Stiles heads to the Beacon County Sheriff's Station thinking about his talk with Scott, wishing that his best friend could be right, but woefully convinced that he is not. He spends an hour with his dad, thankful for the many interruptions that prevent any kind of in-depth discussion between them. He drives home alone, imagining Lydia sitting next to him; intermittent light of streetlamps illuminating her porcelain skin, copper tresses blowing in the breeze, and the smile that she's been trying to hide ghosting across her lips.

The house is dark and noiseless when he enters. He flicks on a few lights, drops his keys on the table by the door, and is startled by the loud clanking sound they make against the wood. He glances towards the kitchen but decides against eating because the knot in his stomach has expanded. Then he stares down the hallway which leads to his bedroom, unable to move.

He has lived in this house for his entire life, had meals in the same kitchen, slept in the same room, but now, it feels…wrong. In the span of a week, Lydia had breathed new life back into the house, but now, it's gone again. The last time the house felt this empty was when he came home from the hospital after his mother died…and it lasted for months.

Lydia's not dead. She is alive…and she is better off without me, he reminds himself.

He goes to his bedroom and starts his homework but ends up leaving half of it to finish during a free period the next day. He grabs mismatched pajamas from the chest of drawers and heads to the bathroom to wash up. For a split second, when Stiles reenters his room, he expects to see Lydia sitting on his bed, legs crossed under her, giant textbook or sketchpad in her lap. After just a few days, he had grown accustomed to her comforting presence, the constant proximity they shared, the tugging he could feel beneath his ribs whenever she shifted around the room. He wants it all back. He wants her back. His astoundingly smart, inconceivably strong, and breathtakingly beautiful, Lydia.

Just two nights ago she was here. She is real, and she was in this bed…with me. It was real. Wasn't it?

He speaks her name for the first time since the previous night, "Lydia." The sound rings hollow in his ears, failing to make his memories seem any more real. "Lydia," he repeats, but without her there to respond, it hurts to say it.

Stiles rubs his temples, trying to force away the cold echo of his own voice. Maybe she was here, but she isn't anymore.

He just needs today to be over – an entire miserable day without once hearing her voice or feeling the warmth she can somehow transmit through delicate hands that are always just a tad cold. He climbs into bed and tries to fall asleep for the second night without his love curled up against him, without her nose pressed into his neck or her breath running across his throat, without her eyelashes kissing his jaw or her fingers intertwined with his. It is just as difficult as the first time, if not more.

Four Days Earlier: March 21

Stiles enters the house carrying Prada after another walk. His soles squeak against the wood floors as he steps into the hallway and locks the door behind him.

"Lyds, we're back," he calls.

"I'm in here," she answers.

He sets Prada down, hangs his baseball jacket on the coat rack, kicks off his wet sneakers, and follows the sweet sound of Lydia's voice to the kitchen.

She is standing at the counter, opening a few cans of tomatoes.

"Hey," he says softly, stepping next to her and resting his hand between her shoulder blades. "What's this?"

"Linguine and marinara sauce. Scott will be over in half an hour or so."

"You didn't have to do this. We could have ordered a pizza or something."

"The two of you would live off of pizza if you could… Wouldn't you?" she remarks with a playful roll of her eyes.

Stiles nods his head in agreement. "Pretty much."

"Anyway, it's not a big deal," she shrugs, as she finely chops an onion. "It's one of like three things I know how to make."

He kisses the top of her head. "Can I help?"

"Sure." She tosses some crushed garlic into a saucepan. It sizzles as soon as it hits the hot olive oil. "You can put a pot of water up for the pasta and reach the basil and oregano for me."

Stiles leans over her to take the dried spices from the shelf above her head and sets them on the counter. Moving to the pantry, he selects a large pot which he fills with water and sets on the back burner. The aroma of sautéed onions wafts up to greet him as he leans over Lydia's shoulder to observe what she is doing. She gently stirs the onions in with the garlic, sprinkles them with salt, lowers the heat, and covers the saucepan with its lid. When she turns to face him, her eyes are watering.

"Lydia?"

"It's the onions," she sniffles. "They produce a chemical irritant called syn-propanethial-S-oxide. It stimulates the lacrimal glands, and they release tears. It's noth—" she continues over trembling lips.

"Lyds…" he interrupts, touching her cheek to trace her tears with his fingertips.

She squeezes her eyes shut, reaching for his forearm and gripping him so tightly that her fingers leave white imprints on his skin. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be. It's just us… Okay? It's just us, and you can tell me."

Her eyes slowly open, large droplets dangling from her lashes. "Sometimes…on Saturday nights…Allison would come over, and I'd make this for her. She would always bring chocolate chip cookies…and after dinner we would climb into my bed to share them…and talk until we fell asleep." Lydia gasps, like it hurts her to breathe. "Stiles, I… I miss her so much."

It's as though there are no limits to the number of ways she can suffer. The thought that he could have prevented it torments him. He wishes he could do something to take her pain away.

Lydia steps away from the stove, towing Stiles with her, then dips her head into his shoulder. Her free hand digs into his hip, pulling him closer. Stiles carefully slides both arms around her and presses her tiny frame into his chest, feeling her slight weight against him as her heels lift from the ground.

He steels himself, working diligently to remain motionless against her so she knows he is there for her, that he won't let her fall. "I know you do. I know."

"Stiles… Stiles…I…" she struggles for words.

She holds onto him so tightly that he can feel every curve of her body. The closeness makes him lose all concept of time; his mind consumed only with Lydia – drenching himself in her essence, riding out the surge of love that crashes over him, and the helplessness he feels as it drags him deeper under the waves.

He is cast back to shore when Lydia's entire body goes rigid. "Oh, crap…the onions!" She swiftly turns away from him and reaches for the cover of the saucepan with her bare hand. "Ouch!" she hisses, quickly setting the lid aside and withdrawing her hand.

"Is it okay?" Stiles asks, wincing at the thought of her in additional pain.

"Yeah…just barely." She answers, further reducing the heat, then leaning over the pan to stir the now translucent onions with a wooden spoon to ensure that they don't stick.

"I meant your hand."

"Oh…uh…it's fine. Can you hand me the tomatoes?" she deflects, hiding her hand behind her back.

He complies, watching as she pours the contents of the cans over the onions and garlic and gives it another stir before seasoning the sauce with the basil, oregano, salt, pepper, and a pinch of sugar. He notices that she doesn't measure any of the ingredients. Lydia Martin, the mathematician, the scientist, precision in everything she does, Lydia Martin does not measure when she cooks – she estimates, she leads with instinct, she feels. And for some reason, it doesn't surprise Stiles at all. Lydia doesn't fit inside the neat, predictable little box that everyone else would force her into…and she never has. He knows that. He has always known that, and this is just another reminder.

Before, there was the façade of a popular girl; beautiful, but actively working to disguise the depths of her intelligence. Now, there is the outed genius; on the fast track to winning a Field's Medal, masking her fears and insecurities with a shield of resolute confidence. But Lydia is so much more than either of those images would suggest. She is whatever she wants to be, at any time and any place. She can do anything. She is strong and soft, smart and beautiful, analytical and artistic, light and dark, calm and wild. Lydia is everything he has ever dreamed she is…and more.

Stiles breaks from his runaway train of thought, realizing he has been mindlessly rubbing Lydia's back the entire time. She replaces the lid on the saucepan, lights the burner under the pot of water, and sets the timer on the stove for fifteen minutes.

"Can I see your hand now?" he asks, taking her wrist without waiting for an answer. "Hmm…it doesn't look too bad. How does it really feel?" he asks, examining the bright pink splotches on the tips of her index and middle fingers while stroking her palm with his thumb.

She turns towards him but stares down at her hand. "It hurts," she admits in a low voice, and he knows she means more than the burn.

"I know," he tells her with certainty. He does know…because Lydia's pain hurts him too. He tucks a ribbon of hair that has come loose from her ponytail behind her ear. "I think I can help with that…I mean…the burn anyway. How about we put some ice on it?"

She nods.

He moves his hands to her waist and eases her back a few paces. Her eyes widen but she puts her palms on his shoulders as though she knows what he is about to do. "Up you go," he says, hoisting her up onto the counter with minimal effort.

Keeping his left hand on her hip, Stiles stretches to the right, opens the freezer door, and grabs a single cube of ice, knocking the door shut with his elbow. He leans against Lydia's knees and she parts for him, so he shifts closer. Focusing his eyes on her hand, he lets go of her hip and gently runs the ice over the pads of her fingers. After counting to ten, he removes it and brings her hand in front of his lips, gently blowing on the sensitive moistened skin.

When he notices that her legs occasionally quake against him, he is concerned. "Am I hurting you?"

She lets out a small sigh, her warmth gusting over his nose. "No, I'm okay."

He wants to believe her, but something inside tells him that no matter what he does, he will always end up hurting her and he hates himself for it.

He repeats the process, icing her skin, then gently warming it back up with his breath, until the cube is nearly melted. Then he pops the remaining segment into his mouth and lets it dissolve on his tongue…along with the words he so desperately wants to say to her. I love you. Lydia, I love you…so much.

Her other hand is still on his shoulder, but he only becomes conscious of it when she begins drawing soothing circles against him with her thumb. He knows she wants him to look at her. When he finally gathers the nerve to do so, her cheeks are flushed, left brow raised, eyes shining. Stiles thinks there is no way she will ever look more beautiful than she does right now but somehow, he knows that tomorrow she inevitably will. She gets more beautiful every single day…every time she smiles at him, or explains something to him, or opens up to him, or comforts him.

She is so close. He struggles to get control of his voice, so he can speak to her, rather than submit to his desire to shamelessly crush his lips against hers.

"So…sugar…" he whispers.

"Huh?" she asks, mouth slightly agape.

"In the sauce, you added sugar…"

"Oh…yeah…right. It cuts the acidity of the tomatoes."

"That's really smart."

Lydia offers him half of a shy smile, glancing down at her fingers while her eyelashes beat as quickly as his heart. "If I was really smart, I would have used a potholder instead of burning my fingers."

Stiles smiles back sympathetically. "How do they feel now?" he asks, bashfully biting his lip.

"Better."

"Good."

They are face to face, his heart rate still increasing to a furious rate, and before he can stop himself, Stiles is kissing Lydia's forehead. She closes her eyes, and he can feel her relax against his lips. When he pulls back, she returns the gesture, soft lips and light breath tickling their way across the skin above his right eyebrow, two icy fingertips and eight warmer ones gingerly gliding through his hair before she tentatively slides her hands down his chest, securing both of her arms around him tightly.

"Thank you," she breathes into his ear…and he calms.

He draws her near. "You're welcome."

She rests her chin on his shoulder and they silently comfort one another; each holding onto the other like a lifeline, only sounds in the room – slow simmering on the stove and steady harmonious breaths from within their joined ribs.

When the timer buzzes, cutting their peaceful moment in two, Lydia turns away to shut the burner. This time, she grabs a potholder before she uncovers the saucepan. Stiles gazes as she stirs the sauce one more time before bringing the wooden spoon to her lips to taste it, his mouth watering at the sight of her and the aroma of the sauce.

"I think it's done. Do you want to try it?"

"Yeah, sure."

"Careful, it's really hot," she warns, cupping her hand under the spoon and holding it out to him.

He bends down and cautiously takes some sauce from the spoon, swiping his lips with his tongue afterward to erase leftover traces of the sauce. "Mmm…wow…Lydia…that is delicious."

"Really?" she asks.

"Yeah. It's perfect." And so are you, he thinks.

"I'm glad you like it," she tells him, setting the spoon aside before returning her hands to his shoulders. "Scott will be here any minute. I should go wash up."

"Okay." He takes hold of her waist and helps her down from the counter.

She shivers against him.

"You alright?"

She nibbles her lip and nods. He is worried he has overstepped some invisible boundary between them but is reassured when she takes his hand and squeezes it. "I'll just be a few minutes. Will you make sure the water doesn't boil over? We can wait until Scott gets here to cook the pasta."

"Yeah, no problem."

She holds onto his hand, and he walks her to the doorway, only letting go when she peeks over her shoulder at him with the softest of expressions. He follows her with his eyes as she continues through the living room and disappears into the hallway.

Stiles drops into a chair at the kitchen table with a huff and rests his head on his palms. It's clear to him that he is even more far gone than he thought. It's Lydia. It has always been Lydia. It will always be Lydia. She is everything. None of that is new. But the throbbing ache in his chest whenever she is out of his reach is only growing stronger. He just had her in his arms…and still he wants to be holding her – right now.

A different kind of sharpness jabs at his chest as the invasive thought of another girl in his arms suddenly crowds his mind. How did I let that happen? It was wrong. I should have stopped. How can I dare put my hands anywhere near Lydia now? I should tell her. What if she doesn't understand? What if she hates me for it? She's been with other guys, but that was before she and I were so close. Things are different now. What if she finds out from someone else? I should be the one to tell her. Explain it the best I can. What if she already knows? She's so smart. What if she figured it out? I should talk to her. But what if she isn't upset at all? What if she doesn't care because she doesn't feel the same way about me?

The Nogitsune is inches from his face, screaming into his ear; gruesome bandages, sharp teeth, foul breath and all. "Let me in, Stiles," it insists. "LET ME IN!"

He rises from the chair and begins pacing. Why couldn't I have just stopped? I let myself fall asleep, I let him in, so he wouldn't hurt Malia…someone I barely know…and I hurt all of the people I love instead…Scott…and Allison…Dad…and Lydia…god, Lydia.

The guilt narrows his windpipe; a strong hand gripping his throat and cutting his inhale short. It's so hot in here.

Leaning against the kitchen sink, he turns on the faucet and splashes his face with cold water, letting it drip down the back of his neck as well. When he looks down at his hands, he sees a splotch of blood. He begins to wash his hands, but the more he scrubs, the more stained they become. He scrubs and scrubs, water running colder and colder against his skin until he has the chills.

"Stiles?"

He jumps at the sound of his name.

"Stiles, what are you doing?" Scott is standing next to him, hand on his shoulder, face stricken with worry.

He looks blankly at his friend, continually lathering and rinsing. "My hands…they're so dirty."

"No, they aren't."

"Yes, they are."

"Stiles…I swear…look." Scott takes hold of both of his wrists, to stop his compulsion. "Look," he repeats.

Breathing heavily, Stiles gathers the nerve to examine his hands another time. "But…I saw…"

"Are you having a panic attack?"

"I don't know. I don't know…maybe," he responds, grasping at Scott for balance, squinting as his vision blurs. His feet stumble to keep up as Scott supports him under the arms and drags him to a chair.

"Alright. It's alright," Scott tells Stiles, kneeling beside him. "Come on, Stiles. Count with me… You can do it…just like before."

"One…two."

"Keep going."

"Three…four."

"Come on…five."

"Six…seven."

"Eight."

"Nine…ten."

"Ten…ten," Scott repeats.

Leaning back in the chair, Stiles sucks in the rest of the breath that has been caught in his throat.

Scott stands and moves towards the sink. He grabs some paper towel and runs it under the faucet, then wrings it out and hands it to Stiles.

Head still buzzing with vertigo, Stiles can feel his best friend staring at him. "Don't worry, I'm fine Scott," he lies, wiping the sweat from his brow with a shaking hand.

"No, you're not. We have to talk about this."

"Not now," he begs, glancing over his shoulder. "Please, don't mention this to Lydia," he whispers. "I don't want her to worry any more than she already has been."

"But she'll want to know."

"Scott, please…don't. Please."

"Stiles, you can't—" he stops mid-sentence.

Within seconds, Stiles understands the reason. A flash of strawberry-blonde catches his eye as Lydia enters the kitchen. She shoots a questioning look at Stiles as he tosses the used paper towel in the trash without leaving his seat. He offers her a weak smile, mouthing the words I'm okay.

"Hi Lydia," Scott says.

She maintains eye contact with Stiles for an extended pause, looking skeptical, then turns to Scott, diving into his open arms. "Hey, glad you could make it," she says.

Stiles can't help the pang of jealousy that strikes him. He knows that Lydia and Scott are friends, knows they are both experiencing the oppressive pain of Allison's death to its fullest weight, but it hurts to witness the lack of hesitation in her body when she leans into his best friend. He can't help wishing she would do the same with him. He catches glimpses of it, but something always makes her tense, or freeze up, or pull away. It pains him to consider the reason for it.

His ears start ringing and he feels himself spiraling, sinking into the chaos of a roughly churning sea, but as soon as Lydia and Scott part, she comes to stand beside him. Her long hair, that she has released from her ponytail, cascades around her shoulders, grazing along his upper arm. She rests her hand at the nape of his neck, almost lovingly gliding her fingers through the ends of his hair at the base of his skull.

Stiles lifts his eyes to Lydia. She is bright like the sun, shining through the dense murky waters. He listens to her voice, kicks for the surface following her glow, and breaches the shallows of chilling despair once more.

He remembers being submerged in ice water and Lydia's voice calling him home – sweet sound muffled at first, then clearer and clearer, until he awoke, shivering even though he felt warm...warm, and in love, and so relieved to be with her again. She pulled him back then. She pulled him back now. She always pulls him back. He takes a deep breath and reaches for her hand, and she doesn't tense, or freeze, or pull away.

Not long after, the three sit down to dinner; Stiles on Lydia's right side, as usual, and Scott across from them both. They all notice the empty fourth chair, but no one needs to voice their anguish. Allison's absence speaks volumes.

Stiles pours Scott, Lydia, and himself some water, and looks down at the plate-full of pasta that Lydia has put in front of him. He picks up his fork, and it is heavy in his hand. He listens to Lydia and Scott talk about their lab report, tapping his finger on his knee and aching to touch her again. She looks over at him, probably noticing that he is twirling linguine around his fork, never bringing it to his mouth. Within seconds, she slides her hand to his forearm, pulling his hand away from his lap and intertwining her fingers with his. As their hands dangle between their chairs, his heart stammers, then finds its natural rhythm – and just like that, the stress begins to leave his body. He hears the waves pounding in his ears as his love for her crashes over him once more. He is able to enjoy the rest of his dinner, focusing on the scent of her perfume, the kind way she glances over at him, and the sensation of her hand inside of his.

Once they finish their meal, Scott takes Lydia's free hand from across the table. "Thanks for this…both of you," he adds, looking at Stiles. "I'd stay a while longer, but I'm supposed to meet Chris, so we can make a few last arrangements…for Sunday."

Lydia's eyebrows cinch together. "Should we come with you? Is there anything I can do?"

Scott smiles gently at her. "No, Lydia…you've done so much already. Chris hardly goes a few minutes without mentioning what a help you've been. We've got this," he assures her, eyes welling up as he speaks.

She squeezes his hand, looking away. After a few soundless moments, they all get up from the table, Lydia never loosening the grip she has on Stiles's hand.

As they reach the front door, Scott hesitates, "Thanks again…really… It helps to be with you guys." He kisses Lydia on the cheek and hugs Stiles, giving him a look that says We are going to talk later, then steps over the threshold and walks to his dirt-bike.

Stiles releases Lydia's hand and drapes his arm over her shoulder as she slides both of her arms around his upper body. They both watch Scott from the doorway. He looks back once, before putting on his helmet and straddling the bike. He fires the engine and lets it idle while he illuminates the headlights. Then he rolls out of the driveway, cutting through the dense blanket of fog as he speeds down the street.

Stiles feels Lydia tap her fingers against his ribs. "Can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"What was going on before…with you and Scott?"

He looks at her, unsure of how to answer.

"I feel like I walked in on an argument or something."

"Oh…no we weren't arguing. He was just concerned."

"About…" she leads, tilting her head up.

Her eyes are trusting, and it nudges at his heart. He can't tell her everything yet, but he can't lie to her either.

"I was feeling kind of fidgety, and it got really hot all of a sudden."

She scrunches up her mouth and lifts a hand to his forehead. "Your head feels cool now. Do you think you're getting sick?"

"No…no…I'm fine."

"You would tell me…if you thought you were… Right?" she implores, sliding her hand to his cheek.

"Of course."

"Okay, good. Well, I guess we should go clean up," she says.

Stiles closes the front door, turning them into the foyer. "Not we…me. You cooked. I'll clean up."

"You sure?"

"Absolutely. Anyway…I think someone is missing your attention," he points out, directing his eyes at Prada who is patiently waiting in the hallway outside his bedroom.

Lydia gives him a half-smile, lets her arms drop, and steps towards the hallway, stalling a few feet away.

"It's okay. I'll be there in a bit."

She purses her lips and continues down the hall, vanishing behind the wall that leads to his room.

Fifteen minutes later, Stiles is putting the last of the dishes away in the kitchen cabinet. He cleans off the countertop and walks to his room. When he reaches the open doorway, Lydia is staring out of his bedroom window. She has that far-off look in her eyes, the kind that makes him want to rush over and hug her, hoping it will somehow ease her pain.

"Lydia?" He speaks softly, but she startles, reshaping into a frightened wounded soul and jolting back sharply…and he reacts, closing the distance between them in a few long strides, then hunching down to make eye contact with her. "Hey, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you."

"I know you didn't. I'm just a bit on edge," she answers, eyes glossy with tears, her bottom lip swollen from biting on it.

"Yeah. I get it," he says, circling her wrists with his hands and gliding his thumbs inside the sleeves of her floral tee shirt to caress the smooth skin of her forearms. "Can I do anything?"

"You already are," she admits, voice thick with emotion.

Stiles hears her breath catch in her throat as she steps closer. It sends an uneasy tingle down his spine that passes as soon as Lydia puts her head on his chest. He is aware that she is intently listening to his heartbeat. She does that now. They've gotten so close that she listens to his heart…and he loves it. Not daring to hope that it means what he wishes it could, he tells himself she only wants to make sure he is okay…since he nearly died a few days ago. Still, it means the world, the way she shows concern for him. Stiles knows that his heart must be racing, and that he should probably be embarrassed by the way it responds to her, but right now, he isn't the slightest bit wary of showing Lydia the effect she has on him...because it just feels so unbelievably good to have her so near.

He releases her wrists, wraps one arm around her waist and the other across her shoulders, drawing her into him. She lets out a small moan as the tension fades from her body and she returns the embrace. Stiles gets lost in the experience of it all. In her. Ever so gently, he begins to sway them, gradually leaning his face towards hers until their cheeks make contact. He wants to kiss her so badly, but he can be just as happy with this – their entire bodies connecting, making him more mindful of how head-over-heels in love with her he really is.

Suddenly, Lydia angles her head upwards, and when she speaks, her warm breath drafts across his lips. "Stiles…is there something you wanted to tell me?"

"Huh?" He wonders if she knows that he was thinking about kissing her.

"When you came into the room, you looked like you wanted to say something."

"Oh…uh…yeah…" It's difficult to think. She is so close. "I was…just going to bring some dinner to my dad. Shouldn't take more than twenty minutes. Will you be alright for a while?"

"Yeah," she tells him, but the way she tightens her grip on his shirt indicates otherwise.

He nods, not wanting to push. He knows she hates to feel fragile. "Okay." Briefly squeezing her before letting go, he continues, "I'll see you in a bit then."

Stiles turns to leave, but Lydia catches the edge of his sleeve."Wait. What if… What if I came with you?" she asks with a hint of uncertainty coloring her tone.

She surprises him with that simple question. Emotions bared so raw and openly, through seemingly inconsequential words – words that to Stiles, convey the fear and vulnerability she is so desperately trying to conceal. What he is hearing is that she doesn't want to be alone, and she is admitting it in the only way she is comfortable with at the moment. It's all he needs. Her request lightens his heart, pushing against the darkness that still hovers around it, offering him hope…something he is in desperate search of, now more than ever.

Their eyes are locked, and he thinks he can see inside to her soul…and it is beautiful.

"Yeah…definitely. You could do that."

"Can I bring Prada?" she pleads sweetly, almost child-like.

He smiles a fond, lopsided smile at her. "Sure. Let me warm up the Jeep, and then we'll go."

"You don't have to."

"I know, but I don't want you to be cold." He swiftly kisses her head and moves to the doorway. "I'll be right back."

"Stiles?"

"Yeah Lyds?" he replies, turning to face her.

Her arms are wrapped around her mid-section, as though she is trying to hold something in. "I… I just… Thanks."

He thinks she wants to say more, but he is willing to wait until she is ready. He would wait forever for her, and he has never been more sure of that than right now.

He guesses he should just say you're welcome, but it doesn't feel like enough. Being with Lydia, makes him feel braver…and the words, "I'd do anything for you," tumble from his lips. He doesn't regret admitting it either. It feels natural and right. Most importantly, it's the truth.

She ducks her head, brilliant green eyes flaring up like fireworks under long curled lashes. He knows she needs a minute, so he turns to leave, imagining her gorgeous smile, with her perfect lips and her signature dimples...and his heart is so incredibly full, so far from the desperation he felt just a few hours before.

When Stiles reenters the house, Lydia is stepping into the foyer with Prada. "Ready?" he asks.

"Yeah," she replies, standing close and watching him carefully.

Normally, he would be self-conscious under these circumstances, but instead, he is calm. Lydia is gazing up at him. She seems to be searching for the answer to a question, and he hopes he has it.

"Everything okay?" he asks, touching her cheek.

She closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, and nods. "I think so." When she opens her eyes, the question mark is gone from her expression. She leans into his touch, cupping her palm over the back of his hand for a second before letting go with the slightest trace of a smile shaping her lips.

Stiles helps Lydia into her cardigan, lifting her hair out from beneath the collar and spreading it around her shoulders as she adjusts her sleeves. She wets her lips and whispers a thank you, then picks Prada up and carries her companion to the Jeep while Stiles locks up the house.

When he steps off the porch, Lydia is already sitting in the passenger's seat. He pauses for a few seconds; the sight of her through the dew-covered window making his heart surge. She looks like she belongs there…and she does.

The evening is dark, with pale cast moonlight emitting from behind breaks in the cover of clouds. As they drive to the sheriff's station, rain begins to lightly mist the windshield. They hold hands over the gearshift, the same way they have been all week. Neither of them speaks, and Stiles finds that he is curiously comforted by the silence. There is so much he wants to tell Lydia but somehow, he knows words aren't necessary in this moment. It feels as though they are silently communicating to each other with every breath.

They arrive at their destination, and Stiles jogs around to the passenger's side to help Lydia, whose arms are preoccupied with her black and white Papillon. The rainfall has accelerated a bit, so Stiles removes his jacket to shield his two girls as they make their way into the building.

Inside, the door to Sheriff Noah Stilinski's office is open. He is standing at his desk, coffee mug in one hand, phone receiver in the other. He bids them into the room with a smile and a wink.

"Okay… Not until next week… Yes… Will do… Yeah… Good-night," Noah says, before hanging up the phone. "Well, this is a nice surprise! To what do I owe this honor?"

"Do I need a reason to bring my dad some dinner?" Stiles answers, shaking out droplets of rain from his hair with his palm.

"You do if it is some kind of bland salad or that quinoa stuff you keep trying to get me to eat. But actually, I was referring to Lydia…and Prada," he says, coming around the desk to stand in front of them while ignoring the feigned insult that Stiles is displaying.

"It's good to see you," he says, touching Lydia's shoulder.

"You too, Sheriff."

"Lydia, honey," he frowns kindly. "I hope this is the last time I have to remind you... You can call me Noah," he continues in a gentle tone.

She quirks her mouth into a shy smile. "Right… Sorry."

"So…what did you bring me?" he asks Stiles.

"Oh nothing…just…linguine with marinara sauce."

"Ah…now that's dinner! You go to Fratelli's?"

"Nope, Lydia made it…and it's amazing – way better than Fratelli's," he brags.

Stiles notices the blush rising in Lydia's cheeks at the compliment. Her hand quickly slides into his, like it belongs there…and it does. At her touch, he is immediately assaulted by a wave of butterflies and a burst of heat that radiates from the center of his chest.

"You didn't have to do that," Noah tells her.

"I wanted to," she shrugs.

"Well, I can't wait to try it," he says, placing the bag Stiles had handed him onto his desk. "What are you two up to tonight?"

"Art and chemistry for Lydia. English lit…and laundry for me."

"Looks like it's going to be another late one here," he informs them with a deep exhale. "I won't be home until morning. Oh…and I better not find the two of you huddled on the couch when I do," he says sternly.

"Dad…"

"Don't dad me. You both need to sleep – in real beds. Lydia, you can take Stiles's room and Stiles, you can stay in mine."

"But—"

"Stiles…"

He is about to argue further, but Lydia tugs on his hand. He figures she doesn't want his dad to know about her nightmares, so he holds his tongue.

"Stiles…" Noah repeats.

"Yes sir."

"Good. Now, I've gotta get a few more things in order since we've got a new deputy coming tomorrow, but I'll see you in the morning. I'll be home before you leave for school."

Lydia sets Prada down, steps up to Noah, hugs him, and gives him a light kiss on the cheek. "Thank you for letting me stay over, Noah."

He hugs her back. "Wouldn't have it any other way. You are always welcome with us…and you don't have to thank me – you're family."

Lydia's eyes well up almost immediately, so Stiles tightens his grip on her hand. She turns into him, leaning her head on his upper arm. He gives his dad a quick hug, keeping hold of Lydia as they prepare to leave.

"Thanks again for coming by…and for dinner," Noah says. "Drive safe."

The rain has continued to pick up strength by the time they step outside of the station. It pummels buckets of precipitation at them, rolling across the fog covered ground, and splashing around their ankles. Although Stiles covers Lydia and Prada with his jacket, they all get fairly drenched in the time it takes to run the short distance to the Jeep. He helps Lydia in and races around to the driver's side.

"Sorry about that. Guess I should have brought an umbrella," he apologizes, drying his hands on his pants.

"I didn't think of it either," she tells him, turning her attention to her dog. "Oh…Prada, my poor baby…" she whimpers.

Stiles shifts his eyes to the pup, who looks anything but pleased about her current condition. Even having been carried by Lydia, she is drenched.

As he reaches to crank the heat up, Stiles notices Lydia's body beginning to shake. He returns his focus to her face, expecting to find that she is crying, yet she isn't. In fact, a brilliant smile has spread across her lips. Not just any smile – a genuine Lydia Martin smile, dimples and all. It's the first he has seen in a long time, and it makes him smile too.

"Stiles! Just look at her! This is what I see every time I give her a bath. She looks like a little wet rat!"

"Oh my god! You're right!" he agrees.

She begins to laugh wholeheartedly, and the rest of the world fades from view. All he can see is Lydia…and she is a goddess. In fact, she is better than a goddess because she is real – flesh and blood, and stunningly beautiful – even when she is soaked through from a sudden torrential downpour. Her strawberry-blonde shade has deepened to cinnamon, her skin is sparkling with a mixture of tears and raindrops, and her sweater clings to her shoulders and chest, outlining every curve. She is breathtaking.

"I'm soaked too. I must look just as awful as she does!" she giggles.

Without a second thought, Stiles leans across the front seat, shaking his head and cupping Lydia's face in both hands. "Well, I think you look beautiful."

She keeps grinning, her eyes locked on his, her sweet scent mixed with the fragrance of the first spring rain…calling him closer. Their faces mere inches apart, he can almost taste her. He wants to kiss her, but it feels wrong – like he would be taking advantage of the first glimmer of reprieve she has experienced in days…if not weeks. He can't do that to her. So, he just holds her face drinking her in, thumbs gliding across her moistened cheekbones, as they share the same space; uneven breaths inhaled and exhaled in unison.

But then she changes again…with just a shift of her eyebrows. "What are we doing?" she whispers.

The panicked sound of her voice snaps Stiles from the heady daze that has overtaken his mind. "Huh?"

Her smile is fading. Guilt and anguish alter her voice as it cracks over her next words. "Should we be laughing? Should we be laughing...when Allison…" Her face crumples. "It wasn't even that funny. Stiles…what's wrong with me? What kind of friend am I? I'm—I'm such an awful person!"

"No. Lydia…no, you aren't."

"Then tell me…how can I be laughing when she's—"

"Shh…I know it feels that way, but it's not wrong. I promise you." He is still cradling her face in his hands, but she has averted her gaze. "Lydia, look at me." When her eyes meet his, Stiles can see her searching again…looking for the answers in him. He continues, "It's alright to laugh. It doesn't mean you are forgetting her. It just means you still feel…that you're still…alive…and I'm so damn grateful for that. What would I have…"

Expression filled with awe, she lifts her hand, scattering raindrops as she smooths his hair and passes her palm across his cheek to swipe away the dampness. After a long pause, she rests her head on his shoulder, settling her face in the crook of his neck, finding his left hand with her right, and bringing it around to her waist.

"How'd you do that?" she breathes.

"Do what?"

"How do you know just what to say to me?"

"I dunno. I just say what I think, what I know from experience...what I believe to be true."

They remain in their embrace for a while, Prada sandwiched in between them, holding on to each other through slippery skin that has been saturated with rain and tears. Heat blares through the vents, warming them from the outside while unspoken love chases away the chill in their bones from within.

When Lydia speaks, her voice is quiet, her nose nudging the pulse in his throat. "Stiles?"

"Mmm…"

"Can we go home now?"

Home. One syllable that never sounded more perfect. She called his and his dad's house – home. He closes his eyes and kisses her temple. "Yeah. Let's go home, Lydia."

A few hours later, Lydia, Prada, and Stiles are warm and dry in the safety of the Stilinski home. Stiles is at his desk twirling a pencil in his right hand. He looks up from the book he is reading to glance at Lydia. She has changed into grey leggings and a plum-colored cropped tee with long sleeves. She sits cross-legged in the middle of his bed with Prada curled up next to her. He watches in awe as Lydia adeptly shapes her hair into a perfect side-braid, her eyes darting from left to right as she simultaneously reads the art history textbook that is propped in her lap. The room is quiet and peaceful, and Stiles is vividly mindful of the fact that he would gladly spend every night like this, if it meant being with Lydia. Setting down his pencil and book, he checks the time on his laptop. It's just before midnight.

"It's getting late. We should probably call it quits," he says, rubbing his jaw and yawning.

"Yeah, I guess so," she answers, keeping her eyes focused on the text in her lap.

Stiles hesitantly gets up from his chair and walks over to the bed. "Do you have enough pillows?"

"Yes, these are good," she replies, verdant orbs blinking as she lifts her head to acknowledge him.

"Do you want anything else…extra blankets…or something to drink?" The last thing he wants to do right now is to step outside of his room and close the door behind him, to sleep somewhere other than where Lydia is, but he can't think of any other excuse to delay the inevitable.

"No. Everything's fine."

Stiles isn't convinced. Lydia's expression tells him that she is uneasy, her brows are pinched and though he is sure she isn't aware of it, her mouth is shaped into a subtle frown. He thinks maybe she wants him to stay, but he wishes she would say it. As it is, he knows he walks a fine line between helping her and making her feel helpless, and he doesn't want to push too much because he doesn't want her to shut down on him.

"Okay," he says.

He stands in place as she sets aside her textbook and moves to kneel at the edge of the bed, where he is standing. When she is this close, Stiles can't help but reach out to her. It feels natural and right…and so much less daunting than it used to be.

He lightly jostles her braid in his hand. "If you need anything, I'm just down the hall."

She nods and purses her lips, and that familiar tugging in his chest encourages him still closer. He connects his hand to the nape of her neck, feeling her warm smooth skin and tiny bones underneath the pads of his fingers. After a brief hesitation, he leans down and kisses her forehead. She reaches for him too; her left hand ever so lightly pressed to his shoulder and her right grazing against his forearm. Stiles lets his lips linger and when he finally finds the ability to pull back, Lydia's eyes are closed. She keeps them that way until he speaks to her.

"I'll wake you at around seven. Okay?"

"O-okay," her voice quivers.

"G'night Lydia."

"Night Stiles."

As he backs away and turns to leave, Stiles is conflicted. Part of him has the distinct feeling that he is making a mistake, that maybe she needs him as much as he needs her. A louder voice reminds him that Lydia is strong and more than capable of taking care of herself. It tells him that if she wanted him to stay, she would just say so. He feels foolish for thinking that he could ever become for her, what she is to him – his salvation, a light in the darkness, the person he wants to give his heart to.

When he gets to the door, he checks her expression one more time. She quirks the side of her mouth while massaging Prada's back with her right hand. He thinks maybe Lydia will be just fine without him.

Stiles goes to his father's room and flicks on the light. He turns down the bed and sits at the foot of it, paddling between worrying about Lydia and being insulted that she didn't ask him to stay. He gets up from the bed and begins to pace the room. Letting out a huff, he shakes his head, switches off the overhead light, and sits down again. He feels too warm, so he peels off his navy-blue tee shirt and tosses it aside. Irritated, he runs his hands through his hair and flops down on the mattress, leaving his legs hanging over the side. He tries to sleep but he is too anxious. There is an aching in his chest that is getting sharper by the minute. He presses his palm to it, rubbing the heel of his hand back and forth over his sternum in a vain attempt to ease the pain.

Forty Minutes Later: March 22

Stiles is wide awake, tapping his fingers on his leg, when he hears the sound of a door opening, and footsteps in the hallway. His heart skips a few beats as light peers in from under the door, immediately followed by a soft knock on the grain. He pops up from the bed, strides over to the door, and pulls it open without a moment's hesitation.

Sure enough, Lydia is standing on the other side of the doorway with her arms protectively wrapped around herself, as she nervously shifts her weight from one foot to the other. She is looking up at him with wide frightened eyes, and her full bottom lip tucked into her mouth.

Stiles hunches down to meet her gaze and takes hold of her shoulders. "Hey, what's wrong?"

"Did I wake you?" she asks, over chattering teeth.

"No. I can't sleep."

"Me neither," she responds, shaking her head. "Stiles, I'm… I'm…too scared."

She is rigid under his hands but sinks into his embrace when he slides his arms around her shoulders.

"I'm sorry. I hate being like this. It's so weak and—"

He strengthens his grip on her, angling his head towards her ear. "Don't you do that. Lydia, asking for help is not weak – it's about the bravest thing you can do…and I want to help you. Tell me how I can."

"Will you stay with me?" Breathy and reverent, the request passes her lips like a secret or a prayer.

"Yeah. Yeah, I'll stay with you."

"Are you sure? I don't want to get you in trouble. Your dad was very clear about what he expects from us…and he's been so good to me. I don't want to disrespect him."

Stiles is instantly annoyed at himself for not considering that Lydia didn't ask him to say because of his father's instructions. He could kick himself for not figuring that out earlier…for letting her suffer the length of nearly an hour because of his sensitive ego.

"You let me worry about that. Alright? It will be fine."

"Stiles..."

He pulls back to look at her, and she clutches at his upper arms as though she is losing her balance. "Listen, I know my dad, and he'll understand."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm positive," he asserts.

When her eyes shift downward and she begins to stare, Stiles is suddenly reminded of the fact that he is only wearing plaid pajama pants. "Uh…sorry… Let me just put a shirt on."

Before he moves away, she places her fingertips up to the middle of his chest. "It's okay," she says softly as she delicately drags the side of her thumb across his bare skin.

He swallows nervously. Lydia's eyes flicker back to his and he sees something in them that looks like desire.

It's fleeting though. When she drops her hand, Stiles assumes he imagined it. He reminds himself that they are friends, that Lydia is simply an affectionate person, and that anything which seems to be more is all in his head. Most insistently, he reminds himself that even if there had been the remote possibility of a romantic relationship between them, he wrecked his chance when he let himself be possessed by the Nogitsune – igniting a chain reaction of events that are the reason she is suffering right now.

His eyes sting with tears. He has no idea how much time has passed when she speaks to him, bringing him back to his surroundings.

"Stiles, what is it?" she asks tenderly, putting her hand to his cheek and dotting at the corner of his eye with her index finger.

Just like that, his heart races with the intense awareness that she is still with him – even after everything he has done. Her face and body language convey concern, but there is also a soft and open quality about her that makes Stiles want to confess his love to her. He is convinced that now is not the right time, so he tries to tell Lydia what she means to him in a different way.

"I—nothing. I…was just thinking about how glad I am that you're here."

She smiles delicately at him, faint hint of a dimple popping through on her right cheek. "So am I."

Three words. So am I. Those three little words, paired with her perfect smile, unlock the door to hope – hope that someday she can forgive him, and that someday they can be happy together.

He actively works to steady himself as she gradually slides her hand away from his cheek. Letting go of her with a fair amount of reluctance, he finds his shirt and pulls it over his head. Then he takes Lydia's hand, and they walk to his room where Stiles crawls into bed, holding his arms out to her. She climbs in directly after, lying on her right side to face him. He pulls the covers over them both, being careful not to disturb Prada, who is sleeping at the foot of the bed.

"Is this okay?" he asks. "Are you comfortable?"

"I'm fine. Are you okay?"

"Yeah…yup…good."

"You're sure?" she asks, raising an eyebrow.

"Definitely," he assures her with a half-smirk, calming enough to pull her close to him. "Oh crap…I forgot the light…" he realizes.

"I'll get it…" she says.

They both extend their arms towards the lamp, Lydia rolling to the left and Stiles along with her.

He freezes, every muscle in his body contracting when he realizes that he is hovering over her.

She is so beautiful. Her eyes are sparkling in the lamplight, her freckles are bare, and her breath is light and warm on his face.

He knows it isn't right, but he wants to kiss her so badly that the ache in his chest intensifies. In the slightest of movements, it seems like she is lifting her head towards him...

But then he sees that nagging indication of fear in her eyes, and she stops.

"Uh…sorry. Guess I didn't think that through," he apologizes.

"It's okay. I can't reach it anyway," she replies, smoothing her hand along the side of his ribs.

He quickly shuts the light and rolls off her before his body stars to react in a way that is less than platonic.

In the dark, he can no longer see Lydia's face and it troubles him. He senses her presence, hears her breathing, feels her movements as she adjusts her position closer to him, but he only unwinds when her hand finds his under the covers.

Not long after, they both find sleep, tucked into the comfort of each other's company.

At 3:06 a.m. Stiles wakes in pitch darkness to the sound of Lydia's cries and the feeling of her hands gripping the front of his shirt. She gasps for air, his name peeling from the back of her throat.

"Stiles! Stiles!"

"Okay, Lydia. Okay." He slips his left arm under her, firmly pressing his palm to the middle of her back. Traces of moisture have begun to soak through her top as her body violently tremors against him. "Hey, it's gonna be alright," he says, moving his opposite hand to the back of her head to smooth her hair.

She abruptly releases his shirt and Stiles worries that she is about to push him away, but instead, she covers his face with her hands.

It surprises him at first, but as soon as he realizes what she is trying to do, his heart melts. He waits as Lydia uses her hands to distinguish every one of his features. She deliberately passes her fingertips over his forehead and eyebrows, explores his lashes and the shape of his eyes, drags her thumbs over his nose and across his cheekbones, then continues sliding her hands down his jawline, allowing the pads of her fingers to trace along his moles and the outline of his lips until finally, she stops at his chin.

"Stiles…Stiles…" she sobs through hiccups.

"Yeah, Lydia. It's me. I'm here."

"I was so afraid…" she cries, nuzzling her cheek against his in search of more contact.

He fixes both of his hands to her waist; she is so small that his hands stretch across her entire back and overlap in the middle. Her skin is hot beneath his fingers where her top has rolled upwards. He lightly massages the tense muscles along the base of her spine, hoping to help her relax.

"I know…I know, Lyds. But you're safe here. You're safe."

She curls into him, dropping her head to his chest and shifting her body closer so that her knees make contact with his thighs.

"You can tell me. You know that, right?" he tells her.

After a few staggered breaths, she responds. "It was happening again," her voice straining to form a whisper.

"What was?"

"That night... I was remembering everything that happened…to Allison…and everything that happened to me…when he…when he had me…but it was more intense than a memory…like a flashback. It felt like it was happening again. It was so c—cold, and dark…and… Stiles…he kept…he—he kept…touching me. He kept touching me with his cold hands. They were like ice…and…I was cornered…and he was pressed up against me…and I just…I just wanted it to stop. If you hadn't come for me… I don't know…I don't know," she inhales sharply, "and when I sleep…it all comes back, and it feels worse."

The extent of the trauma she experienced cuts deep into his core with every word she chokes out. It makes Stiles sick to think of Lydia going through something so terrible; unwanted hands on her body. His guilt expands with a weight so crushing that it hinders his lungs. He blinks back his own tears as hers dampen his shirt, warmth pooling outwards from each droplet.

"Is this what you see every night?"

He wants to turn on the light, see her expression when she answers, but he knows it is easier for her to speak the awful truth under the cover of night. He pictures her pretty face with flushed cheeks, tears welling up in her emerald eyes, and her lips trembling. The image pierces his heart.

"The part about Allison has been every night, but this is the first time…the rest of it."

He has the unrelenting desire to apologize to her for the way she is suffering, to beg for her forgiveness. But he knows this moment is not about him, it's about trying to ease her pain if he can, not his own.

"Lydia, what can I do? Tell me... I'll do anything."

"Just…please hold me and…don't let go," she sniffles, relocating her head to the crook of his neck and dragging the lower half of her body into his by hooking her leg over his thigh.

"Okay. I've got you."

Her ragged breaths are warm against his neck. Intense heat radiates from her entire body, but still she shivers uncontrollably. The pressure on his heart is immense, weakened muscle squeezed past the point of recognition as she continues to sob. Her pain is transmitted to him through wounded flesh and bone, permeating through the thin fabric of their clothing, soaking into his soul.

Stiles continues to massage her back, bowing his head to whisper in her ear. "I've got you, Lyds. Just breathe. Breathe with me… Okay? Nice and slow." He feels her ribs expanding along with his as their breaths and beats begin to sync. "That's it. Just keep focusing on breathing…in…and out… Shh…in…and out."

It takes a considerable amount of time, but she quiets; entire body easing of its tension, tears cease, shaking subsides.

He touches her face as gently as possible, placing his fingertips on her jaw and caressing the smooth skin under her eyes with his thumb. "Do you feel any better?"

He can sense how tired she is from the listless way she nods in response.

"Do you want to try to sleep?"

"Not really." Her voice is hoarse and strained from crying.

"It's okay. Nothing is going to happen to you. You're safe here." He runs his fingers along her braid, concentrating on its silk-like texture.

She wraps her fingers around his hand, manipulating his thumb and index fingers around the elastic band that secures her long plait of hair. "You can undo it."

"Yeah?"

"Uh-huh. It's probably coming loose anyway."

He carefully removes the band from her braid, slips it onto her wrist, and begins combing his fingers through the ends of her hair to loosen the strands.

"Stiles…will you talk to me for a while?"

"Sure. What do you want to talk about?" he says, slowly continuing to work upwards through her locks until the braid is completely undone.

"Anything. It doesn't matter. I… I just want to hear your voice."

The words bud from her mouth and plant themselves deep into a sheltered chamber of his heart, taking up roots in the place that holds out hope, the place that longs for the barely explored possibility of them – Lydia and Stiles, together. He hopes she means that she trusts him, that he comforts her, and he wonders if it could mean more…that he could mean more. It seems like too much to wish for, but anything seems possible when Lydia is being so open and unguarded with him.

"Stiles?"

"Oh right…sorry…uh… The Mets look good this year," he begins. Right away, he regrets his choice of topic, but when Lydia responds with a spark of interest in her voice, he thinks perhaps it wasn't such a poor one.

"Do they?"

"Yeah. Spring training is going well. They're fourteen and nine."

"When does the regular season start?"

"In just a few more days, on the first." He brings a handful of her hair to his face, drawing in a long slow breath and letting her scent wash over him.

"Are they going to be home or away?"

"Home."

"That's good. Who are they playing?

"The Padres, I think... Hang on a minute. Lydia Martin…are you getting interested in baseball? In the Mets no less? A team that dares to wear orange and blue?" he teases.

Her forehead is leaning against his chin, and he can feel her eyebrows arch. "Maybe… I could be. Sometimes…things you wouldn't think would be a good combination…end up turning out to be a perfect combination," she continues as she traces her own tear stains on the front of his shirt.

Stiles feels his heart skip beats. Lydia paid attention, she listened to him, and what he said made enough of an impression, that she remembered it after all this time – and it was meaningful enough for her to say it back to him. Her tone makes him feel like she is saying something…more. He is buzzing with that feeling again – that tugging underneath his ribs that draws him towards her with a heart so full he thinks his body can't contain it, and it is all because of Lydia. She sparks something inside that makes him feel awake and alive…even at nearly four in the morning with no more than a few hours of broken sleep, and a lingering darkness hanging overhead which she expels with a light as bright as the sun. She is everything, the whole world – right in his arms, and he knows he will never love anyone the way he loves her.

His mind starts to wander from memory to memory of her, but the soft sound of Lydia's voice brings him back to the present.

"Stiles?" She reaches up, touching his face to check his expression.

"Oh, sorry…I was just remembering," he replies, catching her fingers in his and kissing each of her palms.

"Me too. It's true though… Isn't it?"

"Yeah, Lyds, it is. It's definitely true."

"Have you ever gone to a game at Citi Field?" she asks, bringing their hands in close to her chest.

He can feel the softness of her breasts against his forearm and her heartbeat against the pulse in his wrist. Her left leg is still draped over his right thigh and he thinks he'd better maintain focused on her question before he loses his mind and any semblance of self-control.

Swallowing with a substantial degree of difficulty, he continues, "No…uh…but my dad took me to Shea Stadium once."

"Will you tell me about it?"

He can tell she is getting drowsy by the way her eyelashes tickle his jaw as she blinks repeatedly.

"Sure. I was twelve, and the two of us went to New York for a few days in the summer. We spent most of the time in Manhattan…which was great – seriously crowded, but there's so much to do, and without question…the best pizza – ever…which to a twelve-year-old is pretty much all that matters. Anyway, on the last day, my dad surprised me with tickets to the Mets game. We took the Number 7 train to Queens. We got to the stadium early and watched batting practice. My dad was so relaxed. It was the happiest I had seen him since my mom…"

He can't help it. His voice breaks with emotion. As he stops to clear his throat, Lydia brings their joined hands to her lips, just holding them there for a moment before tenderly kissing his knuckles. It happens so naturally, as though she has done it hundreds of times before, as though she knows she can soothe him without saying a word.

"I…um…we had great seats…third base side. I even caught a foul ball that David Wright hit in the bottom of the fifth. There were a few home runs and a really close play at the plate that went the Mets' way. It was a great game."

"Did they win?"

"Nah, of course not. They blew it in the ninth," he laughs softly, and he can feel her grin against his hand. He pictures her face, and it comforts him. "But here's the best part…after the game ended, David Wright signed the baseball I caught."

"The one you keep on top of your bookshelf?"

"Yeah."

"What was he like?"

"You know how people say you should never meet your heroes?"

"Yeah?"

"Definitely not the case with him. He was really nice…talked to me for a while...asked me about little league. He even gave me a few pointers on how to improve my swing. It was one of the best days I can remember."

"Do you think you'll go to another game sometime?"

"Yeah, sure. I'd like to see the new stadium. Maybe…maybe you'll come with me next time. What do you think?"

"I'd like that," Lydia replies, taking a slow deep breath before she speaks his name. "Stiles?"

"Mmm…"

"I'm sorry I kept you awake again," she apologizes through a yawn.

"Don't be…okay? I'm fine and—"

"Stiles…" she sighs as she drifts to sleep.

He waits until he is sure she's okay, sure that she is in deep restful sleep. Then he whispers in a tone so soft that he can barely hear it himself, "I love you Lydia Martin. Always have…always will."

Not long after, Stiles follows Lydia's lead, letting sleep take hold with a heart full of gratitude that she came to him when she needed someone to help her.

Stiles opens his eyes with a start. It can't be more than two hours since he dozed off the last time. Soft light from a still overcast sky is beginning to filter into his bedroom. He yawns and lifts a hand to wipe the sleep from his eyes. The first image he focuses on is the most beautiful sight in the world – Lydia. Lydia is in his bed. Lydia, lit by the shadowy blue haze of early morning light…and it couldn't feel more right, but it seems too good to be true.

He counts his fingers and releases a relieved breath. He isn't dreaming. With little more than a few hours of uninterrupted sleep, he should be exhausted and irritable, but he is far from it because Lydia is in his bed – right next to him…and she is fast asleep with her head on his pillow and her delicate hand inside of his. Could there possibly be any better way to wake up? He is sure there isn't.

She moans in her sleep and shifts towards him, so he gingerly drapes his arm over her waist, being very careful not to wake her, and closes his eyes. He isn't ready to get out of bed, isn't ready to let go of her. The thought of waking her is unbearable. She is so peaceful right now – nothing like a few hours ago.

A series of memories, born in pitch darkness, race through his mind. He remembers how Lydia jolted awake from an intense flashback. He remembers the sharpness that cut across his chest as he heard the fear and vulnerability in her voice. He remembers her clinging to the front of his shirt as she cried telling him how scared she was. He remembers feeling helpless; struggling to fight his own tears as he held her trembling form, while despondently trying to ease her pain with words that pale in comparison to what he really wants to tell her. It was a while before she calmed, but he distinctly recalls the sound of his name escaping her lips as she sighed and finally drifted to sleep. That sound, paired with the sensation of Lydia's body relaxing against him and leaning into him for support, drenched his heart in warmth. He remembers being so consumed with love for her that he could not move – just like now. He remembers fighting sleep, listening to her breathe until his eyes burned with exhaustion and he could no longer ignore the urge to close them.

After a few minutes, Stiles begrudgingly opens his eyes to glance at his alarm clock. The numbers are covered by a bright yellow Post-It note scrawled with the words: Kitchen – now. He scrunches up his face; not quite prepared to face the uncomfortable conversation he is going to have with his dad. He guesses he had better get it over with though. He starts to let go of Lydia's hand and she stirs, gripping him tighter.

"Stiles?"

His name sounds different when she whispers it while lying next to him – soft and lyrical, carrying a distinct note that rings with a shining glint of possibility.

"Yeah."

"Are you getting up already? What time is it?"

"Uh…I'm not sure…one sec…" he answers as he leans over her to snatch the note from the alarm clock. "It's a quarter past six. You should try to sleep a while longer." Climbing out from the covers, he then tucks her back in and drops a light kiss on her head. "I'll wake you in a bit."

"Okay, thanks," she replies with a faint yawn.

He crawls to the foot of the bed and walks over to the closet to get his grey jeans, a royal blue hooded pull-over, and a white tee shirt. Then he grabs a fresh pair of socks and boxer-briefs from his dresser before heading down the hall to the bathroom. He flips on the light, deposits his clothes on the counter next to the sink, and takes a look in the mirror, noting the paleness of his skin and the red rims around his eyes. He splashes some cold water on his face, slowly pats it dry, and braces himself for the inevitable.

On the way to the kitchen, Stiles passes Prada who has relocated to the living room to sleep under the coffee table. Her tiny paws are twitching sporadically, and her tail is tapping lightly against the carpet. He hopes she is having a good dream. Making an effort not to wake her, he quietly walks past the pup, then he takes a deep breath and cautiously steps through the doorway.

"Morning Dad," Stiles begins in a low voice.

Noah is closing the refrigerator door with his foot. He turns at the sound of his son's voice, holding a half-gallon of orange juice in one hand and a carton of eggs in the other. "Ah…just the person I want to see. Juice?"

"Nah," he replies waving a hand.

"Feel okay?"

Stiles anxiously raps his fingers on the back of the chair that is closest to him, trying not to let the unsettlingly calm tenor of his father's voice unravel him. "Uh…yeah…sure."

Noah pours himself some juice, takes a sip, and carefully sets the glass down on the counter. "Good. Now, sit," he proceeds, moving to stand at the table across from his son.

"Dad..."

"I said sit," he interrupts firmly.

Stiles gruffly pulls out a chair and slumps into the seat. "Dad…could I—"

"Nope. I get to speak first because I think I was explicitly clear when I told you where I expected you to sleep. In fact, I distinctly recall hearing you respond 'Yes sir' when I told you to sleep in my room. Is that correct?"

"I was going to—"

"Yes or no, Stiles."

He leans forward, resting his forearms on the table. "Yeah, but—"

Noah counters the move by placing his palms against the table and leaning forward. "But somehow I came home this morning to find that you ended up in your bed with Lydia."

"Dad, it's not like we locked the door or anything."

His father's voice elevates as he responds. "Hardly the point."

"We barely got any sleep anyway."

"That is NOT helping your case, kid!" he grits out in an aggravated whisper.

Stiles rolls his eyes out of frustration. "That's not what I— What is this…an interrogation?" he questions, sarcasm infiltrating his words.

"Stiles…watch it…and explain to me why you deliberately disobeyed me."

He looks down at his hands. "It wasn't like that. Alright? Lydia asked me to stay with her. She's been having nightmares…only they're more intense than nightmares…like flashbacks…and they're getting worse. She has barely slept all week. She wakes up terrified and crying and…I can't just leave her alone like that. We'd have stayed on the couch…but someone insisted that we sleep in a bed."

"Beds…smart-ass…I said beds. Plural."

Stiles leans back, roughly running his fingers through his hair, then dropping his hands into his lap and shrugging his shoulders. "If you don't want us to stay here together, that's fine – we'll both go to her house tonight."

"Don't take that tone with me," Noah reminds him with a stare. He remains quiet for an extended moment, before letting out an extended sigh. "Look, the invitation for Lydia to stay here is still in place…but there are rules in this house and lines you better not be crossing. As far as I'm aware, the two of you are not officially in a committed relationship."

Stiles narrows his eyes, twists his jaw, and lowers his voice further, "I'm aware of that...painfully so…and I'm not taking anything for granted here." Letting out a short breath, he straightens up and pokes at the inside of his cheek with his tongue before adding, "I just... I just want to help her. Lydia's not herself right now. She's scared and heartbroken. I would never take advantage of her like that. Dad, she's important to me. I… I love her."

Noah pulls out a chair and sits across from his son. "I know you do."

Stiles shoots him a mildly surprised look.

"Of course, I know…but you've both been through a seriously traumatic ordeal and sometimes…when emotions are heightened to this level, you do things that might not be best for the both of you. So, just go easy, and don't make any big decisions right now – that's all I'm trying to say. Understood?"

"Yeah, understood," he replies, hesitantly making eye contact with his father. "So, how deep am I in it with you?"

"Not very. Could have done with a lot less sarcasm though."

"Sorry, Dad."

"It's alright. Stiles, you've got a good heart – just like your mom. I can't fault you for that. And listen, I know how it is…when you feel that way about a girl. I was no better with your mother… One look and it was all over," he says, looking down with a wistful expression. "Just…take care of each other. Alright?"

Stiles nods as his father stands and moves towards him.

"Now get over here," he says, pulling Stiles in for a hug. "Okay…we've got that talk out of the way. How do pancakes sound?"

Stiles softens, feeling grateful that his father is as understanding as he promised Lydia he would be. "Sounds great. I'm starving."

"Well then, get your butt ready for school," he says, ruffling his son's hair. "They'll be ready in twenty."

Stiles ducks away with a grin, and quickly departs from the kitchen. Seconds later, he pops his head back into the room. "Hey Dad?"

"Yeah, kiddo?"

"Can you make 'em blueberry? Lydia likes blueberry."

"You got it," he chuckles, shaking his head.

Once Stiles showers and dresses, he returns to his bedroom to wake Lydia. He cracks open the door and slides into the room, quietly closing the door behind him. The space is still dimly lit, but he can clearly see Lydia's sleeping form. She is lying on her stomach with the left side of her face smashed into his pillow, her right arm angled towards her cheek, and her hand shading her eyes. Stiles is drawn directly to her, unaware of how his legs are even moving, driven purely by the need to be close to her.

He walks over to the bed and sits beside her, gently covering her hand with his. "Lydia… Lydia." When she doesn't respond he begins to rub her back with his other hand. "Lyds."

"Mmm…" she moans through parted lips.

"It's time to get up."

Keeping her eyes closed, she slightly lifts her head to rest her cheek on his hand, breathing his name across his skin. "Stiles." There is not a trace of panic in her voice. Unlike a few hours ago, she now seems sure that he is with her. "That feels good."

"Yeah?" he asks, thankful that she can't see him because he can only imagine the goofy awestruck expression that must be splashed across his face.

"Uh-huh…"

Delighted by the fact that his own crooked fingers and calloused palms can actually make Lydia feel good, he continues. He massages her back in smooth circles, up and down her spine and into her shoulder blades, relishing in the way she leans into him and how she relaxes under his palms.

Eventually, she opens her eyes as a sigh wafts across her lips. "Hi." She says with a touch of smile, her eyes flashing to deep forest green right in front of him.

"Hi. Sleep okay?"

"Yeah, for a while." She rolls onto her back, and Stiles lets his hand fall away as she sits up to stretch.

She even moves beautifully. At least once a day, Lydia does or says something that makes Stiles think he can't possibly love her more, and the following day she proves him wrong. This is one of those instances. He reluctantly stands, relieved when she follows and moves closer.

She raises her gaze to meet his, her expression decidedly guilt-ridden. "I'm sorry I woke you."

He runs his fingertips across her forehead and down her cheek, muddled by the way she shivers at the contact. "You don't have to apologize for that. I don't mind."

"But…you need to rest more. I don't want you to get sick."

"I won't. I'm good, I swear," he tells her, weaving their fingers together.

She inches closer. "Where's Prada?"

"In the living room…in her favorite spot."

"Is your dad home?" Lydia asks with concern.

"Yeah, he's in the kitchen, making breakfast."

"After working all night?"

"Yeah, he does that…a lot."

She looks at the floor. "I got you in trouble…didn't I?"

"What?"

"Didn't he see that you weren't in his room?"

"Yeah, but I explained everything—I mean not everything…but you know…just that you've been having nightmares. I hope that's okay."

"It is. He deserves an explanation." Her bottom lip quivers as she speaks. "Does he…want me to leave?"

Stiles hooks his index finger under Lydia's chin to get her to look at him again. "No, of course not. Everything is cool…I promise."

"Really?" she questions, with a hopeful yet surprised expression.

"Yeah. He understands."

Through tears, she smiles. "Must be a Stilinski trait."

He melts as she leans into him and circles his torso with her arms, relief pouring out of every inch of her body as she breathes deeply.

"You smell nice," she tells him.

"Nah…that must be the pancakes."

"Stiles…"

"Just kidding. Thanks. So do you…"

"Oh, I'll bet…especially after the way I was sweating last night."

"You always smell good…like vanilla and flowers."

She squeezes him tighter. "Stiles?"

He thinks the sound of his name on her lips is as sweet as her scent. "Yeah Lydia."

She rests her chin on his chest and glances up at him through her eyelashes…and he sees it – Love. She looks like she loves him. He wonders if it's real or a dream? He considers counting his fingers but decides against it. He'd rather have the illusion a while longer…just in case.

"Thank you," she whispers, as though it's just between them, their secret; special and unblemished.

"For what?"

"Everything…I—"

He can see and hear the emotion in her. He doesn't want her to struggle for his benefit, to thank him when he can never erase how deeply he hurt her. "Hey…you don't have to—"

"I want to." She fists the back of his sweatshirt, using the resistance provided by the fabric to help her rise to her tiptoes so she can kiss his cheek…and she lingers…and he is so smitten, he can't breathe.

"You're welcome," he manages to say with unexpected strength in his voice.

He slides his hands to her waist to balance her, or maybe himself, he is not sure which. When she breaks from the kiss, he brings his forehead down to meet hers, and they still. His heart is thumping wildly but Lydia's presence helps him breathe – slow, and deep, and in control, and so in love with her. In a matter of seconds, she takes is breath away…and then she gives it back.

Lydia is the first to break the silence. "Stiles, before…did you say pancakes?"

"I did," he confirms, raising his eyebrows. "You hungry?"

"Yeah."

He nods towards the doorway. "Come on then." Taking Lydia's hand, he leads her down the hall, and even though he is only half-smiling on the outside, on the inside, he is grinning from ear to ear.

"There you both are! Thought I was going to have to eat alone," Noah greets them when they enter the kitchen. He walks over to Lydia and kisses her head. "Hi, kiddo. How are you feeling?"

"A little tired, but okay," she answers timidly.

"Good," Noah comments. "What'll you have, Lydia? Juice or coffee...or both?"

Stiles can sense her astonishment. He is sure she was imagining a far less welcoming reception. She looks his way with wide-eyes and pursed lips. He gives her a wink and mouths the words It's okay before they answer together…

"Just coffee."

"Well…have a seat then. It's coming right up."

Stiles pulls a chair out for Lydia and waits for her to sit. Shifting to her right, he takes his place beside her as his dad brings a plate stacked high with hot pancakes and sets it between them. He gets a twinge in his chest when he observes how overwhelmed she looks...like she's never had anyone serve her breakfast before. He wonders if maybe she hasn't, and it makes him ache for her. She blinks repeatedly, most likely fighting tears. With his father's back turned, Stiles takes the opportunity to brush Lydia's hair behind her shoulder, then he grazes the back of his index finger along her cheek. She leans into the contact, another secret exchange between them. It's ephemeral but powerful. They separate at the same time, when Noah turns to take a seat at the table with them.

Throughout breakfast, Stiles can't tear his eyes away from Lydia. He watches as she lifts a short stack from the plate and places it in front of him before taking the next two pancakes for herself. Something as simple as how she fixes her coffee mesmerizes him. He watches how gracefully her hands move as she takes a scant teaspoon of sugar, scatters the grains into the dark liquid, then adds a splash of milk and begins to stir. He counts…one…two…three…four complete turns before she removes the spoon, taps it on the rim of the cup…once…twice, then places it on her napkin. Her index finger curls around the handle and she brings the vessel to her lips, closing her eyes as she takes in the aroma of fresh coffee. Then, she lightly blows into the cup, once…twice…three times, before taking a sip. She rests her coffee on the table, pours a healthy amount of syrup on her pancakes, cuts a bite-sized piece, and tastes it, the right side of her mouth curling upwards as she chews and swallows.

Seeing Lydia comfortably settled next to him floods Stiles with a warmth that he is sure he could get used to. It awakens him from the spell he is under, so he can quietly begin to eat his breakfast.

"These are excellent, Sher—I mean Noah."

"Thank you. It's my wife's recipe."

"Blueberry are my favorite," she elaborates. The sound of her voice has an inflection that Stiles has never heard before. It's like the melody of a song that draws you in the very first time you hear it. It holds a mix of gratitude, awe, and innocence. For the second time this morning, Stiles experiences a moment where his love for Lydia expands beyond his wildest imagination.

"I'm glad…but I can't take credit for getting that right. You see, this hyperactive little bird told me the pancakes had to be blueberry," he admits with a chuckle.

"Dad!" Stiles chokes on a mouthful of pancakes.

Lydia turns to face him, willfully trying to hide a twinkle of a smile. She places her hand between his shoulder blades until he is able to catch a breath.

After, taking a swig of coffee to help him swallow, Stiles shoots his father a look, grimacing with embarrassment…until he feels Lydia slide her hand along the length of his arm, pressing her palm into his when they connect and finally lacing their digits together.

Every so often, Stiles notices Lydia looking around like she is trying to bind her surroundings to memory and holding his hand a little tighter. He remembers a pretty, eight-year-old girl with sparkling green eyes and a braid of strawberry-blonde encircling her head like a crown. She was seated next to him, leaning forward in the darkness of a theater, her hand gripping their arm rest as the entire third grade class saw The Wizard of Oz on stage. He remembers not being able to concentrate on anything but that girl, as she silently mouthed the lyrics to Somewhere Over the Rainbow. He remembers wishing the play would never end, just so he could sit next to her.

They continue with their breakfast, intertwined hands swinging gently between their chairs. Stiles thinks maybe this is exactly how things are supposed to be – the two of them – doing something completely normal like having breakfast, clinging to each other to cast out the darkness, somehow finding solace in each other during unbelievable heartbreak…while everything else fades away.

Eight years have passed since that first impression of love, and Stiles still wishes he could sit next to Lydia, just a while longer.