20 Minutes Later
Stiles parks the Jeep in the driveway. He looks over at Lydia as he lets go of her hand to shut the engine. She is holding Prada closely, staring through the windshield in the direction of the front door.
"You okay, Lyds?"
She blinks, but her eyes remain fixed on the house. "You know that saying…you can't go home again? Well, it probably exists for a reason," she pouts.
He moves his hand to her thigh, satin skin and delicate bone completely enveloped by his palm and fingers. It gives him pause, leaves him mesmerized over the way he has so intimately touched her.
Seven months ago, it would have seemed too forward a gesture. If he had even considered such a thing, he would have decided against and positioned his hand on her shoulder instead. Seven days ago, it was outside the realm of possibility – they were barely speaking, let alone touching. Yet today, some seven hours after they were in bed together, he doesn't have to think – it is instinct to reach out like this, and the tension in Lydia's leg dissolves underneath the contact.
"Maybe…" he agrees, "but it doesn't apply to this place. This is always going to be your home."
The confidence Stiles conveys encourages Lydia to look at him. She places her hand on top of his and inhales deeply. "Okay. I'm ready," she says, but as he exits the truck and picks up their belongings from the back seat she can't seem to get her body to move forward.
When he opens the passenger's side door, she is still frozen in place, so he takes Prada from her arms and sets the dog on the ground. "You're gonna actually have to get out of the Jeep, Lydia. I mean…you know I'm more than willing to drive through walls for you, if that's what it takes to get you inside…but now might not be the best time to do something like that," Stiles teases.
His lighthearted tone snaps Lydia from the trance she was slipping into, and she laughs; formerly painful memory transformed into yet another illustration of his love for her. She marvels at his ability to cut through the noise, to get through to her, to make her feel better.
Stiles is here. He loves me, and we are together, she remembers as her heels hit the pavement.
"Will you hold my hand?" she asks.
He takes her hand with a crooked grin, intertwines their fingers, and drops a quick kiss at the corner of her mouth. "Come on. I can't wait to see my dad's face!"
Lydia's eyes widen. Her smile fades as a rush of nerves courses through her, and she reflexively reaches for his forearm. "Wait! You didn't call to tell him? Sti-les…"
"What would be the fun in that?" he inquires coyly as the door of the Jeep creaks to a close behind her.
"But what if—"
He cuts her off – hands at her waist pushing her backwards until she is pressed firmly against the truck, his body leaning into hers as he dives in for a kiss. He kisses her until she softens and her hands travel under his shirt. He kisses her until his knees start to weaken and he can feel her aching for more. He kisses her until they are both breathless. Then, and only then, Stiles pulls away.
"It's gonna be fine. Trust me," he guarantees Lydia with a wink as he gathers their things.
She gives him an exasperated look but follows up the stairs to the porch, anxiously calculating sums in her head to distract herself and tapping her foot as she waits for him to unlock the door.
As they step over the threshold the familiar surroundings fill her consciousness, and she starts to calm once more.
"Dad, I'm home," Stiles calls out.
"Hey kid," Noah's voice answers from down the hallway. "Be there in a minute."
"Yeah, well make sure you're decent. I'm not alone," he informs.
Stiles deposits their bags in the foyer and leads Lydia into the living room. Prada scampers excitedly, yet silently, beside them as though she is privy to the fact that her bark could spoil the surprise.
While they wait, Stiles stands behind Lydia, both of his arms around her as she looks about the house. As he breathes the words I'm here into her ear, Lydia remembers waking up on the couch with his arms locked securely around her. She remembers the heat spreading outwards from her chest when she felt and saw his love, from very the second she opened her eyes. She remembers his soft morning voice and his tired eyes that pleaded with her to let him do just one thing for her.
But it has never been just one thing with Stiles. It's all the things. Every single thing he does reminds her that he cares.
Heart overflowing with gratitude, Lydia is about to turn and kiss him, when his father rounds the corner dressed in his sheriff's uniform. Her stomach does a somersault, and she freezes.
At first, Noah is unaware of her presence, head tilted down as he fastidiously adjusts his badge. "So, who did you—" he begins, eyes shifting to focus on Stiles and Lydia, mouth falling agape. "Well, I'll be—"
"Dad!" Stiles interrupts, reaching for his arm.
"Lydia!" Noah exclaims.
His face lights up; eyebrows arching, blue eyes sparkling, mouth quirking into a crooked smile. Lydia can't help but notice how much it resembles Stiles's, and she relaxes.
"I… It's so good to see you!" he tells her.
She exhales a sigh of relief, closing her eyes until she hears his voice again and feels his hands on her shoulders.
"Welcome home," Noah says. He is gentle and reassuring…like a father should be.
She bites her lip, throat clenching spastically right after she manages to speak the words, "Thank you, Noah."
Stiles urges her forward, then steps away to allow them some space.
They hug tightly. Lydia peers over Noah's shoulder at Stiles, who is smiling about as big as she has ever seen. She can see how much he loves her. It's written all over his face, spelled out as clearly as it was printed on the note he tucked into her pocket this morning…and it feels like home.
Stiles meets Lydia's gaze. She is brilliantly radiant and full of emotion, and he can feel her love from across the room. It is crashing into him in powerful waves, washing over him with every beat of his heart.
Lydia is here. She loves me, and we are together, he thinks…and it feels like home again.
As Noah and Lydia part, Scott walks through the front door. He hangs his jacket on the coat rack and passes into the living room.
"So now, I've got all of my kids under one roof…even the four-legged one," Noah comments, referring to Prada, who has been tapping her paws on his leg in search of attention.
Stiles can't resist the temptation. With shaking shoulders, a fist somewhat poorly covering his smirking mouth, and his head ducked down, he teasingly pats Scott on the back.
Scott immediately understands the insinuation. Narrowing his eyes, he scowls, "Stil-es…what the— Don't even go there!"
"What?" he laughs. "I didn't say anything! I can't help it if your mind automatically came to that conclusion!"
Scott instantly joins Stiles in laughter, hooking his arm around his best friend's neck.
The two boys wrestle with each other while Lydia and Noah exchange a knowing glance.
"I haven't seen him this happy in such a long time," he remarks quietly, draping his arm over her shoulder. "I have no doubt it's all to do with you. He missed you so much… We both did."
Lydia presses a hand to her ribs to keep her heart from escaping her chest. She is about to burst into tears from the overwhelming feeling of acceptance when Stiles and Scott get dangerously close to tumbling into the coffee table, and Noah steps away to intercede.
"Alright, alright you two… Break it up." There isn't a hint of anger in his tone. In fact, it seems to pain him to interrupt the carefree moment.
With cheerful reluctance, the boys concede, and Stiles circles back to Lydia's side.
"I hope you're all hungry. Dinner will be ready in ten," Noah announces, starting towards the kitchen. "Boys, why don't you come help me?"
Scott follows, reaching out to touch Lydia's shoulder as passes in front of her. Then he waves a hand at Stiles. "I've got it," he insists.
Once they are alone, Stiles takes Lydia's hands, sandwiching them between his. "I told you it would be okay."
"Yeah, you did."
"Feel alright?"
She tilts her head the side, shrugging one shoulder. "I feel a lot of things right now."
"Do you need a minute?" he asks sympathetically.
"Yeah."
"Okay. I'll go put our stuff inside. Be back in a few."
Lydia nods and watches him head for the hall, resisting the urge to follow, because she is not quite ready to deal with the impending magnitude of walking into his room right now. She shuts her eyes, takes a breath, and waits for her love to return.
Shortly after, the family sit down to eat. The kitchen is warm from the heat of the oven and the entire house is filled with the comforting aroma of the dinner Noah cooked – Claudia's roasted chicken with mashed potatoes and mixed vegetables.
Lydia and Stiles are seated in their usual places, her right hand locked with his left throughout the meal. He feels good, sinks into the sensation of her hand inside his own and the influence of her steadfast presence beside him. Occasionally, a flash of forest-green or strawberry-blonde catches his eyes as the sun illuminates her irises and reflects off her hair. She is an assembly of light and shade; her colors brighten the room with unmatched beauty and depth of expression – a living breathing work of art.
As Stiles unsuccessfully tries to get Noah to discuss the case he is working on and animatedly talks to Scott about the upcoming trip to New York, Lydia listens with a hint of a smile, hypnotized by the way his free hand gestures as expressively as his face. He is a composition of movement; his vibrations fill the room with meaningful notes that resonate with vitality and love – a living breathing symphony that makes the small room something more than four walls, a ceiling, and a floor.
When she places their joined hands in her lap, he flashes a smile. He looks at her often, his knee leaning against hers under the table, his thumb slowly tapping on the back of her hand in successions of three. To Lydia, it feels like Stiles is saying I love you, over and over again…and he is. She squeezes his hand in response to each tap, one…two…three. To Stiles, it feels like Lydia is saying I love you, over and over again…and she is.
After they have all finished their meal, Noah prepares to leave for work.
"I better get going. We've got a new lead in a missing persons case, so I'm in for a double shift. I'll be home around noon tomorrow." He stands, clears his place, and addresses Stiles. "Son, can I have a word?"
Stiles raises his eyebrows. "Uh...sure Dad," he answers, getting up from his chair. "Just let me get Prada. It's time for her walk anyway." He slowly lets go of Lydia's hand, touches her cheek, and departs.
On his way out of the kitchen, Noah stops beside Lydia, gives her forearm a gentle pat. "I'm so happy to have you here again. I'll see you soon, okay?"
She nods, eyes slightly watery as she looks up at him. "Thank you for dinner."
"Anytime kid."
The next thing she hears is Scott's voice.
"I should get going too," he tells her. "I'm meeting Kira soon."
"I'll walk you out," she offers, standing and linking their arms.
Scott grabs his jacket as they pass through the foyer, and the two step into crisp, early evening air.
Under the glow of a pastel sky and the light of the setting sun, Lydia's eyes roam towards Stiles. He and his father are several feet away, talking as they stand on the sidewalk beside Noah's vehicle. Stiles is nodding his head and blinking rapidly while he chews on his thumbnail. Noah has one hand on his hip and the other set at the nape of Stiles's neck. They hug before Noah climbs into his police-issued SUV.
When Lydia and Scott reach the curb, she tightens her grip on his bicep. "Thank you, Scott," she says.
"For what?" he asks. "I didn't do anything. It was all the two of you."
"Yes, you did." She purses her lips and looks into his eyes, deep and dark, and full of compassion. "You did what Allison would have done for me – you listened, you believed in me, and you gave me hope…when I thought I didn't have any left. And…if that wasn't enough, you encouraged Stiles not to give up on me."
Scott shakes his head. "He could never give up on you. He loves you that much. He just needed a reminder that he deserves to be happy."
"Still, I'll always be grateful. I can never thank you enough."
"Sure, you can. Just be happy…as often as possible."
"He makes that easy," she answers, nodding her head towards Stiles, who is waving good-bye to his father and leading Prada down the block.
"Yeah, he's a good one."
"So are you, Scott."
"Thanks." He smiles humbly as he puts on his jacket and moves to his bike. After a brief pause, he turns back to her. "Hey, Lydia?"
"Yeah?"
"How did you know? I mean…what you said to me at the cemetery... Did Stiles tell you?"
"Tell me what?" she asks.
"That Allison said the same thing to me…when I was holding her."
She clasps a hand over her mouth.
"You didn't know."
"No, I…" she falters, dropping her hand. "I didn't. I…just felt like I had to say it."
They stare at each other in awe. Then Scott encircles an astounded Lydia with both arms.
"I'll never forget it. And for the record, I love you too."
She is wide-eyed and smiling when he pulls back.
He kisses her head and hops onto his dirt-bike. "I'll ask Kira about the trip tonight. I'm sure she'll be excited, especially since it was your idea to invite her."
"Good, because I'd really like it if she's able to come. We can talk more at school on Monday."
"Okay, sounds good. I should warn you though...we'll probably have to force Kira into some Mets gear. She and her parents are Yankee fans."
"Nobody's perfect…" she notes with a grin before thinking, Well…nobody except Stiles.
Scott laughs, then slides on his helmet, starts up his bike, and waves at Stiles as he rides towards the setting sun.
Lydia waits for Stiles, admiring him from a distance as she stands on the porch. When he arrives carrying Prada, the trio enter the house, and Stiles locks the door behind them. He kicks off his sneakers and lets Prada off her leash. The pup dashes to her favorite spot under the coffee table and puffs out a small sigh.
Lydia and Stiles look to each other, soft laughter escaping their lips at the peaceful and familiar sight.
He takes her by the waist and brings her close. "So…she's happy."
"Yeah. She is," Lydia agrees. She is working her fingers into the collar of his shirt when she notices his pensive expression. "What are you thinking about?"
"Uh…don't mind me. You know how my thoughts wander."
"Stiles, tell me. Please."
"It's just… I was thinking, if it were yesterday, we'd be fighting right now."
"Oh," she remembers.
"That was the worst. It can't ever be like that again between us. I mean, I know we're going to disagree and argue sometimes but…not like that – not to where we ever doubt how the other feels."
"No, not like that. Not ever."
"And I need you to know, Lydia – as bad as it was…the whole time…all I wanted was to just stop fighting and kiss you."
She tilts her head down, smiling timidly, then gazes at Stiles through her lashes. "I wanted that too."
He squeezes her tighter, honey-colored eyes alight with love for her. "How about…" he begins, gently swaying her from side to side, "we tackle that mess…" he continues, ticking his head towards the kitchen, "as quickly as possible…so we can get to the really good stuff."
"That sounds perfect."
While Lydia is being lulled by the soothing motion of their bodies, Stiles has other ideas. He abruptly lets go of her and sprints for the kitchen, yelling, "Last one in the kitchen is gonna be the first one to undress."
"Stiles! That's not fair!" she squeals chasing after him, but he is already at the sink with a dish towel slung over his shoulder.
She takes the towel and playfully swats him in the backside, causing him to jump and splash himself with the running water.
"You are going to pay for that later," she warns.
"I certainly hope so," he quips with an impish smirk, stealing the towel from Lydia to dry his hands before picking her up and sitting her on the counter.
His heart speeds up as he inches nearer. He wants her closer. She parts her legs for him, fluttering in her stomach intensifying at a rapid pace. With one hand splayed across the curve of her spine and the other gently cupping the back of her head, he hesitates, delighted in anticipation – the breath before the kiss. Then, he leans in and covers her mouth with his.
Lydia can't suppress the moan that crawls out of her throat as his lips and tongue persistently work their magic on her, but somehow, she is able to get control of herself. "Stiles, focus," she reprimands feebly as her eyes shut and she bites on her lip.
"I am focused – on you…and…you taste so good," he rationalizes, moving to the pulse point in her throat and nipping at her skin there.
"Stiles, seriously…the faster we clean up…the faster we…get into your room," she reminds, lips mingling with his as they formulate words and gasps.
"Sorry, I'll behave," he halfheartedly apologizes, sneaking one more kiss.
He reluctantly steps aside and rolls up his sleeves. Lydia immediately mourns the loss of physical contact, but she picks up a plate from the drain and begins to towel it dry. As she observes Stiles washing the remaining dishes, her mind strays. She is lost in thought when his voice draws her attention.
"Lyds, if you dry that any longer, you're going to wipe the pattern off of it."
"Huh?"
"The plate… I think it's dry."
"Oh. Right." She shakes her head, moving onto the next, then opens her mouth to speak and closes it again.
Stiles reaches to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear. "Did you want to kiss me…or ask me something?"
"Both."
When he smirks and eagerly moves in for more, she puts her finger to his lips. "That part comes later."
He pouts in surrender and returns to the sink. "Okay…what's your question then?"
She pauses, but curiosity gets the better of her. "You can tell me it's none of my business but…I was wondering if everything is okay…with you and your dad."
"Sure, everything's great." He looks blankly at her, but then swiftly makes the connection. "Oh...you mean because he wanted to talk to me alone."
"Yeah."
"Not one of his most subtle moments," he comments, elevating his volume over the sound of clanking silverware.
"Not really," she replies with a scrunched-up smile.
Stiles dries his hands and stands in front of Lydia again, placing his palms flat against the countertop on either side of her legs. "He wanted to tell me how happy he is for us...and well…he mentioned my mom – how happy it would make her too. Talking about her always makes him a little emotional, so…" he trails off with a perceptible quiver in his voice.
She puts a hand over her face, feeling foolish for her insecurity, but his fingers curl around her wrist, pulling it aside.
"Also…he was worried about you."
Something shifts inside when she hears this, a pressure being lifted from her ribs. His father was worried…about me, she thinks.
"Me? Why?"
He hands her the last cup and runs his thumb across her cheekbone. "Well…he didn't want to put you on the spot by pointing it out…but you were so quiet during dinner."
"I didn't mean to be. It's kind of overwhelming being back here."
"I know. It's okay. He gets it. Why did you think something was wrong?"
Lydia passes the dried glass back to Stiles. He stores it with the others in a cabinet on the opposite side of the sink.
"I thought…maybe he was…concerned because…we kind of just sprung this on him…and you didn't come home last night…and now…we're together…" she rambles.
Stiles's mouth twitches as he steps sideways to clean and dry the kitchen table. "Oh…that. He…uh…already covered that. Last month."
"What do you mean?"
"Remember that first night we slept in my bed."
She arches an eyebrow.
"Never mind, of course you do…" The sound of his voice fades as he passes through to the laundry room to deposit the wet towels in the washing machine, then strengthens as he walks into the kitchen. "So…in the morning, he sort of addressed the issue of us sleeping together but not sleeping together."
"I see," she says, waiting patiently. She wants him closer.
He puts his hands on her waist. "At the time, he thought that we might have been…rushing into things because of everything that was going on. But I explained what you mean to me, and he understood."
"And what exactly did you explain?" Lydia fishes, reaching for his shoulders.
He happily accepts the bait. "That our relationship is important to me…" he tells her, sliding his hands under her thighs and wrapping her legs around him, "and that I love you."
"You told him that?" she beams.
"Yeah. It's the truth," he answers. "I love you – so much," he adds with certainty.
She runs her hands through his hair and looks into his eyes. "Stiles, I think we should go in your room now."
"I think you're right," he tells her, lips lightly brushing along her forehead.
He slides her body off the counter and sets her down in front of him. Then, they link hands and walk side by side through the living room, past a sleeping Prada, into the hallway, to the first room on the left.
The two stand in the doorway, air thick with emotion as Stiles leads Lydia inside. Without a second thought, she steps out of her boots and crosses to the middle of the room with him. It's there that they both come to a halt, significance of the moment hitting them with the full brunt of its force.
After more than one month, they are finally together, in his room. The same place that they have shared memories and secrets, laughter and tears, and hours upon hours of unspoken love.
Stiles stands behind Lydia, one arm across her shoulders, the other winding around her waist. He revels in the pleasure of holding her – tiny frame full of strength, determination, intelligence, untouched softness, and long-concealed emotion leaning against him – every curve fitting perfectly into the hollow spaces of his body. Lydia is a part of him. She erases the emptiness that overtook him in the lack of her. She diminishes every ache, every hour of longing, and every dark thought, and replaces them with light, and love, and hope. She fills him from the inside out, in a way that makes him believe he will never be void again.
Lydia can feel the heat from his chest against her back. It permeates through their clothing, scorching into her skin, and settles deep into her vertebrae; protective, enduring, promising – like a new memory being solidly formed within her bones instead of her mind, something that can never be manipulated or forgotten. Stiles is a part of her. He banishes the chill that sought to invade her body in his absence. He salves and covers every abrasion, mends every break, and emboldens her to reach for light, and love, and hope. He warms her from the inside out, in a way that makes her believe she will never be cold again.
Fascinated by the sensation Stiles inspires, Lydia's eyes drift around the room. The last glints of amber sunlight are flaring through the window, blue walls darkening in shade, emergent silence surrounding them like a melody. Everything is exactly as she remembers…except for the wall across from the bed. Now, it is bare. No longer collaged with a mass of newspaper clippings, images, furiously written notes, and red string – the unrest gone, a slate washed clean of the clutter, a fresh start.
Lydia's entire body starts to shake. Her eyes go blurry as she turns to Stiles, rapidly blinking to find his features through the mist. He moves in front of her, minding her intently, struggling to swallow, bottom lip trembling as he takes her hands.
Like the moon draws the tide, two bodies are pulled together; arms, and hands, and lips close the distance as a spray of saltwater sprinkles the carpet. He presses his forehead to hers, and together they still, taking slow steady breaths, calmed by each other despite the pounding of their hearts against their rib cages and the kaleidoscopes of butterflies that swirl in their stomachs.
Stiles nudges Lydia's nose with his, an exhale passing over her lips when he speaks. "Are you okay?"
She kisses his cheek. "You're with me…and we're in your room. I'm better than okay. You?"
"We're together. I'm good."
They reach to wipe each other's tears at the same time.
"Do you want to get changed?" he asks.
"Yes."
Stiles guides Lydia to the bed, where their clothes are already neatly laid out, and his mouth automatically shapes into a smile. "You were the last one in the kitchen so…your clothes are coming off first."
She rolls her eyes as she laughs. "Fine. I'll go first…but we're taking turns…one piece of clothing at a time."
"That wasn't the deal."
"There was no deal. You cheated…and you never specified the rules, so…it's that or—"
He shakes his head. "Don't finish that sentence! You win. We'll take turns."
The corners of her mouth victoriously turn upwards as she seductively bats her eyelashes at him. "It's better when we both have our clothes off anyway… Isn't it?"
"Can't argue with that."
Lydia rises to the tips of her toes, hands sliding to either side of his face, and she kisses Stiles with unhurried passion, giving them both a chance to revel in the silent communication.
When she stops for a breath, his hands are grasping her blouse, untucking it from her skirt. He leans in to bury his face in her neck, peppering kisses over every inch of her uncovered skin. Eventually, he parts his lips from the curve of her collarbone to lift her blouse overhead. She reaches for the edge of his pullover, separating it from the tee shirt underneath as he ducks so she can free him of it. He reaches for her skirt, sound of the zipper and accelerated breaths the only noise in the room. His hands slip inside the waistband, glide over her hips, and then layers of blue chiffon flow upwards like a parachute as the skirt plummets to the floor.
Seconds later, she's clutching at the front of his white tee, knuckles grazing the length of his abs as she removes it. The cool metal of her little gold ring sends shivers up his spine when it connects with his skin. At the same time, Lydia is tingling all over from the way Stiles's hands gingerly cup her back and how adeptly his long fingers unclasp her bra. He glides the straps down her arms and tosses the undergarment aside.
Careful hands push a veil of auburn behind her shoulders, and a flash of silver from the bead on her necklace prompts his memory. Left eyebrow arched, Stiles bows his head and presses his lips to Lydia's sternum, causing her to jolt with electric anticipation. He enjoys the whimpering sound she makes when he lets his mouth linger, tongue jutting out to taste her skin and thumbs massaging the sides of her ribs as he supports her back with is palms.
Her hands move to his belt buckle, and he shuts his eyes as she unfastens it. Two dainty hands nimbly unbutton his khakis and slowly undo his zipper. Gripping the sides of his pants, she tugs downwards, sinks to the floor, and waits for him to step out of them. She molds her hands around his calves to keep balance, eyes searching for the scar on his left knee – a permanent mark from an unfriendly exchange during a lacrosse game with Devenford Prep, several months ago.
Stiles feels a spark spread through him as Lydia's lips caress his scar. He remembers her kneeling in the grass as he sat on the bench, bloodied and bruised. He felt no pain, only awe over the way she outshone the moonlight. He remembers the tender manner in which she cleaned and dressed his wound, and how she sat close beside him for the remainder of the game with their elbows linked and their fingers woven together.
Lydia grins as his knee joint locks, her name breezing past his lips like a prayer. She remembers how Stiles nervously talked to her in rambling sentences, fingers curled around the edge of the wooden bench as he struggled not to fidget while she bandaged the gash. Her breath caught in her throat when she looked up at him that night; his face full of love, one hand suddenly reaching out for her blushing cheek in unspoken thanks. She remembers that despite the chill in the air, she felt warm and safe sitting next to Stiles. She remembers silently wishing that the game would go into overtime, just so she could stay with him a bit longer.
Lydia reaches for his black sweatpants and waits for him to step into them. Then she draws them upwards as she stands, kissing her way up his torso, to his neck, and stopping at the sharp angle of his jawline. He takes her by the waist, biceps flexing as he brings her nearer, and she can feel him against her. So good. So right.
But they go slow. They have time. They have all night…and all morning too…and they want it to last.
For now, they simply cling to each other. Lydia and Stiles. Skin on skin – her head over his heart, hands lightly stroking his back, and his lips pressed to her forehead, arms surrounding her figure.
The heat that Stiles infused into Lydia's spine gradually stretches further. It floats along her shoulders, unfurling like angel wings. Then it wraps around her ribs, enveloping her entire body with an unparalleled feeling – she is safe, she is loved, and she is home.
"Stiles," she whispers, "I love you."
Three words that when paired with his name, sound like a promise and a dream come true. Motionless, he holds her tightly; her lashes tickling his collarbone, her perfectly curled mane of strawberry-blonde draped over his forearms, her breasts soft and warm against his bare chest. He holds her until he can't wait any longer. Then, his hands move to gently cradle her face as he watches the green shade of her eyes brightening with emotion.
"I loved you the night you got that scar…and so many nights before. I've loved you every night since…and I'll never stop. I need you to know that…" she continues with tears in her eyes, "no matter what, I'll always come back to you too."
He loves her so much that his heart is on fire, so Stiles does the only thing he can think of – he waits for Lydia's eyes to flutter closed, takes a long look at her beautiful face, and he kisses her. He kisses her because he is at a loss for words. He kisses her because there is no way he could ever resist the barely-there smile that has taken shape on her mouth. He kisses her the way she deserves to be kissed; gentle pressure…because he is in no rush, tongue sweeping over her bottom lip seeking entrance, then flicking into her mouth as his lips merge with hers in slow motion. He kisses her, and he is home.
Stiles is kissing her, and it makes her lightheaded. She loves him so much that she can't breathe, so Lydia does the only thing she can think of – she kisses him back, lets him breathe for her. She loses herself in him, thinks purely with her senses; the taste and scent of him, the sound of their lips and his sighs, the sight of him…even with her eyes closed, and the feeling of his body which incites the quickening of her heart as he openly shows her the depths of his love from within the beckoning shelter of his room.
When he stops and kneels in front of her, taking her clothes from the bed, Lydia shifts her eyes to the ceiling, dabbing at the remnants of her tears and pursing her lips. Stiles kisses her thighs as she giggles. Looping his fingers around her ankles, one at a time, he directs them into the leg openings of her lace-trimmed shorts, then he catches the waistband and drags them upwards, standing to full height once more.
"Lift," he says as he towers over her.
She raises her arms, and he lovingly slides a jade-green camisole along her arms and body, side of his thumb tenderly skimming her scar as he smooths the cotton fabric over her abdomen. Her arms drop around his neck, and he pulls her to him, lifting her off the ground so he can carefully seat her atop his plaid-cloaked bed.
"Sit here for a sec… I have something for you," he tells her, stepping away to cross the room.
She tilts her head, waiting.
His eyes scan the surface of his desk while he scratches at his chin. "Close your eyes."
Lydia looks at him suspiciously but indulges. Within seconds, she hears Stiles approach, senses light from his bedside lamp, and feels him sit next to her. He picks up her left hand, rotating it so that her palm faces up, then places something cool and delicate into her hand.
"Okay, open," he instructs.
"Stiles," she breathes as her eyes refocus. "My bracelet. You fixed it!"
"Good as new. Well, almost," he explains, hooking her necklace with his index finger and rolling the bead that suspends at its center from side to side. "I was short one bead…so I had to add one. I hope you don't mind." He points out a heart-shaped silver bead with an arrow through it, that adorns the center of the bracelet. "I'm sorry it took so long. Does it look okay?"
She smiles. Her eyes are glistening with tears, but it is a genuine, Lydia Martin smile, complete with dimples.
"It's perfect. Stiles, it's perfect. Now it means both of you. I love it." She holds her wrist out to him."Will you?"
He takes the bracelet from her and secures it around her arm, then bows his head to kiss the inside of her wrist.
When he straightens up and their eyes meet, Lydia speaks to him affectionately. "Just so you know, I am going to wear this bracelet all the time, but…" she runs her hand along the side of his face, "mon cadeau le plus précieux, c'est toi."
Stiles exhales a breathy laugh. "I don't understand French, but that sounded beautiful…and really hot."
"It means that my most precious gift is you."
He can't think of a single response that is worthy of her, so he leans into her hand and closes his eyes as she kisses his brow.
"Are you tired?" she asks.
"No. Are you?"
"No. Wanna get in bed anyway?"
"Yeah."
Stiles is first to slide under the covers, lying down on his left, arms open and waiting for Lydia. She climbs in next, dissolving into his perpetual warmth as he drapes the blankets and sheets over their bodies. In silence, they hold fast, eyes locked in spellbound attraction – exhilarated and a bit stunned to be together again in the place they both call home…and everything else fades away.
As night falls, the expansive sky darkens to black beyond the window, but the brightness of the moon filters through the blinds. It blends with the dim provided by the bedside lamp, bathing the young couple in diffused light as they lie next to each other, spared of all perception of time. Locked in a starry-eyed embrace, both of their minds wander towards the future.
After a while, Stiles speaks. "Lyds, I can practically hear you thinking. What's going on in that beautiful mind of yours?" he inquires, brushing the tips of his fingers across her forehead.
His question is answered with a pause, and a sigh, and the soft sound of her voice. "I'm thinking that…for so long, I never knew it could be like this…real love. It feels so right being here –in your bed…in your arms."
"It feels right to have you here."
Her eyes fall shut, and a droplet lands on his upper arm.
"You're crying," he acknowledges with concern.
"It's because I'm happy." She smiles gently. Her eyes flash towards his, then away.
Even with only a few seconds of contact, he can see that she has more to say, and he waits, because he is more than willing to listen.
"But also...remember how you said...I should tell you when I'm scared?"
"Yeah, I meant it."
"I know, but I don't want to ruin this."
"Don't worry. You won't. You can tell me anything."
"I'm a little scared right now."
Stiles rests his thumb on Lydia's chin. "Why?"
"I'm worried about what's ahead of us," she admits through a sniffle, nestling her face in the crook of his neck.
Recognizing the tension in her body, he rubs her back; warm palms and rough fingertips slide under her clothing in search of skin. "It's okay. Talk to me… Tell me what's bothering you."
She touches the center of his chest, finding solace in the beating of his heart, and the words begin to flow. "For the first time, I'm starting to be able to picture a future for us…and it isn't anything like I thought it would be. It's something that isn't so grim...or carefully planned out...something I could have never pictured before you…and I'm just..."
"Go ahead," he encourages, giving her a squeeze.
"I'm just so confused. I mean…I set all of these goals for myself… They were so clear in my mind, and I was so sure they were what I wanted. But that was before…before I was bitten. As much as I hate to admit it, what happened that night changed me. The past year-and-a-half has changed me too. There's so much I don't know about myself…about being a banshee and how it's going to affect me," she says in a low voice, her throat tightening with uncertainty. "I want to go to college, but how will I know where the right place is…when I've never been anywhere but here? And with everything that's happened…everything I've lost…" she arches back to look at him, lifting a hand from his chest to caress his face, "everything I've found…I'm not sure what I want anymore. Am I making any sense?"
"Yeah, you make a lot of sense. Lydia, you've been through so much…especially in the past few months. Of course, you're going to have questions and all kinds of doubts."
"You've been through as much as I have. Do you have doubts too?"
"Sure I do."
"Will you tell me?"
"Well…...for one, I thought I knew what I wanted to do…as a career, but I'm not sure anymore. I know I want to help people – as broad a direction as that is, and law enforcement seems like the obvious choice…but there are lots of ways to help people. I mean…can you picture me as a police officer or an FBI agent?"
"If you're referring to whether I can imagine how hot you'll look in a uniform or a suit…then yes, I can," she flirts, arching her left eyebrow.
He chuckles and gives her a kiss.
"But to answer your question…" she regards him thoughtfully, "aside from the fact that you'd be a brilliant detective…no, I can't."
"Right?" he nods. "I think I'd lose my mind. I definitely couldn't stand all the rules and regulations…and seeing what my dad goes through, now that he knows what we know…" He huffs and shakes his head. "I don't want to spend my life having to pretend or constantly trying to cover things up. It's a lot to think about, and it's really intimidating."
"So, you're just as scared as I am?"
"Yeah. But the good news is…we can be scared together. We don't have to decide anything right now. We have the entire summer to think about where we want to apply to college. Right now, we need some time to catch our breath."
"If this place ever lets us. Stiles, what if I'm only fooling myself...thinking about the future? What if we never get out of Beacon Hills?"
"We will. We are going to get out of here. Soon. Together." He places one hand on her cheek and sets the other firmly into the curve of her hip. "Lyds, I have no doubt that you will get into whatever university you want to go to. If you'd rather take a year off…see the world…see what's out there, you can do that. You'll be amazing – no matter where you go or when you start. Someday, you are going to get that Fields Medal…and I'll be so proud of you…but the fact that you are a math genius is only one part of who you are. You're great at a lot of things…and being creative makes you happy too. I can see it in the way your face lights up when you paint or draw. Maybe you'll be an artist, and you'll travel through Europe like you've always wanted…see the gardens you've dreamed of visiting. Maybe your work will be featured in galleries all over the world."
"You think I could do that?" she asks, eyes shining, smile broadening.
"You can do anything you want…because, Lydia, you are meant for so much more than this place."
She takes his hand from her cheek, brings it to her lips, and kisses his knuckles. "So are you. You are going to make such a mark on this world, just like you did on my heart…and I can't wait to see it. I might not be sure of a lot of things, but I am sure of one thing."
"What's that?"
"You. I want to be with you, wherever I go."
"I want that too. As far as everything else…we've got time. We can figure it out."
"We're pretty good together. Aren't we?"
"Yeah, we are," he agrees with smile. "Do you feel better?"
"Much." She presses a kiss to his forehead, then scatters a few more on his cheeks, nose, and jaw before turning her attention to his mouth. He passionately returns the affection.
When Lydia next makes eye contact with Stiles, she adds, "You make everything better."
For the third time this evening, he is speechless. He bashfully bows his head, but she catches his chin in her palms, coaxing him to keep his eyes on her. He watches her expression shift, all traces of worry reshaped into pure serenity. She is calm and happy, and her love for him is seeping out of every pore of her flawless complexion. Freed of inhibition, the open expression of her love is so enlightening, that he can see into her soul…and it is stunning; bright, and welcoming, and infinitely beautiful. He feels like he was just gifted a glimpse into heaven.
"Stiles, tell me about this summer…all of the things we're going to do."
He kisses each of her palms and inhales. "It's going to be the best, Lyds. Not just the trip to New York – even our time here, because we're going to spend as many sunrises together as possible. We can take our time…kissing each other awake…and we'll make breakfast together, like we did this morning…and I wouldn't mind showering with you again either," he grins, as her hands lazily skim the lines of his torso. "We could go to that little bookstore on Murray Hill that you love, sit in the nook by the stained-glass window, and read together for as long as you like. Then, we could drive to the beach…that spot near Pebble Cove where the water is so clear and it's always quiet enough to hear the church bells in the distance. Prada can come with us, and we can play in the surf with her. We'll spend the rest of the day relaxing in the sand… Maybe you'll even bring your sketchbook. When it's too hot to be outside, we'll stay in. We'll crank up the air conditioner and pretend its winter. We can make hot chocolate with marshmallows and watch movies in bed together…or fall asleep in the middle of the day if we want. When it's raining, we'll curl up under a blanket on the porch swing. We can listen to the rain, and each other, and forget about the rest of the world. I'll still write you notes…and every time you find one, no matter what I write, you'll know it means that I love you."
His eyes never stray. Boundlessly soulful and deeply captivating, they radiate love for her.
That's when she feels it again – her fragile heart brimming with too much love.
So, Lydia grasps for Stiles's hand, bracing herself for the inevitable pain she will experience when a new fissure threatens to make its presence known.
But it doesn't happen.
Instead, her heart begins to feel stretched in the best possible way as his words carefully expand its fibers, making them stronger, more flexible, ready to house even more love for him. She thinks this must be what heaven feels like. Former heartache somehow transformed by the discovery of something greater than oneself; a higher level of understanding and connection to all things good.
Everything Stiles says sounds like poetry. She could listen to him talk for hours…all night even. She could listen to him talk for as long as he wants. She could listen to him talk forever.
"Tell me more, my love," she whispers, eyelids growing heavy with contentment.
"On clear nights, we'll get milkshakes and French fries from the diner on Poplar and drive to Lookout Point to watch the sunset…but we'll end up watching each other instead. I'll always keep pillows and blankets in the Jeep, so when it's dark and the air gets cooler, we can lie down in the back and hold each other, the way we did on your birthday. We'll talk for hours about everything and nothing at all. We can make plans and change them until they feel right. Then we'll come home…and we'll get naked…and we'll make out and more…until we're exhausted. We'll fall asleep in each other's arms. And the next day, we'll start all over again. How does that sound?"
"It sounds perfect." Lydia snuggles closer, draping her leg over his hip. "Stiles?"
"Mmm…"
"I love you too much."
He laughs softly. "I love you too much too, my sweet Lydia."
Stiles draws Lydia's body near until there is no space left between them. She drowsily blinks, stubbornly refusing sleep just to look at him, until the rhythm of his heart and the timbre of his reassuring words soothe her to tranquil sleep.
Minutes later, Stiles is still struggling to withhold a yawn, fighting to stay awake just to keep Lydia in view, until the steady cadence of her breathing and the tethering contact of her hands on his bare skin inspire him to seek peaceful slumber.
Together they rest; just Lydia and Stiles. Not Lydia, the girl who feared that she would lose the boy she loved if she told him how she felt. Not Stiles, the boy who wondered if the girl he loved would ever return his feelings. Just Lydia and Stiles – a girl and a boy who love each other. Free of longing, free of unrest, free of nightmares. Full of light, full of love, and full of hope.
They are bound, one breath rising…and they are home. It's not just a place. It's a feeling — the kind that will go with them everywhere, like a shadow or a friend.
Many sunsets and sunrises later, after Lydia and Stiles spend many more happy days together, as well as some dark nights that confront them with a cruel battery of trials and hardships – some that make them question everything they thought they knew to be true – they are still together. They delight in the joys they experience together, fight through every pain together, live each and every moment in between together.
No matter how much space, time, consciousness, or memory seeks to divide them, they remain resilient, together. They successfully overcome every evil that would have them suffer a life apart, sometimes scarred in the process, but always finding a way back to each other. They thrive; stronger in the aftermath in both their love and their appreciation for the quiet hours before dawn when they cling to each other, murmuring secrets and sharing their hopes and dreams. They wake slowly, bolstered by each other's presence, anchored by an unbreakable bond that goes beyond the physical, beyond emotion, beyond description. They drift to sleep, wrapped in each other's embrace, knowing they have everything they need, because they are together.
One morning as they lie in bed, in a tiny flat, in their own pristine corner of the world, Lydia speaks to Stiles.
They are still coming down from the ecstasy of being together, bodies still connected, breathing still ragged and quick.
He is admiring her, delighted by the feeling of her on top of him – skin on skin, soft and smooth, and just beyond comfortably warm. Her eyes are bright and awake and intently aware, smile open and honest and framed with deep dimples. Her creamy complexion is splashed with rose petal cheeks, and her hair rivals the late harvest sun, solar flares glowing off each copper strand as he coils them around his fingertips.
With the sun rising in the distance and a cool breeze coming in through the window, she is admiring him too, delighted by the feeling of him beneath her – the tenderness and confidence and strength of him, the exhilarating heat flowing from his body into hers. His hair is a beautiful mess, parted lips red from her kisses, and when he lovingly flashes a crooked grin, gazing at her through his lashes, the flecks in his eyes glimmer like gold dust in first light.
Her hands trace love notes along his ribs as she leans down to whisper in his ear. "I live for moments like this," she says. "Just you and me, my love, waking up together, your heartbeat in sync with mine, and nothing but a breath between us."