She whispered in my ear,
"You won't always know I'm there"
I said all I can I give you and all I am I share.
- The Call by Ruu Campbell
Lydia is sound asleep, dreaming of her second first date with Stiles...
Eight days since he came home, on the first Sunday in June, Stiles picked Lydia up at her house, surprised her with flowers and a kiss that both stopped...and started time. After a fair amount of cuddling and several more kisses, they hopped in the Jeep and left Beacon Hills in the rearview mirror, heading south on Route 33.
It was perfect – a beautiful summer day, warm and clear, and as they coasted through the desert, they did what they always do on long forgotten stretches – they cranked up the stereo and extended their arms beyond the open windows.
They were happy. Just the two of them, upbeat melody cruising the airwaves, limbs surfing the breeze, hearts full of love and free of worry.
When they reached a town called Garnet, Stiles veered off the thoroughfare to a less traveled road.
In minutes, the landscape changed, wall of tan and pink rock formations that lined the highway giving way to an oasis of desert pine and thickening undergrowth.
It was breathtaking...
But so was Stiles, and Lydia vacillated between watching him and taking in her surroundings.
There was something magical about going somewhere she had never been with the person she loved most. With no past connection to this place, Stiles would be her sole landmark, the touchstone by which her experience would be grounded in the present and referenced in the future. Everything she would see, and hear, and touch, and feel in her heart would be anchored to him, and every moment of every memory they made would belong to them.
And what a memorable day it was!
In her dream, it's like she is still there – every texture and color, every variance of light and shade projecting in her mind's eye, and every exchange between them drenching her heart in a warm wave of affection.
They spent the afternoon wandering the grounds of the Valle Colina Butterfly Sanctuary, making up for three lost months in words and laughter, hugs and kisses. There were no interruptions, no unresolved feelings, and no interloping forces trying to keep them apart.
At golden hour, when their linked figures cast long shadows behind them, Lydia and Stiles nestled into a booth at an on-sight café named Mariposa. They were seated by the spectacular glass atrium, its interior bejeweled with flowering plants which attracted butterflies in every hue of the rainbow. It was like being in an enchanted garden, and although the modestly sized café was almost at full capacity, with Stiles beside her, Lydia felt like they were the only two people there.
She distinctly recalls a particularly elegant blue swallowtail, drawn to a dainty orange blossom. Captivated, she watched its wings pulsate, her recollection of that moment intrinsically tethered to Stiles – the gentle sound of his voice as he spoke to her, his hand holding hers under the table, his thumb gliding along her index to that same steady beat, the same one that animated her heart. He was so close, and his eyes were so pretty, smile so sweet. She kissed him right there, under the twinkling light of a stained-glass chandelier. It was perfect, and she knew she would never forget what it felt like.
On the way home, things didn't exactly go according to plan; about halfway to Beacon Hills, the Jeep overheated. Stiles muttered a few choice words as he pulled over and cut the engine, but Lydia's initial reaction was quite the opposite. She couldn't deny the smile that was pushing up the corners of her mouth. Being stranded with the love of her life wasn't exactly a hardship. Even the atmosphere was agreeable. Tumbleweeds were rolling across the highway, the sun was setting off a magnificent display of turquoise and coral as it ambled towards the horizon, and the temperature was gradually dropping. It was actually kind of romantic.
She was about to make a comment about how they might pass the time, but her excitement was supplanted by guilt when Stiles slumped over the steering wheel. In that instant, she recognized what must have been going through his mind and heart. The Jeep has never been just a truck after all. It's a piece of Claudia, and back then, every time it broke down, a part of him broke with the fear that he wouldn't be able to hold on to it much longer.
Lydia hated to see him hurting like that. She silently cursed her own insensitivity and reached across to massage his shoulder. "It'll be okay. It's just overheated, right?"
Stiles lifted his head, but he didn't look at her, eyes fixed on the cloud of steam that hissed from beneath the hood like a harbinger of the engine's inevitable demise. "Probably. Maybe... I should go check." He patted her hand, unbuckled, and got out of the Jeep.
She gave him a minute, observed from her seat while he lumbered to the front, exasperated arms dispersing the remaining fumes. In haste, he popped the hood without covering his hands. Lydia's heart seized at the way he flinched, and she could hear him groan in frustration over the jarring creak of the hinges.
Before her lungs expelled another breath, she was at his side. "Stiles, your hands... Are they alright?"
"Yeah, they're fine," he shrugged, glowering at the makeshift repairs he had made on the old engine.
"Let me see."
He held out his hands, and she cupped them in hers, caressing the pinkish tinges on the pads of his fingers and the heels of his palms with her thumbs, then lifting each to her lips and covering them with feather-light kisses.
When she looked up, she found that his anger-stricken expression had shifted to one of wounded remorse.
"I'm so sorry about this," he said, inflamed digits grazing her jaw.
"Don't be. I don't mind. And anyway, it isn't your fault."
"Yeah, it is. We should have taken your car." He sighed, shaking his head. "It's just...I've dreamed of bringing you here for so long, and whenever I pictured it...we were always in the Jeep. I knew I was taking a chance. I knew it. If I wasn't so damned stubborn—"
"Hey, I like you stubborn," she interrupted, slipping her arms around his neck.
He wasn't ready to accept a compliment yet. "Look where it got us. I wanted today to be perfect, and now I've ruined everything."
Bewildered, Lydia retracted her embrace and tightly gripped his shoulders. "Stiles, you can't honestly think that."
"We're stuck in the middle of nowhere for who knows how long and—"
"Exactly. It's perfect." She swooped back in to kiss his cheek and lingered until she could feel the beginning of a smile.
"It's sweet of you to say that but—"
"I'm not just saying it. Come here..." Hooking her right arm with his left, she coaxed him to a nearby boulder to sit. "You're being too hard on yourself. Today has been perfect – everything about it. It's perfect because you brought me pink peonies, and...I don't know how you remembered they're one of my favorites. But you did." He relaxed a bit more as she ran her hand up and down his bicep. "You took me to this amazing place that I didn't even know existed. And I had the best time with you."
"Me too, Lydia. It was better than I ever imagined...up until—"
She put her finger to his lips. "Nothing will change how good it was – how good it is. And you know what else, love?"
It was silent for a heartbeat before the wind carried his reply to her ears.
"Love?" he echoed, countenance somewhere between beaming and astounded.
It was the first time Lydia had called him that. She could say she didn't know where it came from, but that would be a lie. Stiles is love personified. It was as simple as that.
"Yeah, love," she affirmed with a smile. "Even if you hadn't done any of that, today would still be perfect because...when you walked into my room, your smile lit me up inside...and because I've lost track of how many times you've smiled at me since."
"I can't help it." He let her fully experience that smile, uniting it with hers; firmly, confidently, happily.
When he pulled back, she lifted their joined hands. "And, all day, you've been holding my hand like you never want to let go...and looking at me like there is nothing else in the world you'd rather be looking at."
"I don't," he concurred, pressing her palm and digits between his, "and there isn't," he added, eyes glinting with the last embers of day.
"You could never ruin anything. Because no matter where we are or what we're doing, I can always count on you. I always know you're there for me, and you make me feel so loved."
"You are. God, I love you so much, Lydia."
"I love you too – so much. So, I don't care that the Jeep overheated or that we're stranded on the side of the road in the middle of the desert. We're together, Stiles. There's nowhere else I'd rather be. We're together, and I don't know about you...but I'm not in any hurry to see this day end."
A single tear slid down his cheek. Lydia kissed it away, and when they hugged, she felt him shudder in a way he hadn't since their locker room reunion.
"Are you okay?"
"Yeah. Sometimes...I can't believe how lucky I am."
She made eye contact when she replied, "I know what you mean."
They kissed. The kind of kiss that made the earth seem to slowly tremble, crack open, and crumble away. In her mind, it was just the two of them, effortlessly balanced on a giant slab of quartz, unburdened by gravity.
They found their footing together, watched the rest of the sunset from the back seat of the Jeep, lights going down around them like they were the stars in an old movie. Then, they made out. Kiss...after kiss...after glorious kiss...until the windows fogged and the engine cooled enough for them to make the journey home.
Lydia thought she would never be happier than she was that day. But...as it turns out, every day with Stiles is the happiest day of her life.
Before Lydia opens her eyes, she knows Stiles isn't beside her, pleasant weight of his head absent from where it was sheltered in the crook of her shoulder, hand that was already reaching for him skimming cold sheets and coming up empty. Squinting, she reads the bright red numbers that bleed through the darkness: 3:11 a.m., about three hours since she dozed off under the blanketing warmth of his body...in his bed.
They had planned to spend the night at her house, but it was so cozy where they were, the two of them lost in each other's gaze and little Prada balled up by their feet. Neither had the will or the heart to break up such a peaceful moment.
Now, Lydia scans the room for Stiles, finds him in silhouette where he stands in front of the window.
Something is off.
She can feel it in her stomach and see it in his posture. She can hear it too, repetitive slap of leather against his palm. He is tossing the baseball he caught when they were in San Francisco. He does that a lot – when he's bored or excited, contemplating or spaced out – but when he's restless...he paces too.
She watches as he pads back and forth, black sphere appearing in the air and disappearing in his palms two more times before he stops. When he braces his forearm on the window frame and peers through the glass, she quietly gets out of bed.
"Ah...I didn't mean to wake you," he despondently murmurs as she steps behind him.
"It's alright," she whispers, one hand swiveling up the nape of his neck, then into his hair, the other molding around his bicep.
He's so tense...and yet, he responds almost immediately – rigidity in his muscles slackening, goosebumps swelling then dissipating as he leans into her.
For a minute, it's like they are just two souls, reaching for light, only the unified shudder of their exhales and the sublime sensation of skin on skin as proof of corporeal existence. The awe Lydia feels is only surpassed by her desire to reassure Stiles, make sure he knows he is safe. So she rises to the tips of her toes, kisses up the broad plane of his back, then protectively cloaks his shoulders in an embrace.
He is melting under her touch. It softens her too, liquid heat pooling in her chest and circulating to her throat when she asks, "What's on your mind?" in a tone infused with the kind of tenderness that she is still learning to recognize as her own. The kind she only ever has for him.
"Nothing," he says.
She understands the depth of that single weary word, gives him time to elaborate.
"This is gonna sound so messed up," he admits, emotive hands holding on to her wrists, "but that's kind of the problem. It's been so quiet. You know?"
Her eyes catch a slatted view of the sky through the blinds. "Yeah, I know."
"I mean it's good, right?" He turns to face her, pulls her so close she can't even feel her camisole between them. And he's stunning – beauty no less striking when her vision is stardusted with sleep, vulnerability no less evident when barely illuminated by a mix of quarter-strength lunar light and the diffused glow of streetlamps. "The full moon was last week," he continues, "and generally that's when madness ensues around here, but...nothing. I should be relieved. I am relieved. Happy. Everything's so good. It's better than good. It's amazing. But..."
"Sometimes you feel like you're waiting for the other shoe to drop."
"You feel it too?"
"Yeah, I do," she confides, fingers purposefully covering the scars on his chest.
"I woke up, and I thought this was just nervous energy, that I could walk it off, but I...can't seem to shut my brain off."
Nodding, she stretches up to kiss his forehead. God, she loves him. Him and his tirelessly working, remarkably complex, beautifully brilliant brain. She just wishes it would allow him some rest.
"Maybe you need some help," she offers, taking the baseball from his hand and setting it on his desk.
There is no awkward stumbling when she leads him to bed; they know this space, and they know how to navigate it together. Stiles flops down first, lying on his back, waiting as she situates herself between his body and the wall. Lydia curls up next to him on her side, partially propped on her left elbow so she can cradle his head. She is conscious of the way the mattress sways when he squirms a bit, like he can't get close enough, arm that is beneath her tightening until she is pressed to his rib cage, large palm adhering to the curve of her hip, fingers plucking at the waistband of her panties before slipping underneath. He isn't trying to take them off, just seems to need more of his skin touching her skin. It doesn't escape her that he hasn't let go of her right hand either. She gets misty over the way he positions it above his heart, like he needs her to physically be right there.
"It's okay," she assures him. "I'm there. I'm always there."
"Lydia..." He almost sobs her name, fragility in his tone a painful relic of those insufferable months they spent apart.
She doesn't have to think about what to do next; it's instinct when she smooths his hair...and caresses his face...all while chanting words over him like prayers, hoping to ease the disquiet that haunts the most sacred recesses of his mind. "I know. I know. It's alright... I've got you. Just try to relax. Close your eyes," she instructs, kissing his lids one at a time once he complies. "Breathe... Focus on right now. It's you and me." She smiles even though he can't see it, certain he will hear it in her voice when she reminds him, "Prada's here too."
One side of his mouth hitches upwards. "Our little family," he chimes in with renewed strength.
"That's right. We're together, and we have two weeks ahead of us."
"Two weeks."
"And we can be with each other as much as we want."
His exhales level out. "I want every second with you."
"You can have them. I'm yours."
"You're mine. And I'm yours too."
"Of course you are. We belong to each other."
After a lengthy pause, Stiles opens his eyes.
"Feel better?" she asks.
"So much."
"I'm glad."
She rests her temple against his, and he quakes with silent laughter as her lashes tickle his cheekbone with butterfly kisses.
It feels good, how quickly they can find their equilibrium.
It's also why she is caught off guard when he stops as swiftly as he started.
He says her name again – Lydia – still low and urgent, still crackling with reverence, only this time brightened with contagious curiosity.
"Stiles, what is it?"
"What you did just now...and the way you're holding me...reminds me of this dream I had."
"Really?"
Her heart has already made a connection, aftershocks of its rapid pace changing the trajectory of two lines of demarcation. She imagines them, two red strings fixed to opposing points of reference in her life. Until now, she never dared hope they would converge. Although part of her realizes she might be jumping to conclusions, a stronger, more persuasive one insists that she is right – Stiles remembers.
She braces herself, intakes a breath and waits for him to proceed.
"Yeah, it was um...back in junior year, around the time I was...starting to have blackouts. I was in the hospital, and I dreamt you were with me. It was so brief, but also really vivid."
He does remember. He does! Better yet, he never forgot. Not really.
"What if you weren't dreaming?"
"Hmm..." he hums wistfully, in a wouldn't-that-have-been-nice sort of way.
For a second, Lydia thinks her hint was too ambiguous.
But then something clicks. Stiles bolts upright, cocooning her with both arms as he stammers, "Wait—What? Were you—"
"I was there."
"You were," he reiterates.
It's all falling slowly into place, and his happiness is unmistakable. She would know it – even if she didn't feel his smile when she leans in for a kiss. She would know it by the ardent pressure he devotes to her lips, and by the impassioned moan that paddles from his mouth to hers, and by the hint of breathlessness when he verbalizes, "You were with me. I can't... All this time, I always thought... How could I not realize?"
"There was a lot going on."
"Still, you're my Lydia," he croons, brushing her hair back with both hands. "I should have known. I should have asked. I'm so sorry."
"It's alright. After that day, things got so...out of control...so fast. There was hardly time for anything real. But it's different now. We can talk about it now." She encourages him to lie down with another kiss. "Just tell me...what's the last thing you remember?"
"Seeing you at school that morning. You were by your locker...stressing out."
"How could you tell?"
"'Cause you were squeezing the life out of your notebook." He dramatically emphasizes the word squeeze, hugging her tightly.
"Stiles... I was not."
"Yeah, you were," he chuckles.
She was. And he noticed. Of course he did.
"Fine. I was," she concedes. For some reason, admitting so makes Lydia blush – deep, and even though she knows Stiles can't see that either, she buries her face in the pillow they are sharing. Old habits and all...
While she fails to stifle a bashful giggle, his thumb starts polishing the apple of her cheek. "Ah, come on..." he charms her out of hiding. "You know I think it's adorable when you do that."
It's enough to get her to make eye contact through a lucent ray of moonlight.
He grins triumphantly before gently dragging his fingers from the crest of her cheekbone back into her sleep-tangled strands. "Were you... Were you worrying about me?"
"Yes." And that, she has no trouble admitting. "I was a total wreck."
"Nah, you were— Damn, you were beautiful. More than beautiful. You looked like an angel."
"Stiles..." she purrs, forgetting all about her silly embarrassment.
He's not done making her blush though. "Your hair was all glowy...and when you turned towards me, everything around you got dim. I remember I couldn't wait to get to you, but after that...it's blank."
She presses her cheek to his chest, which is warm...but not as hot as her cheek. "Yeah, well...midazolam will do that to you," she explains, lightly tracing his collarbone with her fingertips.
"Midazo-what?"
"Midazolam. It's a sedative. Melissa gave you some to help you sleep, but it has side effects – one of those being inhibited memory."
"Oh. But...you remember. Don't you?"
"Yes, I remember."
"Will you tell me? Everything?"
"I'd love to," she replies with a smile.
Then, Lydia tells Stiles about the time she watched over him at the hospital – and everything that led up to it...
That morning, she was at school, in the nearly empty east corridor, reading over her AP Calculus notes. And by reading, Lydia tells Stiles, she means staring at a list of formulas she already knew – forwards and backwards, while waiting for him. Because on Thursdays, even though Stiles had first period free, he always met her by her locker and always walked her to class.
On that day, however, for the first time – he was late.
And Lydia was worried.
She remembers slapping her notebook shut with a huff and trying to ignore the fact that her hand was trembling as she adjusted the strap on her teal shoulder bag.
She never used to stress like that. At least, not before she fell in love with Stiles. But every day it was getting clearer that opening up her heart to him also opened her up to an uncharted, and apparently limitless, world of worry.
She tells Stiles about the tightness in her chest, how she could only inhale shallow breaths as her mind compiled a list of unsettling scenarios for why he might be late. And there were many.
With the Nemeton reawakened, life in Beacon Hills was more chaotic than usual. In the past week alone, a convicted murderer had escaped from the hospital, hid out in the school, kidnapped Kira, and caused a blackout trying to electrocute her. There was also the matter of Lydia's banshee abilities...which seemed to be amplifying. In the two months or so since the ritual, she had grown increasingly sensitive to sounds no one else could detect, and it was beginning to interfere with her concentration.
And if that weren't enough, there were also the events of the previous night.
Lydia narrowed her eyes. How she ever let herself get duped into going to that stupid rave... Well, that wasn't exactly a mystery. It was really quite simple. She went because her friends were going. More specifically, she went because Stiles was going.
Naïve as it was, she had this image of the two of them, huddled in some secluded corner of the loft... A place where no one would bother them. A place where, no matter how loud things got, his whispers would rise above the din, and where the beat of her heart, in response to his words and touches, would be the only music she needed.
The following morning, as Lydia stood by her locker, she remembered being in that secluded corner. Unfortunately, the reality of being there was sorely disappointing. Because in reality, she was alone. In reality, the only voice that rose above the din was her own brooding one.
Stiles, on the other hand, was...preoccupied. Her socially anxious best friend was uncharacteristically positioned in the middle of the dance floor.
In retrospect, that should have been her first clue that something was off. Mingling with a bunch of strangers normally wasn't his idea of fun. But as far as Lydia could tell, Stiles was having a great time...and that made her suspect it was the company, rather than the setting, he was enjoying so much.
She remembered the glaring, fluorescent lip print on his cheek – scarcely an inch from his mouth. From the moment she saw it, she wished she could un-see it. She told herself she had no right to be jealous. But she was. She reminded herself that she and Stiles weren't a couple, at least not by any traditional definition of the term. But she wanted to be. She rationalized that he was free to spend time with whomever he wanted. But she hoped he would choose to be with her.
And Lydia couldn't help feeling... Hurt. Hurt by her own hesitation and self-doubt, both of which had been preventing her from telling Stiles that he had her heart – lock and key.
She thought he knew, wished he knew. But wishing doesn't make things so, and if anyone were responsible for sending mixed signals...it was her. One minute, she was so with him, so ready to be more than friends. And the next, her fear of losing him would crash over her like a wave. It would knock her back...often more than a few steps, and she would stay there. Instead of flowing with the tide, she would wait before testing the waters again. It seemed like the practical thing to do, but Lydia was quickly learning that practicality was of little use when it came to matters of the heart. In truth, she was caught in a vicious cycle of hope and despair. The hope came from getting to be close to Stiles, which was...incredible, beautiful, life changing. The despair came from feeling him drift away, which was painful – emotionally...as well as physically. To make matters worse, her failure to move forward might have inadvertently convinced the boy she loved that her feelings for him were purely platonic. And as Lydia stood alone in a room full of annoyingly exuberant people, she wondered how she would ever break the cycle.
Looking back, it's so obvious – all she had to do was tell him. She knows that now. Understands it with every fiber of her heart. Feels it in her bones. It's not just because, more than a year later, she has the benefit of time and knowledge on her side. It's not about having proof that Stiles wasn't himself that night either.
It's all to do with faith, and Lydia has that in spades when it comes to Stiles. She trusts that no matter how things may have seemed, he loved her too – even then. She has no doubt that, even in moments when it felt like he was slipping away, he was still reaching for her, still trying to find his way back to her. The confidence she has in their love grants her the peace, without any reservation, to confess the unnecessary jealousy she felt when she saw him dancing – correction – awkwardly dancing with some girl she didn't recognize. A girl with a questionable fashion sense and a tacky wig, who had the alcohol-induced audacity to brand Stiles's cheek with her loose lips.
Hours after, Lydia remembered the sudden sinking feeling in her chest and stomach, how its turbulent kinetic energy converted into heat – a kind she had never experienced. It was an acute, prickly heat that spiked up the back of her neck, spread to her ears, and was only offset by the biting cold that would afflict her a few minutes later.
She had gone outside to the balcony to get some air. Besides the emotional pain she was in, the stale smell of beer, cheap perfume, and perspiration was making her nauseous. There was also the incessant flash of neon lights and a cacophony of dissonant noise – loud music, shrill voices, a metallic clanking... It was like being on sensory overload, all of it so abrasive, all of it contributing to a splitting headache.
It was on that balcony that the Oni surrounded her; hooded and masked, they materialized from the shadows like smoke. Lydia tried to scream. She remembered how easily one of them muted her with a gesture of its hand, capturing her voice in its fist – like the sea witch did to Ariel. Then, it put that same gloved hand on the side of her head, and she felt nothing but cold...a kind of cold she didn't know existed.
The next thing she knew, she was back in the loft near a heating vent, still shivering, arms that didn't belong to Stiles uncomfortably constricting around her.
She remembered wondering where he was, wanting him to hold her, knowing he was the only one who could make her warm again.
Sighing heavily, Lydia turned and leaned against her locker. Students were pouring into the hallway almost as swiftly as her heart was flooding with worry. She hugged her notebook to her chest, took deliberate breaths, and debated how much longer to wait before calling Stiles – all while simultaneously trying to assure herself that he was fine.
We were up past dawn. He's probably tired. Maybe he forgot to set his alarm. Give him another fifteen minutes. No, ten. No, five. Five is enough.
Eyes glued to her wristwatch, she minded the seconds ticking away...
Four excruciating minutes passed. Four minutes plus eight seconds to be exact. Then something made her glance to the left.
Lydia remembers relief. She tells Stiles how her next inhale lodged in her throat when she saw him standing at the other end of the hallway. She tells him about the flutter behind her rib cage and the smile that blossomed on her lips when she realized he was looking right at her...and how quickly that smile withered when she felt something was wrong.
She was already halfway to him when she grasped that he was moving towards her too, both of them scooting past clusters of dallying classmates who seemed oblivious to the fact that they were in the way.
The moment they collided was especially memorable, contact which initiated twenty paces back translating into touches. Lydia remembers that her right arm still clutched her notebook to her side but her left reached for Stiles – palm magnetizing to his neck, fingers fanning across his jaw. To say she felt as though everyone else disappeared wouldn't accurately describe the sensation. It was far more concrete than that. To put it plainly, Lydia was well aware that she and Stiles weren't alone in the hallway, but when she touched him, everyone and everything became irrelevant, blending into a background of indistinct noise and blurred motion.
"Stiles," she finally breathed as he gripped her upper arm.
"Sorry I'm lat—"
She interrupted his apology, thumb catching his cupid's bow. "Tell me what's wrong."
His hand slid behind her shoulder, shielding her from the impact of careless elbows. "I don't know. I... I don't feel...right."
Lydia scanned the corridor. "Come with me..." she instructed, leading him to an alcove near the library. "Did you get any sleep?"
She asked, even though she could plainly see the answer. Especially in his eyes, which were red and glossy, underscored by dark crescents that contrasted with the pallor of his skin.
"No. I uh... I left you at Allison's, came here, then went home, showered, came back."
"Did you find something?"
"Huh?"
"Earlier...you said you thought you figured something out."
"I... I'm not sure."
She remembers the way Stiles averted his gaze – only for a second...but long enough for her to recognize he wasn't ready to discuss it any further. She tells him how intensely she could feel his exhaustion. It was oppressive, like there was this intrusive force revving him up, then feeding off his heightened unrest.
It's no secret that on any given day Stiles has hyperactive tendencies. His need to burn off nervous energy through motion is as much a part of him as his intellect and kindness or the character of his smile. To the casual observer, it probably appears random. Lydia, however, was able to discern a unique cadence, a sort of baseline rhythm that was unexpectedly affecting...and kind of endearing too. It was something she could understand. Something her heart seemed to want to set its beats to.
But that morning, his fidgeting was tuned up to a discordant level. Everything about him was rapid – lids blinking, mouth twitching, digits compulsively picking at a piece of lint on his sleeve. Even his heart rate was accelerated. Lydia knew it before she felt it – before she lifted a shaking hand to his throat, sensed his pulse throbbing against her index and middle fingers.
"Is it cold in here?" he listlessly questioned.
"Not especially."
"I can't get warm."
She remembers the lacerating disappointment, thinking she was a fool to hope she could warm him the way he did her – with a single touch.
But with a string of jumbled syllables, Stiles stitched her together again. "Can I just— I need... Will you—Will you hold me for a minute?" he stuttered, voice pleading, empty hand reaching for her...and making her heart shift higher in her chest.
"Of course. C'mere." She wriggled her arms between his faded red and blue hoodie and his grey tee shirt, pulled him close. She remembers the scent of clean cotton wafting from his clothes, the dull weight of his bookbag on her hands, and the shudder that rippled through him as his chin landed on her shoulder.
They stayed like that, alone together in a busy hallway, and she thought of their reunion, barely three hours earlier...
She was with Danny, who was practically carrying her down the unlit stairwell, one flight after another. Like many of the guys at the rave, he was shirtless and body painted. Lydia guessed his skin should have felt warm to her, but it didn't. And regardless of her friend's laudable efforts, the spiraling trek to the ground floor was like being in the middle of a storm; bitter cold still coursing through her, strident gusts of disorderly people tossing her about like a ragdoll, eyes stinging with frozen tears.
Eventually they made it to the exit, and the giant steel doors that led to the sidewalk burst open. She remembered the light of the rising sun temporarily blinding her. She also remembered hearing her name.
"Lydia? Ly-di-a!" a panicked resonance called from the other side.
At first, she assumed her mind was playing a cruel trick; the ache she had been harboring was so strong, she easily could have willed herself to perceive those harmonious notes.
But then her vision cleared...and she saw a familiar silhouette – black begetting gold, resisting the outgoing current to get to her.
"Stiles!" her brittle tone responded. "Stiles!"
Danny was still supporting her when Stiles found her hand and linked digits with her. She remembered the instant impression of comfort as the person she needed most roped his arms around her and the sighing thank god his lips whispered into her ear.
She remembered that Danny gave her elbow a nudge and said, "You'll be alright now." She caught a glimpse of his smile as he moved aside to give them space.
Then, all she remembered was Stiles and his enveloping warmth, diminishing the inner cold that had been threatening to break her spirit.
At school, their roles had reversed but the outcome was the same; they were in each other's arms again. From the corner of her eye, Lydia could see the occasional gawking passerby. But she didn't care. She just held on to Stiles, reveled in the feeling of his body relaxing and the satisfaction of knowing she could be there for him when he needed her.
"Is that better?" she asked softly.
"Mmm..." he nodded. Too few seconds later, he abruptly straightened. "Uh...yeah, thanks."
She was troubled by the notion that he mistook her question as a signal to let go, but before she could say so, he told her, "Scott thinks I should go home."
"Well, Scott's wrong," she blurted out.
His eyes widened and bottom lip protruded in response to her sudden tartness.
She briefly closed her eyes, modifying her pitch when she explained, "I just mean, I think you should go see Doctor Gardner." With deliberate gentleness, she touched him again. She remembers the unnatural heat radiating from his cheek and forehead when she checked them with the back of her hand. "You might be coming down with something. You've been going nonstop for days, and exhaustion...it weakens your immune system."
He rubbed the nape of his neck, then gave her an understanding smile. "Maybe you're right. It's Thursday. Doctor Gardner usually has office hours at the hospital."
Lydia exhaled, but the fleeting victory left her all the more unprepared for what happened next.
Stiles dug into his pocket for his keychain. Usually, he could find the Jeep key without even looking, but that morning, he fumbled in a way she had never seen. She remembers how his eyes glazed over as he flipped through them, one at a time. He seemed especially fixed on the key that unlocked her house...like he was trying to remember what it was for or how he came to have it. Lydia remembered though. She remembered an afternoon in February, the two of them sitting on the swings in Lynbrook Park, light dusting of snow crystalizing everything in sight. She remembered adjusting his knit hat to cover the reddened rims of his ears, then pressing that shiny new key into his hand. Most of all, she remembered the burgeoning grin on his face when she specified that it was strictly for pack emergencies...or movie nights, or late night hot cocoa cravings, or whenever he just needed to talk.
The bliss Lydia experienced on that winter day was a far cry from the awful dread that was lurching towards her as she stood in the hallway with Stiles. He was drifting...and she reacted, spastically grabbing his hand – keys and all.
He snapped out of his trance a bit worse for wear. "Lydia, wh—what are you doing?"
"I could ask you the same."
"Well...I kinda need the key to start the Jeep, unless you want me to hot-wire it."
She bypassed his irritated inflection with patience...the kind he always had for her in unlimited reserve. "You're in no condition to drive. Let me take you."
The firm line of his pout softened as he invoked her nickname. "Lyds, you have class in..." he idled, lifting their joined hands to peek at her watch, "six minutes."
"I can afford to miss one class – several if we're being honest."
"I know that, but I don't want you missing class for me."
She remembers the disheartening rejection and the escalating fear triggered by those words – so void of self-worth and hardened with resolve. She was going to lose this fight unless...
Before she could finish her thought, the love she felt for Stiles overflowed from her heart and spilled out of her mouth, "Who should I do it for then? Someone I don't care about so much?"
He gaped at her, speechless lips starting and stopping twice.
That hesitation gave her just enough of an opening to implore, "Stiles, please. Don't do this. Don't make me worry more than I already am."
Her cheeks flushed, more intensely with each statement, and she remembers ducking her head to avoid his ever-attentive gaze. She tells him that she remembers what it felt like – the spark under her skin when he tilted her chin up, the tug behind her ribs while he silently waited for eye contact, the somersault her stomach did when he tendered a crooked smile.
"You wanna take my Jeep or your car?"
Lydia remembers the ten-minute journey to Beacon Hills Memorial – in her car. She was in no mood to drive the Jeep, possibility that it would stall...like last time, only adding stress to an already stressful situation. Although Stiles insisted that incident had been a fluke, Lydia knew better. She had let her mind wander, let herself get consumed with thoughts of him, let her foot off the clutch too fast when he swiped the inside of her wrist with his knuckles and told her the traffic light had turned green.
In her current state of worry, another slip up wasn't just possible – it was probable because once again, she was consumed with thoughts of Stiles. The only difference was, last time she was contentedly daydreaming of a future for them, and this time she was in the middle of what felt like a waking nightmare, terrified of what unforeseen obstacle might be threatening to take him away from her.
She remembers repeatedly looking over at him, like he might disappear if she glanced away for too long. She remembers the way he stared out the window, how violently his body jostled with every bump in the road, that his right hand clamped down on his keys through the fabric of his pocket and didn't relent.
She tells Stiles how another scene from the previous night resurfaced – the two of them huddled in the back seat of Allison's sedan...
After all of the confusion, Lydia was calm, and everything that followed was tinted by the rosy lens of being with him. He was holding her so close, one arm buckling her waist and the other behind her, elbow bent, big gentle hand cradling her head under his chin. Every so often, he would stroke her hair from the roots to the end of her ponytail. They didn't speak, yet she remembered an intimate conversation – the hush of his breath entering and exiting his lungs, and the steady thud-thump...thud-thump...thud-thump beneath her ear. It sounded like he was saying, I'm here...I'm here...I'm here, and she responded by snuggling closer.
That moment was theirs. She could remember everything within it and nothing outside of it; everything between them occurring inside a vacuum of significance, everything beyond them immaterial and therefore unworthy of committing to memory. Not for one second did she doubt his affection for her, and the hurt she had suffered under the harsh spotlight of jealousy... It was gone.
Instead, she remembered a different kind of light; balmy yellow sunglow was glistening through the fogged-up windows, warming and waking her slowly. Lydia remembered never breaking contact as she got out of the car with Stiles, riding the elevator up to the Argent's apartment with Stiles, and purposely choosing the oversized chair in the living room so she could sit with Stiles.
But at the hospital, things were different. They took the half-occupied elevator up to the third floor, signed in at the front desk, and had to settle for side-by-side seats in the waiting room.
Over the next forty minutes, his patience systematically declined. She remembers how he nibbled on his fingernails, leg incessantly bouncing while he habitually checked her watch. She couldn't blame him. Every minute felt like an eternity to her too. An eternity of waiting and wondering and worrying.
Normally, she would channel her tension into sarcasm, make a snide comment about how long they had been sitting there while doing her best to appear only mildly inconvenienced – perhaps by touching up her makeup or examining her nail polish.
That day, she did nothing of the kind. Not just because Stiles would see right through her act, but because she simply didn't want to pretend. Not when it came to the boy she loved. Not when she was quite literally tingling with the need to do something – anything to make him feel better.
She tells Stiles how he stilled when she set her hand on his knee. "Just try to relax. It can't be much longer."
He latched on to her hand, gripped it like a lifeline. "Thanks, Lydia."
There was comfort in that exchange, but it wasn't enough. If only she could hold him the way he held her, hours earlier...
Hours earlier, when they were cuddled up by the Argent's fireplace, in the chair they so often shared during pack meetings. Hours earlier, when they were so close it felt as if their bodies had fused together.
She had only ventured outside the parameters of their little bubble once – when Allison draped a quilted blanket over them and offered to run her a hot bath. Lydia remembered Chris Argent's muffled baritone in the background as well as the kiss Allison left on her forehead. She even spotted the death stare her best friend pointed at Isaac, who was loitering in the doorway with his head lowered and his hands clasped behind his back. Finally, he caught on and followed Allison out of the room.
Then, Stiles brought Lydia back to him with the soft quality of his voice. "Can you tell me what happened?"
"I was on the balcony..." she answered as she removed her high heels and pulled her feet up onto the seat. "They came out of the dark."
"They?"
"I don't know what to call them. They had greenish-yellow eyes, and they wore black hoods and masks... I tried to scream, but one of them put its hand up...and I—I couldn't make a sound. When it touched me, I got so cold."
"Where? Where did it touch you?"
"The left side of my head."
She remembered his hand lining up against her face, then gently angling her head.
"What are you—"
She remembered the way his paint-spattered jaw clenched.
"Stiles...what?"
"Okay, but...don't freak out."
"Stiles, if you don't—"
"There's a mark here," he informed her, index gingerly circling behind her ear.
"What kind of mark?" she gasped, hastily attempting to locate it.
"It looks like a backwards number five. Isaac has one too. I noticed it when we were in the car." He directed her finger, using it to outline the shape. "Does it hurt?'
"No." Lydia swallowed thickly, involuntary shivering when she wondered aloud, "What did they do to us?"
"I don't know," he admitted, encouraging her closer, "but we're gonna find out. I promise. Okay?"
She nodded, leaned her head on his shoulder, and tried not to think about her latest...most likely permanent, supernaturally imposed scar.
It wasn't too difficult actually – because of Stiles. She remembered the careful way he slipped his arm under the blanket. One erratic heartbeat later, there was something else to focus on. Heat. Heat that came from his hand as it connected with the bare skin of her thigh, where her shorts didn't cover. Heat that intensified as he draped her legs across his lap. Heat that expanded when he cupped her knee, and remained when he didn't let go.
He had never touched her like that before. And yet, it felt natural. It was the kind of touch that was innocent rather than presumptuous, respectful rather than aggressive, and if she were being totally honest – it left her wanting more. More of his warmth. More of his tenderness. More of the way it made her feel inside to know that he was never going to take advantage of the trust she had in him.
It was what gave her the courage to ask the first of two questions that had been running through her mind for the past hour or so.
"Where did you go before?"
"Before?"
"At the loft...everyone was going out, but you were coming back in."
"Oh. I um... I was on my way to the school."
"Why?"
"I thought I figured something out."
Lydia lifted her head.
"We can talk about it later," he deflected, giving her knee a tiny pat. "Right now, you need to get warm."
She was definitely getting there; so close to where they were four nights earlier – when she was lying on his bed and he said, Don't start doubting yourself now.
"But..." She just needed to know...
"What?"
"What made you come back?"
She remembered the flecks of hearth fire that were reflecting in his eyes as he answered, "You. I came back for you, Lydia."
And the last shards of ice that were clinging to her bones became nothing more than a bad memory.
As Lydia sat next to Stiles in the hospital waiting room, thirty more minutes passed. During that tedious stretch, they people watched, flipped through magazines, and aced not one but two compatibility quizzes. Obviously.
She even got him to laugh a few times. Not just smile. Laugh.
Things were beginning to feel normal; they were just two people, dealing with an ordinary problem like the absurdly long wait-times in hospitals.
But then, Stiles said something she didn't expect. "If you leave now, you can still make it."
"Huh?"
"Don't you have an AP Calc test third period?"
Damn! How did he remember that?
"So?"
"So... You should go back to school."
Quirking her mouth and tossing a sideways glance, she contested, "Didn't we have this discussion already?"
"Look, it's one thing to miss a class or two – which you officially have, but you've never missed a test in your life.
"There's a first time for everything," she nonchalantly replied while zhushing the sleeves on the white and navy striped top she borrowed from Allison.
"Oh sure, it seems like no big deal now. But first you miss a couple of classes, then a test, then another...
"This from the guy who's missed more days—"
He kept talking. "Next thing you know, you've flunked out of high school—"
"Wait, I'm flunking out now?!" she interjected.
"Then, you don't get into college, and you end up jobless and penniless, probably homeless and—"
She laughed. Couldn't help it. Stiles was so adorable when he was exaggerating, even more so when he was exaggerating and rambling at the same time.
"Lydia, I'm serious."
"I know," she placated, trying to gather a modicum of composure. "But you need to get a grip. I can take a makeup. Ms. Fleming adores me."
"She's not the only one," Lydia thought she heard Stiles mumble under a frustrated breath.
"What did you say?"
"Nothing. Never mind."
But the crimson splotches on his cheeks told her that she hadn't misheard.
He cleared his throat, then leaned closer and resumed, "Melissa's shift starts in five minutes. When she gets here, I think you should go."
"Stiles, I'm not leaving you here."
"You have to."
Suddenly, Lydia felt like crying. Stiles was far more important to her than a test. Didn't he know that?
"But I... I want to be here for you," she squeaked.
Head lowered, he pressed a closed fist to his mouth. "And I want you here. It means the world to me that you are."
"Then why are you doing this?"
"Because...seeing you do your best also means the world to me. Lyds, please. Everything feels so out of control. I need this. I need to know you're out there – setting a ridiculously high standard for the grading curve. Okay?"
How was she supposed to deny him anything when he was looking at her like that? All pleading eyes and crinkled brow and quivering bottom lip.
"Okay, I'll go," she caved.
Lydia tells Stiles that she spent the next five minutes half head-over-heels in love with him for being so selfless and half angry at him for the very same reason. The anger was pretty compelling. Still, she couldn't ignore the love when he reached for her hand.
So she reached back, and she held on to him until Melissa stepped behind the nurses' station.
Lydia remembers that as she stood up, the pit in her stomach plummeted. "Call me later. I'll pick you up...if you want," she said over the dull ache in her throat.
She remembers that Stiles caught her wrist before she turned away and that when he got up from his chair, he seemed to tower over her even though his shoulders were hunched. She heard the jingle of his keys, then felt him slide the ring onto her finger.
She tells him that she almost broke down when he gave her a hug and whispered, "Go be brilliant."
As she drove back to school, cheek still hot from the imprint of his lips, Lydia remembers being bolstered by the notion that it had been his choice to kiss her – same as it had been her choice earlier that morning...
They were still snuggled in the oversized chair. She was watching the honey hue of his irises bloom in morning sunshine, and he was watching over her in that hypervigilant way that he does. A way that used to make her feel too visible but now only makes her feel safe and cared for. Loved.
Lydia remembered the moment Stiles trailed his finger across her temple. "You've got a little paint."
"Must have rubbed off from Allison or Danny," she concluded.
While he gently buffed the pigment away with his thumb, she stared at the formerly impudent lip print on his cheek. In daylight, it had been reduced to a lackluster smudge, considerably less obtrusive than before but still...there.
"You have some too," she pointed out.
She hadn't meant to. Yet there it was – out in the open, and whether or not she was ready, there was no avoiding the topic anymore.
Lydia remembered his expression, how it shifted from confusion to surprise to embarrassment in a matter of seconds. She remembered how Stiles roughly erased the remnants with the heel of his hand. A clean slate.
Maybe it didn't mean what I thought it meant. Maybe it wouldn't hurt to ask...
"Who was she?"
"Uh...that was Caitlin," his voice wavered.
"Caitlin?"
"Yeah, remember last semester, her girlfriend was— Jennifer got to her."
"Oh. Oh."
As Lydia's mind connected the dots, she found herself feeling sympathy for Caitlin. Her girlfriend, Emily, had become a sacrifice, like Lydia almost had. Almost.
Thanks to Stiles, and his dad, and Scott...she survived. Emily didn't.
It wasn't difficult for Lydia to imagine how devastated she would be if she lost someone she loved, and although she wished Caitlin hadn't kissed Stiles, she could certainly understand the inclination.
"She um...recognized me at the rave."
"She likes you," Lydia acknowledged, trying...and probably failing not to sound accusatory.
Stiles shrugged uneasily. "I kinda got that impression."
"Did you also get her phone number?"
She remembered the way her heart raced over the reverberations of her own apprehensive twang. Lydia had intended to come across casual and teasing, but there was something about Stiles that always drew genuine emotions out of her – no matter how she tried to disguise them.
She also remembered the incoming wave of fear. A single, impulsive question had brought her dangerously close to crossing the boundaries of friendship. Before she could backtrack and apologize, Stiles calmed her inner turmoil.
"No. I didn't ask for it," he clarified, like it saddened him that she thought he had.
"Why?"
"Because..." he replied sweetly as he meticulously tucked the blanket around her, "my contact list is already full."
Lydia remembers happiness. The kind that pursed her lips and made it impossible to look away. The kind of happiness which made her want to move slowly so she wouldn't scare it off. It inspired her to lean in and very delicately kiss his other cheek.
When she pulled back, she couldn't help but notice the lack of something.
"What's wrong?" he asked, nudging the edge of her frown.
"I didn't leave a mark." Stupid, smudge-proof lipstick.
He smiled, found her hand, and held it up to his heart. "Yeah you did."
And then, the only color on his cheek was from where he was blushing.
Lydia breezed into class just as Ms. Fleming was passing out the exams. She took her test in exactly nineteen minutes, then checked her work and even solved the bonus equation – because she knew Stiles would want her to.
Once she handed in her paper, she remembers making a bee line to the parking lot and striding past her car to the Jeep. She climbed into the driver's seat and let the engine heat up while she adjusted the mirrors. Despite an influx of nerves, Lydia reached for the gear stick. She tells Stiles that she could hear his encouraging words – as clearly as if he were sitting beside her.
I haven't given up on you, Lydia Martin. Neither has this Jeep.
Closing her eyes, she inhaled deeply...a breath that carried with it the scent of pine needles and aged leather...a breath that helped her relax and remember everything Stiles taught her.
When she reopened her eyes, she proceeded with confidence, pressing down on the break, shifting into first, and rolling out of the parking space without incident. Then she drove all the way back to the hospital – without stalling.
There, she found Melissa, who told her that Stiles was resting and walked with her to Room 315.
"I gave him something to help him sleep," she explained. "You can sit with him for a while, but I'm due in the ER soon. After that..."
She didn't have to finish her sentence. Lydia knew the rules. She nodded and thanked Melissa, then waited in the hallway until she was out of sight.
Lydia remembers the coldness of the metal handle when she opened the door and timidly crossed the threshold. She remembers seeing Stiles in a hospital bed – for the first time, and the distress hit her harder than she could have predicted. She tells him that with her heart violently pounding in her chest, she stood there, paralyzed with fear. Her hand stayed glued to the doorknob while the dimly lit room seemed to shrink and spin, swarming her head with a miasma of images. Then the waves came again, crashing over her in violent succession, threatening to whisk her away. Worst of all, Lydia wanted to let them.
She hated herself. For thinking such a thing. For being such a coward. For letting this happen. For not only falling in love with one of her best friends, but also letting her heart get so entwined with his that she didn't know if it ever truly beat before him or how it could possibly continue without him. It was all too much – the feelings, the unanswered questions, the pain.
Lydia tells Stiles that she got as far as turning away...
But that hurt just as much as seeing him lying there, fragile and helpless – like she felt.
Seconds later, the distant sound of her name set everything quiet and still.
Lydia.
She remembers that ethereal whisper, how it rose above...everything.
In its wake, the question marks and the pain began to lose their influence. With each step she took towards the bed, Lydia let them go. One...then another...until all that remained were the intense feelings she had for Stiles. Her beautiful human boy who has more strength in one heart cell than any supernaturally powered creature that ever dare cross his path. And all along, he had been sharing that heart with her – without asking for a thing.
She remembers how his eyes fluttered open when her small hand slid over his larger one. She remembers how he released the blanket he was clutching to grasp her palm.
She tells him about the drowsy but rather adoring way he gazed up at her when he sighed, "You came back."
"You're supposed to be sleeping," she weakly reprimanded.
"Thought I told you... I sleep better when you're with me."
Not bothering to suppress a smile, she recalled, "You did say that, didn't you?"
"Mmmwhat are you waiting for then? Get in."
"Stiles, there's hardly any sp—"
She remembers the droplets that leaked from his eyes when he appealed, "Please. We can share. I wanna... I wanna share everything with you, Lyds."
And she was done for.
Because his tongue might have been less inhibited than usual, but that only meant he was speaking the truth. More than that, Lydia realized she wanted the same. She wanted it so badly, and Stiles made her feel strong enough to reach for it.
When he tugged on her hand, she kicked off her boots. She remembers climbing in and curling up next to him on her side. She remembers that her jeans hindered her movements by sticking to the blanket, and how he squirmed – not uncomfortably, but like he couldn't get close enough, arm beneath her tightening until she was pressed to his rib cage. She tells him how he relaxed as she blotted his tears and smoothed his unruly hair, how he released a tranquil exhale as her hand caressed the side of his face and neck, eventually landing over his heart.
"It's okay if you wanna sleep."
"In a minute. How was your test?"
"Easy," she said, proudly adding, "So was the drive here," immediately after.
His sleepy, but still very engaged eyes flickered with curiosity.
"I drove the Jeep, and I didn't stall."
She remembers watching the corners of his mouth elevate when he remarked, "Knew you could do it."
She tells him how she leaned her temple against his. "You always believe in me."
"Never gonna stop. You can do anything, Lydia. Anything..." he trailed off and drifted back to sleep.
She stayed with him for nearly an hour, hand guarding his heart, eyelashes batting butterfly kisses against his cheekbone, daydreaming of a future where nothing could come between them, where being together is always as easy as it seemed just then.
When the corridor began to buzz with activity, Lydia knew she had to go. Before she pried herself away from him, she left one more kiss behind, pressing her lips to his hand – the same hand that had reached for hers, countless times in the past twelve hours.
She remembers putting on her shoes, finding his hoodie at the edge of the bed, and returning his keys to the pocket. She remembers taking another long look at him and mouthing a three-word phrase that had become her saving grace. Someday, my love.
She tells Stiles how she slowly walked to the door, hoping that a part of him would always know she was there.
Present Day
Stiles and Lydia have spent the last two hours talking. She doesn't have to check the clock to know that. Right now, his bedroom is gradually lightening to a pristine shade of silver-blue, the one that only reveals itself just before dawn.
As his fingertips languidly trail up and down her spine, she wonders how many times she has been in this cozy space, with him, wide awake, at this specific part of the day – the breath before sunrise. It feels sacred and precious, and she thinks of how fortunate she is to know it so well, to be able to tell what time it is by the color of the light in his room.
When she blots the mist from her eyes, Stiles mistakenly interprets it for tiredness. "I promise, I won't do this every night," he swears, apologetically kissing her head.
"It would be alright if you did. I mean, I don't want you to be so anxious that you can't sleep, but I wish you'd wake me if it happens again." She pauses, but then she has to ask, "Why didn't you?"
"I guess because...we've been waiting for these two weeks, you know...so we can just be together. It's only our second night and...I didn't want to ruin it."
Lydia flattens her hand against his chest, presses down a little. "Okay, stop right there. I don't want you to ever worry about that. If you don't want to wake me because you need some time to deal on your own, that's one thing. I understand, and I'm okay with that. But otherwise...there's no reason not to."
"Yeah, but you were sleeping so peacefully."
"I was. Because I was in your bed, and because I was dreaming about you...about us – our second, first date."
"How far did you get?"
"To the part when the Jeep overheated – which is actually kind of fitting."
"Why?"
"Well, remember how upset you were?"
"Yeah, but that was because I—" he cuts off mid-sentence, scrunches up his face.
"Go on..."
"Was afraid I ruined everything."
"Exactly. And do you remember what I said to you?"
"You said a lot of things – all of which I've memorized...and which my heart pretty much replays on a loop whenever we're apart. Should I start reciting them?" he offers, dipping down to kiss her neck.
"Let's go with the abbreviated version," she laughs as she takes his face in her hands and coaxes him to look at her. "There was one thing in particular, something you've told me on more than one occasion."
"You said I could never ruin anything."
"Mm-hm...and I meant it. Being with you, Stiles, is everything to me. Not just in the easy moments but the difficult ones too. I want to share all of it with you."
"And what about sleep?" he inquires.
"Sleep can wait. I'd rather be wide awake at five a.m. with the love of my life than anything else in the world."
"What do you know? So would I."
They kiss. The kind of kiss that makes the walls and the floor seem to slowly tremble, crack open, and crumble away. In her mind, it's just their little family, effortlessly balanced on his perfect bed, unburdened by the weight of the world – supernatural or otherwise.
They stay there, catching glimpses of a dawning sky between unhurried kisses, lights going up around them, gravity of their love making the sun come out.
Lydia isn't tired. Not one bit. She is blissfully happy – because she is with Stiles and because now, she knows what it feels like. For the first time, she got to watch the light of recognition flare in his eyes, to witness his heart race and his hands steady as he remembers her. She is ready to spend another day with him, knowing it will be the happiest of her life...until tomorrow.