Now I don't wanna look at anything else now that I saw you
I could never look away
I don't wanna think of anything else now that I thought of you
Things will never be the same
I've been sleepin' so long in a twenty-year dark night
Now I'm wide awake
And now I see daylight
I only see daylight
And I can still see it all in my mind
All of you, all of me intertwined
I once believed love would be black and white
But it's golden
Like daylight
- Daylight by Taylor Swift


On Thursday afternoon, Lydia lets herself into Stiles's house and locks the door behind her. She hangs her keys on the wall hook next to his and is about to call for him when she realizes something.

It's quiet. Too quiet.

Her first guess is that he is asleep, so she tiptoes to his bedroom.

He isn't there.

As she retraces her steps to the foyer, she has one of those moments. The kind when fear starts creeping in, filling her head with what-ifs and worst-case scenarios, trying to make her believe that something awful happened, that he disappeared again...and she might never get him back. In the same instant, her rational brain is calmly refuting the notion, synapses firing off a list of possible explanations for his absence, urging her to remain in control.

Her heart is the one with the most compelling counterargument. Its beats insist that everything is fine, Stiles has to be safe – because if anything happened to him, she would feel it. Inside.

But what if, she thinks, what if that's where the fear originated too? Maybe that fear is her heart's way of telling her something is wrong, and all the rest is really just denial.

With one hand clutching the pendant Stiles gave her, Lydia dashes through the living and dining rooms. When she gets to the kitchen, she stops in her tracks.

The back door is wide open, only the screened storm door separating her from the answer to her question.

That's when she finally sees him.

Stiles is sitting on the porch, arms crossed, index finger tapping on his bicep, unassembled pieces of a project spread around him.

He looks perplexed...and completely adorable, and she has to cover her mouth to stifle a relieved gasp.

"Lyds? Is that you?" he calls over his shoulder.

"Uh...yeah. Be out in a sec."

She leaves her purse on the counter, smooths out the front of her sundress, and joins him outside. The screen door creaks open and thumps shut, but Stiles softens the noise with the sound of his voice.

"You're early. I'm glad," he tells her.

Blinking through mist and sunlight, she feels him reach for her, devoted eyes peering up at her as he kisses the back of her palm.

"Stiles..." she exhales, fully aware of how tightly she is gripping his hand.

If he didn't already suspect that something was up with her, she is surely giving it away. She can't help it though. She needs him – always does, but especially right now.

His compassion is tangible as he tugs on the end of her arm, same as he has been tugging on her heart for years; gentle, persistent, patient.

She kneels beside him, sets their hands on her thigh, and leans her head on his shoulder.

"What's going on?" he asks, lips pressed to her temple.

"It's—"

She can't say It's nothing. Being afraid of losing Stiles could never be nothing.

When he touches the twin hearts that suspend from her necklace, she recognizes that he is reminding her of the promises they made to each other.

"I didn't know where you were, and for a minute I thought..." Fighting tears, she lifts her head and glances upwards to the infinite blue sky. "I know it's irrational, but sometimes my mind still goes there."

"Hey, I get it. Believe me, I do. I've had a panic moment...or two... Okay, at least a dozen in the past couple months alone," he amends while tucking her hair behind her ear. "And you know...your house is a lot bigger, so the moment of panic feels more like an eternity."

"Do you think it will always be like this?"

"Probably." His pensive pout twitches into a smile, then he optimistically adds, "But at least we can be irrational together."

She laughs softly; marveling at the way his honesty eases her burdens and uplifts her spirits. "I can live with that."

"Good. Me too. Now come here," he directs, pulling her into his lap.

She sighs as he hugs her, all the tension leaving her body and drifting away with the breeze.

"Looks like you've been busy," she comments.

"Yeah, it got here after you called. Most of it anyway."

She arches back to make eye contact. "Most of it?"

"There's no instructions."

"Oh," she frowns. "Well...did you check the website? Maybe it has a PDF for this model."

"Good idea."

He shifts beneath her to slide his phone from his pocket. While his thumbs go to work, she passes the time by scattering tiny pecks along his cheek and jaw.

"Any luck?"

"Nope. Nothing. Maybe I should email customer service," he suggests.

But when her next kiss catches the corner of his mouth, he puts his phone aside. "Or...we could forget the whole thing...get my dad something that's already assembled," he jests, dipping Lydia backwards and showering her with a multitude of tender kisses.

"No, we shouldn't," she giggles. After one more kiss, she sits up and plants her hands on his shoulders. "You can do it without."

"I appreciate the vote of confidence, but this thing has about five different bolts and three different types of washers."

"Babe, come on... It'll be fine. I mean, when is the last time you have ever used instructions?"

As soon as the words leave her mouth, a series of images flash through her mind and she smiles.

"Lydia!" he beams. "You remember, don't you?"

"Yeah, I do," she nods. "I did the night you came home. But I'm just realizing, there was something else too... Wasn't there? Something that happened later."

"Yeah, there's more. A lot more."

"Help me remember?"

"Sure." He keeps his arms around her, so she feels safe. "It all started with a phone call," he hints.

And Lydia remembers.

She remembers the wake of a dangerous trek into the Preserve, how every subsequent choice she made brought her closer to Stiles...


The day had been a long and trying one. It was nearly midnight, yet Lydia was no closer to sleep than she had been an hour earlier when she first got into bed.

She remembers thinking that she should be tired. In a lot of ways, she was... Tired of the drama and constant upheaval in her life and in the lives of her friends. Tired of the absurd number of obstacles that had been imposed upon all of them...both by humans and the supernatural. Tired of Beacon Hills.

Mentally and physically however, she was wide awake. She remembers closing her eyes for what felt like the hundredth time, then reopening them and continuing to stare at the darkened ceiling. Eyes open or closed, it really didn't matter. The day's whirlwind of activity was determined to replay in her mind...over and over.

Striving to get control of her thoughts, she made use of a technique Ms. Morell had recommended last year during counseling sessions. Practicing gratitude, she called it. Back then, Lydia approached the concept begrudgingly and with a substantial amount of cynicism. The idea that positive thinking could withdraw her from the nightmare she was living seemed ridiculously oversimplified.

But lately, it didn't seem so ridiculous, and progressing to that point hadn't been simple at all.

Lydia had survived so much in the past year. Wolfsbane-induced hallucinations and manipulation at the behest of a power-hungry werewolf, culminating in the sweet sixteen from Hell. Months of secrets, half-truths, and flat out lies, followed by a sudden and horrific nosedive into the bizarre world of creatures that go bump in the night. A breakup that freed her of verbal, physical, and emotional abuse. She had even survived more than one terrifying attempt on her life.

After everything, she was alive. And frankly, she had a lot to be grateful for.

Prada for one. Prada, who enthusiastically welcomed her when she came home from school each day, who followed her everywhere – day or night, and who, in that very moment, was snuggled alongside her. Lydia remembers that while she was submersed in contemplation, her sweet, unconditionally loving, little furball had been gradually inching closer. With a thready whimper and her head empathetically nestled on Lydia's ribs, the pup had once again proven that she was acutely attuned to her person's inner discord.

"It's okay, pea. I'm okay," she whispered as she stroked the Papillon's ears.

But she remembers feeling like she was trying to convince herself just as much as Prada, which was even more evident when her body involuntarily shuddered as she exhaled her next breath.

So maybe she wasn't totally okay, but she was managing the best she could. At least her friends were getting back to normal. Allison was no longer hallucinating, Scott had regained control of his inner alpha, and Isaac's leg was already on the mend. Lydia was relieved and grateful for all of that. She hoped she could rest easy knowing that things were improving for them.

But there was someone else on her mind. Someone she couldn't stop thinking about.

Stiles.

Stiles, whose extraordinary focus under pressure and remarkable ability to problem solve had saved her from agonizing pain and possible permanent injury, barely eight hours earlier...


Lydia remembered the harrowing moment in the woods when she realized she had stumbled upon one of Mr. Tate's animal traps.

She knew they were out there. Sheriff Stilinski had warned them, but the snare was well hidden...and a single misstep was all it took.

One minute, she was hiking back to the Jeep with Stiles, nothing but the cadence of his voice to her right and the rustle of dry leaves under foot.

And the next, she felt the dull clunk of her heel striking unyielding metal...rather than forgiving earth.

Lydia froze, prickle of fear infiltrating her spine and making her wince.

Stiles was a few feet ahead, pacing as he left an urgent message for Scott.

She reflexively called for him. "Stiles..."

"Yeah," he answered.

When she didn't respond, he turned to face her. She remembered how his eyes homed in on the trap and how cautiously he minimized the daunting amount of space that separated them, one hand outstretched towards her.

"Stiles!" she squeaked, unable to get control of her pitch.

The longer she looked down, the harder it was to balance. She remembered the creak of the hinges as her ankle wobbled, struggling to stabilize her. She glanced up, saw pale blue sky fractured by a netting of limbs and bright afternoon sunlight that felt incongruous under such dire circumstances.

"Lydia, don't move."

She squeezed her eyes shut, ragged breaths giving way to a quiver. "Look for a warning label."

"A warning label?" he questioned.

"Instructions of how to disarm it," she snipped with unnerved haste.

"Lydia, why the hell would they put instructions on the bottom of a trap?"

"Because animals can't read," she blurted out, eyes locked on his in need of a focal point.

Her argument must have come across as credible because without further discussion, Stiles nodded and crouched in front of her.

She remembered the way his hands trembled as he searched for a label and the all too familiar apprehension in his inflection when he said, "Lydia, we got a problem."

"Huh?"

Another problem? Wasn't the one they had big enough?

Risking another spell of vertigo, she glanced down to see what he was referring to.

His stare hesitantly shifted from her ankle, very briefly to her eyes, then averted when he confessed, "I can't read either."

She wasn't sure what was most upsetting – the admission itself, the fact that it didn't appear to be a complete surprise to him, or that it coincided with such imminent danger; menacing steel jaws poised to snap at her leg. She remembered wondering if it would hurt as much as when she had been bitten...

Suddenly, she was conscious of the wetness pooling below her right eye. That was when Lydia realized she would never have to find out.

She was with Stiles after all, and he wasn't going to let her get hurt.

Ignoring the instinct to erase her wayward tear, she set her attention on him. "You don't need the instructions," she said firmly.

But he didn't seem to hear her. His eyes were still fixed on the snare, and even though his face was hidden by shadows, Lydia could see that he was flushed. She watched with heightened anguish as he roughly brought his fist to his mouth in frustration.

Unwilling to let him accept defeat, she continued, "When is the last time you have ever used instructions? Am I right?"

She remembered how his eyes found hers, how something clicked when she told him, "You don't need them...because you are too smart to waste your time with them. Okay? You can figure it out. Stiles...you're the one who always figures it out. So you can do it. Figure. It. Out."

And just like that, his panic transformed into concentration. He angrily swiped at the beads of sweat that had trickled from his forehead to the bridge of his nose. Then, he untangled a pile of moss and debris from the trap and examined it closely.

By that point, staying still had become strenuous work. Her body was tense, and the small plate beneath her sole seemed to be pushing back, daring her to flinch...so it could claim her as its victim.

But she held on. Scared as she was, Lydia knew that if there were ever a person to be stuck in this kind of situation with, it was Stiles. She kept her eyes on him. She believed in him – the way he always believed in her.

"Okay, here we go..." His hand shook as it hovered over the dial. "Ready?" he checked, eyes seeking hers once more.

She nodded.

"Okay, here we go," he repeated.

She remembered holding her breath. She remembered the loud crank of the dial as Stiles spun it with a flick of his wrist. Clearest of all, she remembered putting every ounce of her trust in him, taking a sideways leap, never doubting that he would catch her.

During that swift journey, a kaleidoscope of colors and shapes swirled before her eyes. But everything came back into focus when Stiles closed his arms tightly around her. She remembered the cold metallic clank of the trap slamming shut. It happened just a split second after he had pulled her out of harm's way...and into the warmth of his embrace.

Lydia remembered that embrace – everything about it. Starting with the way she anchored herself to him; one arm hooked around his neck and the other wedged between them, plush cotton of his hoodie filling each of her palms. There was also the way their cheeks were smashed together as they gasped for air; both of them pressing into each other, neither of them pulling away.

And then...

Then there was the moment his beautiful, astonished face turned towards hers. It was like catching a first glimpse of daylight at the end of a dark night; pure and mesmerizing, awakening and hopeful. His warm breath breezed across her skin as they held each other's gaze, and her heart was pounding so loudly she could hear it. She remembered the sensation of his left hand coasting over her shoulder, then sliding behind her, fingers weaving into her hair while he rubbed her back. Every bit of contact was encouraging her closer, and she willingly let it, leaning her forehead against his cheekbone and clinging to him tighter than she had ever done before.

She remembered the way his lips skimmed her temple as he soothed, "You're okay... You're okay."

The more reassured Lydia felt, the less she wanted to let go of Stiles. She remembered how grateful she was when he kept his arms around her and led her farther from the trap. Her legs may have been shaky, but she never stumbled – not even once. Stiles made sure of that. As she remembered it, her feet hardly even touched the ground.

In the aftermath, he was nothing but sensitive to her flustered state; he handled her with care and he spoke to her in a whisper when he advised, "We should get you back to the Jeep, then check on the others."

"Right."

But even when he loosened his grip on her, she still couldn't budge.

"Stiles..."

"Yeah?"

Taking his right hand in both of hers, she poured every drop of affection and sincerity she had into the words, "Thank you."

His opposite hand cupped her cheek, thumb liberating the lone tear that was stranded beneath her lashline. "No, Lydia. Thank you," he revised.

They walked hand in hand the rest of the way; bond between them solidifying with each step, light from within him radiating everywhere.


All those hours later, Lydia could still feel Stiles; his hand linked with hers, his warmth pervading her skin. But it wasn't enough. She wanted to hear his voice. She needed to.

It wasn't the first time she felt like that, nor was it the first time she was tempted to do something about it. But it was the first time she felt her resolve diminishing with every beat of her heart.

She remembers thinking that maybe she could call him. Just this once. What could be the harm in it? He was probably asleep anyway. She could just listen to his voicemail message and hang up. No big deal. Maybe it would be enough to quiet the noise in her head so she could get some rest.

Without further deliberation, Lydia reached for her phone, brought up her Recents screen and quickly tapped his name from the top of the list.

The phone rang once...twice...

She waited, anticipating the third and final ring before the call would automatically transfer to his voicemail. She even anticipated the familiar phrasing of his pre-recorded message which rather lyrically greeted: Hey...it's Stiles and you missed me.

But neither of those things happened.

Instead, the call connected, and his very real, discernibly tired voice responded, "Lydia?"

Her heart leapt, and she was stunned into silence. Lydia had been so consumed with wanting to hear Stiles's voice that she hadn't even bothered to consider what to say if he answered the phone. She remembers her cheeks burning with heat and the sudden dryness in her throat. She felt like a silly schoolgirl who had just been caught fawning over her crush. Except...she didn't have a crush on Stiles. She was falling in Love with him.

"Lydia, what's wrong?" he questioned with palpable concern.

She remembers how Prada reacted to his muffled tenor, how seven pounds of exuberance pounced on top of her chest, wet nose bumping against her wrist...like she was urging her to speak.

"Uh... Sorry, sorry," she fumbled. "I shouldn't have—I didn't mean to wake you."

"It's fine. You didn't. Are you alright?"

"I..."

"Lydia?"

"I don't know. I...can't stop thinking," she confided.

"Oh..." she heard him exhale. "Me neither."

She remembers the quiet pause that followed. It should have been uncomfortable.

But it wasn't.

It wasn't, because having Stiles on the other end of the line changed...everything. What could have been an awkward break in dialogue felt more like an essential part of their conversation. The sound of his breathing, a faint sniffle, even complete silence held meaning.

And fortunately for Lydia, Stiles didn't seem put off by the lack of verbal cues either. She could tell by the way he didn't try to fill the gap with small talk. To her, it felt as if they were communicating on a superior frequency, one to which only the two of them were attuned.

"How long've you been trying to sleep?" he eventually asked.

"Since around eleven. You?"

"Same... It's just you and Prada, isn't it?"

"Yeah," she confirmed, signaling for her pup to sit. "It's snowing in Chicago, so...my mom's flight was delayed."

"Hmm... My dad's still at work too."

By the hitch in his timbre, she guessed he was moving to sit up as he volunteered, "I could uh— Do you...want me to come over?"

Her heart leapt again. Yes. Yes, she did. In truth, as soon as Lydia heard Stiles's voice, it became obvious to her that the real reason she called was because she wanted to see him.

And while a significant part of her was internally cringing at how transparent she must have been, a more persuasive part – the one that was brimming with euphoria over how well he understood her – that part of her was already answering, "I know it's late but..."

"I'll be there in fifteen minutes," he said decisively.

She wondered if he had any idea how big she was smiling when she whispered an okay, awareness that she was speaking directly into his ear making it feel like they had this beautiful secret between them.

There was another wordless pause before he spoke her name. "Lydia..."

"Yeah?"

"Uh...never mind. I'll tell you when I get there."

"You sure?"

"Yeah."

"Okay. See you in a bit."

"'Kay, see ya."

Lydia ended the call, set her phone on the nightstand, then wriggled out from beneath Prada and the covers to switch on her crystal lamp. Squinting into soft incandescence, she got up from the bed while her pup yawned and stretched her legs.

"Stiles is coming," she informed her.

She remembers the gruff little bark Prada emitted, tail wagging as she hopped off the bed to position herself by the door.

Still smiling, Lydia put on her slippers and padded over to the vanity. Her lips were dry, so she dabbed on some lip balm while debating whether or not to tie her hair back. Deciding against it, she combed through her freshly washed, strawberry-blonde tresses, smoothed out the sleeves of her light blue pajamas, and headed out of the room.

With Prada shadowing closely at her heels, Lydia went downstairs to the living room to wait for Stiles. She remembers sitting on the couch and how her pup occasionally sprang up on hind legs to peek through the picture window behind their heads. As cute as her excitement was, each false start made waiting even more difficult. Only four minutes had passed since Lydia hung up with Stiles, which meant she had another eleven to go.

Sighing, she turned on the television, pleased to find that it was already tuned into an episode of Friends. She raised the volume, hoping that some levity would distract her, but the continuous fluttering behind her ribs made it impossible to concentrate. It was as if there were a caged butterfly inside of her, one that was desperate to escape.

Lydia also remembers a nagging kind of worry. She couldn't shake the feeling that she had set something in motion. Something she wasn't fully prepared to face.

It had never been easy to keep her distance when it came to Stiles. Even in the beginning, no matter how many times she avoided his gaze or his touch, there were so many things about him that refused to be ignored. He was straightforward and sincere, always himself, not to mention brilliant and beautiful – inside and out. He was also thoughtful, fiercely loyal, and wonderfully sarcastic in ways she was pretty sure only she could truly appreciate. With each interaction, Lydia felt this incredible connection growing between them, one unlike any other. More and more, she let him in, let him know her in ways no one else did. And the most amazing thing happened... Stiles didn't turn away. He accepted her – as a whole person with abilities as well as flaws. He never once tried to manipulate or control her, just consistently made it easier for her to be herself and always made certain she knew that was a good thing. He had become her friend so effortlessly and touched her so profoundly, that she couldn't imagine her life without him.

But ever since she understood that her feelings for him went far beyond friendship...ever since she impulsively gave into those feelings and kissed him, this dizzying forward momentum had been blurring the staunch baseline of control she was so used to upholding.

Their phone conversation, like so many others, had been proof of it. Twice, within the span of as many minutes, she had surrendered to the undeniable pull she felt towards Stiles. First, she gave into her need to hear his voice by calling him. Then, just a few words from his mouth to her ear, and she gave into her desire to see him, folded like a poorly constructed house of cards. Just so she could be with him.

Apparently, when it came to her feelings about Stiles, control didn't even figure into the equation. The tug he incited was so much more influential than any compulsion to withdraw. Because no matter what was troubling her, he always made things better. Because the hours they spent together were so important to her. Because...she needed him?

How had she let that happen? She never needed anyone...before.

What about what Stiles needed? He had troubles of his own. It wasn't fair to add to the mountain of burdens he was already dealing with.

Except, she had. Because of her, Stiles was out in the middle of the night...in Beacon Hills.

And if any harm came to him, she would never forgive herself.

Thankfully, she didn't have to worry for long because the next thing Lydia remembers is Prada bouncing up for the fourth time, animating in a way she only ever did when Stiles was near. Her joyful barks preceded the rumble of the Jeep as it zipped into the driveway, and Lydia finally looked out the window. From there, she could see Stiles jogging up the path that led to the porch. She watched him ascend the stairs, two at a time, wearing black sweatpants and a tee shirt with the same grey striped hoodie he had on earlier that day. She remembers the moment he paused at the front door – how he ran his hands through his hair, how his shoulders rose with an inhale...then lowered with an exhale before he knocked on the grain.

She remembers wanting to run to the door, to yank it open and throw her arms around him, but she followed his lead. She shut the television, took a deep breath to steady herself, then calmly passed through the foyer and unlatched the door.

"Hi," she greeted him.

"Hi," he replied softly.

Although she stepped aside to let him in, he lingered in the doorway. She remembers his cinched brows and parted lips as well as the glossy sheen of his eyes. There was pain reflecting there – a kind she hadn't seen since the night before the lunar eclipse. The night he glanced over his shoulder at her before submerging himself in a tub of icy water. The night he trusted her to push him under...then pull him back from a ritual that could have claimed his life.

That was when Lydia realized – Stiles needed her too, perhaps as much as she needed him.

Wordlessly, she reached for his hand and towed him across the threshold. She remembers how they sort of danced around each other as she closed and locked the door, both of them swaying almost awkwardly, like they didn't know what to do next.

But then his hand squeezed hers...and she lifted her eyes to his...and all she could see was the same light she always saw there, same as it was hours earlier in the woods, bright and magnificently golden. Like daylight.

Lydia remembers how she and Stiles slowly came together, arms encircling each other in a tight hug. Her nose landed in the sacred place between the fabric of his hoodie and the warm skin of his neck; scent of cold air and pine needles reinflating her lungs. She remembers the way his chest swelled against hers before he sighed into her hair, like he had been aching to breathe her in too. It felt so good, and once again, Lydia remembers not wanting to let go of Stiles.

"Long day...huh?" he commented.

"Yeah."

"You alright?"

"Uh-huh. You?"

"Yeah. This helps."

She could have cried right there in his arms; so inexplicably appealing to want to pour her heart out to him when he said things like that, when he showed her how easy it could be to open up. If only she were as brave as he, she thinks she would have.

Instead, she just hugged him tighter – so tight she wondered if it was too much. Stiles didn't seem to mind though. She remembers how he began stroking her hair and how glad she was that she decided to leave it down. As a rule, Lydia never let boys touch her hair. Stiles was the exception; not only did she not mind the contact, she rather enjoyed the sensation of his hands gliding through her hair. Maybe it was because he was always so gentle. Maybe it was because she knew it was about connection – not possession. Maybe it all came down to a matter of trust. Stiles only ever touched her in ways that felt right. When his hands were in her hair, she felt closer to him, reassured. It was as longed for as being in his arms and just as affecting.

If it were up to her, that hug would have gone on forever.

Prada however, had run out of patience. Lydia remembers how her solo, high-pitched yelp echoed in the quiet house.

"Uh-oh... Someone feels left out," Stiles chuckled, letting go of Lydia to acknowledge the pup. "Hiya little bean. Did you miss me?"

She remembers how he scooped Prada up with one arm and cuddled her, how he spoke to her so sweetly and didn't shy away when she lapped at his jaw and nose. Lydia was so caught up in the contentment of watching the boy she loved dote over her dog, that she didn't even realize she was staring...not to mention clinging to his elbow like her balance depended on him.

"What?" Stiles questioned with a smile.

"Huh? Nothing," she reflexively answered, awakening from the spell she was under.

"That's not a nothing face. It's a something face," he challenged, gesturing towards her with his index finger.

Relaxing her grip and her pensive expression, she covered, "I was wondering...what you were going to tell me before."

Okay, so she might not have been wondering about that in the precise moment he asked, but that didn't mean it was a complete fabrication either. Lydia did want to know what he intended to say, and it seemed like as good a time as any to find out.

"Oh," he nodded. "I uh...was just gonna say that...I'm really glad you called."

"Oh..." she sighed, simplicity of his statement leaving her speechless.

He kissed Prada's head, then set her down. "Probably coulda told you that on the phone," he conceded, smiling bashfully as he massaged the nape of his neck.

"Probably," Lydia agreed, but she remembers the way his entire countenance relaxed when she added, "It's nice to hear it in person though."

As their eyes met, the tug tugged; it encouraged her closer and sent the corners of her mouth soaring upwards.

She remembers the very real intensity with which they gazed at each other until she deflected, "Well...seeing as how we both have insomnia, we may as well make the best of it. Feel like some hot cocoa?"

"With marshmallows?" Stiles asked, brows arched high.

"Well of course with marshmallows."

His smile broadened, and she felt hers do the same.

"Come on..." She ticked her head to the left and led him down the hallway.

She remembers the way his hand hovered at the midpoint of her back and how Prada happily scampered ahead of them.


In the kitchen, Lydia and Stiles worked in dim light, only the small, overhead fixture turned on above the island. While she set up the kettle and picked out two mugs, he easily found the cocoa mix and marshmallows in the pantry. It was nice, this system they were patenting; natural and effortless, comforting in its familiarity, though not quite routine. She remembers what it felt like to nurture that development, the subtle adjustments they made as they moved around each other; a little quicker and more refined, a little closer and with more intention each time. Lydia remembers wondering what this tradition of theirs might be like in a couple of months, a year...maybe even ten years. Something about the way Stiles looked at her when he offered her a bite of the cookie he had been munching on, made her believe she would get to find out.

Minutes later, Prada was napping in her tent bed, and they were sitting at the kitchen table, sipping cups of cocoa with eight mini marshmallows in each, passing another peanut butter shortbread between them.

"So, why couldn't you sleep? What's on your mind?" Stiles asked, pushing the half-eaten cookie towards Lydia.

She broke off a piece and chewed deliberately slow to keep from heedlessly replying: You.

In the meantime, a rapid stream of thought flooded her consciousness.

You were on my mind. I'm in love with you and I can't stop thinking about you or wanting to be with you. When you look at me or hold my hand, I feel so many things...so many things that I can't even breathe, and I want to tell you that but I don't know where to begin...because I've never felt anything like this before. I'm afraid. Not of you, but of what you mean to me. I shouldn't be, but I am – so afraid of screwing us up, afraid that I won't have the right words or that the words I have won't be enough, afraid that if I don't say anything at all, I'll lose you, and I can't lose you because you are one of the best people in my life.

She remembers the weight of his attention, persistent but patient.

"Eh...a lot of things," she summarized.

But Stiles wasn't going to let her off that easy. "Like?"

She remembers the crooked grin that softened his lips and melted her heart as he used the tip of his Converse sneaker to nudge her fluffy, pink bunny slippers...the ones he gifted her two weeks ago, when she was in bed with a nasty cold.

That day, he ditched his afternoon classes to visit her. He brought her those slippers and a quart of lemon chicken soup from Ned's Diner. Over the next hours, his care for her was vigilant and unfailing. He made sure she had everything she could possibly need right within arm's reach. Everything. Most importantly, him. He sat in bed with her and helped her revise her AP Biology report on signal transduction, and he didn't complain one bit when she wanted to watch back to back Gilmore Girls reruns afterward. In fact, he seemed genuinely curious about this sappy, dozen-year-old drama that she loved so much. Not that it surprised her. Stiles always took an interest in the things she enjoyed. When she was tired, he read to her from their book about the northern lights until she fell asleep with her head on his shoulder. That night, she dreamt of seeing the aurora borealis with him, so vividly clear she could have sworn it was real. The next morning, with the perceived imprint of his kiss on her forehead, she woke thinking he was still with her...only to find that it was his hoodie draped over her.

He hadn't been over to read with her since. Now she knew why, but it didn't make her feel any better.

Lydia bought herself more time, taking another swig of cocoa before asking, "Why didn't you tell me?"

She didn't have to elaborate. Stiles knew what she meant.

He shifted in his seat, leaning forward to prop his elbows on the table. "I guess...I was hoping it would stop," he explained while worrying his right eyebrow with his thumb. "It did you know. It's better now. We can go back to...normal."

"Good. That's good."

"But..."

"I wish you would have told me. I was starting to think..." She remembers cringing at the way her voice wavered, grasp tightening around her cup as she stared into a puddle of molten milk chocolate capped with foamy white marshmallows.

"What did you think?" he coaxed ever so softly.

She remembers the way her hands disappeared as his significantly larger ones enveloped them. She remembers the extra influx of heat, surrounding her palms and fingers...as well as in her cheeks and behind her sternum.

"It's just, the past few times I've asked you over..."

"I said I couldn't...and you thought I didn't..."

When Stiles trailed off, her eyes sought his, but they were already closed; comprehension lowering his lids.

Seconds later, two repentant, amber-flecked gems revealed themselves to her. "Lyds, I'm so sorry. I never meant for that to happen." She remembers that one of his hands moved to her shoulder, lightly squeezed when he emphasized, "I love reading with you. It's one of my favorite things in the whole world. And when I thought I wasn't going to be able to anymore...it hurt – a lot."

"I would have tried to help you."

"I know. I know and I wanted to tell you, but I was..."

"What?"

"Embarrassed," he admitted, slumping back against his chair, hands flattening atop the table.

"Too embarrassed to tell me?"

He ducked his head, middle finger grinding the crumbs on their plate. "You're so smart, and I...couldn't even read my own name."

She reached for him, barely able to distinguish the difference between her hand, still hot from her cup, and the heat that was permeating from his cheek. "Stiles, do you really think there's anything that could change the way I think of you?"

He bit his lip, eyes watering as they timidly aligned with hers.

"If it were the other way around, would you think less of me?" she questioned.

"No, never," he shook his head.

She remembers the warm droplets that filled her palm, then trickled down her wrist and into her sleeve.

"Well, that works both ways," she assured him, letting her hand slide to his collarbone, thumb fitting perfectly into the hollow beneath his throat. "We're supposed to see the best in each other – no matter what."

"You're right. I'm sorry," he repeated, latching onto her forearm.

"It's okay. I'd say what you did for me this afternoon more than makes up for it."

"That was..." He puffed up his cheeks, eyes going a little wide when he contested, "Lydia, I was so scared. If I had—"

"You didn't," she reminded him. "You figured it out. You took care of me. How about letting me take care of you now?"

"What do you mean?"

"Tell me what else is going on with you."

His brows pinched together in an exposed yet awestruck way, and she knew there was more he wanted, maybe even needed to confide.

"I uh..." he began in a hushed tone, pausing to swallow with considerable difficulty.

He had already finished his cocoa, so she passed him her cup. "Here, have mine."

As Stiles drank, a few more tears slipped from the corners of his eyes. He set the mug aside and roughly wiped them away.

"Hey, it's alright." Lydia stopped him, then delicately absorbed the glistening remnants of his grief with her fingertips. "Take your time," she coached. She remembers a surge of empathy and love as she took his hand from across the table and brought him closer to her.

After siphoning an unsteady breath, he slowly exhaled. "I... I had a panic attack...at school, day before yesterday."

Lydia felt her vision recalibrate; retrospection allowing her to see the past forty-eight hours in a new light.

No wonder Stiles was so frustrated. She understood how serious his panic attacks were, how stressed and frightened he must have been to have gotten to that point. She remembers thinking she should have known. There were signs that something was off with him. Like the fact that when they were together that afternoon, he was a lot less talkative and a bit more fidgety. She assumed it was because he was tired and worried about Scott...but she was wrong. If that was the case, what else had she missed? Suddenly, there was a surplus of questions compiling in her head...

But she didn't verbalize a single one, just squeezed Stiles's hand and listened to him.

"I was in Mr. Yukimura's class, and he wanted me to read from our history textbook. I asked him to pick someone else, but he insisted. I was um...standing at the front of the room, looking at the page... That's when all the letters went blurry and then started moving, like sliding off the page. I got dizzy... Scott realized what was going on, got me out of the room, helped me calm."

It made her stomach twist to think of Stiles going through that, especially knowing she wasn't there to help him...like he always was for her. Even though he hadn't been alone, Lydia couldn't help feeling like she let him down.

"I know how it seems, but I swear, I wasn't planning to keep it from you or anything," he went on, "but so much else happened after...with Kira, then Scott. I was trying to find the right time."

"It's fine. I get it," she accepted. "I just hate that it happened to you. I feel like I should have known. I should have...been with you."

"You were. More than you know."

More than you know...

Lydia remembers how those words resonated inside of her, their vibrations initiating a powerful throbbing in her chest. Stiles wouldn't have said them if they weren't true. She wondered exactly what he meant though. Did he mean that he had a passing thought of her, simply because she had been with him last time he had a panic attack? Or were those words literal? Could he actually feel her the same way she could feel him sometimes...even when he wasn't there?

A bottleneck of emotions abruptly jammed the pathway from her mind to her vocal cords, leaving her speechless again. And, while her ability to articulate herself may have been lagging, her heart was sprinting ahead with a pace so rapid she could scarcely contain it. It was intimidating how quickly that could happen when she was with Stiles.

She waited, blissfully terrified over what might come next...

But then, his gaze shifted from their joined hands to her face. "You're with me right now too, and that means a lot," he said, and the fear subsided.

That little reminder to stay in the present gave Lydia all the perspective she needed.

"It means a lot to me too," she told him. "I want to be able to help you. Is there anything else I should know?"

"Yeah," his lips quivered through a sigh. "Tonight's not the only night this week that I couldn't sleep."

"You're still having nightmares, aren't you?"

"They don't always start out that way. Some of them start out pretty good, but..."

She remembers what it felt like when he raked his hand over hers, how he curled his fingers around the side of her palm, holding onto her like a lifeline. She couldn't recall him ever gripping her hand in that specific way. And yet, there was something so familiar about that touch, glimmer of a dream she once had manifesting in real life.

In that moment, Stiles was looking at their hands so intently that Lydia feared even the most subdued sound would startle him. She was careful not to elevate her voice above a whisper when she asked, "Then what?"

He inched towards her; foreheads so close, they were almost touching. "There's always a door. It's cracked open...and I keep meaning to close it, but instead...I end up walking through it, even though I know I shouldn't. Next thing, I'm in the woods, by the Nemeton...and I am so scared, but no matter what I do, I can't wake up... Lydia, I can't wake up without screaming, and my dad..."

She remembers the distinct notes of vulnerability and exhaustion in his raspy tone. Grating with anguish and despair, they carved sympathetic, presumably permanent marks into her heart.

"I haven't had a good night's rest since..."

"When?"

"Since the last time you stayed over."

"But that was nearly a week ago."

"Uh-uh," he coughed. "Yeah."

"Oh, Stiles..."

She remembers the way her soul was crying out for her to get closer to him, to do something – anything she could to ease his pain. Maybe it was too persuasive for her own good, but she had to listen to it. She had to hold him. She had to, or she was going to burst. So, she got up from her chair and put both arms around him. She remembers how he instantly responded to her touch, hugging her back – tighter than she expected, arms looping her waist, head leaning on her chest. That was when she knew she had done the right thing, that being closer to Stiles was always the right thing. As she protectively embraced him, she wondered if he could hear how ardently her heart was pounding for him. She believed she could trust him with that secret, so she let her chin find repose on the crown of his head and began rubbing his shoulders.

"Your dad's not coming home at all tonight, is he? That's why you were awake when I called."

He lifted his head to look at her. "Yeah."

"Were you going to stay up all night?" she frowned, squeezing him a little tighter.

"I thought about it," he shrugged. "I mean, it's probably fine now. I—"

"You should sleep here tonight," she interjected before he could even suggest going home. There was no way she was letting him spend the night alone.

"Lydia, you—"

"Stiles, you've let me crash at yours plenty of times. Please, stay. I think..." she faded out, last undercurrent of doubt rising...then receding when she recognized something really important. "I think we both need this," she concluded with renewed conviction.

It was the truth. Beyond that, nothing else mattered. They could figure out the rest – together.

"Okay," he conceded.

"Okay?"

"Yeah, I'm convinced."

"Just like that?"

"Well...I wanted to say yes right away, but I also didn't want you to think I'm too easy," he joked.

"So you let me go on?"

"At least this way, I know you really want me to stay," he smirked.

She expressed her mild irritation by bumping him with her hip, but she couldn't withhold a laugh.


Shortly after, they cleaned up the kitchen and went upstairs.

Lydia remembers what it felt like. The two of them...in her room, planning to spend the rest of the night there. Together.

They had shared a bed before – sometimes accidentally, others intentionally. But there was something about that night, an incomparable energy that made this time even more special and significant. She remembers the unexpected satisfaction of realizing it had been months since she let any other boy into her room.

In the breath between the enlightened heartbeats that followed, the reason she made that subconscious choice became abundantly clear.

And he was right in front of her.

As Lydia wiggled out of her slippers, she watched Stiles toe off his sneakers, remove his hoodie, and drape it over her purple suede chair. Without the extra layer of clothing, she couldn't help noticing his body. He was slim but solid; evident in broad shoulders that often carried heavy burdens without complaint and strong arms which had caught her so perfectly less than twelve hours earlier. Even more impressive – underneath that beautiful exterior there was a kind heart, and behind every selfless action there was the spark of a loving soul.

He stood in limbo between the door and her bed, posture open yet uncertain. She finished arranging some extra pillows, then extended her hand, inviting him closer.

The moment was made greater when Stiles reached back, fingertips slowly fusing with hers as he stepped towards her. She remembers the innocence of that touch; friendship and trust in the palm of her hand.

She remembers the reverence in the way he said, "Thank you for this."

But all she could think was that it was she who should be thanking him. "You don't have to thank me. I like having you here."

It was easy to admit that – because it was true. Having Stiles there changed...everything. He made the silence peaceful, instead of lonely. He made the atmosphere brighter, even in the dead of night. Most of all, he made her feel safe. Safe enough to share things that she would normally keep to herself, without the oppressive threat of judgement and without any influence from the outside world. The more time they spent in her room, the more it felt like theirs.

Beside them, Prada twirled in a circle and barked.

"Obviously, she agrees," Lydia told Stiles with a smile.

She remembers his laugh; cheerful burst like a lightning bolt, dynamically charged with luminous vitality.

"C'mere ya little munchkin," he cooed as he picked up the Papillon.

They let her settle into her favorite spot near the foot of the bed, climbed in and made themselves comfortable too, both of them lying on their sides facing each other. By then, it was half past one. In the tawny glow cast by her crystal lamps, Lydia was looking at Stiles, studying the patterns of light and shadow on his face, admiring the sheen of his lashes and the ethereal pout on his lips. Lips she had kissed once...and thought about kissing again many times since.

With his index finger, Stiles was tracing the intricate snowflake design that adorned her flannel sheets. She remembers that he frequently wandered past the lines. Every so often, he appeared to be scrawling letters. Lydia let herself imagine that he was writing secret messages to her. Maybe, she thought, there were things he wanted to tell her too, but he was afraid, like she was. Maybe if they talked a bit more, they could both find the words they were searching for.

Lydia wasn't sure where to start, but she knew that if she didn't at least try, she would never be able to sleep. A cloud of questions still loitered in her mind, each of them competing for precedence, until one of them assumed so much space that all the others were eclipsed.

"Stiles, can I ask you something?"

His hand stilled and eyebrows softened. "Yeah, 'course."

"It's kind of personal," she cautioned.

"Uh...alright."

"What did you mean before...when you said I was with you during your panic attack?"

"Whoa, you weren't kidding," he remarked.

Every muscle in her body went rigid. "Sorry, I shouldn't have—"

"No, no, it's not that. You can ask me anything," he amended, clutching her upper arm. "It's...sorta hard to explain, is all."

Lydia felt herself relax as Stiles ran his palm up and down her sleeve.

"I guess it was like being in two places at once," he began.

"How so?"

He adjusted his pillow, patting it down as if it were obstructing his view of her. "Well...I was aware of Scott, that he was talking to me and trying to get me to calm. But in my mind, I could also see you...the way you were that day in the locker room. You had on that blue dress, and your hair was in a braid."

"You remember that?"

"Yeah," his shy grin affirmed. "And Lyds, it wasn't just that I saw you. I could feel you... The way you touched my face..." he recalled, hand trembling ever so slightly as he cupped her cheek.

She held her breath, hanging on his every word.

"That your hands were cold, but you smelled like..." His eyes fell shut for several seconds, then he picked up where he left off. "Like summer," he exhaled...and so did she. "How you helped me... It was all there – everything."

Lydia almost couldn't believe what she was hearing. In the midst of a crushing panic attack, Stiles had been focused on her. He paid attention to all those details. He remembered.

Her heart skipped beats when she thought she felt his thumb graze her lips. He had never touched her like that, but even just the idea that he had was so affecting that she could hardly think.

It took all of her concentration to formulate a single-word response. "Really?"

"It was like you were there."

"Stiles, I don't know what to say."

"S'okay." His hand slid away from her face and resumed outlining the snowflakes on her sheets. "I've been trying to figure out a way to describe it since it happened."

She remembers the brief intermission while he nibbled on his bottom lip before bashfully posing a question of his own. "Do you um... Do you ever feel like that? You know...feel me, even when I'm not there?" he shrugged, avoiding her gaze as if it were foolish to even entertain the thought.

She felt her heart sigh; sweetness of him sugarcoating every fiber, crystalizing her affection for him.

She wanted to tell him. So much. But somehow answering that simple question felt like a life changing moment.

On one hand, Lydia was still learning how to navigate the intense feelings she was having. She wasn't sure she was ready to admit them to someone else yet. On the other hand, that someone else was Stiles. The person with whom she spent the better part of last summer and every month since. The person who always respected her boundaries but also welcomed her with open arms whenever she allowed herself close to him. He deserved to hear the truth. After all, they shared this connection, and she couldn't let him believe that what he felt was one-sided.

"Yes, I do," she confessed.

He swiftly made eye contact. Leaving the last line of his invisible sonnet unfinished, he moved his hand closer to hers – not quite touching, but near enough for her to detect his ever-present warmth.

"Do you think it's because of the ritual?" he asked.

"Maybe, but..."

"But what?" He lightly rapped on the inside of her wrist with his knuckle, vibrations travelling through her veins, then knocking on the door to her newly minted heart. Once...twice...three times...

She let him in. "There were times I felt it...before."

He gave her that look – the same look of rapt adoration he had when they broke from their kiss. "You did?"

"Yeah."

"Me too." His hand glided over hers, shielding her with acceptance. "It's kinda intense...isn't it?"

"Yes, it is."

"Does it ever scare you?"

"Sometimes," she answered honestly.

Normally, she would have stopped there, but the way he flinched made her want to clarify, "I think it scares me because I don't always understand it. Like tonight... I was stressed about everything that's been going on, but the main reason I think I couldn't sleep was because...I was worried about you. You know, like on some level, I felt something wasn't right. But it wasn't until I saw you that it all made sense."

"Yeah, I know what you mean," he concurred. "Do you ever...wish you didn't feel it?"

"No," her heart rebuffed before she even fully processed his question.

As overwhelming as it could be to feel so much for one person, Lydia remembers being so sure she never wanted to go back to the numbness that was before – before Stiles came into her life and lit everything up with his brilliant mind, generous heart, and hopeful smile.

"No," she repeated. "Do you?"

"No 'cause...it might be confusing some of the time, but it mostly feels good, right?" he asserted, squaring his palm with hers.

"Yeah, it does," she whispered, delighted by the sensation of their fingers intermingling.

"And at least this way, we can get through things together." His digits closed around hers; a fit more perfect than any glove. "I hope we always have it."

"I think we will."

She remembers their mutual sigh, how it mingled in the small space between them.

"We should try to get some sleep," she suggested.

"Yeah, it's late."

Stiles was nodding, but Lydia could sense his apprehension rising.

"Hey..." she held his attention, gingerly combing through his hair. "It's going to be alright. I promise, I won't let anything happen to you."

She understood the thank you in his upside-down smile, felt it when he brought their linked hands to his chest. Emotion pursed her lips, but her love for Stiles resculpted them into a genuine smile before she switched off the lamp and slid further beneath the covers.

As her eyes adapted to the darkness, she remembers the timely reveal of another light – a flickering as he blinked, magical quality of his irises converting silver moonbeams that streamed through her window into pure gold.

All the while, his thumb skated back and forth along her index, almost hypnotizing with its soft and steady rhythm. Tiredness began to advance, but she waited, silently watching over him. His caresses gradually tapered off, then ceased altogether.

When Lydia was sure that Stiles was asleep, she followed suit. She let herself fall slowly into slumber...and deeper in love.


Six hours later, Lydia woke next to a peacefully sleeping Stiles. Their hands were still intertwined, nestled under his chin, punctuating the hint of a smile on his lips. With him so close and her beloved pup sandwiched between them, the worries of the previous day faded into the background.

She remembers watching his lashes flutter in sync with the nudging behind her rib cage. She remembers being able to discern the scent of pine needles from that of her own shampoo and the sound of his breathing from the leisurely wind that swept across the roof. Above all, Lydia remembers that her room may have been flooded with sunshine, but it wasn't until Stiles opened his eyes that she saw genuine daylight once more.

"Good morning," she greeted him.

"Yeah, it is," he replied, tenderly reaching out to brush a few wisps of hair from her cheek.

And she knew things would never be the same.


Present Day

Lydia is smiling at Stiles.

"Good memory, huh?" he asks.

"Yeah. Really good." She cups his cheek, same as she did in her memory. "Know what's even better?"

"What?"

"The fact that the way we were then isn't so different from the way we are now."

"Just another sign we were always meant to be, Lyds."

She kisses him. Kisses him the way she wished she had that night and so many other times. There is no lingering sadness behind it, only gratitude – for the bond they have, for the abundance of love she feels for and from him, for everything.

There is only one thing that could make the afternoon better.

"Know what else is the same?"

"What?"

"How smart you are."

"Oh? Exactly how smart am I?" he plays along...like she knew he would.

"Smart enough to singlehandedly outwit a steel trap," she specifies as he walks his fingertips down her leg. "Smart enough to know what I was thinking when I was too scared to say it. Smart enough to figure that out," she nudges, directing her gaze at the assortment of components that are scattered around them.

"Nice lead in."

"I try," she brags.

He laughs and dips down to kiss her neck, only pulling back to look her in the eyes when he tells her, "I love the way you believe in me."

"Good, because I always will."

They cling to each other a bit longer, then work together, laying out all the pieces and figuring out the best placement for all the hardware. In less than thirty minutes, the green and white hammock they bought for Noah is fully assembled and situated in a cozy spot under the maple trees.

"Well...it looks like the one on the box. Think it'll hold up?"

"I'm sure it will."

"Sure enough to test it out with me?" he dares, raising an eyebrow.

"Definitely."

They quickly get comfortable; Stiles dives in first, Lydia follows. She leans into him, and once he wraps around her, she doesn't want to move. Together, they are enveloped by a cocoon of soft canvas, floating above the earth. As one, they sway; side to side, whenever the breeze sees fit to rock them. It's cool, and it sweeps over their skin, exposing every place they aren't touching, so they can correct their mistakes. It makes him bat his lashes to keep specks of dust away from his beautiful eyes. It also uplifts strands of her hair, whips them across her cheek. But Stiles is vigilant. He smooths them back, tucks them behind her ear. Every one, every time, tirelessly...like it's his job to tame those flyaways and erase the tickle they leave behind with the gentleness of his thumb.

They talk. About little things – the monarch butterfly that comes to sit on Stiles's knee, the distant song someone is practicing on their piano, the way the sky slowly changes colors right before their eyes. Sometimes Stiles rambles; one random thought leading to another...and another. Lydia answers with ramblings of her own. She never speaks as freely as she does when she is with him. When words fail, they converse in kisses, and touches, and looks...

Lydia is looking at Stiles, and he is looking back at her in a way that can't accurately be expressed in any of the languages she knows. All she knows is that she doesn't want to look away.

Time passes, but it doesn't evade them. They are together, and that means not a single second is wasted. Days, weeks, months she waited to be with him, waited to hold him like this. His presence in her life is nothing short of a miracle, and she fully intends to treasure every moment.

When Stiles starts tracing the floral print on her dress with his index finger, straying from the flowers and leaves into shapes that look like letters, she doesn't hesitate to whisper, "What are you doing, love?"

He disciplines one more mischievous lock of hair, kisses the invisible bruise it marks on her cheek, and answers, "Writing you love notes."

"Read them to me?"

"Dear Lydia," he begins...

The sky inevitably darkens as early evening advances from twilight to dusk, but all she sees is daylight.

All she sees is Stiles.