best nights of my life."
"Really?" she perks up with curiosity. "How?"
"Well, we may have argued but—"
"Wait. Don't tell me," she stops him, index finger to his lips.
He kisses it. "Does that mean you want to try again? 'Cause if you're not ready, that's fine too."
"I want to try."
"Okay. Just remember... I'm here – right now, with you, and I'm not going anywhere."
As Stiles holds her, chanting reassurances into her ear, Lydia lets herself remember...
"Don't break my heart," he repeated. "Say you didn't mean that."
"Stiles—"
"No, wait. Don't say anything," he backpedaled, moving both hands to her shoulders. "It's late, and we're both tired and upset. We can talk about this in the morning when we've had time to calm down. For now, just...just get in bed with me. You're still shivering, and you'll warm up faster under the covers."
"I can't do that."
"But you stay here all the time."
"I can't anymore. I can't keep letting you hold me like you do. I can't keep feeling all these things. Not when I'm the one who's going to ruin your life."
"You only make my life better," he emotively protested.
"I think you should take me home," she replied flatly.
"You are home," he insisted, dropping his forehead to hers. "You know that. I know you do. You said... You said you trusted me. You said you wanted to stay with me."
She remembers the sensation of his tears splashing on her thighs, soaking into her pajama pants, one...by one...dissolving the illusion of self-control she had been relying on to get her through this gut-wrenching moment.
"Stiles, please don't make this harder than it already is," she whispered, windpipe so constricted she could hardly speak.
"I'm sure as hell not going to make it easy for you to give up."
She latched onto his elbows, blurry eyes warily avoiding his. "Is that what you think I'm doing? Giving up? I'm trying to protect you."
"I don't need to be protected from you," he asserted.
She remembers the mildness of his touch when he bracketed her face with his palms, fingers gingerly tucking her hair behind her ears while he pled, "Look at me."
Lydia hesitated, certain that she lacked the fortitude to stare into the face of the boy she loved and refuse him again. But the pull between them was so strong...and every justification that seemed so logical only minutes prior became more irrelevant with each passing second...and she couldn't stop herself from meeting his gaze.
"I understand that you're scared and confused…and probably angry too. You have every right to be because you didn't ask for any of this. But you're not alone, Lydia. All this time, we've been building something – something beautiful and amazing and not like anything else I've ever felt."
She wanted to tell him he was right, that he understood everything she was feeling, that what they had was beautiful and amazing and better than anything in the world. But Fear simultaneously made one more attempt to manipulate her into submission, hissing warnings into her ear and aiming to use her strained vocal cords to do its bidding.
"Stiles—"
"Please, let me finish," he interjected, defiantly superseding the nagging voice she heard with the quality of his own.
Following a slow but steady exhale, he resumed, "You know I would do just about anything for you – but asking me to let go is too much. You can tell me you don't want more, and I'll respect that...but you can't erase how I feel for you. So don't think for one second…that pushing me away is a solution. Nothing could ever change the way I feel about you. Nothing."
Lydia knew what he meant, and even with a self-inflicted broken heart, she felt it too. Nothing could erase what they had. Their connection was too special, too perfect, so rare. It had emblazoned a permanent mark on her soul, one that guided her three miles in darkness, led her to the only light she ever really needed. Stiles.
"I don't want to be like this," she broke down. "I don't want to wake up in places and not know how I got there."
"I know," he consoled, stroking her cheeks, "but what happened tonight was a setback. We don't have to let it mean more. It doesn't undo all the progress you've made."
"What if I can never control it? What if it gets to be too much to deal with?"
"I believe in you. I know you can do it, but if it ever feels like too much, then you've still got me. I'm here for you. So if you're lost, I'll find you. If you can't walk, I'll carry you. I will carry you, Lydia. I'll take care of you...just like you've taken care of me, so many times."
Her hands traveled up his arms, string of promises he had woven together giving her the last tug she needed to find her way back. By the time her palms reached his shoulders, all she could hear was his voice. A voice which was expressing his love – in countless ways, each one reclaiming another fragment of her heart and fusing them all together again.
"We're so close. I can feel it," he reminded her. "We'll find a way through this. We always find a way."
Lydia remembers the onslaught of tears that rained down when her love for him won out. She cried her apology into his chest, told him she was so sorry, didn't mean what she said, didn't want to lose him. She remembers being surrounded by warmth as Stiles hugged her and assured her that he forgave her, everything would be alright, he wasn't going anywhere without her.
She remembers him, picking her up and carrying her to his bedroom, and the serenity that came with knowing she could let herself fully rely on Stiles – even when that meant he had to save her from herself.
He took care of her, just like he said he would. Once she was comfortably tucked into his bed, he climbed in beside her, even phoned his dad to explain what happened.
"Deputy Clark is on patrol in your neighborhood," he informed her as he silenced his phone. "She's gonna swing by your house, make sure everything's secure."
"That's a relief," Lydia sighed as she rubbed her tired eyes. "I probably left the front door wide open. It's a good thing Prada's with my mom."
"Speaking of... Do you wanna call her?"
"Definitely not," she brusquely declined.
Stiles responded with one of his trademark interrogatory expressions.
"She's all the way in Pripyat with her sister. There's nothing she can do," Lydia rationalized. "Anyway, this wouldn't even be happening to me if she hadn't put me in that place."
"You're right."
There was no hint of sarcasm in his tone, yet she knew he wanted to say more.
"But..."
"At some point, you're going to have to talk to her about this," he solemnly advised.
"Denial seems to be working fine for her," she shrugged.
Stiles didn't contradict her, just set his phone on the nightstand and supportively put his arm around her.
"I don't know what to do," she confided. "Every time I try, I get so angry, and we end up talking in circles."
"I get it," he nodded, "but you can't keep all of it in forever. It's not good for you." Blindly finding one of her hands beneath the covers, he laced their fingers together. "If you think it will help, I could be there...with you."
His offer spoke volumes. Particularly when, months since the Eichen House debacle, the tension between Stiles and her mother was still so apparent. After all, it was her mother's refusal to confront the truth which put Lydia at greater risk, and it was Stiles who saved her. Lydia was sure her mother thought her oblivious to the condescending attitude she had been directing at Stiles...but she had been paying attention to everything. She caught every dismissive comment, every snide remark. Lydia also noticed that Stiles never faltered. He was always polite, always respectful. So, while Natalie proved her unwillingness to accept accountability for her own failure, Stiles only set himself higher in Lydia's esteem.
"I bet my mom will love that."
"Maybe not, but all I'm worried about is you. So, if you want me there..."
"I do."
"Then that's where I'll be."
She thanked him with a smile, eyes misting as she squeezed his hand.
He returned the gesture, then glanced at his alarm clock. "It's a quarter past two. Wanna lie down?"
"Yeah."
Lydia dimmed the light, and they snuggled under the covers. She remembers sharing his pile of pillows and sinking into the middle of his mattress. She also remembers the unexpected bliss that arose when she realized the cozy nook was beginning to take on a new shape. One that conformed not just to Stiles's body, but to theirs – together.
"How'r you feelin' now?" he asked.
"Truth?"
"Always."
She delayed while her vision adjusted, only diffused moonlight to illuminate his features. When she could make out the flecks of gold dust in his eyes and the dusty pink hue of his lips, she answered, "Better. Also tired...foolish..."
"Why?"
"I dunno what came over me before."
"Hey, you're allowed to freak out...especially in front of me."
"But how could I ever think..."
She remembers how benevolently he swept his fingers across her cheekbone when he sympathized, "You were scared."
"I am scared...of a lot of things. Mostly..."
Unlimited patience for her as always, Stiles quietly waited as she searched for words. Wind whisked against the windows of the old house, but his presence provided the reassurance she needed to let some of her feelings show.
"Mostly because there's all these things I want to say to you… Things I've wanted to say for so long but…I'm not ready. I don't know why. I guess I still feel...broken," she explained, self-consciously motioning towards the left side of her head.
"Lydia, you literally went through hell," he acknowledged, capturing her hand and nestling it between them. "I know how dark things can get, that it can get so bad it's hard to even breathe. I also know when you go through something like that, you don't feel like yourself for a long time after. But you're not broken. You could never be, not to me. You're hurt..."
She remembers how he briefly hovered over her and kissed her scar, then looked her in the eyes when he added, "You're hurt, but you're gonna heal stronger."
"You really believe that. Don't you?"
"Yeah, I do. I want that for you. I want to help you, the way you helped me...which is why I can say this to you now... I messed up last year. I did things I'm not proud of, things that hurt you."
"You didn't mean to," she defended.
"It doesn't change the fact that I did."
"Maybe...but it makes a big difference in how I remember it."
"I'm glad," he said sincerely. "I also need you to know that things are different now. I'm better now. Since you came home—"
"Since you brought me home," she corrected.
His modest smile beamed, swift and bright, heralding words that bring her as much joy in the present as they did that night.
"Either way, I finally feel like myself again. You did that. You helped me remember what's right for me...and that's to be with you – in whatever way I can be, and as often as possible. I've seen what my life is like without you, Lydia. It's empty and false, and there's no part of me that wants it."
She remembers the way her heart rate skyrocketed when he confessed, "I uh... I won't pretend that I don't dream of us being together, but I want you to understand that I'm not in a rush either. Okay? Things are really good between us as they are, and I can wait. I will wait."
His unguarded declaration made her want to restore the balance with a confession of her own.
"I'm almost there. I promise, it won't be long."
"However long it takes, it'll be worth it...'cause nothing feels as perfect as this..." he told her as he lifted their linked digits.
They lie in silence for a few beats; his warmth thoroughly flowing through her, purging any last trace of the chill that had invaded her body.
"Stiles?"
"Yeah?"
"Thank you...for not being afraid to tell me when I'm wrong."
"Ah...it doesn't happen often. Still, it had to be said... I mean, you were waaaaay off this time," he joked.
She laughed softly, pressing her smile to his knuckles.
"Seriously though, I could never let go of you. What would I do without my Lyds?" he questioned. "No one could ever be what you are to me."
"No one could ever be what you are to me either," she replied, eyes so focused on his that everything else faded from view.
Lydia remembers the unspoken dialogue that encouraged them closer. She remembers being slowly enveloped by him; one arm sliding underneath her, the other tunneling inside the hoodie she still wore, heat of him seeping through the thin fabric of her pajama top. She remembers that even though her arms were wedged between them, she managed to hold on to him; one palm to his chest, heeding the percussive melody of his heart, and the other flush with the side of his face, fingertips sneaking into his hairline. She remembers the shudder that moved through them both as her leg gradually hitched up and over his hip.
In the expanse of an inhale, they were nose to nose, same physical proximity they attained earlier that night – minus the intrusive forewarnings, turmoil, and grief.
It had been more than one year since their lips met for the first time. In some ways that transcendent moment seemed like yesterday, in others it seemed like a lifetime ago.
"Stiles..." she breathlessly whispered. "Do you remember what it feels like?"
As always, he understood her.
"I remember."
"Me too. I... I want to feel that again."
"So do I."
"Are you sure?" she checked as he nuzzled closer.
"Yeah. Are you?"
"Yes."
"Good," he exhaled.
And then...
Stiles kissed her.
Lydia remembers everything about it...
How his lashes fanned her cheekbone when his lids fluttered closed. How his hands swiveled up her vertebrae while he tilted his head to the perfect angle. How lightly he brushed his lips against hers...just once...before taking in her lower lip like it was the most significant thing he would ever do. She remembers the sweet little moan he emitted when she brought her top lip down to greet his, and the way they both stilled afterwards, relaxing into full lip to lip contact.
She remembers the quickening of his pulse below her pinky, how it contrasted with the unhurried motion of their mouths. She remembers the budding impression of his smile and the wispy flavor of spearmint toothpaste and Stiles. Despite that they had kissed only once before, the taste of him was as familiar and as comforting as the sight of his face or the sound of his voice.
He was hesitant – in the best kind of way. A way that embodied confidence rather than uncertainty and which communicated his desire to savor every morsel of intimacy. Lydia instantly recognized it because she was doing the same; taking breaths only when necessary, modestly dragging her lips across his while her fingers caressed his jaw, coaxing him nearer.
Together they basked in the experience of their second kiss. A kiss that was a first in its own right; this time, deliberate and mellow, rather than impulsive and pressure-filled. A kiss shared by two people who were so much more than friends. A kiss that exemplified the difference between an awe-inspiring spark and a fully fueled flame.
A flame that so easily could have consumed her...
She wanted him. So badly. She remembers how tempting it was to deepen that kiss, to leap ahead to more. Stiles was holding her so tight, chest heaving with the same struggle, but his lips remained soft and gentle...and so did hers.
Because he's Stiles, she thought.
And what they had was already more. More than physical, more than sentimental attachment, more than she ever could have hoped for.
Stiles was the person she loved most in the world, and Lydia wanted to kiss him the way he deserved to be kissed. She wanted to go slow, wanted to experience this first as well as all the others – each in their own time, and it was never more clear to her than when they shared that beautiful kiss. A kiss that, thrived on tenderness and purity of emotion. A kiss that like a snowdrop, blossomed amidst the chill of winter. A kiss that made everything feel like it was falling into place.
When their lips parted, Lydia waited for Stiles to open his eyes...
She remembers the relaxed slant of his cheek against her fingertips and the tickle of his exhale coasting across her skin. She remembers the contentment on his face when he murmured a Wow.
"Wow," she echoed as his eyes found hers.
"We uh... We'd better not do that again," he remarked. "At least not for now."
Lydia didn't bother to hide her disappointment while she said, "You're probably right."
But Stiles made sure her disappointment was fleeting. She remembers how the tenacious fluttering in her stomach spread outwards in every direction when his smile reached his eyes and he winked at her.
"I think you'll have to remind me not to. Otherwise, I'm likely to try at least once a day," he playfully cautioned. Then he tested her...by leaning in for more.
"Don't kiss me," she feebly rebuffed.
"Lyds...you gotta be a lot more convincing than that."
"Do not kiss me," she more emphatically articulated.
He rolled onto his back, relinquishing an audible sigh. "Pshh...this isn't gonna be easy."
"No, it isn't."
She watched his chest rise and fall, thumb repetitively tapping on his sternum.
"Stiles?"
"Hmm..."
"Someday I'll say it, and you'll know I don't mean it."
He looked at her with a broad grin. "And I'll kiss you anyway – on the cheek, just in case. Like this..." Rotating towards her, he demonstrated, "Muah..."
She giggled.
"And then we'll both know... Agreed?"
"Yeah."
"Hug on it?" he offered.
"Definitely."
Lydia remembers how right it felt to be wrapped back up in his arms, how the idyllic picture he painted of a weekend away from Beacon Hills was restored in her mind's eye...so vivid, so concrete, it was like they were already there.
"So...do you still want to go to Pine Canyon next weekend?" she asked.
She remembers how his cheek rose higher, uplifting hers as he answered, "We'll call Scott in the morning so we can make plans."
In those pre-dawn hours, Lydia fell asleep with Stiles; warm, and safe, and hopeful too. Hopeful that someday was even closer than she imagined only a day or two before.
Present Day
When her memory is fully recovered, Lydia is beside herself with happiness.
"We kissed. Stiles, we kissed," she exclaims while sprinkling affectionate pecks all over his shoulder, salty deposits of her tears flavoring his skin.
"Lyd—" he attempts to respond, but she is working her way up his neck...to his cheek...and then his mouth, and he can't get more than one syllable in.
When she finally comes up for oxygen, he is confounded but smiling.
"Stiles, all that time. All that time."
"All that time what? What am I missing?"
"When you weren't here...I dreamt of that kiss. I couldn't see you, but I remembered what it felt like – as if it were happening. I thought I was...wishing, but it was real."
"You mean..."
"I didn't forget you – not completely."
"Just like you promised," he marveled. "Lyds, this is...amazing. It's...it's..."
"I know. I know."
They are both laughing and crying, holding on so tight.
"I thought about that kiss... I can't even tell you how often."
"Maybe we were thinking of it at the same time."
"I bet we were." He sucks in his lip while wiping her tears. "That's what I meant earlier, about our connection. You left a mark on me. Not just here or here..." he explains, pointing to his lips and then his temple. "But also, here..." he elaborates, pointing to his heart, "and under every inch of my skin. You were always with me, Lydia. You are what got me through. I could feel you. Half the time my mind was in a fog...but there was always you...even just the thought of you, of being with you again. You kept me from fading. You kept me whole."
"Stiles..." she swoons, dropping her head to his chest.
There aren't words for what she feels right now. But that's okay. She and Stiles have something better. They have each other, and there is an understanding between them that goes beyond diction. One that resonates loudest in wordless moments when she listens to the song his heart has been singing to hers for years.
"Today has been so perfect," she tells him. "I love being with you like this."
"Just think...a few more days, and we'll have your house all to ourselves."
"I can't wait. It'll be like..."
She nearly says when we live together, concept popping into her mind so naturally that it feels like divine insight.
Before Lydia has the chance to fret about leaping too far ahead, Stiles picks up where she left off.
"Like getting a glimpse of our future."
"Yeah, exactly," she smiles, elation making her feel lighter than air. "Stiles?"
"Mmm..." his lips hum against her forehead.
"Do you wanna go back to bed?"
"I really, really do."
He kisses her eyelids one at a time, then scoops her up into his arms and rewinds the steps they took a while ago. She plants her lips on his smooth cheek and leaves them there. Once inside his room, Stiles nudges the door with his elbow, and Lydia locks it behind them.
After that, it's pure bliss.
It's bliss when he sets her down beside his bed, tips of their toes skimming as she lands on plush carpet. It's bliss when he never relaxes his embrace, kisses her deep...and a little bit dirty. Bliss when he relieves her of her camisole, tosses it aside, then lovingly runs his fingers through the waves of her hair. Bliss how good he smells when he ducks down to nibble on her earlobe and lick the pulse point in her throat. Bliss when his hands purposefully wander along her spine, pull her closer, then travel forward, caressing her rib cage before cupping her breasts.
Whole body tingling, Lydia clings to his strong shoulders, purses her lips as Stiles circles her nipples with the pads of his thumbs. Days of hard work have left him rough with calluses, but in his touch, there is only gentleness. She holds her breath while he explores, revels in the contrasting sensations. Then, she picks up his right hand and brings it to her lips.
Eyes fixed on his, she kisses his palm and every one of his digits. He seems to melt at the contact; brows mellowing, lids falling half shut, jaw slackening as her name tumbles from his lips. It's how she knows he recognizes the wealth of emotion that inspires her actions, the reverence behind every exchange. It's how she knows he feels it all too.
It comes back to her tenfold when he outlines her mouth with his index...softly...softly, then slides his hand back to support her head, holding her just so; noses touching, lips barely grazing, both of them suspended in anticipation – the unified breath before the kiss.
It doesn't stop there.
He does kiss her...again and again.
And that is bliss too. Because they've kissed so many times in the past eight weeks, yet still it astounds her how different each can feel.
This time, it's a perfect combination of so many things. It's all motion and urgent need as he devours her bottom lip and she consumes his top one. It's a string of teasing pauses and slow burning sweetness when their tongues are mingling and their mouths are making shapes that give new meaning to the word passion. There is longing, frenzied desire, and excitement, steadied by contentment, familiar comfort, and calm. There is memory, enriched by the present and balanced with their hopes for the future – all of it tethered with love. Always love. She can always feel his love.
They are so close. They are bare-chests-heaving, eyelashes-entangling, feel-the-vibration-of-a-whimper-before-you-hear-it Close.
And that in itself is bliss.
There is even bliss in the dizzying deprivation of oxygen that compels them to come up for a breath. It encourages them to take a moment, to look at each other with eyes and hearts wide open, allowing their vulnerability to shine through – without fear. Because together, they are safe. Together, they are in a place free of judgement where they will always be accepted and cherished for who they really are.
There is also bliss born from trust. The kind that reveals itself in the shower of kisses Stiles scatters down to her belly, in the careful attention he devotes to her scars, and in the way Lydia doesn't feel the need to hide these marks or any imperfections from him.
It's bliss when he kneels in front of her with a crooked grin, hands firmly stationed on her hips as he kisses her through the fabric of her boyshorts. Bliss how his exhale spreads warmth there before he slowly...slowly glides them down her figure so she can step out.
For a minute, he is motionless, gorgeous pair of honeyed eyes taking her in, intensity of his stare reminding her that he is as captivated with her as she is with him.
There is bliss in the butterflies she gets when he says, "So beautiful," almost inaudibly.
"Yeah, you are," she answers.
There is bliss in how everything amplifies when he bashfully smiles; subtle upward shift in the corners of his mouth expressing so much, making her heart skip beats.
He is amazing – everything about him. She wants him so much, she could cry.
Lydia used to wonder how it was possible to want someone this much. She doesn't anymore though, just lets herself feel. So many feelings...
Simply put, being with Stiles sends her into sensory overload, but that is bliss too – the tugging so taut now, she is beginning to tremble.
And when Stiles stands to full height, boxers visibly tented as he leans into her, there is bliss in her winded sigh – because she can feel how much he wants her too.
She channels the pent-up energy by pressing into him and stretching up to kiss him. She can't get enough of him, needs to touch him. So she does. She strokes the sides of his face and the nape of his neck before her hands delve into his hair.
And it continues...
There is bliss when she palms the breadth of his back, then sneaks her hands inside his waistband. Bliss in the raspy timbre of his groan when her palms and fingers conform to the curves of his ass and squeeze. Bliss when she strips him of his boxers, and they finally match each other for nakedness.
There is bliss in the way his biceps pop when he picks her up. Bliss in the way her core throbs for him. Bliss when they are kneeling on his bed together, bodies aching to merge.
It's scorching heat and ardent bliss when he is deep inside of her, unrivaled connection making her heart pound, blood rush, stomach clench. It's bliss, the way he quivers and flexes when she delicately traces the lines of his abs with her fingernails. Bliss the way he is watching, eyes so focused on hers as she rides him...slow and deliberate. Bliss how his smile mirrors the way she feels inside while he pleasures her – body and soul.
It's bliss when that switch flips – when the inexhaustible need completely takes over and she lets go in a way she has only ever wanted to with Stiles. There's bliss in the way he goes right along with her, moaning when she picks up pace, matching her rhythm with eager thrusts. She throws her head back, tightening her grip on his shoulders for balance, both of them chasing the build, climbing higher and higher together. With no doubts to inhibit them, it feels like they're aiming all the way to the Sun.
It's hot. Almost too hot. Their skin is steeping in sweat, lurid incantation of their panting exhales enlivening the air. But nothing can divert their attention from each other. There is undeniable magnetism between them. She is so turned on, and he is so incredibly sexy – without even trying to be. Everything he does affects her. He says her name, and she shivers. His tongue juts out to wet his parched lips, and she surges with another influx of heat. He reaches down to touch her, and she gasps.
She's so aware. Aware of herself – how much this means to her, how fiercely and profoundly she cares for him. Aware of Stiles – every blink, every breath, every indication that she is making him feel as good as he makes her feel. Aware that what's happening between them is miraculous. Because there is something even greater than his hands or her desire motivating her hips to sway with reckless abandon. It's love. Love and the ever-growing aspiration to be closer. Always closer.
It's bliss. Bliss how he knows what she wants...even before she does. Bliss the way he collapses their intertwined form in one fluid motion, giving her more of what she has been craving without ever missing a single beat.
There is unparalleled bliss when he is on top of her, solid weight of him driving her into the softness of the mattress, entire bed quaking with the power of their love. His hands are cradling her face, lips still seeking hers – often. She is in the nook, that perfect place where she is completely submerged in Stiles.
She's drowning in him and it feels so good.
She never wants him to stop, but it's bliss when he slows things down too. Bliss in the affirmation that he wants to extend their moment for as long as possible, just like she does.
There's bliss in the things they say; the beautiful nonsense they whisper into each other's ears, the I love you that simultaneously passes their lips in the midst of a kiss, the way they repeat it...over and over and over again.
There's bliss in the way her orgasm coils up. Bliss in the knowing that the slightest shift of her hips will increase the friction he is giving her...and send her right over the edge. Bliss in the way her back arches, elevating her off the bed. Bliss in the way his body anchors hers, making sure she never leaves him.
I won't. I won't, Lydia remembers hearing herself sob.
Only this time, she gets a different response.
"I know. I know," Stiles assures her.
There is indescribable bliss in how his heart understands hers and in the decadent release when they come together. They are supremely in sync, writhing with euphoric pleasure, everything heightened, everything alight, everything as it was always meant to be.
There is bliss in the way it seems to last and last...electricity flowing between them, regenerating the spark whenever it starts to wane. Bliss when he stays inside of her, the two of them exchanging sloppy kisses and meaningful looks while they catch their breath together.
One would think they've exceeded their allowance of delights for one day.
But there is more bliss to be found in the afterglow, when they curl up together, peacefully and pleasantly fatigued.
Twenty minutes later, the room is substantially brighter, abundant post-rain sunlight ricocheting off every surface. Lydia and Stiles are still cooing and kissing, swapping secrets and making plans for their future. There is bliss in the subliminal undertone of their touches; both of them satisfied but nonetheless hungry for more.
There is bliss in the way they love each other so equally. Bliss in the way they need each other and are made not weaker but stronger for it. Bliss in the faith that they will get through everything together. Forever.
Because no matter what happens, she will carry him too.
She is pretty sure he knows that, but she tells him anyway.
"I know," he smiles. "I know you will, angel."
