Lydia stands at her bedroom window and slides it open. It is late morning, and the sky is bright, painted with fluffy white clouds that pop against its cerulean blue shade. Sunlight touches everything, revealing newborn buds on the maple tree and a cheerful robin perched in its nest with red-orange breast feathers, recently preened and fluffed. The bird's song is one that Lydia is sure she hasn't heard before, but it speaks directly to her heart. As she listens to the sweet tune, her eyes search for and find Stiles.
He is set in the passenger's seat of his Jeep, gathering a treasured bundle of paper from the glove compartment. Lydia watches as he steps out of the truck and jogs to the front door, and her heart flutters because she knows he is rushing to come back to her. She follows him with her eyes until he steps onto the porch and out of view.
When her gaze falls upon the ground below her window, Lydia sees the pointed green tips of tulip leaves peeking out from under the soil. She promptly realizes that every inch of the surrounding area is bursting with life; colors more vivid, breeze warmer against her skin, ordinary sounds unexpectedly melodious. Everything has changed.
It's as if the world is starting over again, awakening her senses with its beauty.
Today is a day unlike any other. Today is the day she dreamt of but feared would never be possible. Today is the day that Stiles came back to her. He loves her, and they are together. Lydia and Stiles – a perfect combination.
She sighs, and her exhale mists the window, where she traces a new message: Thank you.
Stiles closes the door of the Jeep, slings the duffel bag he collected from the trunk over his shoulder, and takes a breath. His left hand holds a stack of hand-written notes, etched in soon-to-be-spoken love. The sidewalk is cool and rough against his bare feet as he pads to the front porch of the Martin house. He looks up at the great brick building which doesn't seem as imposing as it once did. The world is buzzing with life, and the air is finally warm again.
Today feels different than any other. The blanket of darkness that had been lingering overhead is lifted because Lydia is going to come home with him. She loves him, and they are together.
He squints through bright daylight, climbs the stone steps, and smiles as he opens the front door…the one that will lead him back to Lydia. When he enters the foyer, he is once again greeted by the ticking of Prada's paws against shiny wood floors. Stiles calls out to her, and she shadows him as he ascends the long staircase. He follows the hallway to the second room on the right – Lydia's room.
As he reaches the threshold, Lydia comes into view. She is standing at the window, looking outwards with a smile. He doesn't have to guess what she is thinking about. He knows.
Her long strawberry-blonde hair has air-dried to a naturally tousled mane. It cascades over her shoulders, casually swishing along with the breeze that passes through the open window. She is running her hands over the cotton fabric of the shirt she is wearing. His shirt.
Stiles hesitates, quietly setting his overnight bag on the floor while taking in the sight of her – calm, content, and breathtakingly beautiful. The tugging at his chest that he always feels when he sees Lydia encourages him closer. He needs to hold her again, so he hastens his steps to get back to her.
Lydia is deep in thought, and she doesn't hear Stiles approach, but she feels him – familiar tugging at her heart intensified. She turns to face him, moving towards him with ease. They swiftly meet in the middle of her room, arms automatically encircling each other as he lifts her off the ground and she wraps her legs around him. He carries her to the bed, left hand still clasping the notes as he carefully nestles her on top of cool sheets. She keeps contact with him, her legs bent and ankles hooked around the back of his knees. He holds her gaze, mesmerized by radiant green eyes that penetrate his heart as they sparkle. He leans nearer and nearer, until he can sense her breath in his face, sugary and sweet from the breakfast they shared…and his heart is so full of love that he can barely contain it.
"Hi," he greets her.
"Hi."
"I missed you."
"It's only been a few minutes," she points out.
"I know."
"I missed you too," she confesses, moving her hands from his neck to caress his cheekbones and enjoying how they deepen in hue underneath her touch. "It felt like a lot longer."
"Yeah, it did."
Her eyes roam to the left side of her head, where Stiles has placed the notes he held. "Will you read them to me?" she whispers.
"Sure. But first, check your pocket."
Lydia looks at him with curiosity, then dips her fingers between the panels of fabric. Her eyes widen as she discovers a folded piece of notebook paper. "How did you— When did you put that there?" she asks with utter surprise.
He smiles mischievously, pushing the sides of his flannel away to expose her mid-section. "When we were in the kitchen. Somewhere between…here…" he says, scattering a line of kisses from her stomach to her throat as she giggles, "and here…" he continues, hovering over her mouth before kissing her full on the lips.
When he pulls back, Lydia is entranced by gold-flecked irises that pierce her soul with their smoldering glow. He is both passionate and tender with her; heat of his body settling over her like a blanket of summer air…and her heart is so full of love that it floods every inch of her and overflows from the corners of her eyes.
She slowly unfolds the paper and silently reads the message Stiles inscribed for her, looking deliberately over each word, so she can memorize every distinct mark of his penmanship.
I love you. Can we start every day like this?
She feels it again – that idyllic sense of bliss inhabiting her bones; Stiles nestling deeper and deeper inside, building a permanent home within parts of her that no one else has ever or could ever touch. She leaves the note unfolded and presses the penned side of it to the center of her chest for a moment before reaching out for him.
"That works for me," she replies, stroking his face with one hand and running her fingertips through the ends of his hair with the other.
"How in the hell did we survive a month without each other?" he wonders aloud, furrowing his brows.
Lydia blinks through the stinging in her eyes. "You mean…one month…two days…seventeen hours."
He half-smiles, half-grimaces, turning his face to kiss the pads of her fingers.
"I don't know," she adds, tracing his cupid's bow with her thumb, "but let's never do that again."
"Never again, Lyds. Never."
He kisses her over and over, and he tastes like blueberries and sugary coffee. He surrounds her, and even through the scent of her shampoo and body wash, he still smells like Stiles. She wants him closer. Her hands find their way to the hem of his tee shirt and she slowly drags it up and over his head as he kneels between her legs. He leans down, sliding his hands under her back and supporting her with one arm so that with the other, he can peel his red and blue plaid from her body until she is freed of it. When he tosses it to the floor, Prada seizes the opportunity to curl up in the pile of fabric and drift to sleep.
Lydia and Stiles lie side by side; her – lazily dragging her hands up and down his arms and chest, him – twirling her hair with one hand and exploring the sheer material of her bra and panties with the other. Contented in each other's company, they remain in comfortable silence…and everything else fades away.
Early in the afternoon, Stiles is sitting on Lydia's bed, supported by a few of her pillows which are propped against her plum-colored velvet headboard. She is leaning on his chest, smooth skin of her back and lace of her bra straps pressed firmly against him, length of her wavy locks draped over his shoulder. He keeps his arms around her, hands splayed across her stomach as she gingerly lifts the lid of an embossed paper box, revealing the place where she has securely kept all the notes he had given her.
As she sifts through each treasured message, Stiles notices clusters of dainty star-shaped blossoms, scattered like confetti within the box.
"Lyds, those are the lilacs I gave you… Aren't they?"
"Uh-huh."
"You kept those too?"
"Yeah...seemed a shame to let go of something so beautiful."
"I know what you mean," he agrees, squeezing her and marking her temple with his lips.
She flicks her eyes upwards to catch his glance. "What you did for me… Stiles, I don't know how I would have gotten through that day without you. You showed me your love, over and over again. You took me outside of the pain for a while – pain that I was drowning in, and you gave me hope. Stiles, you saved me."
He moves his right hand to cup her face, leaning down to press his lips to hers. "You saved me too Lydia…in so many ways."
She smiles. "We're really lucky to have each other."
"Yeah, we are."
She clutches his wrist, then reaches for the stack of unread notes. The blue string that binds them is quickly unraveled. Lydia winds it around her finger before handing the neatly folded papers to Stiles.
"Go ahead," she speaks softly. "I need to know everything you wanted to tell me."
He accepts them but hesitates to begin. Nervously biting his lip, Stiles remembers the heartache, the guilt, and the pain that loomed over him as he wrote each message.
Lydia can feel his heart rate accelerate beneath her. "Something wrong?"
"It's just…these aren't like the others. When I wrote these, I was in a pretty dark place."
"I know. I was too. So…whatever you wrote, it's okay. I'll understand."
He nods and inhales, and she can feel his ribs expand under her spine. She breathes with him, and he can feel her love washing over him as he begins...
"March 25: Please call me. Tell me I was wrong. Tell me I'm an idiot. Tell me to come back to you," he reads from the first page. Then, he unfolds the second note from that day. "This hurts so much. Even more than I thought it would.
March 26: Lydia, I'm lost without you.
March 27: I couldn't breathe when I saw you this morning.
I wrote the next one in algebra class," he recalls. "It says: Please turn around. Just for a second. I miss you." He lets out an aggravated sigh. "I should have given this to you."
Lydia tilts her head up to make eye contact. "I should have turned around. I wanted to. I wanted to hold your hand so badly."
"I wanted that too."
They look at each other in unspoken apology. When Lydia offers Stiles a gentle smile, he returns the gesture and continues with the next note.
"March 28: My arms are empty without you.
March 29: I miss you…more every day.
March 30: I think about you first thing in the morning.
March 31: I dream about you every night.
April 1: It's so hard not to look at you. You're so beautiful.
April 2: Do you know how much I love you? I always will.
April 3: I hate sleeping without you next to me.
April 4: Why don't you raise your hand in class anymore? I know you have the answers."
Stiles stops reading to ask, "Why did you do that?"
"Because…I felt like I didn't know anything anymore."
"Lyds…"
"All I can say is…" she explains, fighting the onset of fresh tears, "I was lost without you too."
He closes his eyes and rests his cheek against hers. She blinks her eyes to clarity, then reaches over her shoulder to rest her hand on the nape of his neck, lightly massaging her fingers into his gradually relaxing muscles. They sit silently as their bodies rise and fall together.
After a few moments, Stiles opens his eyes and continues, "April 5: What are you thinking right now?
April 6: I miss waking up next to you.
April 7: It's so dark without you.
April 9: I miss the way you listened to my heart. I wonder if it would sound different to you now.
April 10: I just want you to be happy.
I miss your smile, the way your eyes light up, and your dimples.
April 11: I still can't breathe without you.
April 12: I keep thinking about when we kissed. I remember what it feels like."
"Stiles, I did too."
He holds her tighter as she leans in for a kiss.
"I just wanted you to know that," she tells him, and he smiles.
"April 13: I miss having breakfast with you.
April 14: Lydia, you are the best thing that ever happened to me.
April 15: I want you back. I want you to come home with me.
April 16: Please talk to me. Tell me anything. I'll listen.
April 17: Is there any part of you that can forgive me?
I miss our friendship. I miss what we were becoming."
By the time Stiles gets to April 18, his throat has painfully tensed.
Lydia's eyes are fixed on his tortured expression – brows cinched, jaw twitching, bottom lip quivering. She feels the same anguish as she remembers all the long days and nights that they were apart.
Her voice is laden with emotion and concern when she speaks, "Stiles, I'm sorry. We can stop."
The mass of his own words is bearing down, but it feels right to keep going. He wants to keep reading – for Lydia. He needs her to hear, and see, and feel the love he held, no matter the distance between them.
He exhales a shaky breath. "No, I'm okay. I've got you in my arms… I'm okay." He nods his head towards the paper in his hand. "I only wrote one word on the eighteenth. Look."
Lydia reluctantly shifts her eyes from his face, breath hitching in her throat when she sees what he is referring to. It's a drawing of the sun with her name neatly printed at the center of it.
"Oh… Stiles… I—" Lydia gasps through a broken sob. Her hair drifts across his body as she sits up and kneels next to him on the bed. She smooths her hands across the broad width of his shoulders and brings him into a hug. "That's what you are to me too."
He holds onto her, arms completely enveloping her small frame. He wants her closer. Burying his face in her hair, he urges Lydia nearer until she is straddling his lap. She tucks her head into the crook of his neck, patiently waiting to hear more of his words and bracing herself to absorb the impact of those words as they impart his love into every fiber of her being. Lydia's reassuring presence helps Stiles find his voice so that he can read the last few messages. His tone is soft, and sweet, and low as he caresses the small of her back with one hand and manages the slips of paper with the other.
"This one is from the day we saw each other at Scott's house. April 19: I wanted to talk to you today, but you're so beautiful, and I love you so much that I couldn't even string a sentence together."
"I wanted to talk to you too," Lydia tells Stiles, her exhale wafting across his neck as she quietly speaks.
He wets his lips and tries to swallow the lump in his throat. "April 20: Are you still afraid of me?
April 21: Please forgive me.
April 22: I love you so damn much.
April 23: Do you have any idea how much I miss you?
April 24: I don't think I can do this anymore.
…and you have the next two."
When Stiles finishes reading, both he and Lydia lose their battle with tears; his – trickling down his cheeks, hers – pooling in his collarbone.
Stiles sets the notes aside, captivated by the feeling of Lydia's body around his torso. She is perfection in lace and silky skin draped over him, bridge of her nose pressed to the side of his neck, lashes tickling his pulse point, palms flat against the sides of his ribs, thighs locked against his waist. Lydia closes her eyes, besotted by the feeling of Stiles beneath her. His perfect firm chest and abdomen are warm against her breasts and stomach, his jaw resting on her forehead, his arms crossing over the narrow width of her, one hand at the nape of her neck and the other outlining infinity symbols against the ridges of her spine. They are as close as two people can be, and still, they want to be closer.
After a few minutes, Lydia lifts her head to look at Stiles. "You skipped a day… April eighth. Your birthday."
"It's here, I wanted to save it for last. It says: All I want today is you."
Lydia's rose-colored lips blossom into a smile. "I didn't forget, you know. I even got you a gift."
"I didn't think you forgot…but you didn't have to get me anything."
"I wanted to," she tells him. "Do you want to see what it is?"
"Yeah, sure."
She gets up from his lap, crawls over to the nightstand, and slides the drawer open. After retrieving an envelope, which she hides behind her back, Lydia kneels by his side.
"I never wrapped it," she explains, hint of embarrassment on her face and in her tone.
Stiles shakes his head as he grins. "It's okay. Really."
She kisses him delicately, then whispers, "Happy birthday," as she presses the envelope into his hands.
His eyes shift down and noticeably widen as he reads the return address. "Lydia… What?" he gasps, sitting up straight and folding his legs inwards.
"Go ahead… Look inside."
Gnawing on his lip in anticipation, Stiles reaches into the envelope and withdraws its contents. His jaw drops while his mouth reshapes into a dazzling smile. "Mets tickets! Third base-side seats! Are you kidding me? Oh my god! Lyds, this is amazing! It's incredible…" Suddenly, his face grows solemn. "It's…too much."
Lydia inches closer to him, gripping his bicep. "Don't say that. Please. I want this for you. You deserve it. You deserve so much more than this – you deserve everything…everything you want."
Stiles looks at her in that special way that he does – the way that makes her insides throb with need for him, the way that makes her realize his love for her is so vast that it has no beginning and no end. When he drops his face to her chest, Lydia can feel him smiling against her skin, she can feel how happy he is, and it makes her heart soar. She rests her cheek on the top of his head and wraps her arms around him, feathery tufts of his hair tickling her nose and his breath ghosting across her breasts. And she loves him too much, but right now her heart feels strong enough to carry every ounce of that love.
"Lydia Martin, you are what I want most in the world," he declares, lips skimming her cleavage with every syllable. Then he lifts his head, eyes glowing gold with immeasurable intensity. "You know that… Right?"
"Yes, and you have me. I'm yours. But you'll take the tickets too, won't you?" she asks.
I'm yours. She says the words so naturally and with such certainty that it makes his entire body buzz. Stiles is so full of love for Lydia that he thinks this time, his heart must be breaking, but it feels so good to be in her arms that he can't feel any pain.
"Yes," he confirms, scooping her into his arms as she squeals with delight.
He lays her down on the bed, his body hovering over hers as she hooks her legs around him. He loves seeing her like this – happy, and hopeful, and so completely with him in the moment.
Stiles kisses Lydia over…and over…and over again. "Thank you, so…so…so much," he repeats, gratitude dripping from his mouth like honey.
She sighs into him, reveling in the taste of his mouth and the feeling of his body on top of hers.
"Lyds, when did you get them?"
"Last month…the night after we talked about the game you went to. I asked your dad if it was alright," she responds, tightening her legs around him until he is pressed against her.
He kisses her cheek while she runs her fingers through his hair. "And…" he moans, unable to withhold the reaction as she nibbles on his earlobe, "obviously you are coming with me, but…there are three tickets in that envelope. Who is the third one for?"
"Scott."
"He knows about this?"
"Yeah, he's been saving up from working at the clinic, so we could split the cost of the plane tickets. I've got a credit card for everything else. When I started making plans, I thought the three of us could share one room...but now…" she enlightens, as she pushes her hips against Stiles, making him whimper, "now, I'm pretty sure you and I are going to want a room to ourselves."
"Uh…yeah, definitely going to want that," he agrees, giving her more of his weight as his jaw slackens with desire.
The building pressure feels good, but Lydia wants to slow things down. She tightens her legs around him once more, heels of her feet digging into the curves of his ass…and he stills. His eyes soften and his mouth quirks to one side in unspoken communication. With his palms and fingers, Stiles tells Lydia that he is just as pleased to change pace with her. He runs his hand down the length of her body, starting at her temple, then into her hair, around the curve of her ear, past her neck and shoulder, skimming the side of her breast as he travels the length of her ribs and abdomen, swirling over her hip, along her thigh, and stopping when his arm is fully extended, reaching to the back of her knee. Lydia smiles gently at the way Stiles understands her, the way their bodies seem to be attuned to the same frequency, ebbing and flowing along a single wavelength.
They could do this for hours – be close like this, touch each other, kiss each other, hold each other, make each other feel every bit of affection that they have both been aching to experience – just be together for as long as possible…while everything else fades away.
Brushing his hair back, Lydia draws Stiles's face near and kisses his forehead. "I was thinking…Scott and Kira seem to be getting closer. Maybe she'd like to come with us. I bet I can get another ticket. What do you think? Should we ask Scott if he'll be okay with that?"
"Yeah. That's a really good idea. They're taking things slow, but he told me it's going pretty well...and I think we could all use some time away from here."
"I think so too." She gingerly kisses his cupid's bow. "Stiles?"
"Hmm."
"You're happy… Right?"
His mouth breaks into a broad smile above her lips as he slides his arms underneath her. "Yeah, Lyds. You make me really happy." He rolls them both over, so she is lying on top of him.
"I'm glad," she tells him, settling her head on his chest.
They spend the next stretch of time curled up together…whispering all the things they wanted to say to each other over the past few weeks.
When the afternoon sun begins to toss muted yellow beams of light into the bedroom, Lydia and Stiles climb out of their cozy nest of sheets, blankets, and pillows, and prepare to leave.
Stiles has changed into a pair of khakis along with a tan and grey hooded pullover. While Lydia takes her turn washing up in the bathroom, he thoughtfully tidies the bed, then sits at the edge of it to put on a clean pair of socks and his sneakers. He watches as a fresh-faced Lydia stands in front of her closet.
"Hey, did you wanna bring a change of clothes with you for tonight and tomorrow?"
"Yes, definitely," she answers, removing a pretty white top printed with tiny Monarch butterflies from its hanger.
She glides the blouse over her head, then selects a midnight-blue mini-skirt. Stepping into the skirt and gliding it over her hips with ease, she walks over to the bed and stands in front of Stiles with her back to him. "Zip me up, please?" she requests, glancing over her shoulder at him.
A playful grin takes shape on his mouth as he takes the tiny zipper between his fingers and slowly drags it upwards. Once the closure is secured, Lydia turns to face Stiles, smooth skin of her legs spinning in his hands…which have already found their way underneath the hem of her skirt.
Wispy chiffon fabric swishes over his knuckles as he gently massages her thighs. "You realize, I am already thinking about taking this skirt off of you."
"Noted," she says with a smirk, before ducking down for a kiss. "I can't wait," she informs him, eyeing him up and down, then stepping aside and out of his reach.
Stiles groans, flopping back on the bed as he admires her. "Me neither," he sighs.
Lydia heads to the dresser to get pajamas for the evening and returns to the closet to pick out an outfit for the next day. As she sets her clothes next to his in the duffel bag, her stomach flourishes with excitement. She pictures the two of them packing for New York in the summer and someday packing for a much longer trip, and she smiles. Then she sits at the vanity with a curling iron and begins to transform her mane of messy waves into soft ringlets, one section at a time.
As she releases the last coil of hair and waits for it to cool, she lifts her eyes to observe Stiles's reflection in the mirror. He has retrieved his baseball from her desk and is tossing it from one hand to the other as he pads around the room.
"Stiles?" she calls.
"Yeah?"
"I was wondering…before we go home…could we make another stop or two first?"
Stiles turns to her. He can feel the confidence she has in them growing as words like we and home effortlessly spill from her lips. He knows exactly where Lydia intends to go, and it nudges at his heart. He sets the baseball on the desk and moves to kneel in front of her while she twists and pins the front portions of her hair to the crown of her head.
"Sure, Lyds."
"Thank you," she answers briefly closing her eyes.
He rests his head in her lap fiddling with the hem of her skirt as she puts on her make-up. She is sticking to the bare minimum again – tinted moisturizer, a hint of blush, curled lashes, and a sweep of shimmering eyeshadow.
When she is nearly finished, she takes Stiles's face in her hands and kisses him flush on the mouth."Ready to go?"
"Yeah. Should I take Prada for a walk before we leave?"
"Would you? I'll get her things and meet you by the Jeep."
"Okay," he tells Lydia as he rises from the floor. "Come on Prada," he calls. "Let's go for a walk."
At the sound of her name, Prada stirs from her nap and hops down from a sun-warmed spot on the window seat to follow him out of the room. The two go downstairs, and the pup waits by the front door barking as Stiles takes her leash from the hall closet and attaches it to her collar.
Outside, Stiles tugs his sleeves up and walks to the curb. He deposits his overnight bag in the backseat of the Jeep, mind brimming with memories of Lydia. Memories made new because now he understands that she loved him all these months.
He remembers holding her hand and the calm through nervousness that only she can inspire. He remembers the way her sweet scent expanded his lungs and how her kiss left hope on his cheek. She asked him to see her with touches instead of words, and when he opened his arms…she opened her heart. He remembers her eyes, flickering in lightning, and her skin, glowing in streetlamps. He remembers her face, saturated in raindrops and teardrops that poured down in anguish but glistened with love. He can still hear her laughter, and a trace of her whisper still promises I'll never forget. The small space seems bigger when she is within it, endless possibility and open road ahead. His heart rushes at the thought of her sitting beside him again, but also twinges with grief when he thinks of where they are about to go.
As he walks up and down the block with Prada, his own pain sharpens to a higher level because he knows Lydia is about to confront something that is going to hurt her.
Eventually, Prada tires and scratches at his leg to be picked up. Stiles cuddles her, taking comfort in the affection she reciprocates as though she senses his building anxiety. He removes his phone from his pocket and sends a text, then leans against the Jeep, waiting for his girl.
Back inside the house, Lydia takes a moment to look at the photo that is tucked into the frame of her mirror. She looks at Allison, Scott, and Stiles – three beautiful faces surrounding her with love. Her eyes fall upon her own reflection as the ache she always feels for Allison intensifies.
Don't frown Lydia, she hears, someone could be falling in love with your smile.
Throat tightening at the memory, she silently wishes to have her best friend with her again. Her eyes reflexively lift to the image of Stiles, and she finds the courage to take Allison's advice. Watery-eyed, Lydia watches as her lips transform into a genuine smile. She kisses the tip of her index finger, then presses it to Allison's forehead.
Rising from her seat, she walks over to the nightstand and picks up her necklace – the one that she wore the day of the funeral, the one that Stiles fastened around her neck as securely as he fastened himself around her heart. She puts the silver jewel on and tucks it into the collar of her blouse. Then she returns to the vanity, applies her lip gloss, slips on her ankle boots…and when the zipper sticks, she can't help but smile bigger.
After sending a text, Lydia slides her phone into her tan suede purse and goes downstairs. She packs Prada's food, bed, and toy duck into a shoulder bag, and takes a look around the house.
Without Stiles, it's far too still and far too quiet, but it doesn't seem as empty as it did yesterday. Because today, she and Stiles filled it with good memories. Together.
She remembers Stiles coming back to her, just like he promised he would. He climbed through the window to reassemble her broken heart in the way that only he could ever do. She remembers making love with him as darkness turned to daylight. She remembers feeling that she never wanted it to end. She fell asleep and woke up beside him, and his strong arms kept her from falling when her knees buckled from the oppressive fear of losing him. They shared breakfast and countless kisses. They danced. She remembers the way Stiles twirled her around the space – the two of them circling each other in orbit, a blur of color and light, and galaxies of stars flashing within his eyes. She remembers the sound of his voice saying I love you. The music of his laughter still echoes in her soul. She remembers the feeling of peace inside when she was able to comfort Stiles as the memory of his mother rained through the atmosphere in love-soaked tears.
She also remembers the step she is about to take, that her own grief is lying in wait, so she picks up her keys and willfully moves toward the future – where she knows Stiles will be waiting for her.
Stepping outside and locking the great wooden door behind her, Lydia forces a deep inhale in an attempt to center herself. Nerves are beginning to get the better of her, but then a bright burst of light catches her attention. She turns to seek out its source…and she sees him.
Stiles is leaning against the Jeep holding Prada in one arm, his face nestled into her neck, his form in silhouette. Daylight glints off the exterior of the truck and radiates rays from all around him. He is as bright as the sun, and the sight of him melts away her unrest.
Stiles is with me, she thinks. He loves me, and we are together.
Easily recovering her smile, she steps off the porch, quickening her stride to get to him.
His head lifts when he hears the front door of the Martin house close. Stiles watches, lips parted in reverent admiration, as his love approaches; eyes gleaming like emeralds...even from a distance, lightweight layers of her skirt fluttering across the midpoint of her thighs, hair color that puts the sunset to shame bouncing in ringlets around her shoulders as she descends the stone steps. She walks to him, hand outstretched, smile pointed directly at his heart. It feels like every dream he has ever had come true. For a prolonged moment, he thinks about getting in the Jeep with her, driving out of Beacon Hills, together…and everything else fades away.
"Hey, beautiful. Wanna drive?" he asks, eyebrows raised as he twirls his keys.
She steps close, resting her hand at his waist. "Another time," she responds, eyes misting with love. "Today, I just want to sit here and hold your hand."
"That works for me." He opens the passenger's side door, waiting for her to climb inside the Jeep.
Lydia takes her seat, drops her belongings in the back, buckles herself in, and extends her arms for Prada. She can't help but get emotional as she settles into the space. The same space that cradled her with familiarity as Stiles drove her to and from school through the worst and best week of her life. Where he held her together through grief and heartache. Where he told her that he loved her with lilacs, and raspberry-chocolate cupcakes, and words that proved he paid attention. Where they shared tears, secrets, and a rain-soaked embrace, and a breath that set her heart on fire. The same place where she made a birthday wish…that actually came true.
Stiles looks at her attentively. "Everything okay?"
"Yeah…I was just remembering." She rests her hand over his heart when she says, "I've missed this too."
"So have I. Nothing was the same without you, Lydia. Nothing."
She touches his face. "I know what you mean."
He leans into her hand, gazing at her for another minute before kissing her palm and backing up to close the door.
Within seconds, Stiles has taken his seat beside her and started up the engine. He links their hands and leans over to kiss her, ever so tenderly because he loves her...but he is also trying to be considerate and not smudge her lip gloss in the process.
The contact gives them both a blissful dizzying sensation. It feels like home.
"I've always wanted to do that," he admits when their lips part.
"I hoped you would. Was it how you thought it would be?"
"Nah…the real thing is even better."
Lydia's chest heaves as the breath she has been holding escapes. She grabs Stiles by the front of his pullover before he can move away, then smashes her lips against his with ardent desire because she loves him...and she doesn't give a damn if her lip gloss gets smudged right now.
Stiles eagerly matches her energy, all the longing from the past month still bubbling over. Lydia is forceful at first, then her bottom lip falls away as she searches for air. When their mouths reconnect, she has softened but the need she conveys is no less evident. Stiles can feel it in the way she delays her movements, in the way her grip on his clothing has strengthened, and in the way she touches her forehead to his; depths of her love whispering to him from beneath the surface of her skin.
Once Lydia releases his shirt and carefully smooths out the wrinkles she made, Stiles lets out a long slow breath. "Wow…yeah…way better."
With her thumb, Lydia wipes the gloss that transferred from her mouth to his. "Can we stop by the flower shop on Maple Street first?"
He looks at her through sparkling eyes, his handsome face animated by a charming grin and slightly flushed cheeks. "Yeah, Lyds. We can go anywhere you want," he answers…and he means it too.
They drive along quiet roads, hands locked securely over the gearshift, speaking in hushed tones as though every breath between them carries a secret. Lydia's little gold ring flashes as it connects with sunlight which intermittently dims and brightens as clouds float across the sky. Her eyes are transfixed on Stiles, who taps a rhythm on the steering wheel with his thumb and glances over at her as often as possible.
When they arrive at their first destination, Stiles waits with Prada, and Lydia goes into the shop. Shortly after, she returns with a bouquet clutched to her chest. She takes her seat, sets the flowers on the dashboard, and reclaims Prada as well as Stiles's hand.
They fall silent as they travel to their next stop, Beacon Hills Cemetery. Stiles takes the winding road past towering beech trees, lush evergreens, and budding apple blossoms. He parks a few feet beyond the turn that leads to Allison's grave and walks around to help Lydia. She passes Prada to him and he sets the little dog down by his feet.
Straightening, he offers Lydia his hand. "Do you want me to come with…or should I wait here?" he asks as she reaches for the bouquet.
"I want you with me," she replies, lacing their fingers together.
"Then that's where I'll be." He gives her hand a squeeze and shuts the door behind her.
Together, they walk towards the place where Allison is laid to rest. With each step, Lydia can feel her limbs shaking as a chill overtakes her. The only part of her that remains warm and anchored to the earth is the hand that is connected to Stiles. From where they stand, several feet from the sight, Lydia can see a familiar name carved in stone – and she freezes. If she had an empty hand, it would be clasped over her mouth to stifle a cry.
Allison is gone. There is no way to deny it, no pretending that she is merely in France. Her name is in bold letters over the Argent family crest, irrefutable proof that Allison is gone, and she is not coming back.
Stiles can feel her body quivering at the end of his hand as she comes to a halt beside him. "Lydia?"
"I haven't… I haven't been here," she stammers, staring ahead, "since the funeral. I—I didn't know that the gravestone was going to be..."
His heart wrenches as he releases her hand and takes the bouquet from her, placing it down on the grass so he can properly hold her.
"Stiles… Stiles," she whimpers, closing her eyes tightly. "It hurts."
"I know. I know," he tells her, gently rocking her as she leans into him and surrenders to the onslaught of tears.
"I can't—I can't do this," she insists, shaking her head against his shoulder.
"Shh…it's okay. It's okay," Stiles soothes. He hesitates, then sets his hands on her upper arms and hunches down. "Lydia, look at me."
She keeps her eyes on his shoes, grasping his elbows and trying to work her way into his embrace, but Stiles keeps her at arm's length, waiting for her to comply. She is stubborn, and he is nearly ready to cave to her trembling bottom lip, to pull her back into his arms and cry right along with her, when her eyes suddenly connect with his.
"Stiles, I can't," she repeats.
"Yes, you can. You're strong. You're the strongest person I know…and you can do this."
The quaking ceases and she nods, lips firmly pursed, cheeks tinting pink. There is a certainty in his tone that openly expresses his unwavering belief in her ability. She's heard it before.
Don't go doubting yourself now, she remembers.
His faith in her is contagious, and it chases the chill away. She feels stronger.
Stiles slides one hand to Lydia's wrist, bringing her palm flat against his sternum, then places his other hand at the center of her chest. "Just take a breath, nice and slow."
She follows his instruction.
"Again," he says, comforted by the way her chest rises and falls with his…and he feels stronger too.
They inhale and exhale together.
"Good. Come here," Stiles coaxes her, taking her into another hug. "It's gonna be okay. You aren't alone. I'm with you. We can do this together, and we don't have to move from this spot until you're ready."
His voice is muffled as he speaks into her neck, but to Lydia, his message is clear: Stiles is with me. He loves me, and we're together. She clings to him, fisting the fabric underneath his shoulder blades and finding solace in the rhythmic sound of his heart before reluctantly releasing him.
Her eyes are still glistening with droplets when two words – two words which could never be enough – fall from her mouth. "Thank you."
To Stiles, it seems ridiculous to say you're welcome in response. The phrase is too ordinary, too simple, too unworthy of the love he has for her. If there are any such words he could use to tell Lydia that the way she is looking at him is all the thanks he will ever need, then he has no knowledge of them. So, instead he smiles and kisses her forehead, hoping that she understands. The way she smiles back, even with tears puddling in her eyes, shows him that she does.
When she blinks, an abundance of liquid emotion cascades over long lashes and trickles down her cheeks. Stiles reaches into his pocket, pulling out a tissue to blot her eyes. He picks up the flowers, hands them to her, and drapes his arm over her shoulder.
They advance a single step before Lydia pauses again. "Don't let go. Okay?"
"I won't."
Lydia looks at him one more time, then pushes forward until they are poised in front of Allison's gravestone. In this moment, she is supremely aware of the love that supports her from both sides. Stiles is standing on her right; beautiful soul, limitless courage, and pure heart, bracing her body with his own. Prada is sitting at her left heel; gentle and devoted companion, wisps of silky hair carried with the wind across Lydia's bare calves as she reads the inscription:
In Loving Memory of
Allison Argent
Beloved Daughter
Cherished Sister
Devoted Friend
Valiant Protector
October 12, 1995 - March 17, 2013
It is only kindness that makes sense anymore.
With her focus on fourth and last lines, she suddenly comprehends. "That night…when Scott came for dinner and he was going to see Chris after…this is what they were meeting about. Wasn't it?"
"Yes."
"Stiles, it says Sister."
"That's how she felt about you Lydia," he tells her, thumb grazing along her neck.
"Did you know it would say that?"
"No, I didn't."
"What about the last line? It's from the poem I said at the funeral, and it was the one that meant the most to me… You're the only person who knew that. Was it your idea to add it?"
"Yes. It's okay…right?"
She replies by resting her head on him and nodding into his shoulder. "I've never done this. What do I do?"
"You can talk to her if you want to."
"Where do I start? There's so much to say."
"Start right here," he coaches, running his knuckles over her heart. "She'll understand."
Lydia lifts her head and pushes out a shaky breath. She separates from Stiles to place the bouquet of white tulips in the vase alongside the granite headstone. Then, she lovingly runs her left hand over the words Allison and Sister before returning to Stiles.
"Hi, Allison. I brought you some tulips." Her voice cracks sharply, but she focuses on Stiles's arm around her, and the reassuring contact helps her find the words, "I read somewhere that white tulips are supposed to symbolize forgiveness. The ones we planted aren't blooming yet…but they're finally starting to come up. I hope it means you forgive me. I'm so sorry that I couldn't save you. I miss you so much... I think of you all the time, and Stiles says that means you're still with me. I think he's right."
Her eyes find Stiles as his name passes her lips. He is a beacon of light, breaking through the darkness that has been seeking to shroud her in sadness and remorse.
"I came to tell you that…I'm going to be okay, Allison. I'm still hurting…and I'm pretty sure I always will because…well, you took a piece of me with you…but I'm going to be okay…because Stiles is with me, and we promised to take care of each other. We are both going to take care of Scott too. I hope you're at peace…and that wherever you are, you feel as loved as I do right now." She slides both of her arms around Stiles, breathing in the scent of him as he rests his chin on her head. "I'll never forget you. You'll always be my best friend, my sister. You changed me you know. You opened my heart, and you led me to Stiles…and he makes me so happy. I can never thank you enough...for saving me."
Stiles can feel his heart healing with every word that passes from Lydia's lips. Each syllable a reminder to him – Lydia is with me. She loves me, and we are together. She helps him find the strength to articulate an apology that has been hanging from the tip of his tongue for weeks, but which he didn't think he had the right to utter.
"You saved me too, Allison," he says softly. "I'm so sorry…sorry for everything. Please, forgive me."
He is about to lift a hand to wipe his eyes, but Lydia is a step ahead of him. Her cool hands ease the heat in his cheeks, and the encouraging pulse of her heart beats steadily against the curve of his ribs.
He wets his lips and continues, "I don't think I can ever make it up to you…but I'm going to try…and I'm going to do that by being here for Lydia…by loving her the way she deserves to be loved, and by making sure she's safe and happy. I promise I'll do my best not to let either of you down. We love you. Always will."
Lydia runs her hand over his stomach. "Stiles, are you alright?"
"Yeah," he sighs. "I've got you with me."
"Did I do okay?"
He cups her face, long fingers wandering into her hair. "More than okay. You were perfect, my sweet Lydia," he whispers before leaning down to kiss her tenderly.
They hold each other close as the atmosphere shifts; sun beginning to lower in the sky, wind gusting through the bordering trees, fragrance of sharp pine, crisp spring air, and dampened earth pervading their senses, and the intensity of their love quieting the ache that has been burdening their hearts for weeks.
After a while, a familiar voice carries from a short distance away. "Hey guys."
They both turn to see their friend, shy grin spread across his mouth.
"Scott," Lydia calls, slowly letting go of Stiles. She walks over to greet him, and he gives her one of his signature bear-hugs.
He pulls back to look at Lydia, who is smiling brightly. "Isn't that a beautiful sight," he compliments her. "I haven't seen you smile like this in a long time."
"It's all his fault," she explains, beaming over her shoulder at Stiles.
Scott gives her a kiss on the cheek as Stiles steps over to them.
"Hey, Scott." Patting his best friend on the shoulder, he teases, "I…uh…I know you two are having a moment here…but…kinda feeling left out right now."
"Well, get in here then," Scott encourages, bringing him into the embrace.
"Did you know we'd be here?" Stiles asks.
"Yeah, Lydia texted me…a couple of minutes after you texted to invite me to dinner."
They all look to each other, gentle laughter escaping as they lean into each other for support.
"I'm so happy for you two," Scott tells them. "You deserve this and…" he glances at Allison's grave, "she'd be thrilled for you both. I know it." His eyes mist, and he drops his head down, but Lydia and Stiles envelop him, and he manages another smile.
The three friends stand in silence, forever bound by the love they have for Allison, the loss they feel without her, and the reliance they have on each other to keep her memory alive.
Realizing that Scott needs some time alone, Stiles is the first to speak up. "Lyds, we should head home."
She nods and reaches for his hand, then turns to Scott. "You are coming to dinner, right?"
"Yeah. Wouldn't miss it."
"If you need a ride, we can wait for you by the Jeep," Stiles offers.
"Nah, you go ahead. I parked my dirt bike outside the gate. I'll meet you in a bit."
Stiles and Lydia walk to the Jeep, stopping one last time to glance at Scott, who is now kneeling beside Allison's grave with his hand resting over her name. The touching image makes Lydia gasp. She looks to Stiles, who is biting his lip.
"Stiles…"
"I know."
An overpowering impulse works its way through Lydia. "I love you, Scott McCall," she tells him quietly, knowing full well that he will hear her.
Scott turns his head in her direction. Even from a distance, she can see that he is smiling.
Stiles stands awestruck by Lydia's instinct to say the exact words that their friend needed to hear just then. "He'll be alright now," he assures her as he tugs on her hand.