But this is love, I'll never give you up
I know you'll always come home to me
Like a river, always running
I keep losing you
Like a fire, always burning
I'll be here for you
I see you here in the darkness
Blinding light right where your heart is
If you're ready, heart is open
I'll be waiting, come find me
If you're searching for forever
I'll be waiting, come find me
- Find Me by Sigma
Lydia and Stiles are having one of those days. The kind when they can't keep their hands off each other, when touching leads to kissing...and kissing leads to more.
Since they woke, they've made love twice. Twice. And Lydia is already thinking about the next time – this thing between them like a fire.
It's something that goes beyond physical desire. No doubt, there is plenty of that to go around, but this need for connection runs deeper. It's more powerful too, and self-sustaining. Something that sparked back in sophomore year and slowly but surely matured from smoldering embers...to full on blaze.
Over the years, it's been tested. In truth, there was a time when Lydia feared it might burn out. But it endured, the true-blue heart of the flame – brighter and hotter than the rest.
She feels it whether Stiles is with her or miles away. Even when they were separated by the Wild Hunt – she felt it. All those times she sensed warmth she couldn't explain. All those times she was completely alone...and yet, she felt two strong arms enveloping her, heard a steady voice encouraging her to hold on...just a little longer.
She listened. She never gave up on Stiles, and now he is here. They are in her bed – their bed, and he is wrapped around her, both of them so still that she can't tell the difference between his skin and hers, his breaths and hers, his heartbeats and hers.
And that heat between them? That fire?
It's there. Always burning.
Right now, it's particularly affecting. It makes some things, like what time it is or the intrusive ringing of her phone, not matter at all. It makes others, like how her stomach swirls when his lips graze her neck and the way their pinkies are linked, matter more than anything. It keeps them unmoving, despite how warm it is. Makes letting go unthinkable. Makes getting closer...inevitable.
And Lydia wouldn't have it any other way. She wants what she has with Stiles. Loves how desperately they need each other. Loves how much they love each other. She has lived in fear of too much for too long. Now, she realizes – there is no such thing. Because on more days than she can count, this fire has kept her going, satisfied and reassured her in ways that nothing else ever could. Never more profoundly than in this moment, and probably never more unforgettably than at the end of their second first date...
The rest of the drive back from Garnet had been a breeze. Lydia was happy, but there was also a heaviness compiling in her heart; every mile marker they passed, one mile closer to having to separate from Stiles. Though neither of them spoke of it, she knew he felt the same. He reached out to touch her often, looked over at her even more; eyes a tad darker, smile a little smaller each time.
It was a quarter to midnight when he parked in the driveway. His hand gave a slight tremble as he withdrew the key from the ignition, and Lydia had to remind herself that it wasn't like the last time. They were at her house – not in the school parking lot, and this was good night – not good-bye.
She forced a smile, but Stiles shook his head and squeezed her hand, which was uneasily resting on her lap.
"Hey, you don't have to do that with me," he corrected. "I feel it too... But this isn't like before."
"You're right. I'm sorry."
He brought her knuckles to his lips. "S'okay. Just tell me what you're thinking."
"I'm thinking...no matter how much time we spend together, it never feels like enough."
She felt the corner of his mouth twitch as he nodded, "Yeah, me too, Lyds."
They released a simultaneous sigh, and the pressure in the atmosphere subsided, allowing them both to produce genuine smiles.
"Come on. We've still got time. I'll walk you up," he offered, leaning in to nuzzle the side of her face before planting a peck on her cheek.
They held hands as they strolled to the porch, then Lydia unlocked the door and faced Stiles.
His eyes were optimistic when he said, "So...see you tomorrow?"
"Yes," she replied through a kiss. "Call me when you get home?"
"Definitely," he affirmed through another.
Not quite ready to let go, she fussed with the buttons on his royal blue henley. "Drive safe."
"I will." He continually tightened and loosened his grasp on her waist, lips against her forehead when he bid her, "G'night, Lydia."
The tug sharpened as Stiles moved towards the stairs.
When he got to the bottom, she whispered, "Good night...love," hoping it would make him as happy as it had earlier that evening.
Apparently, it did.
Stiles turned on a dime and ascended the steps in three strides. In the span of a heartbeat, his arms had encircled her. She held on to him, limbs taut with wanting while he inundated her with puckered I love yous.
Eventually they parted, hesitant and tipsy with love.
"Tomorrow," she repeated, caressing his cheek.
He closed his eyes. "Tomorrow."
When he slowly...and a little clumsily backed down the stairs and sprinted to the Jeep, it was as if he were struggling not to look back.
Lydia wondered if it would always be like that – the reluctance to separate, the distance-induced ache, the legitimacy of her heartbeats...counting the seconds until they would be together again.
She hoped it would.
Sure, it hurt like hell. But every blissful reunion, every heartfelt good-bye, and everything in between more than made up for it.
Lydia waited until Stiles got in the truck and was rewarded for it – because then he did look back at her. One more long look before he flashed on the headlights and reversed out of the driveway. One more long look that somehow expressed everything she was feeling: yearning and expectation, understanding and so much love.
She didn't budge until he was out of view. Then, she went inside the house and flipped on the lights. After depositing her purse and keys on the console table, she untied her espadrilles and set them aside. But despite her best efforts, she couldn't go a single step farther. So she stayed in the foyer with her back to the door, rumble of the Jeep's engine still reverberating in her heart.
Minutes later, at exactly 12:01 a.m., the hurried shuffle of footsteps and an eager rap on the grain made Lydia's heart skip beats.
She didn't have to ask. She knew. It was Stiles.
Spinning around, she yanked the door open, found her love waiting on the other side.
He was beautiful – all wind-blown hair and twinkling eyes, perfect rosy cheeks and dewy skin. And his smile! A mesmerizing, only-for-you smile, that made her whole body sigh.
"It's tomorrow," he announced breathlessly, one hand braced on the doorframe, the other clamped to his side.
"Yeah, it is," she beamed.
"Got to the corner of 46th," he recounted, thumb gesturing to his left, "and I just...couldn't keep going. So, I parked there and...ran back."
Her elation expanded with every syllable, no thought on her mind other than how much she wanted to kiss him. He was hovering so close, she would only have to push off on her toes to reach.
"Sorry, I know I should—"
Her lips intercepted his, parting only long enough to say, "You should come inside," as she gripped his heaving shoulders and towed him over the threshold.
He willingly followed, bringing with him the scent of winter and the taste of summer, delicious mouth making and never breaking contact with hers as he closed the door and snapped the deadbolt behind them.
In seconds, Lydia was pressed between the wall and Stiles, and he was enveloping her with the same passion he had when they reunited eight days earlier.
Things swiftly escalated, everything about him exciting everything in her.
There were moans, his raspy ones consuming her wispy ones through hot, wet, open-mouthed kisses. The kind that made both her heart and her core throb for him. Her hands wandered, sliding under his shirt, groping for skin and muscle and more heat. His body responded, shudders and tension in all the right places, each of them telling her everything she needed to know – he wanted her, the same way she wanted him.
"Stiles," she panted.
He was preoccupied with her romper, dragging the lace off her shoulder while he kissed, and nipped, and licked at the skin formerly hidden underneath.
"Stiles..."
"Huh?"
The tremor in his voice only succeeded in turning her on more.
"Let's go upstairs."
He immediately met her gaze, eyes alight with lust and love. "But um..." he stammered, moistening his swollen lips. "I mean, what about..."
She knew what he was hedging at. It was the reason he hadn't planned on staying in the first place. Her mom would be home soon.
Lydia briefly considered the ramifications...then chose to ignore them. Maybe it was reckless, but she couldn't find the motivation to care. With Stiles, reckless felt right in a way it never had. She couldn't let him go. Not when she just got him back.
"We'll figure it out in the morning," she shrugged. "Tonight, all I want is to make love with you – in my bed. You do realize...we haven't been together in my bed yet."
The softness in his expression told her no further convincing was necessary. Still, she leaned in, felt his Adam's apple bob when she kissed his throat.
"Uh...okay," Stiles exhaled. "You're sure?"
"Yes. I need you. Right now."
After scattering more kisses along his collarbone, she glanced up and was met with a mischievous grin.
"In that case, I'll race you," he challenged before dimming the lights and bounding for the stairs.
"Stiles!" she squealed, chasing him in the dark.
He was waiting for her at the top. She barely made contact with the landing when he hauled her into his arms.
Delighted, she clung to him. As he carried her down the hallway, she made a show of kissing his face and neck, quivered with pleasure when he started stroking her through her clothes. By the time they reached her room, Lydia was quite literally pulsing with desire. Stiles was too. She could feel it. She felt so much from him and for him – intensity of their combined affection like a fire.
Once inside, things only got better. Their movements slowed, but their passion never diminished. Stiles shut the door and locked it, groaning at the contact between them as Lydia slid down his body. She thought he was going to begin undressing her, but his playfulness was overridden by an earnest need for connection. He kissed her – reverently and without laying a hand on her. Then he hugged her for a prolonged moment, murmuring sweetness into her hair that she didn't have to hear to fully understand.
In the heart-pounding silence that followed, Lydia fell more in love with Stiles. She was more than happy to let him take the lead, knowing full well that she was safe in his arms. And he proved her right, not a single fumble when he guided her backwards...step by step, all while leaving a trail of feather-light kisses on her forehead.
As they neared the bed, the crisp fragrance of peonies wafted up to greet her. She kissed his cheek, and when she felt him smiling, she thought of how perfect it was that they should end their date in the same place and with the same tenderness that it began.
The only thing that could make it better was if she could see him more clearly. So she drew up the shades, letting the sparce glint of moonbeams and starlight in. Stiles stood close behind her, chest flush with her back, quickening breaths skimming her cheekbone, so gentle, so familiar...
Those inhales and exhales carried the whispers of a memory. Lydia wanted to know more, but all she could focus on was the present. All she could focus on was Stiles, lifting her hair, draping it over her shoulder, then turning her knees into jelly as he slowly unzipped her romper.
She can still hear his gravelly sigh when he realized she wasn't wearing a bra. He slipped one hand inside, heel of his palm settling to the right of her spine, fingers walking around her rib cage while he kissed the shell of her ear.
She can still feel her lungs erratically expanding and contracting, galvanizing the ambitious flutter that seemed to want to chase the graceful movements of his hand.
When Stiles found the notch in her sternum – the place where his name is permanently seared, he stilled, questioning, "How did I ever survive three months without holding you?"
What happened next was beautiful, and pure, and very...very hot. A culmination of everything they shared throughout the day, of everything they had built together over the years. Stiles took his time with her. He set her ablaze with touches, fueled the heat with limitless kisses, made it spread under the sheer weight of anticipation, pushed it deeper with every thrust, rhythm so good, so right. The kind of good and right that soothed more than her body.
She will never forget the first thing he said to her in the heady afterglow.
They were both sticky with sweat, both trying to catch their breath. There was a moment when his hand passed over her face, casting away strands of hair that had adhered to her forehead. Though delicate, his touch was electric. So, when that same hand traced a line down the center of her body, Lydia couldn't suppress a moan. Stiles met that moan with an ardent kiss, pressing with equal tenacity as she arched into him, still craving more. They continued to kiss while her hips spasmed and his stroked, shudder after shudder running through them, nerves sizzling from the mildest contact.
She can still picture his face, the undeniable look of pleasure and contentment when he told her, "You make me feel so good, Lydia."
She isn't ashamed to admit how much it thrilled her to hear it. Lydia loves knowing she can make Stiles feel good. She wants to make him feel good forever.
What she didn't realize was that he wasn't finished. What she didn't know was that he was about to heal something long broken inside of her with the addition of a gesture and a few more words. Words that expressed exactly what she was feeling and made her wish she had been the first to say them.
"Not just you know..." he said through a panting breath. Eyes transfixed on hers, he circled his thumb over his heart and resumed, "In here too."
Her chest squeezed harder over her rapidly thumping heart, almost painful – but she smiled. Lydia smiled brighter than she ever had and told Stiles that she felt the same.
Tears of joy rained down – hers, his, theirs – it didn't matter. All that mattered was she knew nothing would ever be as right as the two of them together.
They held each other for a long time, fingertips still lighting flares wherever they explored, occasional kisses blossoming like the ephemerals that spring up after a wildfire. Those quiet, stolen moments were as intimate as the ones that preceded them, physical memory of the love they made still so present that Lydia could feel Stiles everywhere.
They drifted to sleep, bolstered by the promise that someday the only kind of good nights they would utter would be like this – drowsily whispered against the softness of pillows in the comfort of their cozy bed.
Lydia and Stiles are getting closer to that someday all the time. She opens her eyes, sighs with gratitude when she feels how perfectly his profile aligns with the nape of her neck. He has been planting kisses there for a while now.
"Okay, fess up," he says, nudging her with his nose.
"About?"
"You're thinking about sex right now."
"I have a feeling I'm not the only one," she teases, pushing her backside into him a bit.
He tightens his arms around her. "And you, my love, are correct as usual."
She giggles when he nibbles on her earlobe.
"Which time?"
"Our first, in this bed."
"Mmm..." he purrs. "One of our best – which, by the way, is sayin' a lot."
"That's for sure." Her back cools and her chest warms as she turns to face him. "The next morning was also...memorable."
"You mean having to sneak me out of the house while your mom went for her morning swim?"
"Uh-huh."
"Hey, remember how we took Prada with us, in case she asked where you went?"
"Yes, and what about how slowly we walked to the Jeep?"
"Snail's pace," he chuckles, eyes sparkling with sunlight and memory, fingers mimicking the slow motion across her hip. "And we held hands – so tight."
"We kissed too... Didn't we?"
"We did. Several times."
"Remind me," she flirts.
He leans in, deliberate and teasing, breath tickling her lips before claiming them with his own. Gentle pressure builds; it's passionate not demanding, laidback but skating on the edge of urgent. His tongue dips into her mouth, silky heat seeking more of its kind. Sometimes he pauses, sucking on her bottom lip like he wants to devour it, occasionally breaking for an inhale, then starting all over again.
She feels it. That fire, low in her belly, dropping lower when he pulls back one more time.
"Is that how you remember it?"
Listlessly, she nods, energy between them almost hypnotic, making her swoon at the sound and the scent and the feel of him. "I remember a fair amount of hugging too, not being able to let go of you..."
"I couldn't either. All I wanted was to be alone with you some more."
"We're alone now."
His right eyebrow peaks a mile high. "Lydia Martin...are you trying to seduce me? Again?"
"Is it working?"
"Oh...absolutely."
"Good," she replies, everything from her voice to her limbs going soft and pliable.
His hands are strong; one at the small of her back, the other behind her thigh, both bringing her nearer. His kisses are confident; one here, another there, each of them more wanted than the last. He moves above her. Solid and heavy. Not just the weight of him, but of their love; always so present. She needs more of this. More of the freedom that comes with being this close – when their bodies are expressing feelings that words could never adequately communicate.
Things are getting really good when her phone rings.
"Ugh...not now," Stiles grumbles.
Lydia glares at the caller ID. It's her mother. The woman has radar. She swears.
"That's the third time this morning," she huffs. "I better answer. Otherwise, she'll keep calling."
He throws his head back. "In that case, I may as well get in the shower."
"And leave me to—"
She cuts off when his grin collides with a wink.
"Meet me in there?"
"Yes." God, yes.
She is already wandering into a daydream when he nudges her with a kiss, muttering, "I thought you were answering it."
"I was—I am." She fumbles for the phone and taps the Accept icon, but Stiles hasn't moved and he's kissing her neck and it feels so good and—
"Say hello," he whispers into her ear before going right back to kissing her neck.
Lydia... Are you there? her mother's voice beckons from the other end of the line.
"Uh...Hi Mom!" she responds in an unnaturally elevated pitch, narrowly disguising a whimper.
Stiles mercifully unearths his face from the crook of her neck sporting a smug smirk – one too adorable for his own good...or hers for that matter. Lydia scowls but can't refrain from chasing his lips once more as he rolls off of her and untangles from the sheets.
Is everything alright, honey? You sound...winded, her mother remarks.
"Yeah...yeah. Everything's great. I was just um...downstairs, and the phone was...you know...upstairs."
Upon hearing her elementary-level lie, Stiles sputters with laughter. She should probably be annoyed at him for enjoying this so much. But she isn't. She is too preoccupied watching him walk naked to the adjoining bathroom, shoulders jostling, hair a ridiculously beautiful mess.
And when he reappears in the doorway, mouthing a dramatic I love youuuuu, she can't stop smiling.
Six long minutes later, Lydia is not smiling.
She ends the call with her mother, tosses her phone to the foot of the bed, and heads straight for the bathroom. With bleary eyes, she undoes what's left of her topknot and brushes out her hair. Then, she gets into the shower with Stiles, positioning herself between him and the rainfall spray.
The sudden heat is a shock to her system. She flattens her palms against his chest, searching for the right pace. At her touch, he swipes the water from his eyes, infinitely bright even though his smile is fading with comprehension. Without a word, he gingerly cuffs her wrists, keeps them in place. When she drops her head to his shoulder, his arms surround her figure, acceptance and compassion binding her invisible wounds.
She clings to him, shuddering while he smooths her hair and trails his fingertips along her spine. His tenderness is enough to make her weep.
She does. It's just them and the static drone of running water to smother her sobs.
When she stops, he doesn't pressure her to explain. He knows she needs time, and he gives it to her. They lather up and rinse off. They don't kiss, but every touch between them is just as intimate.
Shortly after, they are both drying off, cloaked in fresh towels. Lydia is wiping the fog from the mirror when Stiles comes to stand behind her. Her focus is drawn to their reflection. She sees him – ready and willing to listen. She sees herself – afraid that she has failed him, convinced that if she had expressed herself better, her mother would understand how much he means to her.
Her stomach lurches from another wave of sadness, but he wraps her in a tight embrace; left arm across her chest, same hand anchored to her shoulder, right arm encircling her waist.
He holds her, and is breath is warming her cheek, and his heartbeats are massaging the pain out of her chest, and the notion of being anything less than what they are is...unbearable.
He holds her, and he tells her, "We're okay."
She knows he's right.
And, as if she needed further proof, his words also happen to trigger a memory – the one she was on the brink of recovering at the end of their date. The memory of a night, which up until now, Lydia only recalled through muscle memory and inexplicable feelings of assurance. A night when the fire was undeniable, when everything she did, and even the things she didn't do, brought her closer to Stiles.
She remembers it all...
They were in Eichen House.
Lydia remembers that even though Stiles was hurting, and even though he loathed the idea of going back to that awful place, he had insisted with calm resolve, You are not going without me. She remembers his eyes, determination in him like a fire. The first of several she would witness that night. One that was quick to spark and impossible to overlook. She loved him like that. God help her, she loved everything about him.
A halfhearted argument ensued, but he shut her down with a single word. Teamwork. Like he knew how much it meant to her. Like it still meant something to him too.
Without further debate, she was following Stiles out of his bedroom and they were on their way to pick up Scott and Kira; four friends about to embark on a mission that ended up being more treacherous than expected.
The drive was relatively uneventful...yet somehow still uncomfortable. Scott and Kira sat in the back, palpable tension between them. Lydia was in the passenger's seat, mere inches separating her from Stiles. She remembers that he kept glancing over at her, like he needed to unburden himself but couldn't. She lost track of how many times she wanted to ask what was wrong, how many more she thought to simply reach for his hand. But she fought both impulses. It wasn't like she had a choice. What used to be perfectly acceptable exchanges...weren't anymore, especially when some things could be interpreted by other eyes in a more-than-friends kind of way. As much as Lydia hated to admit it, withholding was a necessary evil, and her years of practice, years of not acting on true feelings were the only thing keeping her in check.
On the other hand, years of practice had nothing on the love she felt for Stiles, nothing on the need for candor that came over her when it was just the two of them. That was never more evident than at the last moment, when Scott and Kira were already out of the Jeep, and Lydia blindly reached for Stiles.
She remembers the heat of his forearm beneath her hand, where the sleeve of his hoodie was pulled up.
"Are you okay?" she asked.
"Hmph," he idled, raking his fingers across his jaw. "Not really. But...neither are you."
"Is it that obvious?"
"Only to me," he smiled, more to himself than at her.
After a pensive silence, he turned towards her, draping his left arm over the steering wheel.
She remembers the surge of amber light in his eyes, when he reminisced, "Remember when we used to just talk for hours...tell each other everything?"
"Of course."
"It was always so..."
"Natural? Easy?"
"Both of those. But lately," he paused, tongue jutting out to rehydrate his lips, "it seems like we talk less and less."
"I've noticed." Letting her hand slide away from his arm, Lydia opted for twirling the tassel on her pink suede purse rather than bringing his hand to her cheek like she wanted to. "It doesn't have to be like this. We could start again. We're still... You and me – we're still...us. Aren't we?"
She glanced up in time to see him firmly nod. "Yeah, we are."
She remembers the familiar noise of his thumb, scraping the grooves on the wheel before he said, "Lydia, I need to—"
But he stalled mid-sentence, like he caught himself doing something wrong.
When did he start doing that?
Right around the time he stopped being so...himself and started hiding the real Stiles behind extra layers of sarcasm and impatience, sometimes even indifference. Right around the time he stopped meeting her by her locker and started averting his eyes when she caught him looking at her. Right around the time he became less discriminating about who he let close to him and more willing to excuse certain people's crude behavior, calling it "progress", as if that made it less offensive.
In other words, last spring. When everything changed – and not for the better.
Granted, it wasn't always so bleak. There were moments when it felt like before... Before the Nogitsune. Before Allison died. Before Stiles started putting distance between them that Lydia never asked for nor wanted.
Sometimes things were so good she could forget they had changed at all. So good, that despite everything, it felt like they were growing closer. Like that night at the lake house when they wished on a shooting star together. Like the time she brought him lunch when he was handcuffed to a desk at the Sheriff's Station, the same day he called her an angel for the first and second time. Like a Wednesday in July when they unexpectedly met at Allison's grave.
Her mind often retreated to that afternoon. How she felt Stiles approaching, didn't have to look up to know it was him. How he brought a single white rose, like she had. How his hand grazed her back as he knelt beside her in the grass, emerald blades shimmering with humidity and a few of her tears. As they sat together, quietly remembering their friend, her head gravitated to his shoulder. Of course it did. His shoulder was comfort, and by some ethereal grace, Lydia believed Stiles knew she needed him that day. Maybe he felt it. Maybe he even needed her too. After all, he understood the pain she was going through. He had been willing to die with Scott to avoid it – just like she would have died to save Allison.
There was peace in that knowledge. More peace than Lydia had felt in months. She never even noticed the change in the wind, never noticed the darkening sky.
So when she and Stiles got caught in a downpour on the way out of the cemetery, it was surprising...but it was beautiful too.
Because for the first time in weeks, they laughed together, the two of them looking – really looking at each other, then up to the heavens, giant droplets descending from above, washing them clean of past hurts. For the first time in weeks, Stiles took her hand, fingers bound the way hearts should be. Together, they ran six exhilarating blocks; her sandals and his sneakers splashing in puddles that appeared like oases in a desert of missed opportunities, swells of their laughter occasionally hailed by claps of thunder that only encouraged them closer. It was the closest they would be until the night of Senior Scribe when they wandered to Ned's Diner, talked all night, and danced to Claudia's song until the sun came out.
Somehow moments like those kept slipping away. Time pressed on... Weeks, months, an entire summer. Nearly the whole month of September too. Autumn was advancing; sunrises, and sunsets, and falling leaves the only reminders that things could change again. Maybe for the better. Lydia wanted them to.
The longer the night, the sweeter the dawn, she remembered.
Maybe if she held on a little while longer...
"Stiles, what is it?" she whispered, praying he would share his secrets with her, like he used to.
She remembers the sharp jab in her chest when his expression abruptly darkened.
"Uh...never mind. Let's just... Let's just get this over with."
His words weren't harsh, but they felt like rejection. She remembers wondering if that was how he felt – all those times she refused to open up, all those times she let fear keep her suffering in silence when Stiles was offering his help.
"Right," she replied, insult flattening her tone. She jiggled the seatbelt buckle that always stuck until it released, then grabbed the door handle.
"Lydia..."
In the time it took for her to cautiously peer over her shoulder, his fingers had latched on to hers, squeezed in a way they hadn't in a very long time.
It felt like an apology and a promise, and she squeezed back.
Because before Stiles showed her how natural and easy it could be to confide in someone who really cared, before she learned that his shoulder would always be the safest place to rest her head, before all the moments they shared – no matter how big or small, he met each shrugged shoulder with patience, shortened his strides so she didn't feel pressured to lengthen hers, and he always, always listened when she was ready to talk.
"It's okay. You'll tell me when you're ready," she asserted. Then, she exited the truck and joined Kira by the gate.
The nearer Lydia got to Eichen House, the higher her anxiety climbed. She remembers wrapping her arms around herself as they waited to be let in. Even from the outside, there was an ominous credence, so many of her worst memories bound to that hellish place...just a stone's throw from where Allison died. The place where she and Stiles had almost been killed four months prior. The place where, two months before that, she lost a part of him. The part that used to tell her what was on his mind and in his heart – without hesitation. She remembers wondering if she would ever get it back. She promised herself that if she did, she would never lose it again.
And that night, in the least likely of places, Lydia got a few steps closer.
She remembers glancing over her shoulder at Stiles. He was leaning on the Jeep talking to Scott, but he held her gaze instead of immediately looking away. Step one.
The others didn't come quite so easily. Fate seemed determined to test her forbearance through a series of trials – some of which initiated before they even entered the building. Beginning with the eerie screech of the gate when it swung open. Punctuated by the shrill metal clang when it slammed shut with an air of finality that made her shudder. Escalating under the unnerving stare of a creepy male orderly as they surrendered their belongings at the front desk. Continuing as they walked the poorly lit hallways and steep echoing stairwells. Amplifying when she and Stiles confronted Gabriel Valack about his book. He was cunning, spoke with deliberate elusiveness, and the way he looked at Lydia made her feel exposed on a psychological level. Even though Valack was confined to a cell by double-plated glass, she felt threatened. So she stood as close to Stiles as possible and reached for his hand when she needed reassurance.
Her friend was never far from her side. She remembers the way he positioned himself a half-step ahead of her. A half of a step that felt like... Step two.
Lydia remembers the icy spike in her blood pressure when Valack tried to strike a bargain – information in exchange for her scream. There was no part of her that wanted to agree to his terms. But they needed answers, and if her voice was the leverage they needed, she would use it. She had already failed Tracy. She sure as hell wasn't going to fail her friends too.
Sometime during the negotiation, Kira's powers unintentionally disrupted the security system, causing it to default to a brownout. With blaring sirens and dimmed lights, came the realization that yet another of their plans had gone awry. Their blunder had allowed the Dred Doctors access to the building – and its patients.
It was a gut punch, underscoring the fact that no matter how much they thought they knew about the supernatural, they were still just a bunch of naïve teenagers, not qualified to outmaneuver such volatile forces.
Lydia remembers the horrifying notion of being trapped in Eichen House, fear palpitating her heart and dampening her skin. She had to make a decision.
She remembers warning Stiles to cover his ears, screaming her frustration into a digital recorder, and the consequent soreness at the base of her throat when she grilled Valack for more details.
Stiles anxiously moved her along. "Lydia, gotta go. Now."
Hand in hand, they retraced their steps...down the narrow corridor...left turn...right...left again. A few yards from the stairwell, he pulled her into a storage room. They tried to shut the door, but to no avail.
Next thing Lydia knew, her friend, her constant protector, Stiles had grabbed her from behind. In one smooth motion, he whisked her off her feet, hauling her across the room and out of sight. She didn't resist. She didn't make a sound. She trusted him to keep her safe. And he did.
Lydia remembers the breath leaving her lungs in a rush when she opened her eyes. Across from them was a large medical supply cabinet. She remembers their faint reflection in its glass doors, glowing each time the lights flickered. Stiles was up against a tiled wall. She was in front of him; back pressed to his chest, eyes wide, mouth slightly agape. Even without that image, she would remember the way he was holding her many times over the following weeks and months, and again on the night he came home to her. She could feel him every time too; left arm across her chest, same hand anchored to her shoulder, right arm encircling her waist – secure yet mindful of her still very sensitive wound.
She can feel it all right now as she remembers what came after... The sound of their inhales, shallow and trembling. The touch of his exhales, caressing her cheek. The solidity of skin and sinew and bone as she tightened her grasp on his forearm. His heart and its untamed pounding, knocking on her spinal column. Her heart and its desire to answer, to turn and allow those precious chambers nearer, so she could comfort him the way he comforted her.
As the Dred Doctors bypassed their hideout, Stiles adjusted his grip on her, tighter but somehow less rigid. Lydia remembers the impression that she was melding into him, awed at how effortlessly their bodies could acclimate to the closeness they once shared...and were sharing again. Step three.
She was on her way to wondering what the next step might be, body pulsing with inappropriately timed but no less impassioned want, when the buzz of electricity and stabilizing fluorescents signaled that the power had recalibrated.
She remembers counting the seconds through his panting breaths. One...two...three...four...five.
It appeared the threat had passed.
"I think we're okay," she whispered, voice hoarse from her scream and weakened by the strength of his hold on her.
She remembers the brusque rise and fall of his rib cage and the heat from his cheek radiating to her temple. Straining to see him from the corner of her eye, she nudged, "Stiles?"
"No, it's not okay," he finally spoke, angling his face towards her. "All of this... It's on us. Everything that's happened, everything that's gonna happen... It's our fault."
He was right, and that meant...
"It's our responsibility," she finished for him.
At that point, Lydia supposed she should let go of Stiles, but it was as if her body didn't remember how to move away from him – and she didn't want it to. In the meantime, it occurred to her that Stiles hadn't budged either. Maybe it was okay for her to stay...
Just one minute more, she told herself, letting her head drop back to his shoulder, where it ached to be all along.
Seconds later, she remembers his cheekbone leaning against her forehead. They stayed like that for a fleeting eternity. When Stiles slowly loosened his embrace, Lydia winced, sting of separation on top of everything else they had just experienced more than she could tolerate.
He swooped in front of her, urgency and concern taking the shape of questions, "What? Is it your stitches? Did I hurt you?"
"It's f—fine," she stuttered, wary of the fragility of her own lie.
His eyebrows pinched together, silently demanding the truth.
"It only hurts when I breathe," she confessed under the intensity of his stare, tacking on, "too deep", a couple of seconds too late to be convincing.
"Lydia, what can I do?"
Tell me you love me, her heart pleaded.
But she bit down, refusing to let her tongue repeat those words and letting the pain mute her long enough to choose different ones, safer ones. "Nothing. I just...need a minute."
"Maybe you should sit," Stiles suggested, leading her forward.
Unfortunately, the only thing resembling a chair was a rusty metal crate, and Lydia instantly felt a frown forming.
Her dress. It wasn't new, but it was her favorite. The first time she wore it, back in junior year, Stiles greeted her with a smile that wouldn't quit and a compliment about how it brought out her eyes. She could still remember the way he blushed when she thanked him with a kiss on the cheek, how he ran his hand through his hair, then glanced at his shoes until she linked arms with him and asked him to walk her to class. She loved that dress.
Luckily, she didn't have to worry about ruining the floral printed silk for long. Stiles shrugged out of his red and grey hoodie and covered the crate before coaxing her to sit.
When he knelt beside her, one hand curling around her elbow, the other cupping her knee, Lydia was so lost in thought that she didn't realize how outwardly she was reacting to his touch.
"It's alright..." he coached, framing her face with both hands. "Just try and slow your breathing."
His tone was calm and certain – the opposite of how she had blurted those exact words in a panic of her own...on the best worst day of her life. She remembered that too. The purest moment she ever experienced, just hours before one of the most harrowing. Two moments that changed everything, awakened her, made it so she couldn't deny the feelings she'd been having for Stiles – at least not to herself.
She wondered if part of Stiles had conversely gone dormant after the trauma of last spring. If that were the case, maybe he just needed to be reminded...
She wanted to kiss him, see if everything changed all over again. But she couldn't risk driving him further away so, she closed her eyes and let her mind go back to that July afternoon when they got caught in the rain.
By the time they made it to his house, the storm had passed. They were drenched in rainwater and showered in sunlight. And that was beautiful too, symphony of sounds and sights Lydia never wanted to forget... The creak of the old door as they entered the foyer and the synchronized gust of their exhales. The thud of their discarded shoes landing on the welcome mat and the patter of wet feet scurrying across hardwoods. Most especially, how tiny beads of water glistened on his skin, streamed the same paths as his veins, cascaded from the ends of his hair and lashes, plummeted off the angles of his jaw and the tips of his fingers. Not to mention, how his waterlogged clothes hugged every perfect line of his body. It took all her willpower not to let her eyes linger, not to reach out.
Minutes later, she had toweled off, braided her hair, and snuggled into the blue flannel he loaned her. His favorite. Hers too. It was clean, and it still smelled like him, and that made her smile. Lydia smiled all the way to the laundry room, where she halted in her tracks just shy of the doorway.
Stiles had already changed into a pair of black sweatpants, but he was in the midst of putting on a tee shirt. She stood there, unable to avert her gaze, trying to work up the nerve to say something and only managing to clear her throat.
When he turned, eyes going a little wide, cheeks a little pink, she wondered if he were as breathless and speechless as she was.
He just might have been because after a lengthy pause, all he mustered up was a soft, "Hey."
"Hey," she parroted.
They gaped at each other until Stiles asked, "You uh...feeling any warmer now?"
Was he kidding? She was on fire.
"Mm-hmm." She pursed her lips and straightened up, hoping she wasn't as transparent as she felt under his attentive stare.
Another spell of heavy silence passed before she thought to say, "Thanks for the shirt."
She watched his eyes glaze over her, smile that ignited there spreading to his mouth.
"You're welcome," he replied, blinking in that way that he does when he's trying to decide what to do. "I can uh... I can take those..." he offered, pointing towards the denim cut-offs, peach floral top, and towel she was carrying.
Lydia's stomach tugged with conflicting emotions as she entered the small room and passed them to him. She had never been so unsure of herself. Not with Stiles.
But the moment their hands met, something clicked, and her posture relaxed. His did too.
"That top has to go on the delicate cycle," she informed him.
"Okay. Well, these are gonna take longer," he noted, tossing her shorts in the dryer with his clothes and draping her towel on the washing machine. "You can put it over there for now."
As Lydia arranged the garment on a hanger, it struck her how quickly those initial nerves passed, how comfortable they both seemed – considering they were in such close quarters and that all she had on were her underwear and his shirt.
Somehow it made sense...in a strangely reassuring way. They were best friends. They had been through so much together. Why should it be awkward? It wasn't like they had done anything wrong. Plus, his shirt covered more than some of her old skirts and dresses did.
Her smile returned, and Stiles noticed.
"What?" he asked.
"Nothing."
He nudged her with his elbow. "Lyds, tell me."
"It's just – this," she explained, gesturing between them. "Us, doing laundry together. It's so..."
"Domestic?"
"Yeah," she laughed, making use of the step stool to take a seat on the countertop.
"Who woulda thought?" he snickered, cranking the dials on the dryer and hitting the start button, "Lydia Martin and Mieczyslaw Stilinski doing laundry together."
She had. She definitely had.
He shifted closer, still chuckling as he crossed his arms over his chest and leaned on the washer.
"Haven't seen that in a while," she commented.
"The shirt?" he questioned, looking down at his Drink Coffee. Do Good tee.
"No—well, yeah but, I meant your smile."
His chin elevated and lowered, fingers thrumming on his bicep for several beats before swiping across his eyes. "I... I haven't laughed like we did today in..." Drawing an unsteady inhale, he tried again. "In a really long time. Maybe... Maybe I don't deserve to."
Her heart seized at the sudden onset of his grief, and she reached for him. "Stiles, of course you deserve to laugh. Why would you say that?"
"Because I...messed everything up."
"That's not true. Not even close."
With a violent shudder, he broke down in a way she hadn't seen since the funeral, the two of them crying in her room.
Lydia acted on instinct, gathered him into her arms, felt his torso settle between her knees as she soothed, "It's okay. Let it go. I've got you."
He wept into her shoulder, fists gripping the shirt she was wearing, mouth murmuring apologies about Allison and other things she could hardly understand over the hum of the dryer. She held on, reminding him it was never his fault, rubbing the nape of his neck until he calmed. Then, she dried his tears with the cuffs of her sleeves, gently...gently while he regarded her with the most adoring expression.
Giving him a half-smile, she asked, "Are you alright?"
"Yeah. Uh...just having a weird day, I guess."
"A weird day in Beacon Hills? Imagine that," she joked, passing her hands over his cheeks.
When he brightened, she draped a towel over his head, rubbing out the excess moisture from his hair before combing it through with her fingers.
He looked so handsome, so himself.
"There you are," Lydia whispered. She hadn't meant to, but in retrospect, she's glad she did.
As usual, Stiles seemed to get her, low "Hmm..." of agreement vibrating in his chest.
"What?"
"It's...kind of ironic that you'd say that. Ever since last spring... I dunno. Sometimes I can't even recognize myself."
"I can," she assured him. "You're just...hidden sometimes. Like I used to be – all the time."
"Maybe that's why..."
She waited while he hesitated, excited flutter telling her that what he was about to say was important.
"Maybe that's why the only time I really feel like me anymore is...when I'm with you. And lately, that's not often enough. I don't want it to be like this. I—" He cut off, countenance radiating a thousand words he didn't say.
Lydia knew why. She wasn't his girlfriend. She wasn't supposed to be the one who made him feel like that. Maybe he shouldn't have said as much as he did. Maybe she shouldn't have gotten such satisfaction from hearing it. But he had, and his words – spoken and unspoken – they meant the world to her.
A short while together and boundaries were dissolving like...marshmallows in hot cocoa. He was still standing between her knees, hands fidgeting beside her thighs on the counter.
Her heart relentlessly pounded out his name, brandishing it into her sternum, until she sighed it, "Stiles..."
He bowed his head. "Sorry... I was rambling."
"No, you weren't. Anyway, I sorta like when you ramble."
Her eyes fixed on his – bright and fiery, then on his lips – so soft and sweet. She remembered. She wanted to kiss him so badly. She wanted to do more than kiss him, and even though she knew she shouldn't, something wicked and wild simmered under her skin, made her clench with unequivocal need, begged her to give in. Just GIVE IN to the fire that was always a breath away from consuming her.
A year or two earlier, she would have let it. But that was the old Lydia, the one who saw what she wanted and took it without considering the consequences. The Lydia that Stiles helped her become...she could never disrespect her best friend – the most important person in her life – like that. She loved him too much.
So instead, she patted his shoulders and asked, "How about some lunch?"
Was that disappointment she saw?
No. She dismissed the thought, told herself that his lowered eyelids and protruding bottom lip indicated relief. Clearly, she had spared him the trouble of having to politely reject someone he cared about, nothing more.
Stiles watched her curiously, then helped her down from the counter, revived crooked grin when he suggested, "Rainy day food?"
"Rainy day food."
In the kitchen, they maintained a friendly distance while making grilled cheese sandwiches and heating some leftover tomato soup. It had been weeks, the longest they had gone without being alone together. As much as Lydia wished they could be closer, just being in the same space with Stiles felt like coming out of a storm and into the comforts of home.
"Lydia, you okay?"
"Yeah."
Though her answer was mainly a reflex, a single look made her realize it was also the truth. Because kneeling in front of her was that same boy – fire in his eyes, vulnerability too, maybe even a fragment of that same disappointment she hadn't let herself ponder on that rainy afternoon.
"I'm okay," she reiterated.
"Good," he exhaled slowly. "We should get outta here. Scott and Kira are probably worried."
"Think they're alright?"
"Sure. They take care of each other. Like we do."
Lydia smiled. Yeah. He's still there. Maybe he was never gone.
They made their way back to the lobby where they reclaimed their belongings. Stiles was quick to grab a metal pin of some sort. Before Lydia had the chance to ask about it, he was towing her towards the doors.
Outside, Scott and Kira were huddled on the stairs, a little worse for wear but alive and together. Lydia remembers watching her friends interact as she and Stiles helped them into the Jeep. There was something different about them. For one thing, Scott's eyes never left Kira. For another, hers were shining in a way Lydia had never seen. Again, the ride was a quiet one, but the former tension had been replaced by a heightened closeness, one which Lydia both admired and envied. She wondered if she would ever know what it felt like to be so openly...in love.
By the time Stiles dropped them off at Scott's, Lydia was actively fighting tears. All she remembers about the subsequent drive to her house was a dead weight on her chest. Her rib cage seemed to want to cave under its pressure. She wondered if maybe she should let it. It couldn't be worse than the pain of being so close and yet so far from Stiles.
"So...are you quiet because you're hurting or are you mad at me for before?" he asked once he parked by the curb.
She swallowed thickly, unsure of how she was going to control her voice now that they were alone. "Before?"
"You know, for saying I wish we talked more and then...not talking."
"Stiles, I told you it's fine. You don't have to tell me anything you don't want—"
"It's not that I don't want to."
"Then what is it?"
"It's that...I don't know where to start. There are so many things I want to say to you. Maybe too many."
He was giving her hope again and something wouldn't let her leave it at that.
"What does that mean?" she pressed.
But her heart sank when he grimaced and said, "I dunno."
"Well, you figure that out and get back to me. I'm going inside."
"Lydia, don't—"
She got out of the truck. As she trudged up the driveway, a succession of sounds arose from behind: the pop and slam of steel, rubber soles grating on pavement, and the unmistakable plea of the boy she loved.
"Lydia... Lyds, come on," he implored, easily catching up. "Don't go like this."
There was no denying the pull she felt towards him nor the way he could melt the bitterness right out of her with the emotive quality of his voice. She couldn't give up on him.
"Then just tell me one thing. Any-thing."
When he remained silent, she began digging her keys out of her purse.
He stopped her, fingers looping her wrist. "You're gonna think I'm crazy."
She briefly shut her eyes. Every shared memory another chance to start over.
"Try me," she challenged, barely subduing a smile.
"Okay." He treaded closer, moonlight gradually revealing his careworn features, tears no longer eclipsed by shadow. "I miss you. Sometimes we're in the same space, and I miss you."
And there, halfway between his Jeep and her house, they had stumbled into... Step four.
She remembers his tormented tone and the two large droplets that skidded down his face, splash-landing on her boots. Her heart accelerated and a flash of heat made her shiver, while her jaw went slack and unresponsive.
He shielded his face with one hand. "Great. Now, I made things weird."
"No, you didn't," she contended.
"I didn't?"
"No."
His eyes were searching, flame resurging...
"I miss you too," she told him. "I miss you – right now."
And his arms were opening for her, and she wanted to dive in...
But they were interrupted when the front door abruptly opened, and her mother appeared on the porch.
Lydia remembers her unapologetic demeanor, how she remarked that it was late – even though it was only 9:30, and even though Lydia hadn't had a curfew in years. She remembers Natalie reminding her that Dr. Geyer said she needed rest and cautioning her not to be too much longer. She wanted to believe that her mother was acting out of concern for her recovery, but there was no excuse for her rudeness towards Stiles. With regret, Lydia remembers that the only time her mother acknowledged her best friend's presence was when she tried to dismiss him with a curt, Good night, Stiles, paired with a look that came across like a warning.
As soon as her mother left them, Lydia shook her head. "I'm so sorry. She—"
"Hey, don't apologize. It's not your fault. Okay? None of this is your fault. She's your mom, and she's worried."
"More like hovering and in denial."
"What happened must have really freaked her out."
"That doesn't mean she gets to treat you like—"
"I don't blame her. I was useless."
Lydia spoke up. "Don't you dare say that. Not to me."
"Why not?" he dejectedly replied. "It's the truth. I saw you lying there, and it was like I was...completely paralyzed. I couldn't even breathe."
Her voice reduced to a whisper, "I saw. And I don't want you feeling badly about it because..."
She had no idea if she was doing the right thing. All she had to go on was that it felt right. She and Stiles and being brutally honest with each other always felt right.
Reaching out, she pressed her fingertips to his chest, directly inside the V of his half-zipped hoodie. "Because...if it were the other way around, I'd have felt the same."
He stepped into her touch so that her palm was flat against his chest. "Then you know."
"I know things are different now."
"Are they? You said it yourself – we're still us. You were right. After all this time, if I... If you..."
It hurt to listen. Words that once came so easily were fading into relics of their former selves, in danger of being scattered with the wind...
But Stiles moved closer. Kiss close. And they were magically whole again.
"Lydia, I told you before I'd be devastated. I meant it." He cupped her cheek, laser focus of his eyes scorching into her soul. "But last week, something happened to me. I realized...I'd be more than devastated. I don't know if there's a word for that, but that's how I'd feel."
Devastated. Even that had changed. The first time, it made her freeze. Stiles was pure emotion and restless energy, and she cared...but she wasn't ready for anything beyond friendship. This time, her heart was open and she was ready to say it back, but it was his touch that left her speechless.
She remembers this swaying sensation, like he was pulling her closer or maybe she was leaning towards him.
She held her breath. She knew it couldn't happen. Not like this. But she held her breath, and she wasn't surprised when his hand slid away from her face, then disappeared into his pocket.
Maybe he did love her the way she hoped. Maybe he was as scared as she was. And Lydia was scared alright...because suddenly, she was closer than ever to what she wished for at the lake house. She wondered if Stiles ever thought about that night.
When he looked up at the sky and wistfully observed, "No shooting stars tonight," she had her answer.
"No, I guess not," she sighed, following his upward gaze.
A melancholy silence descended before he asked, "What'd you wish for?"
"To be three inches taller," she jested.
"Be serious."
"I am. Do you have any clue how much easier my life would be?"
In a split second, his expression morphed from mild annoyance to amusement. She remembers his laughter, quiet yet pervasive, settling somewhere deep inside of her.
"You don't really expect me to tell you. It won't come true."
"Nah, I just meant...was it something important?"
"It's what I want most in the world. You?"
"Same." He poked at the pavement with the tip of his sneaker, childlike innocence when he questioned, "Think we'll get our wishes?"
"Maybe... Maybe we're closer than we realize."
"I hope so," he added. "Will you tell me...if your wish comes true?"
"As long as you promise to do the same."
"You've got yourself a deal."
He extended his pinky, and she linked hers with it, possibility budding between those two digits, then flourishing when Stiles gently drew her into a hug. She remembers the serenity of that moment, hearts finally connecting the way they had been trying to all evening.
He was still holding on to her when he said the words she had been dreading. "Guess I better get going."
"Guess so."
"Sure you're okay to go to school tomorrow?"
"Yeah. You?"
"I'll be fine." As he let go, he kissed her head; so quick, so light she might have missed it if not for the warmth it left behind. "Get some rest."
"You too."
Lydia remembers the happiness that uplifted her when, for the first time in what seemed like ages, he suggested, "Meet you by your locker?"
Step five.
"Yeah," she smiled.
With a less burdened heart, she watched him walk away.
As he neared the Jeep, Lydia whispered, "I'll be waiting."
Stiles couldn't have heard her, but he looked back, voice carrying over the distance. "Hey, Lyds?"
"Yeah?"
"I think five foot three is already perfect."
Present Day
Lydia's eyes blink to clarity. She turns to hug Stiles properly, as tightly as she can.
He kisses her temple. "You wanna talk about what happened?"
She nods, cheek sticking to his shoulder, hair still damp, relieved to find she hasn't been zoned out for very long.
He leads her to the bedroom where she swaps her towel for a cotton robe and passes him a pair of boxers from the dresser. It feels good, how they do these things without thinking, how his stuff blends with hers – not only occupying but belonging in the same space.
There is confirmation of how flawlessly their lives are merging in every corner of the room... His shoes under the bed they make love in, her bra strewn on the chaise with his jeans, keys to the Jeep beside their photo on the nightstand, charcoal impression of their carving in the True Love Tree adorning the wall.
It's all right there. The million little things they share that aren't little at all.
Although her mother isn't privy to most of these details, Lydia thinks there must be other signs. It should be apparent in her smile at least – irrepressible whenever she looks at, or talks about, or so much as thinks of Stiles.
How can she not see that?
"She doesn't get it," Lydia eventually says.
"What?" Stiles softly inquires.
"Me. Us. Anything."
He sits on the bed, waiting for her to continue.
"Do you know what she had the nerve to say to me?" She glances at the ceiling before recapping the parts of the conversation that upset her the most, mimicking her mother's voice and using air quotes for emphasis. "She hopes we don't plan on spending 'every minute' together. I should 'go out'. I'm too young to be 'tied down'."
His brows spike, mouth reshaping into an O.
"As if that is what's happening here," she scoffs, briskly motioning between them. "Can you believe her? After everything, all the time that was stolen from us..."
Another fire rages. It's nothing like the one her love inspires. This comes from anger, hurt, and disappointment. It's befuddling and constraining.
Lydia doesn't even realize she's pacing until Stiles stands and catches her elbow. "Hey, hey, easy..." he steadies her, gingerly unbinding her fingers from the sash on her robe.
Eyes brimming, she looks at her reddened digits, then up at him. "She's my mother, Stiles. She's my mother, and she saw what I was like without you, how lost I was." Defiantly, she erases the tears from her eyes, but others swiftly take their place, spilling over flushed cheeks. "How can she not understand how important you are to me?"
"I dunno, Lyds."
She stares at his chest, his love so obvious – blinding light, right where his heart is. Maybe if she were more like him...
"What am I doing wrong?" she squeaks.
"Aww...angel." He bundles her up in his arms, kisses the crown of her head. "Nothing. Absolutely nothing." He holds her until she relaxes, then encourages her to sit. "The truth is...what we have is really rare. I don't think most people understand it. But I can promise you, if your mom doesn't get us, it's not because of something you did...or didn't do, for that matter."
"Are you sure?"
"Hundred percent."
"It still hurts," she sniffles as he blots the last of her tears.
"I know. It hurts me too."
She bets it does. More than he lets on. Of course, no one could ever replace Claudia. Of course, he has Melissa in his life too. But Lydia also knows how much it would mean to Stiles if her mother would accept him the way Noah has accepted her.
"So what do we do?"
"We give it time. The way I see it, things can get better. I mean, it's barely two months and we already made some progress." He tucks her hair behind her ear, lets his hand remain on her cheek. "And you and me, pfft...we're gonna be together forever so...it's only a matter of time before your mom succumbs to my many, many charms," he boasts, bopping her nose with his thumb. "You did."
She giggles.
"What? You don't think I have charms?"
"Oh, I know you do. So many."
"Mmmmuah..." he kisses her, full on the lips, putting out one fire and stoking another. When he pulls back, his eyes flick towards her sea glass pendant on the nightstand. "I have an idea. Why don't we go to the cove?"
"Really?"
"Yeah, things always feel clearer there. We can pack lunch, take the little nugget with us. It'll be fun."
"I'd love that."
"Good."
"But first..." she tempts, sliding her robe off her shoulder. "I'm pretty sure we were interrupted before. We should probably finish what we started."
"I'mmm...inclined to agree," he smiles through another kiss.
They make love for the third time, then spend a perfect, carefree afternoon at the beach. They arrive home after dark, salty and sand polished. Happy. They curl up together, talk until their throats go dry, then drowsily whisper their good nights against the softness of pillows in the comfort of their cozy bed.