A Breath Between Us

by whitedahlia13

Stydia Post Nogitsune, Post Insatiable (03x23), Tons of ANGST and even more LOVE...because those two...they're pretty good together.

5. Love Brings You Lilacs

Eight Hours Later

Later that same Monday morning, Lydia wakes for the second time without Stiles, without the protection of his arms around her, without the rhythmic sound of his heartbeat against her ear. Somehow it feels worse. She has no plans to attend school, and no one expects her to. She lies in bed – missing Stiles, going over everything she can remember from the previous day.

Part of her refuses to believe he would leave without a word of explanation. He is not just anyone. He is Stiles. He wouldn't do this to me.

She wants to call him, to ask what changed, to convince him to come back to her. She waits until lunchtime in the hopes of speaking to him, instead of leaving a message. Once again, Malia answers the phone, and Lydia hangs up.

She spends the afternoon crying into her pillow…until Scott rings to check on her. He stayed home too. As they speak, she can hear the concern in his tone, but she doesn't tell him what happened. She figures she doesn't have to. Scott will probably understand it when he sees her the next time. After all, broken hearts have a way of recognizing each other.

---

One Week Earlier: March 19

Lydia is first aware of a familiar hand caressing her cheek. For a few seconds she is unsure of how that is possible, but then she hears a voice she would recognize anywhere.

"Lydia... Lydia... Lyds."

"Stiles?"

"Yeah, I'm here."

She slowly opens her eyes, blinking until her vision clears, gradually revealing his image. His eyes are soft and sleepy, lids still inflamed around the rims, darkness circling beneath. His cheeks are pale and lips slightly chapped, but he is still Stiles – same chiseled jawline and distinct pattern of moles, same upturned nose and incredible, silky brown hair...which happens to have the best case of bed-head she has ever seen – and he is still perfect to her.

She remains silent. Her mind is working swiftly to gather every detail, so she can commit the experience of waking up in his arms, of being surrounded by him, to memory. She focuses on the sensation of his left hand on her face and the way his right arm encircles her. Her head is nestled against his shoulder, and they are sitting exceptionally close on the large comfy sofa that resides in the Stilinski living room. She takes comfort in the feeling of their fingers locked together under the warmth of a fluffy plaid blanket.

As memories of the last few days begin to enter her mind...memories of Allison dying, of Stiles nearly slipping away from her, of the Nogitsune abducting her, Lydia becomes conscious of the unpleasant heaviness in her chest and the opposing fluttering in her stomach. Her heart quickens and she is on the verge of tears, but she can't take her eyes off of Stiles. Somehow, even in the midst of her grief, he makes her feel secure and loved.

"Are you alright? Were you having another nightmare?" he asks.

"No. I'm okay. What time is it?"

"A little after six. Do you know what day it is?"

She briefly closes her eyes and swallows. "Um…Tuesday...I think."

"Yeah. It's Tuesday, the 19th. Lydia, it's your birthday."

"Oh…I forgot," she responds quietly, before averting her eyes to the side.

"Yeah, I thought you might," he says, brushing his thumb along her cheekbone to bring her gaze back to him.

"You remembered," she affirms, squeezing his hand a little tighter.

He smiles tenderly, and she catches a flash of gold from his deep brown irises; it dispels the early morning haze from her mind.

"Lydia, I know today isn't going to be what it should be for you. I know you don't feel like celebrating, but I can't let today go by without at least acknowledging it. Would it be okay if we did something together…after school?"

"Stiles, I—"

"It will be simple. Just us."

"You really don't have to."

"I know that, but I want to. Will you let me?"

She looks at him hesitantly. "I dunno…"

"Please, Lydia… Just let me do one thing for you…just one thing."

His tongue juts out to wet his lips, and she stares. It's so difficult to refuse Stiles. He is looking down at her with a pleading, yet hopeful expression that shines even through the purple-hued shadows under his eyes and the slightly hollowed cheekbones which have been sculpted by weeks of unrest. His brows are arched, long dark lashes outlining his almond-shaped eyes, and he is sporting an open-mouthed pout that only he has the power to wield so convincingly. Lydia is powerless against the pull she feels towards Stiles. His body generates a magnetic force which causes any amount of space between them to feel like far too much. It tugs at her, encouraging her to shift closer, until their sides are pressed together.

"Just us? You promise?" she stresses.

"I promise."

"Okay."

"Really?"

"Yes," she nods with the faintest trace of a smile touching her lips.

An irresistible, crooked grin stretches across Stiles's face. Suddenly, the dimly lit room is a great deal brighter. That simple shift of his mouth offers Lydia the world. It brings with it the possibility of a few moments of escape from the misery under which she has been submersed. A few moments where they can be just Lydia and Stiles. Not Lydia, the banshee who couldn't save her best friend with her so-called abilities. Not Stiles, the boy who was possessed by an evil fox spirit because he selflessly risked his life for his father. Just Lydia and Stiles – a girl and a boy who would do anything to see each other be happy.

"Okay, then. Good," he responds. "I…uh…have lacrosse practice today, but it should be over by five-thirty. We could meet in the library."

"Yeah, that'll work. I have to spend some time on my history report anyway."

Lydia gazes up at Stiles, observing that this is the most unburdened he has looked in weeks, and she is grateful for it. It dulls the nagging ache in her chest to see that she can ease some of his suffering because he certainly has the same effect on her. When Stiles holds her tighter, resting his cheek against her forehead, she nestles close to his chest, just breathes him in.

After a couple of minutes, he checks his watch. "I better get moving," Stiles sighs, reluctantly releasing Lydia from his embrace.

Immediately missing the contact between them, she watches as he rises from the couch and leans in, tucking the blanket around her.

He gingerly pushes a few errant strands of hair behind her ear and drops a light kiss on the bridge of her nose. "Try to get some more sleep. I'll go get changed, and then we can stop by your house. Okay?"

The glow from his eyes, matched with tender touches and the sound of his voice, makes Lydia feel dizzy. She can't seem to get herself to speak, so she simply nods and closes her eyes.

When he leaves the room, she lies completely still, trying to compose herself while she contemplates how their relationship has developed over the past few months. Without question, she and Stiles have grown closer, spending most of the day at school as well as much of their free time together, but the heightened physical nature of their relationship is still fairly new. Stiles has always been cautious about crossing certain lines. Unhindered touches tend to be spontaneous, usually bracketed by ominous situations. Hurried and protective, they are marked by a sense of urgency – reactions rather than seduction, but effective, nonetheless. They catch her by surprise and make her heart skip and her legs falter. Soft and intimate caresses between them, are typically careful and hesitant…and lately, they have been occurring more frequently. The degree of care that Stiles conveys in the lightest of touches never fails to impress her. In these moments, Lydia can almost hear him asking her for permission, and when they connect – it's electric. She can feel her entire body buzzing, every cell awakening, her heart thrashing against her rib cage so forcefully, she thinks he must be able to hear it. The effect he has on her is overwhelming and a bit daunting, but it makes her feel alive and she craves it more and more each day.

She drifts into sleep...thinking of his arms around her, and his hands on her face, and the warmth of his lips lingering against her skin like a promise.

---

After what feels like seconds, but must be closer to twenty minutes, Stiles is waking Lydia with the gentle pressure of his hands on her shoulders.

"Lydia… Lyds…"

"Mmm…"

"I'm sorry… It's time to go."

"Okay. I'm ready," she replies, rubbing her tired eyes.

Lydia watches as Stiles lifts the blanket aside, folds it neatly, and places it over the back of the couch. He is dressed in jeans and a white tee shirt with a faded blue and grey hoodie layered over it. He smells like pine needles and clean cotton, and his hair is still damp from the shower.

He's so beautiful, she thinks. He's so beautiful…and he doesn't even know it.

When she realizes she is staring, Lydia peels her eyes away from him, reaches under the coffee table for her ankle boots, and slips them on. She fiddles with the zipper of her right boot, which always manages to stick, but is especially uncooperative now that her hands are trembling.

Stiles sees her struggling and kneels in front of her, covering her shaking hands with his own. "Here. Let me try," he says in a tone just above a whisper.

He slides his hand under her calf and lifts her leg to position it on his knee. The heat from his hand makes her bite her lip to withhold a gasp. He hesitates before taking the tiny zipper between his thumb and index finger and sliding it down again. The sensation of his fingertips skimming against the bare skin of her ankle sends a rush of blood coursing through Lydia's veins. She moves her hand underneath the hem of her skirt and pinches her thigh in an effort to distract herself. Stiles holds the top of her boot closed with one hand and with the other, he slowly glides the zipper upwards until it is secure.

"Got it," he announces, before easing her heel down to the floor.

"Thanks," Lydia manages to squeak out.

Stiles straightens up and holds his hands out to her. She accepts them, standing on slightly wobbly legs. When the two are face to face, he laces their fingers together and brings their arms up to his chest, pulling her just a bit closer. Lydia matches his movement, stepping nearer until their knees are touching, and she thinks she hears his breath catch in his throat.

"Ready to go?" he asks, voice wavering over the words.

"Yeah."

He releases her left hand but maintains his grip on her right, leading her out of the living room. As they approach the front door, he picks up Lydia's jacket and helps her into it. He gathers his keys and both of their bags, slinging them over his shoulder before Lydia has a chance to reach for hers. She opens the door and steps out onto the porch, waiting as Stiles bolts the lock behind them.

Outside, the sound of his keys jingling is the only noise to be heard, and his light blue Jeep is the only splash of color to be seen against a blur of white fog, grey skies, and black wet earth. The damp atmosphere produces a biting chill that sinks directly into Lydia's bones. She wants to dive back into Stiles's arms and drench herself in his perpetual warmth, but instead she keeps pace with him as they walk to the truck. He pauses to open the passenger's side door for Lydia, and she climbs inside.

The Jeep is already warmed up, its shelter providing an instant reprieve from the cold. Lydia settles into her seat while Stiles puts their bags in the back and goes around to the driver's side. As soon as he sits next to her and starts the engine, she takes his hand in hers. No thought behind it other than the simple desire to connect with him. Holding his hand feels natural, and right, and real – and that is exactly what she needs.

He turns to her with a hint of surprise on his face, but swiftly reassures her by clutching her hand firmly before moving their linked palms over the gearshift. The normality of it makes her want to tell him she loves him – so much. She wants to tell him to just drive. She doesn't care where. Somewhere…anywhere…just keep driving until they get to a town they've never heard of, where they can safely disappear amongst a mass of people who haven't a care about their pasts or the supernatural. The concept of escaping from the place that has been assaulting them with turmoil for well over a year allows Lydia a moment of reprieve before the memories roll in, casting a worrisome shadow over her. She remembers how helpless and useless she felt when Stiles was missing. She should have been able to find him. She remembers how close he came to death – how just two days ago, he almost left her forever. She couldn't protect Allison, and she can't protect Stiles either. She thinks she will hurt him even though all she wants to do is love him.

She doesn't speak.

All she recalls during the ten-minute drive to her house is the rhythmic tapping of Stiles's left thumb on the steering wheel, the repetitive trundling of the tires on the blacktop, and her heartbeat pounding in her ears.

---

Upon entering the Martin household, they are greeted by Prada, who practically leaps into Lydia's arms.

"There's my little girl! Did you miss me?" she asks, trying her best to sound like she isn't about to break apart.

Stiles reaches over Lydia's shoulder to scratch Prada's ears. The pup leans into his touch and gratefully licks his hand. "Wow…she's really excited. How long has she been alone?"

"Could only be an hour or so…since my mom left for the airport."

"Must feel like days to her."

"Yeah, it probably does. I hate leaving her alone at all," she continues, voice trailing off at the end of her admission. She kisses the top of Prada's head and hands her to Stiles. "I better go get changed."

She gets halfway up the steps and turns back to him. "If you're hungry…there's plenty of food in the kitchen."

"Oh, thanks."

Lydia continues up the long staircase and down the hallway to her room, closing the door behind her. She stands at the closet and picks out a pair of black leggings and a lightweight, grey floral sweater. Then she moves over to her dresser, selects a black satin bra and matching bikinis, and lays everything out on her bed. In the adjoining bathroom, she shrugs out of yesterday's clothes and takes a hot shower, washing her hair and conditioning it thoroughly. She wraps a fluffy towel around herself, parts her hair to one side, and blow-dries her abundance of strawberry-blonde locks with a large round brush until it is impeccably smooth and straight. After brushing her teeth, she re-enters her bedroom to dress.

Minutes later, when she sits at her vanity to apply some tinted moisturizer, she is greeted by the pleasant scent of fresh cut flowers. She looks down to find a petite bouquet of pink roses and lavender hydrangea. The blooms are accented with dainty fuchsia waxflower and velvety dusty miller leaves, all arranged in a crystal cube vase. They are poised at the center of her vanity along with a black velvet box and a small card. Lydia reflexively scrunches up her face and decides to finish getting ready before looking at either. She curls her lashes and fills in her brows, then adds a touch of blush to her cheeks, so she doesn't look as tired as she feels. Lastly, she dabs a thin layer of pink gloss over her lips.

Deliberately tapping her fingers against her mirrored vanity, she glares at the gift box in front of her. Eventually, she lifts the lid to reveal a diamond pendant necklace. The stone is at least two and a half carats, round brilliant cut, set in platinum – exactly the kind of piece her mother would wear, and exactly the kind that Lydia wouldn't. If her mother paid attention, she would know that Lydia much prefers delicate pieces of jewelry, plain silver or gold – definitely not diamonds. Gnawing at her lip, she hesitates before picking up the card and removing it from its foiled gold envelope.

Hi Baby,

Will call you when I land in Toronto. It breaks my heart not to be with you today. I love you so, so much.

Mom XOXO

Lydia stares at the note for a few moments, studying her mother's absurdly flawless penmanship.

Ever since Natalie was promoted, it seems that taking time off has become especially problematic. Apparently, needing to be with your daughter, who just lost her best friend, is not enough of a reason to take a personal day or two… Not even if today is her birthday.

On the surface, she guesses that her mom didn't have much of a choice about being away; her job requires a fair amount of traveling and this most recent business trip was scheduled months ago. If she digs a bit deeper though, her mother's absence looks less like a work obligation and more like a choice. It's no secret that Natalie is accustomed to a particular kind of lifestyle. Regardless of how much time she would be spending outside of Beacon Hills, away from Lydia, she ultimately accepted the position because the additional income that came with it was too intriguing to pass up.

How else can one afford to purchase a new car every few years, update their wardrobe each season, and keep the wine cellar fully stocked at the lake house?

Lydia used to be impressed by all the things her mother could buy for her, but lately, she couldn't care less, and she has to wonder if she ever really did. She was raised to believe that material things were important, she was supposed to want things…the same way she was supposed to be popular and supposed to be with someone like Jackson. In truth, none of those things made Lydia happy, they only made her feel like she had to be someone…else. Someone whose appearance of happiness could be admired from a distance, rather than someone who forged genuine connections.

In the past year, things have changed. Lydia has changed. She has come to view the expansive, immaculately maintained, professionally decorated, multi-level building in which she lives as an empty shell, not a home. It is a place that is filled with things – things that came with an expensive price tag, but nothing of real value, nothing she would miss if she never saw it again. Thanks to her father's departure and her mother's shiny new promotion, Lydia spends much of her time in the house alone…save for Prada's loyal companionship, of course. It is a place without anything or anyone to muffle the lonely echoes that resound in the quiet morning hours and darkness of night.

Though her own place isn't a comforting one, Lydia knows what home is supposed to feel like because of two exceptional people. Home is a feeling. Home is Allison curled up next to her with a book, a few secrets, and a pile of chocolate chip cookies. Home is Stiles climbing through her window with an irresistibly hopeful smile, a mystery that needs solving, and a pocket-full of notebook paper…engraved in unspoken love.

If home is a place, then its address is 129 Woodbine Lane, the small and cozy, single-level building with family photos on the walls, scuff-marks on the wood floors, a backdoor that creaks when it opens, a dining room that doubles as a home office, and a pile of laundry waiting to be done. It's the place where Stiles lives with his dad – his dad who works long hours and late nights, but still always manages to be there for his son. The place where she slept last night and woke up just a few hours ago, enveloped in warm arms, mesmerized by a sleepy morning voice and golden-brown eyes, and soothed by the beating of a steady heart under her palm. That is home.

Lydia rereads the card her mother left, fixating on the line: It breaks my heart not to be with you today.

Today? What about all the other days?

Her mother seems content to follow in her father's footsteps…both of which are always half-way out the door. She crinkles the message in her fist, lets it fall out of her hand and onto the carpet. Then she slams the lid of the velvet box and pushes it aside. She feels abandoned. She thinks about spending the coming night in this colossal brick structure…alone…and she is scared.

Actively working to ignore the tightness in her chest, she examines the flower petals with her fingertips, concentrating on their silk-like texture. But it's no use. With each passing second, her lungs constrict more forcefully.

When Lydia lifts her eyes to glance at her reflection, a photo of Allison, Scott, Stiles, and herself that is tucked into the corner of the mirror, catches her eye. She is directly struck by a swell of grief. It is as though a fist has collided with her already bruised sternum, knocking the wind from her lungs. Stunned, she grasps for the solid edges of the furniture. Her head starts to spin, and she begins to shake as she unsuccessfully works to catch her breath. She pants, squeezing her eyes tightly while tears slip past her lashes.

Counting to three, she lets herself silently cry. One…two…three. Then she opens her eyes and works to regain control by focusing on the image of Stiles. She examines every detail – expressive eyebrows and a sweet open-mouthed smile lifting the corners of his mouth. She looks at the affectionate way he is glancing down at her upturned face, both arms slung over her shoulders as he stands behind her. She remembers how it felt to be in that moment – relaxed, and happy, and so loved – loved by Allison who is holding her hand like it is a lifeline, loved by Scott who exudes optimism, kindness, and care, and loved by Stiles who looks at her like she is the only girl he ever wants to see. The pain subsides, and she can breathe again.

She quickly retouches her makeup, picks up the delicate, beaded silver bracelet Allison gave her for Christmas, and secures it around her right wrist. Sliding into her black knee-high boots, she grabs her keys and heads downstairs to be with Stiles.

---

He is sitting on the bottom step with Prada at his feet. They are playing fetch with the Papillon's favorite toy – a plush yellow duck that quacks when she chews on it.

When Lydia steps next to Stiles, he stands and reaches for her hand. His touch makes her warmer and less troubled.

"Hey, you alright?"

"Not really," she replies, trying to communicate in her tone that she doesn't want to talk about it now.

She knows Stiles recognizes it because he nods and doesn't press any further. "I took Prada for a walk," he informs her.

Lydia raises her eyebrows skeptically.

"Well…actually she walked with me for a block or so…then I carried her the rest of the way."

"That's what I thought. She is so spoiled."

"And you wouldn't have it any other way."

"No. I wouldn't," she replies, bending down to pet her beloved dog.

Prada seizes the opportunity to roll over for a tummy rub, and Lydia obliges with a smile. When she looks up at Stiles, she can tell he is pondering something…or perhaps plotting…

"What?" she asks suspiciously.

"What?" he repeats.

"That look... You're up to something."

"Maybe. Never mind…you'll find out soon enough."

"Stiles…"

"Come on. Come have some breakfast," he redirects, towing her towards the kitchen.

"Wha— I didn't mean you had to—"

"I know, but you haven't had anything since yesterday and you need to eat."

"But we're already late as it—"

She freezes in the doorway. There is a fresh pot of coffee brewing. He has laid out two bowls of cereal along with a few slices of toast and the apricot jam she likes. The sight of it pulls at her heartstrings. Stiles is clearly exhausted from the ordeal he has been through, but here he is – taking care of her. She feels so unworthy of the attention that it makes her throat hurt.

"So, we'll be late," he deflects. "In all likelihood, the school will still be there when we're done."

Putting his hands on her shoulders, Stiles guides Lydia to a chair by the white and grey marble island and waits until she sits. He retrieves the coffee pot and pours her a cup as well as one for himself. After Lydia adds a teaspoon of sugar and a splash of milk to hers, Stiles takes the seat on her right side. He fixes his coffee with a generous amount of sugar and milk, then takes her hand in his, weaving their fingers together. As their tired limbs casually dangle in the space between their two chairs, Lydia realizes she has never been more grateful to be left-handed. Stiles is right-handed, so they can hold onto each other while keeping their dominant hands free. It's just so easy, the way they fit together, a perfect combination.

She takes a bite of toast and sips her coffee, watching Stiles from the corner of her eye. "So, are you going to tell me what we're doing after school?"

"Nope," he quickly replies.

They exchange a glance. She rolls her eyes at him, and he playfully arches his brows at her. They both look away, then peek back at each other with curled lips. It's exactly the feeling she has been longing for – normal – just Stiles and Lydia…everything else fading into the background. They finish their breakfast in comfortable silence.

Lydia is adrift with her thoughts when Stiles begins running his thumb over hers, sending electricity wandering up her arm. "Why don't you go grab a jacket?" he suggests with a yawn. "You might want it later on. I'll clean up."

She scrutinizes his expression. He is trying to mask it, but he looks drained, and she worries that he is wearing himself out. It has only been two days.

"Stiles…you don't have to do everything. I'm not the only one who has been through… At least let me help you," she offers, letting go of his hand to pick up her plate.

He quickly covers her wrist with his long fingers. His eyes are soft and gentle, but he is uncharacteristically serious. "Lydia, I've got this. You've been looking out for me non-stop since I left the hospital. For one day, please just let me…"

He isn't being harsh, but she can't help taking his refusal as an insult. She lets go of the plate and pulls her arm out of his grasp so she can wrap it around her midsection. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to hover. I just…want to make sure you don't push yourself too much. It's only been two days and…and..."

"Hey, it's alright."

"No, it isn't. You stopped breathing…and you almost…" She looks straight ahead instead of facing him. As much as she wants to sound strong and capable, her voice is betraying her as it breaks with emotion.

Stiles quickly stands up and steps away from the island, pulling her with him. "Lydia, I'm alright, and you're not hovering… You've been amazing," he assures her, before letting his voice trail off. "It's more than I…"

She thinks he was going to say more than I deserve, and it upsets her, the sense of responsibility he has, the weight of the world always on his shoulders...worry about his dad, be there for Scott, keep up with school, take care of her. Stiles's instinct to protect is relentless, and when he thinks he has failed, his propensity to blame himself is equally unyielding. Lydia is about to tell him that he is the most selfless, and kind, and remarkable person she knows, that he deserves the best of everything, that more than anything, she wants to see him happy and she wants him to believe in and trust himself the way she does…

But she doesn't get the chance, because her breath is caught in her throat from the feeling of his hands on her. Her lip begins to tremble, and Stiles wastes no time in trying to comfort her.

"Aww…Lyds, come here," he coaxes, dipping down to hug her. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you."

Something makes her resist. The part of Lydia that questions whether anyone can really care for her begins to raise its voice. It tells her that all the attention Stiles is showing her is purely a manifestation of his guilt – not love. She tenses, but then one of his hands comes up to cradle her head while the other is fixed at the small of her back, dipping into the curve of her spine.

The way Stiles can read her body, always predicting exactly how she wants to be held, provides a sense of relief that burrows deep into her heart and stills her soul. He is completely motionless and solid against her; she feels anchored to him. In his embrace, the part of Lydia that believes that Stiles can and does love her speaks louder. She lets go of the doubt, leaning into him and dropping her head to his chest so she can try to discreetly listen to his heartbeat.

"It's not you. I'm just…" she struggles to explain.

Suddenly, his hand moves to cup her face and angle it towards him. He presses his lips to her skin, peppering her forehead with soft sweet kisses, whispering, "I know…I know…I know."

He has never held her this way before – so confidently, so unhindered, so free from hesitation – like she belongs with him. Unlike the demanding way other boys have pushed their arms around her, with Stiles there is no trace of greed or ownership, only affection and adoration. It feels so right. Lydia had no idea how much she longed for it…until this very moment…and she wants more.

She tugs at the fabric of his sweatshirt with shaking hands, hoping to convey how much she needs him. He seems to understand because he exhales and tightens his grip.

When he eventually leans back to look at her, Lydia's chest floods with emotion. She is unsure of what to do with all the feelings swirling inside of her. He is so close. She has to look away before she comes undone. Her eyes find the floor, but Stiles works to bring her back to him.

"Lydia, look at me. Please, look at me."

She slowly raises her eyes to meet his, sucking in her bottom lip to keep it from quivering.

"You don't have to hide…not from me. Alright? You can tell me anything. You can cry in front of me. You can scream if you want to. I can handle it. I know I look like hell, but I'm not going to break," he jokes weakly.

"Stiles, you don't."

"Don't what?"

"You don't look like hell…just tired."

"Tired but…" he nudges, swaying them both gently from side to side, obviously seeking to lighten the mood.

"Stiles…"

"Tired…but still kind of cute?"

She purses her lips to withhold a grin.

"Tired…but in a sorta sexy way?"

Did he just wink at me?

She tries to forget the image but it's a vain attempt. He has broken through her already weakened defenses, and her mouth curls into a smile.

"That's better," he responds.

"You're impossible. You know that, don't you?"

"But that's part of my charm though… Right?"

"If you say so," she replies, still smiling.

Without warning, a sharp pang of remorse jabs at her stomach. She shouldn't be smiling. Allison is dead.

Stiles moves in to sneak another hug, but Lydia steps back. "I'm going to get my jacket before it gets any later."

He pouts at her, and it's completely adorable, but she keeps going because she needs some time alone. She hurries upstairs to her room, sits on the floor by her bed and takes slow deep breaths until she feels in control again. Then, she touches up her lip gloss, grabs her denim jacket from the closet, and heads downstairs – where she knows Stiles will be waiting for her.

---

When the pair arrive at the high school, the parking lot is packed with cars instead of people. Stiles pulls into one of the few available spaces and turns off the engine. It's nearly 9:30, so the first class of the morning is already well underway. Rather than walking into the middle of class, the two decide to wait in the Jeep and go straight to second period.

In the interim, Lydia stares out the window at the thick mass of fog which seems to have taken on a life of its own. It's waiting for her to let her guard down; threatening to swallow her whole when she does. Inside the Jeep, with Stiles, she is safe, but she fears stepping out into the mist, and returning to a place that holds so many memories. The strain is palpable. She can feel Stiles looking at her, and she can hear his foot tapping as he anxiously bobs his leg up and down. She reaches across, placing her hand firmly on his knee. He startles and stills inside of one second.

"Sorry," he says in a low voice.

"I don't mind. I just…don't want you to get worked up before we even go in."

She turns her palm upwards, and he slides his hand over hers, sighing heavily. "Thanks, I needed that."

Skin on skin, they become just Stiles and Lydia again. They spend the next minutes in silence as he traces circles on the inside of her palm with his thumb, and she listens to the even sound of his breathing.

After a while, he speaks. "Are you sure you want to do this? I mean...maybe you should take another day."

"Chris won't be back until tomorrow night, and then we have to start planning the— I can't just sit around and wait. I need to do something."

Stiles tugs on her hand, and she knows he wants her to look at him, so she does.

"I get it. I do…but if at any point it's too much, and you want to leave…just come get me, and we'll go. Okay? We'll just go."

"I will. I promise."

He releases her hand, and they both step out into the cold. Slowly, they approach the building, hands finding each other once more. As soon as they step through the doors, a sea of eyes simultaneously turns to gawk at them. Lydia stops in her tracks and looks to Stiles who is frowning with dismay. She can feel the anxiety radiating off of him, and it makes her angry to witness his discomfort. The desire to shield him propels her forward. She tilts her head upwards and whips around to face their classmates, pulling Stiles down the swarming corridor, expressly ignoring the stares and whispers. When she glances back at Stiles, he is beaming at her, expression now filled with tenderness and awe. She thinks she sees love in his eyes, and it erases the chill from her bones.

The two continue down the hall, up a long flight of stairs, make a left, and stop outside the chemistry lab. It's much quieter here because there are only a few classrooms open on a daily basis. Lydia has chemistry with Scott, and Stiles has English literature with Kira, in the next room. Though they won't be far from each other, Lydia is already dreading the time apart from Stiles.

He braces against the wall and slides his arm over her shoulder. She leans into him, sharply aware that his breaths are quick and shallow. Swiftly moving in front of him, she puts her hand on his chest. His heart is pounding too.

"Are you alright?" she asks.

"I think so. It's weird being back here though."

"Yeah, it is. Just try to take slow breaths," Lydia tells him, gently rubbing her hand over his sternum.

His eyes widen a bit, but he inhales and exhales slowly with her.

"Better?"

He nods, blinking down at her, gold flecks in his eyes flashing at her like signs along a highway. They guide her closer, make her want to stretch up on the tips of her toes and kiss him.

He's so close, and he is so good to me, and he's so beautiful…

The sound of footsteps, followed by a soft voice, travels from a few feet away. "Hey guys."

"Hey Scott," Stiles answers.

Lydia takes her hand off of Stiles, immediately ashamed for thinking about kissing him when Scott is heartbroken over Allison. "Scott…"

She isn't sure what kind of expression she should expect from him when she turns, but there is no suggestion of bitterness, only sadness and compassion. He holds his arms out to her, and she steps up to her friend, wrapping her arms around him.

"Listen, I know it's your birthday..." he starts, "and I want to say something, but it feels wrong to say happy anything."

"It's okay. I'm just glad you're here," she assures him.

He hugs her briefly, but tightly, then kisses her cheek and reaches for Stiles's shoulder. "You okay?"

"Yeah, just my usual anxious self…taken up a few notches. I'll be fine," he shrugs.

Scott forms a weak smile and readjusts the strap of his backpack. "Kira should be here any minute."

"Speaking of…" Stiles points out with a wave.

When he drops his arm, Lydia nudges his wrist and he immediately links their pinkies.

"Hi," Kira says as she steps next to Scott. She looks at him, smiling timidly, but seems careful not to touch him.

The four stand quietly until each of their teachers enter their respective classrooms.

"Well, I guess we better go in," Lydia says to Scott.

"Yeah us too," Kira says looking at Stiles before abruptly moving towards Lydia and putting her arms around her.

Lydia is surprised by the gesture, but she lets go of Stiles to return the embrace with both arms.

After a few seconds, Kira steps back. "I just wanted to say…if you need anything, I'm here. I know we don't know each other all that well…and I know you have Stiles and Scott, but if you know…there's anything I can do…to help… I'm here too. Okay? Unless you think that would be uncomfortable for you…because I don't want that…I—"

"Kira."

"…just want to…"

"Kira."

"…help if I can… Huh?"

"Thank you. That means a lot to me."

Kira smiles. "Great. I mean you're welcome. I mean…I'll see you later," she fumbles. Then she departs, looking over her shoulder at Scott before entering the classroom.

The three remaining share a knowing glance and a collective grin. Kira's awkwardness is undeniably sweet. Lydia considers how difficult things must be for her. She and Scott were obviously getting closer, and then...Allison. She must be so confused about how and where she fits into Scott's life.

When the bell that signals the beginning of class buzzes overhead, Lydia snaps out of her wandering thoughts.

Scott says a quick "See ya later" to Stiles and steps into the chemistry lab.

Stiles turns to Lydia, squeezing her hand and reaching out to touch her chin. "Don't forget...I'm right next door."

"I won't. You too. I mean…if you need me…or Scott."

He wets his lips and nods. "I'll meet you here before algebra." Then he gives her a quick hug and disappears behind the door of his classroom.

---

Chemistry class drags sluggishly. Lydia can literally feel other students' eyes on her, boring into her. She squirms in her seat, watching the clock while her chest tightens with grief for Allison and longing for Stiles. There is a prickling sensation underneath her skin that is unbearable, and she is about to walk out of class when Scott sympathetically rests his hand on her arm. She can tell that he understands, and she wants to be there for him, so she stays. As soon as class is over, she and Scott spring from their chairs. He has a free period next, so he tells her he is going to the library and they make plans to meet for lunch with Kira.

On the way out of the room, Lydia is in such a rush to get to Stiles that she nearly passes him by, but he catches her elbow…and she can breathe again.

In algebra, they sit at the farthest corner of the room. Stiles takes the seat to her right, so they can hold hands. Every so often, his thumb slips underneath the smooth silver beads of her bracelet to caress her wrist, and it eases the throbbing ache in her heart. Lydia is certain that getting through the day would be much less painful if she had every class with him. Whenever she shifts her eyes towards Stiles, his are already fixed on her. The way he looks at her incites a fluttering in her stomach that thaws her from the inside out.

On the way to lunch, several different people stop them in the hallway to say how sorry they are about Allison. Lydia doesn't know any of them and is pretty sure Allison didn't either, but she bites her tongue…and nods…and smiles…and presses closer into Stiles each time another person approaches. Their intentions may be good, but it's painfully awkward to hear another strange face tell her how amazing Allison was. She just wants to get through the day without crying in public, but every word they utter pushes her one step closer to tears.

After the fifth person, Lydia is ready to bolt for the bathroom. Stiles, of course, appears to be reading her mind. He knows just what to do to stop her from taking off. He keeps a strong arm around her waist, and at the exact moment she feels herself losing her composure, he subtly interjects and quickly ends the conversation. She is so affected by his ability to respond to her that she can't find a way to thank him other than to drop her head to his chest and pull him into a hug.

---

In the cafeteria, they meet with Scott and Kira as planned. Lydia has just finished listening to a nauseating, sugary-sweet voicemail from her mother; pure overcompensation that destroys what little appetite she had. She slips her phone in her bag, stacks her books on the table, and sits on the bench across from Kira. The two girls exchange a grimace when they both realize that nearly every person passing their table is either staring at Scott or Lydia. Her anger starts to flare as she considers the lack of subtlety they display. The way everyone so blatantly gawks at them makes her feel like a thing, not a person. By the time Stiles walks up to the table, she is thoroughly annoyed, tight fist clamped against her mouth to withhold the scream that is compiling at the back of her throat.

Stiles sets two trays down and slides one in front of Lydia, then sits next to her, straddling the bench.

"Thanks, but I'm not hungry," she tells him, keeping her eyes on her history book.

"Well, I am…but if you're not eating, then neither am I."

"Stiles, eat," she says, spark of irritation coloring her tone.

"Ladies first," Stiles counters, moving closer to her.

Fearful that she will unfairly direct her frustration at him, Lydia remains silent.

"Lydia, come on…please."

Stiles is leaning over her shoulder. His breath breezes across her ear when he speaks, and she shudders. She wonders if he has any idea what he is doing to her. She ticks her head to one side and confronts him with narrowed eyes – ready to spar, but he is giving her nothing but concern and sweetness, and he makes her forget whatever she was going to say. She reluctantly picks up the sandwich from her tray, takes a bite, and waits for him to do the same.

Over the next few minutes, the two continue to challenge each other to eat. Once Lydia starts to relax, his hand connects lightly with her shoulder blade. She leans into his palm, and Stiles curls his fingers under, kneading her tense muscles with his knuckles. Just like that – he puts out one fire and kindles another. The anger that was threatening to consume her has been extinguished, but a slowly intensifying heat begins to rise in her belly and spread outwards in every direction. It soothes the aches in her muscles and coaxes her closer. When Stiles stops, she has to bite her tongue to keep from moaning in protest, but then he drops his hand to her hip, and she freezes. Every so often, he edges nearer…until eventually, Lydia is propped against his chest, his jaw resting against her cheekbone and left arm wrapped completely around her. It feels so good. The closer they are, the more she wants to keep it that way.

Lydia quietly listens to the conversations going on around her without paying much attention, but she thinks she detects Stiles tensing up against her when Kira mentions that Malia Tate will be starting school with them next week. It gives Lydia pause, but as Stiles starts playing with the narrow gold ring she wears on her index finger, she dismisses the uneasiness and concentrates on the gentle rise and fall of his chest against her back.

---

Not having any other classes with Stiles makes the afternoon painstakingly long. Lydia, who normally has no trouble focusing, finds that she can't concentrate on her work for more than a few moments at a time. Her mind keeps drifting between Allison and Stiles. In art class, she is haunted by the unoccupied chair beside her – where Allison should be sitting. In history, she looks at the series of scribbles Stiles penned in the margin of her notebook and counts the minutes until the final bell because she is aching to get back to him.

When class mercifully ends, Lydia gets halfway to her locker and finds she is unable to move any closer. She is surrounded by a swarm of voices, talking and laughing as though nothing has changed, as though nothing is wrong. Students happily gather their belongings and make plans for the rest of their day. Meanwhile, the shrieking sound of locker doors swinging open and slamming shut resounds in her head. Nearly every locker, save for one – which Lydia is supposed to empty tomorrow, so she can bring Allison's belongings home to Chris. The concept makes Lydia queasy, but she promised she would do it, and she can't let her best friend's father down. There are so many people around and so much activity that it makes her head hurt and her chest seize. She is compelled to run for the doors that lead to the parking lot because she is suffocating under the unrelenting pressure, but then she feels a hand at the small of her back. Stiles.

"Hi," he greets her, pressing a kiss to the side of her head.

She turns and looks up, relief washing over her as she is finally able to take a breath. "Hi."

Her eyes start to water while her heart rushes with love for him. He's always here for me when I need him. She knows he can see her tears and is grateful that he doesn't draw attention to them. He simply takes her books and puts a reassuring arm around her shoulders.

"I've got some time before practice. How about I walk you to the library?"

"I have to stop by my locker first."

"Sure." He falls in step with her as they pass down the hall, through the gradually thinning crowd.

Lydia's body wants to resist each step, but she pushes forward. When she reaches for her lock and begins fumbling with the dial, Stiles covers her hands with his and enters the combination himself. He holds her bag open for her while she swaps her books. His eyes are searching and vigilant, almost like he is warning people to keep away from her.

"All set?" he asks.

"Yeah."

They walk to the library where some students that Lydia hardly recognizes are taking measurements and setting up a table near the door. Lydia overhears their not so discrete whispers about the memorial for Allison that they're working on. She raises her brow and makes eye contact with Stiles as he anxiously taps his finger on the strap of his bookbag.

The first words to leave his mouth are an apology. "This was obviously not one of my better ideas. I'm so sorry Lydia."

"It's not your fault. How could you have known? It's not like anyone asked her friends to be involved," she says through gritted teeth while waving her hand with disgust.

"Do you want me to take you somewhere else?"

She shrugs, tension warping into defeat. "I'm not going to be able to avoid seeing it for long. May as well get it over with. Besides…it doesn't look like they'll be making much progress." She nods her head towards the small group. They are already bickering over details.

"You're amazing. You know that?"

"I'm not," she replies, shaking her head. She thinks if she were, then she could have saved Allison. If she were, she could have found Stiles when he was missing.

"Yeah…you are," he maintains. He gently pushes her hair behind her shoulder and massages the base of her neck with the pads of his fingertips. It feels so good to have his skin against hers that she can't withhold the whimper that escapes her mouth or the tremble that succeeds it as she fights the desire to cover him with kisses.

"Lydia, you're shaking. Are you cold?"

"A little," she fibs.

Her mind wanders again. She isn't supposed to be feeling like this. Not when her best friend is dead. It's completely selfish to be consumed with want when Allison is gone…forever.

Stiles is asking her a question, but she can't discern the words. He nudges her chin upwards and their eyes connect, waking her from a loop of internal conflict. "Lydia?"

"Sorry… What did you say?"

"I have an extra sweatshirt in my locker. You can have this one, if you want."

"Oh... No, I'll be okay. It's always hot in the library anyway."

"Alright. If you're sure…"

"Yeah," she forces a small smile.

"I should probably get going," he says, but he hesitates, looking at her thoughtfully. His hand is still grazing the nape of her neck.

Irrefutably pulled towards him, she steps forward and places her hand over his heart. "Stiles?"

"Yeah, Lyds?"

Allison is stumbling backward as a sword is callously withdrawn from her abdomen. Her hands clutch the wound. Stiles is falling to the floor in the hallway…mere steps from where they are standing right now.

The three words she has been struggling to say for weeks, fight their way into her mouth and dissolve on her tongue. She changes course. "I—I heard Finstock's in a mood… Good luck."

He frowns but quickly reshapes it into a shy smile. Then, he touches his forehead to hers. Their noses graze as he pulls away whispering, "Thanks for the warning. I'll see you later," before jogging down the hall, leaving her breathless and already missing his presence.

---

Lydia spends the next hour and thirty minutes trying to work on her history paper. She finds a secluded spot on the upper level of the library and sets up her laptop. Propping her face in her hands, she rubs at her temples. She has a raging headache, so she pops two ibuprofen tablets and takes a gulp from her water bottle to wash them down. The pain in her head and the aching in her chest make it difficult to focus. Every time she hears a sound, she loses her train of thought. Somehow, she manages to type three pages. It's far from her best writing, but it's good enough, so she saves her work to proofread later.

She still has another twenty minutes until she can meet Stiles. Resting her head on her arms, she resists the inclination to appease her tired eyes. She can't sleep. It's worse when she sleeps – and Stiles is not with her. By the time her phone buzzes with a text, her headache has passed.

Sorry…running late. Meet me by the Jeep in 5?

Quickly typing a reply, Lydia pulls her jacket on and gathers her belongings. As she exits the library, she notes the lack of progress on Allison's memorial, it sickens her to hear strangers debating over which photo best captures Allison's spirit. She averts her eyes and glides past the group unnoticed.

On her way out of the school, it's impossible not to look at Allison's locker. There is no one around, so Lydia stops directly in front of it and raises her hand to the door. The cold metal against her skin triggers a vivid flashback of the moment she felt Allison's death. Clutching at her stomach, she abruptly retreats and rushes out of the building.

When she gets to the parking lot, Stiles is standing by the Jeep with his back to her, which gives her an extra minute to collect herself. She doesn't want to ruin whatever he has planned, so she takes a breath and does her best to seem unaffected when she speaks.

"So…what happened? Coach make you guys run laps?"

Stiles turns his head at the sound of her voice, sweet smile on his face. He is clearly trying to conceal something in his arms.

"What are you—" Lydia begins.

"Actually, I didn't go to practice. I had a few errands to run," he replies, turning the rest of the way around to reveal that Prada is in his arms.

"Stiles, you didn't!" she gasps, wide-eyed with disbelief.

"You're not mad… Are you?" he asks.

"No, no…of course not." She shakes her head and lifts her hand to touch his shoulder. "Is she my surprise?"

"Well…she's part of it. She wasn't in the original plan, but I saw how sad you were to leave her this morning, and I thought…maybe we could take her with us. Is it okay?"

"Yeah, it's more than okay," she tells him, stepping closer. "She should probably have her dinner and another walk first though."

"Taken care of. I fed her at your house and took her for a walk, so she should be fine until later." He nods his head towards the Jeep. "Come on."

As he opens the passenger's side door, tears form behind Lydia's eyes. She sets her bag down near her feet and takes a deep breath.

Stiles waits for her to buckle herself in before placing Prada in her lap. He hesitates, looking at her pensively. "Long day… Huh?"

"Yeah," she agrees.

He shifts his eyes downward, nervously fiddling with his key ring. "Uh…you sure this is okay? I didn't mean to push you this morning. If you want to go home, I'll understand."

"Actually, I think this will be good for both…well, all three of us."

"Yeah?"

She nods.

"Okay, good." He gives her a long look before stepping back and closing the door.

She watches as Stiles crosses to the driver's side and climbs in next to her. "So…where are we going?"

"You'll see," he answers coyly.

"Stiles…you promised – simple."

He reaches across and cups her face with his left hand, catching a stray tear in his palm. "It is. I swear." Then he starts the Jeep and pulls out of the parking space.

---

As they drive along the familiar road that cuts through town, Lydia can't help the excitement that builds each time Stiles glances over at her. With him next to her and Prada nestled in her lap, she is less burdened.

The sun is already setting behind a cover of white clouds that are gradually darkening to grey when they arrive at Lookout Point, fifteen minutes later. Stiles parks and walks around to help Lydia out of her seat. It's noticeably colder than it was earlier in the day, and the ground is damp and slackened beneath their feet. Heavy mist clings to their ankles, but Lydia ignores the way it whispers to her and focuses on Stiles, who is leading her to the back of the Jeep.

"I just need a few minutes. Close your eyes and wait right here," he says softly.

Lydia quirks her head to the side and raises an eyebrow but follows his instructions as nervous energy flares in her stomach. She holds onto Prada, pursing her lips in suspense. The trunk creaks open, she hears a series of rustling noises…followed by a couple of muffled curses, then she senses Stiles coming to stand behind her. He puts his hands on her shoulders and leans into her until his cheek brushes against hers.

"Okay…you can open your eyes now."

What she sees takes her breath away. The Jeep has been transformed. The back seat has been stowed, the floor of the trunk is covered with blankets, there are rows of fluffy pillows and a border of fresh cut lilac flowers scattered all around. She quickly realizes that Stiles had to have planned this, or some version of it, months ago.

Lilacs. He got me lilacs…in March…when they aren't even in season.

Lydia stares open-mouthed until Stiles speaks up, starting to step aside. "Crap…Did I screw up?"

"What? No, I…" She impulsively turns her head, raises her free hand over her shoulder, and catches the side of his face before he slips out of her grasp. Almost instinctively, her fingers explore the curve of his ear before gingerly sliding back to weave into the silky strands of his hair. She and Stiles are so close that their lips make barely perceptible contact when she says, "I... It's… Stiles, it's perfect."

A fraction of an inch closer, and we would be kissing, she thinks. Lydia is incredibly tempted but equally fearful of the consequences, so she doesn't move. A fraction of an inch – that's all it would take to lose him.

He sighs with relief, breath and lips tickling her mouth as he speaks. "Oh…okay…good."

They pause for an extended moment, unsure of what to do next. Suddenly, a single flash of lightening illuminates the sky and they both startle, shifting their gaze to the heavens.

"Whoa…that's close," Stiles remarks. "We better get in, before it downpours."

Lydia follows him and sets Prada down in the Jeep. The pup quickly finds a corner near the pillows and curls up into a ball. Lydia climbs in next, positioning herself farthest from the door with her legs crossed underneath her. Stiles hops in last, closing the trunk behind him. He situates himself next to Lydia and switches on the overhead light. The sound of rain hitting the roof comes soon after.

It's warm and cozy inside the Jeep; their own little safe haven. Lydia wants to remember every detail. Just as she did in the morning, when she woke in Stiles's arms, she studies her surroundings – the softness of the blankets and pillows, the rhythm of a dynamic rain shower tapping on the roof, the fragrance of the lilacs…sweet but not overpowering, Prada contentedly wandering into sleep like she hasn't a care in the world, and Stiles sitting beside her…looking at her in that way he does.

He is with me…and he did all of this for me.

It's perfect – and Stiles made it so. Because he knows her better than anyone has ever cared to. Despite the loss that is weighing on her, Lydia feels fortunate because the boy she loves actually loves her back. Although he has never said it, he shows her all the time, and she can feel it. She thinks maybe if she tries to do the same, Stiles will understand that she loves him too.

She picks up a flower and twirls it in her fingertips. "Lilacs are my favorite…but you knew that already... Didn't you?"

"You may have mentioned it."

"And you somehow managed to get them today…when they aren't even in season…"

"I...uh…may have planned something a while ago."

"A few weeks ago…" she prompts.

"Maybe…if by a few weeks, you mean a few months…like six of them," he admits, tiniest hint of redness rising in his cheeks.

"You were thinking about my birthday six months ago?"

He chews on his lip bashfully, eyes flashing each time he blinks, directing her closer. It's not often that Stiles is left speechless. Lydia places her hand on top of his and links their digits hoping to relax him. It seems to work. Stiles responds with a boyish grin before lifting their joined hands and placing them in his lap.

They sit quietly, listening to the rain, watching as lightning flares above and pretty amber lights flicker on throughout Beacon Hills below. It's like a private light show, just for them.

With Stiles so close, Lydia is supremely aware of their connection. She tries to pinpoint when she knew she loved him, but it is like trying to count the raindrops as they fall from the clouds. She was sure of it when she kissed him, yet she thought it even before then. Falling in love with Stiles was a contradiction in terms – it happened gradually and all at once. It was quiet, but it carried over the sounds that fill her head with uncertainty. It was unexpected, yet unequivocally meant to be. She never knew falling in love could be like that.

"I almost forgot…" Stiles says, lifting aside one of the pillows. He retrieves the parcel that is hidden behind and hands it to her.

Lydia recognizes the crisp white box with its magenta colored logo. It's from Sweet Surrender, her favorite bakery. "Is that what I think it is?"

He arches his eyebrow and glances down at the box waiting for her to open it. She does…and sure enough, it contains a perfectly decorated, raspberry-chocolate cupcake (her favorite) with a single pink candle at the center.

Stiles pulls a lighter from his pocket and lights the candle, then he lifts her hand and grazes his lips against the skin above her knuckles. "Make a wish," he says with a gentleness in his tone that she is sure is reserved for her alone.

The candlelight draws out the hollows in his cheeks and the angles of his face. It makes the gold flecks in his eyes flash brighter, drawing her nearer.

Lydia closes her eyes. She wishes that she could tell Stiles how much she loves him – without losing him, then she blows out the candle and watches the trail of smoke as it swirls around their heads.

She remembers a slight strawberry-blonde wearing a floral pinafore, uncovered freckles, and an uninhibited smile. A girl who chased butterflies and played in the dirt because she wanted to learn everything she could about the world around her by experiencing it with her own two hands. A girl who believed that birthday wishes could actually come true.

Now she knows they don't. Tears rapidly fill her eyes. She is helpless to stop them, so she drops her head onto the shoulder of the boy who makes her miss that little girl, the boy who has never let her down and who makes her want to learn to believe again.

"Stiles…thank you. This is…the sweetest thing anyone has ever done for me. I will never forget it."

She lifts her head, setting free a waterfall of tears that cascades between their bodies, leaving splotches on his sweatshirt, her lap, and both of their hands. Stiles is clinging to her palm, looking at her so intently and with such devotion that it sends her heart racing. She leans in, grazing her nose along his jawline before gingerly pressing her lips to his cheek. She can hear him swallow with difficulty, but she moves closer, placing one hand on the nape of his neck and drawing him in until their foreheads are touching.

Together, they still – lips parted, breathing in the same air. Lydia catches one last flash of gold before Stiles closes his eyes, then she follows his lead.

The rain has stopped, the forest is noiseless, and the only sound Lydia can hear is the pounding of her heart. To her, this moment is more intimate than a kiss. Stiles has not made a move, but his patience is strengthening the trust she has in him, opening her up, and making her feel alive during one of the darkest times in her life. She doesn't think she deserves him, but he is the best thing to ever happen to her and she just wants him to stay with her.

"Stiles?" she whispers.

"Yeah Lyds."

"Will you lie down with me for a while?"

"Yeah, yeah of course."

He turns to rearrange the pillows behind them, grabs an extra blanket, and slides onto his left side, holding his arms open for her. Lydia melts into him, resting her head in the crook of his shoulder and pulling the blanket over them both. She shifts until she is comfortable, then plays with the zipper of his sweatshirt while he soothingly rubs circles along her spine. It feels so good that it makes her body quiver.

"Are you warm enough?" he asks, stopping his hands.

She nods against him and waits for him to resume massaging her back. When he does, it makes her want to lift the veil, let him see inside, see how broken she is, and find out if he still cares.

"My mom left flowers in my room...and a big diamond pendant," she says, unable to hide the disdain in her voice.

He twists his mouth…somewhere in between a pout and a frown. "Not exactly you… Is it?"

"No."

Stiles picks up her hand, nudging her dainty gold ring with his thumb. "This is you."

He pays attention. All she wants is for someone to show her that they know her, really know her, and with three little words, Stiles does that. He knows how to make her feel better, and he never misses an opportunity to prove it. Stiles always knows.

"She thinks she can just…buy me things and it that makes everything alright, but she's never there for me anymore."

He listens. He can tell she has more to say…so he just listens. Because he's Stiles, and he is capable of deciphering the moments when she just wants to be heard.

"She used to be different, when my dad first left…but ever since she got this promotion…she's never there…and she left a card and a voicemail…and she sounded so damn cheerful that it made me sick…and I don't want to call her back because..."

"Because even though you're angry, you still miss her…but you don't want her to know that."

"Yeah. Does that make me a horrible person?"

"No, not at all. It makes you human."

"Sometimes…" she whispers, "Sometimes I want to just take Prada and leave. I bet my mother wouldn't even notice."

He briefly closes his eyes, like it hurts him to hear the words just as much as it hurts her to say them. "Lydia, I'm sure that's not true."

"I'm not."

"Well I'd notice. I don't want you to go. I'd miss you so much. I'd be…devastated," his tone is soft and permeates with emotion.

He said devastated. She believes him, and the notion leaves her searching for a response that is worthy of him. His arms, and his hands, and his words are connecting with the most fragile parts of her. Stiles is keeping her from falling apart. Her ever-growing love for him makes her feel brave – not reckless enough to say she loves him, but bold enough to say something equally meaningful.

"I'd come back to you."

His expression is a mixture of amazement and contentment, and Lydia sees it again – all of his love radiating from a face that makes her want to kiss him and dissolve into him all at once.

At the same moment, Lydia's fear starts to slither out from its hiding place. She doesn't want to let it shut her down, so she tries to divert the conversation just enough to keep the monster at bay.

"We were going to go to Paris this summer…Allison and I."

"You were?"

"I was going to tell you…but things got so…"

"Yeah, I know."

"Chris said we could stay in his apartment in the seventh arrondissement for two weeks. Allison showed me pictures last month. It's beautiful. It has floor to ceiling windows and a balcony that overlooks Rue de Grenelle."

"I bet you had the entire trip planned already."

"Yeah. We did."

"Do you want to tell me about it?"

Lydia's eyes start misting, but the depth of his voice lulls her into such a secure state that she wants to share more of herself with him. "We were going to visit all of the gardens I've been dreaming of since I was a little girl…like Jardin du Luxembourg and Jardin de Plants. We were going to walk along the Seine and cross Pont Royal to spend a day in the eighth. That's where the Louvre and the Jardins du Tuileries are. There's a museum there called Musée de l'Orangerie. We wanted to see the impressionist paintings by Degas, and Cézanne, and Monet. We could have walked the Champs-Élysées all the way down to the Arc de Triomphe. At the Île de la Cité, across Pont Neuf, we could have seen Notre Dame and had lunch under the chestnut trees at Place Dauphine."

"What else were you going to do, Lyds?" he coaxes, wiping fresh tears from her cheeks.

"We would have gone to Champs-de-Mars…ride the carousel, spend an entire day in the shadow of the Eiffel Tower, then see it lit up at night. We would have been there to watch the fireworks on Bastille Day. We were going to go shopping at Le Bon Marché and try all the best cafés and pâtisseries…the well-known ones like Ladurée and Odette, and the ones that only the locals know. We were going to talk all night, then sleep 'til noon…and start all over again. We aren't going to do any of that now. Stiles, we'll never do anything together again…and it hurts so much."

Tears are rolling sideways across Lydia's face from her left eye to her right, then pooling and absorbing into his sweatshirt. She is painfully aware that Stiles is trying to withhold his own sobs, his chest erratically heaving against her.

"Lydia…I'm so sorry. I should have never…it's all m—"

"What was it like for you? When your mom…" she interrupts. She realizes he was about to blame himself for what happened to Allison, and she can't hear it. It wasn't his fault. It was never his fault.

He bites his lip, blinking with surprise. Then, he opens his mouth to speak but no sound comes out. Lydia immediately regrets her words. She ducks her head down, afraid to see the hurt in his eyes.

"Oh my god... Stiles, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked you that. I had no right."

He tucks his index finger under her chin and encourages her to look at him. There is no hurt or anger, only understanding.

"It's okay. I was just…surprised. You've never asked about her before."

Sneaking her hands in between them to dry his cheeks with her palms, she explains, "I wanted to, but I thought…maybe you didn't want to talk about her with me."

He furrows his brows. "Why?"

"Because I didn't really know her."

"I wish you had. She'd have really liked you."

"You think so?"

"I know it."

"Will you tell me then…what it was like for you?"

He lets go of her chin to scratch at his jaw and takes a deep breath. "It…uh… It felt like this giant empty space appeared out of nowhere…one I didn't even know could exist."

"I feel like that now…like there's this blank space next to me, where Allison should be standing, and no one is ever going to fill it…and I don't want anyone to because…it's her space. Letting anyone else there would be wrong. You know?"

"Yeah, I do," he replies, and she knows he means it.

"What's your favorite memory of your mom?" she asks, reaching up to smooth his hair without even thinking about it, and just like that, the feeling she has been searching for resurfaces – they are just Stiles and Lydia again.

"Yeah, every day. Every single day. She… She always used to wake me up in the morning. I was never a great sleeper, so the sound of her cracking the door open would wake me, but I'd pretend to still be sleeping while she tiptoed across the room. Then, she'd sit next to me on the bed and start singing…until I gave in and opened my eyes for her."

"What did she sing?"

"Ah…god…anything that popped into her head at the time. The Beatles were her favorite, but also Kansas, Sinatra, Pat Benatar, songs from old musicals…she even had a boy band phase," he elaborates, with a small smirk. "I swear she knew every lyric to every song ever written. The first morning after she died, I... I thought I heard her singing Hey Jude. I woke up convinced she wasn't gone…that losing her was just a nightmare, but then I realized it wasn't. That happened pretty much every morning…for months. I'd open my eyes and it would hit me – she's not here and she's not coming back…and…"

"And you felt like you lost her all over again," she finishes for him.

"Yeah, exactly."

"Does it last?"

He gives her one of his upside-down smiles and runs his hand through her hair, all the way from the crown of her head to the ends in one smooth movement. "No…but honestly, the first time I woke up and I didn't hear her, I felt awful. I thought it meant I was forgetting her…that I had gotten over her…and that it was too soon." He starts twirling the ends of Lydia's hair in his fingers before continuing. "But that's not what it was. You don't get over that kind of loss. You just…change, so you can deal with it."

She watches his hands as he continues to play with her hair, her heart continually quickening. She remembers hearing once, that you know you love someone when even the sight of their hands sets your heart ablaze.

"What do you mean?" she asks.

"That empty space is there, but I'm used to it now. So instead of wanting to cry every time I think of her, I can just stop and be thankful that she's still on my mind…that she hasn't really left me."

"Stiles?"

"Hmm…"

"Do you think it will be like that for me?"

He kisses her forehead, letting his lips linger. "Yeah…you'll get there. It just takes time."

Lydia relaxes further as the pair gradually settle into lighter conversation. Stiles helps her refocus her history paper, and she helps him with the algebra homework they've been assigned. They share the cupcake, passing a fork between them until every crumb is devoured. She is helpless as he hypnotizes her with his mouth – lips and teeth gliding over the prongs of the fork, tongue jutting out every now and then to capture a stray cake crumb. There's a patch of melted ganache frosting punctuating his cupid's bow, and she literally has to pinch herself to keep from kissing it off of him. She can't leave it there. It's driving her crazy...and she is staring.

"What?" he asks.

"You have some chocolate…" she answers, pointing towards his lip.

"Oh…" He glides his tongue over lips that are curling ever so slightly into a smirk, but he misses the mark. "Did I get it?"

"No," Lydia tells him, as an idea pops into her head. Before she has time to change her mind, she acts. "Here, let me…" She rests her fingertips on his jaw and dabs at the chocolate with the pad of her thumb. His lips are parted and moist. She barely grazes the tip of his tongue as she moves her finger down the center of his mouth, passing his bottom lip and reluctantly dragging her hand away. Without a second thought, she dips her thumb into her mouth for a taste. She tries her best to look innocent when his eyes noticeably widen with shock. By the self-conscious way he shifts alongside her, she figures she was less than convincing.

The rain resumes and intensifies into a thunderstorm. Lightning flashes as large droplets pound against the roof of the Jeep, but Lydia feels safe and protected. She gets lost in Stiles, over and over again – in his eyes, in the sound of his voice, in the sensation of his hands on her. She never wants him to let go.

She tries to tell him how much she needs him, but she is so emotional that the words fail her. "Stiles, I don't want to go back to my house. It's too big and…empty…and I'm… I need..."

"Lydia, of course you're not going back there. You and Prada are staying with me and my dad."

"Won't he mind?"

He looks at her incredulously. "Why would he? He adores you?"

"Really?"

"Yeah, really."

"Could we stay here a while longer?"

"We can stay as long as you want."

Lydia snuggles into his arms. She listens to the sound of his heartbeat, thankful that he is still with her. Two days ago, Stiles was dying, but he came back to her – just like she knew he would.

---

It's nearly eleven p.m. when they return home. Lydia fills Prada's water bowl and sets up the pup's bed with her blanket and toy duck…because Stiles thought of everything. Then she arranges her lilacs in a vase, while he heats some leftover soup and makes sandwiches for them both. She watches him move about the kitchen. Having shed his sweatshirt, he stands before her in well-worn jeans and a basic white tee that reveals sculpted shoulders and a narrow torso, and she can't seem to stop admiring him. Whenever their eyes meet, Lydia has the distinct impression that she has found something she didn't know she was missing.

They settle on the couch in the living room to eat and watch television together for a while. She can see that Stiles is exhausted. His movements are slow, his eyes are red, lids heavy, and she keeps catching him yawning. She worries that he is not getting better, that if anything he is getting worse because he is too focused on taking care of her. The only significant rest he had was in the hospital that first night, under sedation. He needs to rest in his own bed, not to spend another night of interrupted sleep on the couch, consoling her through nightmares. She wants him to stay with her, but her concern for his well-being overshadows her fear of being without him.

"Stiles, you should go to bed."

As soon as the suggestion passes her lips, the distance between his bedroom and the living room seems like too much. The reflex incites panic inside of her as her heart and mind battle for control. It's impossible for Lydia to ignore the way she is drawn to Stiles. The budding desire to let him in, to fully rely on him, to hand him a heart that has already been damaged – that desire now consistently makes its presence known, weakening her resolve with every minute they spend together. Her heart begs her to allow herself closer, but her mind tells her she will lose him. Part of her wants to give in, but another part worries that she already depends on Stiles more than she should depend on anyone, and it makes her uneasy.

"I'm fine here," he answers. "The bed is for you."

"You're still recovering. You need to rest."

"So do you…and you are supposed to be letting me take care of you today," he reminds her.

"Yesterday."

"Huh?"

"It's after midnight…so it's not my birthday anymore," she corrects.

"Lydia…"

"What?"

"If you aren't going to sleep, then neither am I."

"Just because I'm not tired, that doesn't mean you have to stay up."

"Come on…you have to be," he insists, touching her shoulder. "You barely slept last night, you were up early this morning…and I saw you yawning when—"

"Stiles, I said I'm not tired! So just drop it, okay?" Lydia snaps, her pointed tongue a blade against her teeth.

She looks away. Twisting her mouth into a pout, she picks up the remote control and raises the volume of the television a few notches before pushing back into the couch with her arms crossed. She doesn't want to tell Stiles that she is afraid to go to sleep or the reason why, because she knows he is going to blame himself. On top of that, she is afraid to reveal how dependent she is by asking him to stay with her. From the corner of her eye, she can see him staring, his mouth gaping open in surprise at the sharp change in her tone. Her stomach lurches because she was already hyperaware of the pain he is in, and she hates that she is making it worse.

"Fine," he says, leaning back and fidgeting uncomfortably beside her.

For the next few minutes, Lydia stares blankly at the flashing screen of the television wondering what Stiles is thinking. She knows she has done wrong, but she isn't sure how to fix it, what the right words are to explain...everything.

She feels him shift next to her, and she holds her breath, fearful that he is going to get up and leave her there – alone.

I love you. I need you. Please don't leave me.

He doesn't. Instead, he rubs his face with both hands and exhales with frustration. Then, he stretches across her body for the plaid blanket that is draped over the back of the couch. He unfolds it and covers her, same as he had done the night before.

She can't even believe he is real sometimes. He's just too good to be true.

Lydia looks over her shoulder at him, embarrassed and riddled with guilt. She finds the remote control again – this time, to shut the television. Pausing for only a second, she timidly draws the blanket over him and leans her head on his chest.

"I'm sorry," she whimpers into his neck. "Stiles, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to… Please forgive me."

Within seconds, Stiles relaxes against her, draping his arm over her shoulder and pulling her close. "It's alright. I think I know why you don't want to sleep," he tells her, voice cracking over the words.

She remains silent, trying to withhold a sob.

"Lydia, please talk to me. I want to help you."

His tone, full of affection and understanding, along with the vibrations of his voice under her ear, help to reassure her. Glancing up at him hesitantly, she slides her hand across his stomach. She can't help but notice how his abdominal muscles tighten against her fingertips as she searches for his hand under the covers.

"When I close my eyes…when I let myself sleep…I have nightmares. I see her. I see it happening all over again. I'm in the tunnels with you, but I can see Allison…and Scott, and I can hear the sound of my own scream."

She doesn't recount the rest of her nightmare – how when Allison collapses, Stiles disappears from underneath her, leaving behind nothing but a wisp of fog and mist. If she admits it, that will make it real.

"I hate this, Lydia. I hate that she's gone. I hate that you're hurting so much. It should never have happened. If—"

He cries, and she breaks…because it's her fault. If she had just been able to save Allison, Stiles wouldn't be burdening himself with so much culpability.

She lifts her head to make eye contact with him. "Stiles, please don't. I know you think it's your fault…but it isn't. I could never blame you for what happened."

The anguish that is impressed on his face makes her throat constrict. His eyes glisten as droplets trickle down his cheeks. She can feel his chest shake as he sniffles…once, twice…three times.

"But I—"

"No. It isn't true. You have to stop. Please. Please, Stiles...for me..." Lydia grips his shoulder firmly, then continually glides her hand from his collarbone to his chest, attempting to ease his distress.

He gives her that look – the one that tells her there is nothing in the world he can deny her. If she asks, he will do just about anything. She is aware of it and she is using it right now, but she is determined never to take advantage of it – of him – because Stiles is precious to her.

"Okay," he concedes, but she knows he can't accept it yet.

Lydia stares at him for an extended moment while he pokes at his cheek with his tongue.

"Stiles, look…I'll try for you. Alright? I will. I'll try to sleep…just…"

"What is it?" he asks tenderly.

His gold flecks are calling out to her from under a canopy of dark lashes, and he is grasping her hand which has remained on his chest…and her need for him wins out.

"Maybe…we could both stay here," she suggests.

His eyes are still sad, but he quirks one side of his mouth before lifting her hand to his lips and kissing her palm. "Yeah, we could do that."

"And if... If I wake up…"

"Then I'll be here," he says, strength working back into his tone. "Lydia, I'm right here."

"Okay," she replies.

Then she rests her head upon his shoulder, and he leans his cheek against her forehead. They settle in together – Lydia squeezing his hand, and Stiles spinning her dainty gold ring with his thumb...until eventually, they drift to sleep.

When she wakes from a nightmare a few hours later, Stiles is there to comfort her.

And that is what makes all the difference.