December 21, 2007
It's the last day of autumn, but winter has already made its presence known in Beacon Hills. The air is crisp and frigid. Signs of transition are everywhere. The trees are practically bare, with only handfuls of sepia leaves still clinging to their branches, edges tipped with frost. Patches of diminishing golden-green grass peek through a light dusting of snow and piles of fallen leaves. The sun is low in the sky, glowing amber against a break in the dense cover of clouds.
Eleven-year-old Lydia is gingerly making her way home from school, favoring her right ankle. A billowing haze of exhale mists in front of her eyes as she huffs with irritation while looking down at her shoes – silver Mary Janes with two-and-a-half-inch high heels and ankle straps. They were an early Christmas gift from her mother and the perfect complement to her new dress, so Lydia decided to wear them for the class holiday party. She practiced her balance for weeks and was steady on her feet for the entire day…until she slipped on a patch of ice, barely one block into her walk home.
Now, she is hobbling along the sidewalk, weighed down by the heaviness of her wool coat, schoolwork, and a few extra books she borrowed from the library to read over the vacation. It's so cold that her ears are beginning to numb, and she still has a long way to go. Angrily, she fights tears that seem determined to spill over her eyelashes, leaving trails of icy wetness on her cheeks. She blots the intrusive droplets with the tips of her fingers, flicking them onto the sidewalk with disdain. After adjusting her shoulder-bag, she tugs at the sides of her ivory-colored knit beret to cover the exposed skin of her ears. She willfully tilts her head up and moves forward, treading directly on top of the remnants of her teardrops which have moistened the pavement, leaving the unwanted evidence of her pain behind her.
Eleven-year-old Stiles and Scott are riding home from school on their bicycles. Just as they are about to approach their first turn off the main road, Stiles sees a familiar flash of strawberry-blonde out of the corner of his eye.
Lydia.
His heart speeds up as he follows her movement with his gaze, but his stomach drops when he realizes that something is wrong. She is walking very slowly, and he is sure she is trying to hide the fact that she is limping…even though there is hardly anyone around. When Stiles notices that she is wiping her eyes, he skids to a stop and lowers his feet to the ground for balance.
"Hey, Scott. I'll…uh…I'll catch up with you later. Okay?" Stiles says, zipping up his grey puffer jacket.
Scott is a few feet behind. "Huh? Why?" he fumbles, still sucking on the remnants of a gumdrop he had been enjoying. Gradually slowing his bike, he pulls up next to Stiles, who nods his head in Lydia's direction.
"Look."
"What? Lydia?" Scott asks, coming to full stop. "Dude, you gotta stop that! There is a line between crushing on her and being a stalker, you know," he teases with raised eyebrows and a huge grin.
Stiles gives his best friend a jab in the shoulder, narrowing his eyes before responding, "Yes, I'm aware, but look... She's hurt. I'm gonna go help her."
"Are you serious?" he questions, shaking his head with a withering smile.
"Scott, I can't just leave her like that."
"Yeah, I know but…you want me to come with?"
"Nah, you should go to the station. The cold is bad for your asthma, and my dad will be worried if neither of us show up. Anyway, I got this," Stiles contends, trying to sound more confident than he currently feels.
"Alright. If you're sure..."
"Yeah, I am."
"See you later then. Good luck." Scott pushes off on his bike and turns down the block, looking back once to smile at his friend.
Stiles changes course and crosses to the opposite side of the street, where Lydia is sluggishly progressing.
A rush of nerves flourishes inside of him. His stomach has that feeling he always gets when she is around – ever since the third grade. Adults call it butterflies, which makes it sound like it should feel nice. To him, it's more frightening than nice. He guesses maybe it's like being on a roller coaster – you have to get used to it before you can enjoy it. But it's already been three years, so he figures that probably won't ever happen. Either way, Stiles wants it to calm down. He doesn't want to make a fool out of himself in front of Lydia…again. So, he tries to remember the technique his dad told him to practice whenever he steps up to the plate in a little league game: Take a deep breath and block everything else out. It's just you and the baseball.
Stiles inhales deeply, but it only provides the smallest amount of relief because comparing Lydia to a baseball makes about as much sense as comparing the brilliance of the sun to an ordinary light bulb.
As he approaches the curb, he hears her wince and it makes him grimace...and suddenly, everything else fades away.
Lydia stops to rest, setting her bag down on the sidewalk and lightly massaging her sore ankle. Her cold hands ease some of the ache. She closes her eyes. Within seconds, she hears the sound of tires against tarmac, quickly getting closer.
Immediately opening her eyes and releasing her ankle, she glances to the left, where she spots the wheels of a bicycle and a familiar pair of worn-in sneakers.
Stiles.
She tenses as the breath catches in her throat and her heart beats faster. She doesn't like that he can do that to her. It makes her feel vulnerable. On top of that, her eyes are still tearing with frustration and she doesn't need anyone seeing her cry.
As Stiles comes to a stop next her, she keeps her head down, fiddling with the buckle of her shoe.
He stares at her for a moment before finding his voice. "Hey, Lydia… What's wrong?" he asks, voice laden with concern.
She briefly looks at him. "Nothing's wrong," she answers curtly.
Stiles can see the pain in her pretty green eyes, but she quickly straightens and turns away from him; fabric of her sapphire-blue coat swishing over her matching velvet dress, distant afternoon sunlight glinting off the tips of her polished silver shoes.
Without another word, Lydia picks up her books and continues to walk, but Stiles keeps pace with her.
"Then why are you limping?" he implores, extending his arm towards Lydia and catching her by the elbow.
The contact stops them both in their tracks.
"I just…twisted my ankle a little. It's no big deal." She looks over her shoulder at Stiles and steps sideways, beyond his reach.
He dismounts his bicycle. "You shouldn't walk on it though. Hop on."
She widens her eyes and wrinkles up her nose at him. "This dress is new…so...I think I'll pass. Anyway, I'm fine on my own."
With a fair degree of difficulty, she tries to hasten her steps, yet Stiles continues to walk next to her, towing his bike alongside him.
"Come on, Lydia. It must have taken you ten minutes to walk like one-and-a-half blocks. You've got at least another eleven to go. I know you can do the math…and at this rate, it will be dark before you get home." He angles the bike in front of her. "Here…sit down and I'll carry your books," he insists.
Stiles wishes she would just let him help her. He knows Lydia doesn't really trust people. He thinks maybe it's because someone hurt her, but he would never want to do that. He hopes that if he is kind enough and shows her that he wants to be her friend, she might be able to trust him someday.
Lydia wishes he would stop being so nice to her all the time. No one is as nice to her as Stiles is. It makes her want to trust him – and nothing good can come of that. She can't understand why he insists on making it so hard for her to keep from liking him. He is looking at her in that way he does…the way that makes her feel important and special. No one else looks at her the way Stiles does. She knows it won't last though. He will get bored with her...just like everyone else. Lydia is about to tell him to go away, but the way he is looking at her feels so good, and it softens her. She starts wondering how much time has passed as she catches herself staring into his big brown eyes. She can't help it though. She never noticed how pretty they are until just now.
She takes a breath to refocus. "I don't think I can pedal with my ankle the way it is."
"That's okay. Sit and I'll push you," he tells her. When she doesn't comply, he tries harder to convince her. "Come on. If you don't say yes, I'm going to just ride the whole way with you anyway so—"
"Alright…alright," she says, raising her hands in exasperated surrender.
"Good." Stiles takes her books and holds the bike steady, so she can get settled as comfortably as possible. Lydia sits in a side-saddle position, like he knew she would. When she twists around to clasp the handlebars, his warm hands and her cold ones make contact, and they both still.
She risks another glance at him. "Stiles?"
"Yeah?"
"Just…don't let me fall. Okay? I don't need any bruises to go with my stupid sprained ankle."
"I won't. I'd never let that happen."
When he speaks, Lydia studies his expression, suspiciously searching for a tell – a blink, a curl of his lip, a twitch of his cheek – any of the things her father does when he tells her that he will make more time for her, anything that shows her that Stiles is being less than honest. She is fully prepared to find one, to get right back off the bike and ask him to go…but she can't. He looks directly into her eyes and never breaks contact. He says the words, fills them with meaning – and it sounds like a promise, like he would rather let himself get hurt than let her fall. She believes him.
Lydia purses her lips, diligently working to hide a smile as Stiles moves them forward.
They remain silent for the first few minutes. Stiles wants to talk to Lydia, but he can't think of a single thing to say. She is so beautiful…and she smells so good…and she makes him so nervous that it's nearly impossible to focus. Plus, she is so smart, he guesses there isn't anything he could say that Lydia might find even remotely interesting. Though the air is quite chilly, his hands are sweating on the handlebars, and he prays she doesn't notice.
Eventually, Stiles can't take the quiet anymore, so he simply brings up the first thing that comes to his mind. "So…uh…it's been really cold lately."
"Small talk? Really?" she remarks, shaking her head. "You want to talk about the weather? What are we? Two old people?"
"Well…I…" His voice trails off as he lets out a sigh, sending a visible cloud of breath gusting into the air. "Fine. If you're such a great conversationalist, then you pick something for us to talk about. Unless you'd rather be silent the rest of the way."
Stiles tightens his grip on the bike, irritated by her response. As much as he likes her, Lydia can be so annoyingly blunt. He wonders why she couldn't just do what most people would do – play along until he relaxes enough to have a real conversation. The irritation is quickly replaced with a warm sensation in his chest when Stiles realizes that this is just one of the many things he likes about her. She isn't like everyone else. She's Lydia.
Lydia knows he can do better than this. Stiles might not be able to sit still for more than five minutes at a time, but she knows it's because he is trying to pay attention to everything around him. He is interested in a lot of things…like astronomy, and baseball, and solving puzzles, so she is positive he has something much more interesting to talk about than a sudden drop in temperature. She decides to push his buttons to see if he lightens up enough to talk to her. Anyway, it serves him right for making her want to trust him, for getting her to like him, for making her feel so many things all at once.
"Okay, I will," she replies smugly. "Why were you riding this way, when your house is in the other direction?"
And she goes right for the jugular, he thinks…but he says, "I was going to Scott's house." The statement comes out sounding more like a question than an answer.
"This is out of the way if you were going to Scott's too," she presses, keeping her focus ahead of her and quirking her mouth on one side.
He tries again, traitorous voice still giving him away. "I was going to the baseball field…to practice."
"Alone…and without any of your gear?"
"Alright. I saw you and...I wanted to make sure you got home okay."
Lydia's head promptly snaps in his direction. That wasn't the answer she was expecting, so she follows up with another question. "Why?"
"Because…"
Stiles can feel Lydia watching him, and he wants to return her gaze without crashing the bike, so he stops momentarily. When he turns to look at her, their faces are so close that he can count her eyelashes and freckles. He doesn't let himself hope that it will matter to her, but even so, Stiles wants Lydia to know he cares about her. He tells her the truth because what's the worst that can happen? She still needs him to get home.
"Stiles?" she impatiently urges.
"Because I was worried about you…and I knew you wouldn't ask anyone for help."
Lydia furrows her eyebrows and blinks repeatedly. She ponders his response, then quickly turns away again, trying not to show how much his open admission of concern and insight are affecting her. She can't look in his eyes right now, but at the same time she feels safe enough to share something with him. Maybe it will help Stiles understand her. For some reason, it is important to her that he does.
After a long pause, she speaks. "Yeah, well…you can't rely on people. They always…" She breaks, cringing at the quivering sound of her own voice, then swallows slowly and sucks in a breath. The freezing air fills her already tightening lungs, making them sting.
Stiles thinks he sees Lydia's lip trembling. and he knows it has little to do with the cold. "Always what?" he coaxes, gently brushing his index finger against the side of her pinky.
The feeling of his hand against hers warms Lydia from the inside and opens her up a bit more. "Let you down."
Hearing the pain in her voice makes his stomach hurt. He wants to make her feel better but isn't sure how. "That's true a lot of times, but not always. Sometimes...people surprise you."
Her tone is flat when she retorts, "I'd rather not be surprised."
"Yeah, I figured," he comments with an almost inaudible trace of sadness in his voice.
When he prepares to move forward, she stops him.
"Stiles, hang on a second."
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing, I just…don't want to sit this way anymore. Can you—" She wants to say help me, but the words refuse to come out.
Stiles instantly knows that Lydia is asking for help, and he also knows it isn't easy for her, so he doesn't make her say it. If there is anything he can do to keep her from being uncomfortable, he will do it.
"Yeah, sure," he interrupts. He holds the bike still, waiting for her to swing her left leg to the other side and carefully assisting so her heel doesn't get caught on the crossbar. "Better?"
"Yeah," she confirms with a faint smile.
"You ready?" he checks, looking at her through his lashes.
Lydia makes eye contact with Stiles and nods, watching how wisps of his dark hair graze against his forehead in the breeze. He is pretty cute, she admits to herself. Without thinking, she readjusts her fingers around the handlebars, hooking her pinky over his index.
Stiles's eyes widen at her touch, but he manages to focus enough to keep the bike steady and move ahead. When he realizes that they are already halfway to Lydia's house, he can't help but be disappointed. He wants to talk to her more, before he runs out of time. Strangely enough, it's getting easier than he thought it would be.
"Have you started working on a project for the science fair?"
"I haven't really thought about it," she fibs, flaring her fingers and pretending to admire her nail polish. She is practically finished already, not that she is going to participate.
"Why not?"
"I don't think I'm going to enter this year. Maybe it's…just a waste of time."
Stiles heart sinks when he hears her say that. Lydia always participates in the science fair. She looks forward to it, almost as much as the math bee. "No, it isn't. You like science, and you're really good at it."
She shrugs her shoulders. "So?"
"So…if you like doing something, then it's not a waste of time."
"I guess."
"You really haven't thought about it…at all?" he questions with disbelief.
"Well, maybe a little," she confesses.
His heart lifts when he sees a shy grin creeping onto Lydia's face. "I knew it! What's your subject?"
"Geotropisms in germinating seeds."
He stares at her, mouth hanging open a bit. "Okay, that's way over my head."
"No, it isn't. Basically, it explains how plant growth responds to gravity. It tests the theory that no matter what position a seed is placed in when it is planted, the roots will grow downwards, towards gravity…and the plant will grow upwards, away from gravity."
As soon as Lydia begins describing her project, her face lights up with excitement. It makes Stiles really happy to see her like that, and he can't help but smile. "So…you only thought about it a little, right?" he teases.
She bites her lip, but it doesn't hide her enthusiasm. "What about you? Are you going to enter?"
"Yeah, probably."
"Did you pick a subject?"
"Nah…we still have plenty of time before it's due."
"There's only a few more weeks. You always wait 'til the last minute," she notes, looking off to one side.
"I do not," Stiles claims with mock offense.
Her eyes flick back to his face. "Yes, you do…but you work better that way anyhow. Don't you?"
"Yeah," he replies, with a hint of pride. "Hey…how'd you know that?" he challenges, scrunching up his face.
Again, she averts her eyes. This time looking down at her lap. "You're not the only one who notices things."
Shocked, Stiles stops the bike for the second time. The knowledge that Lydia does notice him, that she actually pays attention to him, is far from what he expected to learn about her from this conversation. It triggers another round of butterflies, and this time, it's a little less uncomfortable.
He feels bold enough to tell her what he really wants to say. "Well, for what it's worth..."
Lydia is still looking at her lap, so Stiles nudges her pinky, which is still resting on top of his index finger. Then he links their digits together, hoping she will look at him…and she does. She holds his glance with interest, waiting for him to continue.
Clearing his throat, which has swiftly gone dry, Stiles begins again. "For what it's worth, I think you should enter your project…'cause it sounds amazing…and you'll probably win first prize."
Lydia wants to tell him, it's worth a lot – the fact that he believes in her. It's worth more than he'll ever know because sometimes, she thinks, he might be the only person who does.
Instead, she just says, "I'll think about it."
Stiles believes in her. Lydia can do anything. He knows it, and he hopes she does take part in the science fair because he wants to listen to her talk about her project and see the excitement in her eyes when she does. He wants to watch her make it to the final round and clap for her louder than anyone else…when she receives her gold medal. The thought alone makes Stiles beam, and he forgets all his nervousness. He just wants to talk to Lydia for as long as he can.
"What are you doing over vacation?" he inquires as he continues forward.
She pouts. "I have to spend most of it at my dad's in Portland."
"Oh… You don't sound so happy about that."
"I'm supposed to meet his new girlfriend," she explains, rolling her eyes. "It's his third one in two years – so gross. I'd rather stay here with my mom anyway."
"Portland's nice though. Right?"
"I wouldn't know. Whenever I go there, I spend most of the time in my dad's apartment with his housekeeper…while he is at work, or at business events, or on dates. I don't get to see much of the city."
Stiles's stomach drops again. He doesn't understand Lydia's father. How could he not want to spend time with his daughter? Especially when his daughter is as incredible as Lydia. It makes Stiles extra grateful that his own dad always makes time for him, even though he works really long hours. He thinks Lydia deserves a father who is as good as his own.
"That sucks. I'm sorry."
"It's been like that ever since he left…" she pauses, reflexively tightening her finger around his. "Whatever. It's not like it's easy to be around him…and it'll give me more time to read."
He can tell that Lydia is trying to cover how much she is hurting. She obviously doesn't want to talk about it, so he takes her lead. "What book are you reading?"
"You ask a lot of questions."
Stiles knows Lydia is looking at him again. He hopes he isn't starting to annoy her with his chatter. "Sorry," he backpedals, biting his lip into a frown.
"Don't apologize. It's not a bad thing. It's just…different. People don't usually ask me— Anyway, to answer your question, I'm reading Persuasion, by Jane Austen."
"What's it about?"
"A lot of things…but mostly, these two young people…Anne Elliot and Frederick Wentworth. They live in England in the early 1800s. They were very much in love and engaged to be married, but Anne's mentor convinces her that Wentworth isn't the right person for her. So, Anne breaks off the engagement…even though he made her really happy. Throughout their lives, she and Wentworth meet – over and over again. They clearly still love each other, but all of these misunderstandings and hurt feelings keep them apart."
"Wow. That sounds…depressing."
"Yeah, I guess it is," she laughs softly. "But it's so beautifully written. Listen to this – it's my favorite line so far: There could have been no two hearts so open, no tastes so similar, no feelings so in unison, no countenances so beloved. It's like poetry."
Lydia can't believe how easy it is to open up to Stiles. He seems genuinely interested in what she is saying, but she catches herself getting too comfortable and recoils…because it feels too nice, and there is no way it can last.
"Sorry. I didn't mean to go on like that," she quickly withdraws.
Stiles can't believe how much Lydia is opening up to him. They have already reached the front of her house, but he wishes there were something he could do to keep her with him…even just a little bit longer. He carefully stops his bike as close to the porch as possible, then he lets go of one side of the handlebars, discreetly wiping his hand on his jeans before offering it to her.
"Don't be sorry. It is beautiful..." He utters the words with conviction, feeling brave enough to look into her eyes, but not quite brave enough to tell her he thinks she is beautiful…and so smart…and really special. "And I like hearing what you think," he finishes.
She smiles and timidly tucks her hair behind her ear before accepting his hand and easing herself off the bicycle. Stiles would love to be able to make her smile like that every day.
"Lydia?"
"Yeah?"
"Do you think things will work out between Anne and Wentworth?"
It strikes Lydia that Stiles must have actually been paying attention to what she said because he remembered the characters' names. Even more striking, he asked what she thinks. It's an unfamiliar experience. She has observed that people generally just nod and smile when she talks…and they never ask for her opinion. Stiles not only asked – he appears to care too. Her heart starts beating faster when she notices that he is still firmly holding her hand. She squeezes back, and it feels nice…and warm…and safe…and she doesn't want to let go.
"I don't know. Maybe it's silly, but part of me hopes so...even if things like that don't happen in real life. I mean, otherwise what's the point of it all...if two people who are so right for each other don't end up together?"
In the short time they've been talking, Stiles has come to understand that Lydia is even more amazing than he already thought. Being with her feels so natural and easy. He wonders if it is the same for other people when they like someone this much. He can't quite get over the astonishment that Lydia not only let him hold her hand – she also just squeezed her fingers around his palm, rather tightly. It feels nice…and warm…and safe…and he doesn't want to let go.
They look at each other for a long moment, both unsure of what to say.
"Well, thanks for—" she starts.
"Hold on. I got you this far…and you still have all those steps. Is it okay if I help you?"
Lydia blinks a few times before nodding her head in silent agreement.
Stiles hesitates briefly, then lifts their joined hands, draping Lydia's arm over his shoulder. Her eyes are on him again, and he knows he must be flushed. As he leans closer and puts his opposite arm around her waist, he secretly hopes she will assume that his red cheeks are due to the cold. Being so close to Lydia makes his stomach flutter again, but it isn't strange anymore. In fact, it's starting to feel pretty good.
As they slowly ascend the stairs, Lydia's fear starts to expand. This was the best time she has spent with a boy, and it makes her feel things that she shouldn't. She is not supposed to want to tell him what she thinks or how she feels. She is not supposed to like how warm she is with his arm around her or to be able to trust him so easily. It will only make things worse later when he leaves, like everyone else.
When they reach the top step, she lets go of his shoulder and moves to the front door by herself, hurriedly unlocking it. Then, she takes her books from Stiles, and sets them inside the foyer.
As soon as he lets go of Lydia, Stiles feels restless and hesitant about what to do next. He is still awestruck that he just had his arm around her…and maybe even more surprising – she didn't even seem to mind being so close to him.
While she has her back turned, he shoves his hands into his pockets, lets out the breath he has been holding, and tilts his head upwards trying to gather his composure. That's also the moment when he notices a cluster of mistletoe suspended from the door frame.
Before fully considering the implication, he rather awkwardly points out, "Hey…uh…we're standing under mistletoe."
Lydia lets her fear get the better of her, abruptly whipping around to face him. "I don't get my mom sometimes," she blurts out with a scowl. "It's such an archaic tradition, don't you think?
"Uh…" Stunned by the sharp change in her, Stiles automatically blames himself for saying the wrong thing. It was going so well between them, and then he had to ruin it by making Lydia think he is just like every other boy who is only looking for an excuse to kiss her. He worries that now she will think he was only pretending to be interested in her, which couldn't be further from the truth.
"People should only kiss if they want to, right?" she continues.
"Yeah, of course."
"And really…expecting people to kiss just because they happen to be standing near each other!" she scoffs, crossing her arms. "Did you know mistletoe is actually a parasite? It's also highly toxic. How's that for irony?"
"When you put it that way, it sounds pretty messed up…" Stiles concedes, sliding his hand out of his pocket to scratch anxiously at the back of his head, "but…maybe the idea behind it was to turn something that's not so great into something better. You know, to give it a different meaning…so it doesn't have to be all bad."
She looks at him and tilts her head to one side. "That's interesting… I never thought of it that way before."
Lydia likes that Stiles didn't just mindlessly agree with her. He wasn't afraid to have an opinion different from hers. Most boys just agree with whatever she says, and she knows it's because they aren't really listening. His answer surprises her, and she thinks that maybe being surprised isn't so bad. She wants to keep him with her a bit longer.
"What are you doing over vacation?" she asks, letting her arms fall to her sides.
Stiles is relieved that Lydia has relaxed again. He wonders if maybe she understood that he wasn't trying to pressure her. Sure, he would like to kiss her someday, but he really cares about her too. If she gets anything out of the time they spent together today, he hopes she knows that.
"Nothing much. I'll probably be at Scott's most of the time, while my dad is at work. The past few years, we've spent the holiday with Scott and Mrs. McCall."
"That sounds nice."
"Yeah. It's not the same as when my mom…" his voice fades out as he remembers the last Christmas they spent together, "but being with them helps."
She looks at him sympathetically. When she speaks, her voice is soft, barely a whisper. "Yeah, I get that. Things were different…when my grandmother was around." She looks up blinking back unwanted tears.
The sun is closer to setting now, and the clouds have parted completely, exposing streaks of crimson, orange, and blue. Beams of soft light descend from above, giving every surface they connect with an enchanted glow; the wet bark of the trees shines, the rooftops and frosted windows shimmer, and the scattered remains of last night's snow flurry sparkle like glitter.
Lydia and Stiles stand at the front door, both shifting their glances between each other and the ground, both unwilling to move away from each other.
"Well…I…uh…should probably get going…" Stiles begins.
"Oh… Don't you want to come in for a bit and warm up? You must be as cold as I am."
If he didn't know better, Stiles would think Lydia was trying to keep him there. He tells himself she is just being polite. It still feels pretty incredible that she asked though.
"Thanks. I would but…I'm supposed to meet Scott at the station. My dad is waiting for us."
"Okay. Some other time maybe. I can tell you how Persuasion turns out."
"Yeah, sure. I'd like that," he answers, with a nod. He turns to leave and then back to her. "Hey…um…make sure you stay off your ankle…and put ice on it…and maybe you should get it checked out by a doctor – just in case."
Lydia already knows all of this, but she can tell that the concern in his voice and expression are genuine, so she listens and smiles gratefully at him. "I will. Don't worry."
Stiles notices Lydia's dimples when she smiles, and he thinks he wouldn't mind seeing them every day. Her smile makes him feel something around his heart – a tugging sensation. He has never felt that before, and he doesn't remember hearing anyone he knows describe anything like it. It certainly doesn't hurt though, and he can't help but smile back at her.
Lydia feels lit up inside when Stiles smiles at her. For a second, she thinks his eyes flash with specks of gold. His cheeks are red, and she wonders if it is from the cold or if he is blushing. She hopes it's the latter. His face is sweet and honest, and she is not used to that, but she likes it…a lot. When other boys smile at her, she always sees something else there, and it looks like an ulterior motive or deception. Suddenly, she is pressed with the need to step nearer to Stiles. It's as though something is pulling her towards him.
"I guess…I'll see you after vacation then," he says.
"Yeah."
He turns to leave again, but this time Lydia puts her hand on his shoulder to stop him.
"Hey, Stiles?"
"Yeah?" he answers, facing her once more.
Before he can blink, she leans into him and lightly presses her lips against his…and her lips are soft…and she tastes like the gingerbread cookies from the Christmas party…and it's so fast he almost thinks he imagined it – almost.
She touches her nose to his, and her exhale breezes across his lips as she whispers, "Thanks for not letting me down."
Stiles stares at Lydia wide-eyed and breathless. Before he can say you're welcome, she turns away and disappears behind the great wooden door of the Martin home. His mind feels blank at the moment, but he knows he will never forget the time he just spent with Lydia. He rides his bike to the sheriff's station with the feeling that his heart might leap out of his chest and an enormous grin imprinted on his face.
Lydia leans up against the grain with a sigh. She is glad her mom is still at work because she cannot wipe the smile from her face, and she doesn't want to have to explain it to her. She wants the moment to be just between Stiles and herself. It's theirs and no one else's. Closing her eyes, she deliberately works to commit every detail to her memory. Then she unbuckles her silver shoes and sets them aside, feeling pleased – for the first time since she slipped, that she decided to wear them today.
After getting some ice from the kitchen, Lydia limps over to the sofa in the living room, so she can continue reading Persuasion. She can't wait to find out how it ends…so she can talk about it with Stiles.