November.

Malia pulls a B- on her Shakespeare exam. She comes home from class on Monday afternoon with a proud smile across her face and slams the test down onto their small dining room table while Lydia is eating Lucky Charms and lazily reading articles on her phone.

"Look at you!" Lydia exclaims through a mouthful of dehydrated marshmallows.

"I know!" Malia crows happily. "Do you want to go down to Hannigan's to celebrate?"

Lydia shakes her head as she shovels the last of her cereal in her mouth.

"Can't," She says after she swallows, checking the time. "I've got to head down to the lab."

She stands and deposits her bowl in the sink before tugging on the warm coat hung up by the door.

"Ugh, you spend all your time there. Wouldn't you rather come get a drink with me in a dark, smelly bar?"

Lydia rolls her eyes.

"Ask me again when you get an A."

Malia groans and flops facedown onto their shabby couch while Lydia grabs her purse from the coffee table.

"Who am I supposed to hang out with?" She moans into the fabric as Lydia heads for the door.

"Your other friends."

"What 'other friends?'"

"Kira's back in town, according to Facebook…"

Malia sits up abruptly, her eyes narrowed.

"Don't even," She growls.

Lydia laughs as she leaves, pulling the door shut behind her.

Half an hour later, Lydia is heading for the lab with her eye on the time when she passes by a café and sees an unmistakable flash of dull orange that stops her in her tracks. She stares openly through the window, her heart stuttering a strange pattern inside of her chest.

Her soulmate sits inside of the café, his navy peacoat thrown across the chair behind him and his stupid bomber hat still shoved on his head. One of his hands is drawn up to his mouth, his neat teeth gnawing on the skin around the edge of his thumbnail while the other hand scribbles something into a notebook laid on the table in front of him. Lydia pauses, torn. This is statistically impossible and she knows she will be late if she stops, but…

Lydia squares her shoulders, then turns and stomps into the café. She marches up to the small table her soulmate is sitting at, pulls out the chair across from him (denying his long legs a footstool, she notices with a rush of satisfaction), and perches herself there, her back straight and her hands steepled on the table in front of her. Her soulmate lets out a yell of protest before he looks up and sees who is sitting across from him. His face immediately lights up, his wide eyes glowing in the sunlight coming through the window.

"No," Lydia says before he can say anything, finally answering the question he had posed to her almost a full month before. He just smiles wider.

"You can't honestly tell me you don't believe in fate," He responds quickly. He leans back in his chair, his hands meeting behind his head. Lydia notices a tattoo of intertwined peonies climbing along the inside of his bicep. She ignores the stab of heat that sparks in her stomach.

"I don't believe in fate," She replies. "This is just a coincidence."

"Coincidence?" He laughs. "You really believe what you're saying right now?"

He takes a moment to pull the bomber cap off his head, throwing it on top of the notebook between them. His hair somehow manages to be casually spikey despite the woolen prison he had confined it in.

"Fact 1," He says, holding up a single slender finger and patting it against the palm of the opposite hand. "We have identical Marks that turned gold when we met."

"Irrelevant," Lydia counters. "People with different Marks have perfectly—"

"Fact 2," He says over her, drawing glances from the surrounding tables. "In a city with literally millions of people you happened to walk past the one café that I happen to frequent at precisely the moment that I was sitting in the window."

"Also irrelevant—"

"Fact 3—and this one's a big one—even though you claim not to believe in fate, you still came in here to talk to me."

Lydia mashes her lips together and crosses her arms over her chest. A cocky smile spreads across his face. Lydia could slap him.

"Are you done?" Lydia asks, the sneer evident in her tone. He nods, unfazed.

"Okay, firstly, if you interrupt me again I'll actually strangle you to death. Secondly, the Marks don't mean anything. People with different Marks or no Marks have perfectly happy, functioning, loving relationships and, more importantly, some people with matching Marks don't stay together. These,"—she gestures towards the Mark on her face—"are not a guarantee that we're even going to like each other. You can't sit there and tell me that you and I are supposed to run off into the sunset and get married in six months when I don't even know your name."

"Oh, God, no," He replies, frowning. "A wedding in May? Are you crazy? We'll get married in October."

Lydia glares at him and he laughs, throwing his head back.

"No, okay, look," He reaches forward, his hand outstretched between them with the golden cog in the center of his palm visible. Lydia narrows her eyes, but reaches forward and takes his hand in hers. His skin is pleasantly warm, the cog on his skin pulsing lightly in time with his heartbeat.

"Hello," He smiles, shaking her hand firmly. "I'm Stiles. Stiles Stilinski."

"Lydia Martin," She responds.

"It's nice to meet you, Lydia Martin," He says. He takes a little too long to let go of her hand, but she lets him just this once.

Lydia stands and straightens her skirt, her hand suddenly cold without the heat from his palm against hers.

"Are you leaving?" He asks, alarm flashing briefly over his face before it's replaced with forced aloofness.

"I've got to get to work," She says, checking the time on her phone and tsking. "I'm going to be so late."

"Can I have your number?" Stiles says quickly, pulling his phone out of his pocket and promptly dropping it on the ground. It bounces once and lands neatly at Lydia's feet. Lydia laughs as he turns bright red, but bends down to retrieve it for him. She quickly makes a new contact for herself in his phone, adding a star emoji before her name. She hands his phone back and gives an awkward wave goodbye before turning and quickly leaving. Her phone buzzes in her jacket pocket before the door even shuts behind her. She stops to look at it in front of the window that Stiles is smiling out at her from.

Unknown Number

Bye, future wifey.

Lydia glares up at Stiles through the window. He winks down at her, giving a thumbs up. Lydia responds with an exaggerated eye roll and a raised middle finger before she continues down the street. He's still laughing as she rounds the corner and disappears from sight.

"You're late," Scott shouts as Stiles stumbles into the practice space. Scott's already got his Fender in hand, focused on the effects pedal in front of him. Derek stands off to the side, his guitar slung over his back as he speaks to someone quietly on the phone. Isaac's sitting on a stool near Scott, his bass pulled almost comically high on his chest (Stiles makes a mental note to mock him for it later).

"Lydia Martin!" Stiles yells in response, throwing his bag down next to the door and scrambling up to Scott, his phone held out. "Her name is Lydia Martin!"

On his way to practice, Stiles had taken the time to Facebook stalk Lydia and save several of her profile pictures to his phone. He's pulled up his favorite, a picture of Lydia posing at a bar next to a fierce-looking girl with long blonde hair. She's mid-laugh, her head thrown back slightly, the harsh light of the flash highlighting the flush in her cheeks against her pale skin. The cog on her cheeks stands out, a tittle to her dimple.

"Holy shit, you found her," Scott says, taking Stiles's phone from him and holding it close to his face to study the picture of Lydia. Stiles swings his arms out wide in triumph, then brings them back together with a clap.

"I told you!" Stiles says. "She saw me at Has Beans and came in! I've got her number and everything!"

Isaac leans over Scott's shoulder to look at the phone and lets out a low whistle.

"Great job, Stilinski," Isaac nods. "Except now I owe Erica twenty bucks. I definitely thought you'd never find her again."

"You should slide it straight over to me, Lahey, 'cause I bet Erica twenty bucks that your IQ drops when you wear big stupid scarves," Stiles shoots back, raising an eyebrow in a challenge while Scott hands him his phone back.

"Low blow, man!" Isaac exclaims, standing up and reaching for his oversized black scarf angrily. "You think just because you found your soulmate—"

"Shut up," Derek thunders over them, causing Stiles and Isaac to immediately quiet down. Their older band mate steps forward and slips his phone into his painted-on jeans. He crosses his arms over his equally painted-on shirt and stares down at the younger boys with dark eyes, his permanent frown set on his tan face. His golden Mark, three vertical lines high on the left side of his neck, glow brightly against his skin.

Scott met Derek when he was a freshman in college while Derek was a senior. They'd found a common interest in sad '80s music and angry '90s grunge and had decided to form a band that summer with Derek on lead guitar and Scott on lead vocals and back-up guitar. Scott had, naturally, pulled Stiles in on the drums. Four months later, Derek found Isaac wailing out shitty poetry in a local hookah bar and quickly added him to the pack (despite protests from Stiles). He swore he saw "potential" in the blond and, if you got him drunk, even Stiles would admit that Isaac could be worse. Derek had dubbed their quartet Triskelion ("But Derek, there are four of us and the triskelion symbolizes—stop looking at me like that what the fuck man?") and for the last three years they'd been a favorite in the local scene. They had t-shirts for fuck's sake—and sometimes they even saw people in the mall wearing them.

"I've got good news and I've got bad news," He says, his tone uncharacteristically light. "The good news is that we've got a show this Saturday."

Stiles whoops as Scott cheers and lets a crooked smile spread across his face. Behind them, Isaac plays a few chords on his bass in celebration.

"So what's the bad news?" Scott asks, brow knitting together.

Derek sighs through his nose, but a smile spreads across his face. Stiles is immediately alarmed.

"Braeden got the job with the FBI. We're moving to D.C."

The three boys stand silently for a moment, shocked.

"Oh, fuck," Stiles finally breathes out.

"That's—that's great! Good for her! For both of you!" Scott manages.

"So what's that mean for us?" Isaac says from the back, voicing the question the three of them all want to ask.

Derek uncrosses his arms and pulls his guitar around to his front.

"It means we're going to play an amazing show this Saturday," He says, strumming the beginning chords of their newest song. "After that, it's up to you guys."

"Oh, fuck," Stiles repeats, louder.

"We're really gonna miss you, man," Scott says, looking like the wind had been knocked out of him.

"Shut up, McCall," Derek answers, but he smiles (seriously, he needs to stop smiling this is too much for Stiles to handle) and takes his place in front of a mic. "Now get your asses over here and let's practice."

"What kind of name is Stiles?" Malia ask, wrinkling her nose as she stares down at the picture Lydia is showing her on her phone.

As soon as Lydia had left the lab (where she had made at least four stupid mistakes, much to her chagrin) she found a Facebook friend request from Stiles Stilinski as well as seven unread text messages from him—five of which were random animal facts. She had accepted the friend request, shot back a simple text demanding that he stop calling her "future wifey" and spent the rest of the trip willing herself not to look through his photos. However, when Lydia had returned home and told her roommate about what had happened, Malia had demanded to see a picture. His current profile picture was a cropped, blurry shot of him sitting behind a drum set and the picture after that was an uncropped version of his current profile picture, but the third was a flattering shot of Stiles sitting in a high-backed dining chair with rosy cheeks, a wide smile spread across his face and his cheeks rosy. He was holding his hand up in greeting to whoever took the picture, conveniently showing the Mark on his palm.

"I think it's a nickname," Lydia responds. "I mean, it's got to be a nickname, right?"

Malia shrugs, handing Lydia's phone back to her.

"He's cute," She says, nodding in approval. "And he's in a band?"

"According to Facebook."

"What's it called?"

"Triskelion?"

"Oh!" Malia perks up, pushing herself up onto her elbows from her place on the couch. "I've heard of them! They're supposed to be really good!"

Lydia shrugs and sinks down into their armchair, slipping off her heels.

"Are you going to like…hang out with him or anything?" Malia asks, propping her head up on her hand to stare over at the redhead.

"I don't know," Lydia sighs, reaching down to massage her calves. "I mean, he seems fine but if I'm going to get a Fields Medal before I'm 30 I can't really afford to be distracted."

"Lydia, you know I love you," Malia says, pushing herself up into a sitting position and drawing her legs underneath her. "But you're going to work yourself to death if you keep up at this pace."

Lydia scoffs.

"You think I should give up on the dream I've had since I was seven to go chase after this guy I just met?"

"No," Malia answers. "I'm just saying he could be fun."

"Fun is for the weak," Lydia answers automatically, smiling.

"Then I'd rather be weak," Malia smiles back.

They laugh with each other and Lydia feels a small tug in her chest (ten days how can you laugh in ten days it will be five years) but then her phone begins to ring. Lydia frowns down at her phone as she picks it up.

"Who even calls anymore?" Malia asks from the couch, mirroring Lydia's expression.

"Shit, it's Stiles!" Lydia responds, sitting up in her chair as she looks down at the name displayed across her screen. She realizes with a jolt that it's the first time she's said his name out loud. She hates the way it fits so neatly in her mouth, rolling off her tongue like she had been saying it her whole life.

"Answer it!" Malia yells, sitting up on her knees with a smile spread across her face. "Answer it, answer it now!"

Lydia holds up a hand to silence her as she swipes right to answer the call.

"Uh…hi?"

Malia giggles from the couch. Lydia glares.

"Heeeeeey, future wifey," Stiles says, his voice loud. He sounds slightly out of breath, but Lydia can hear the smile in his voice.

"I'm going to hang up now."

Malia has crawled as close to Lydia as she can from the couch in order to hear the conversation, leaning over the armrest so far that Lydia is sure she's going to fall.

"No, don't hang up!" Stiles exclaims. There's a shuffle as though he's moved the phone to his other ear.

"Why did you call me, stranger?" Lydia asks. She stands up in the seat of her chair and plants a foot on either footrest—a leftover restless habit from her childhood.

"I've just had a bitch of a day and felt like complaining to someone."

Malia giggles from the couch, teetering backwards and falling onto her back. Lydia waves a hand to shush her and quickly steps over the end table to stand on the armrest of the couch that Malia had just vacated.

"So you chose me to complain to?"

"Well, my normal guy had to go to the library because he's a dweeb—"

"Who the hell says dweeb anymore?"

"—so, I thought I'd give you a ring to see if I could unload my problems on you while I suffer through the walk home by my lonesome."

Lydia rolls her eyes.

"Proceed with your unloading."

Stiles inhales deeply before beginning, the words rushing out of him in a single breath.

"Right, so, I'm in this band with these three other guys and the main guitarist told us today that he has to move to D.C. because his girlfriend is a super badass who just got hired by the FBI to fight crime or find aliens or whatever it is that the FBI does so now we need to find another guitarist but since we're all swamped with school we don't really have the time to do that so basically we're fucked."

Lydia steps up onto the back of the couch.

"That's all? That's your bitch of a day? You just need to find a guitarist?"

"I also dropped my waffle onto the floor this morning. Oh, and I made an ass of myself in front of a pretty girl at Has Beans when I accidentally threw my phone at her."

Lydia snorts.

"Nice line. But if all you need is a guitarist, I know a really good one who just moved back into town."

Malia suddenly stands in her seat, her mouth open and her eyes wild. She shakes her head ferociously, mouthing the words "don't you dare."

"Oh yeah? What's his name?"

"Her name is Kira. Kira Yukimura."

Lydia dodges Malia's outstretched hand, jumping onto the floor while Malia climbs onto the back of the couch after her.

"What in the hell are you doing?" She hisses under her breath. Lydia holds her hand up to quiet her and Malia stops, perched on the back of the couch like a gargoyle.

"I haven't heard of her," Stiles replies. "But, hey, she's welcome to come down to audition with us if she wants. I'm sure she'll like us 'cause we're super rad and all, but we've got a show this Saturday at Deucalion's if you want to bring her to come see us play."

"What makes you think I'd go to a crappy bar—"

"It's not so bad anymore since they fixed the pipes."

"—to see you play? I can just tell Kira and she can go by herself."

"I'll put you on the list and you can get in for free. You can walk up to the guy at the door and be all 'I'm on the list' and bam, you get in for free."

"You're not making a very strong case."

"I can also get Kira in for free. She can also walk up to the guy and the door and be all 'I'm on the list' and—"

"Still not good enough."

Stiles lets out an exaggerated whine.

"I will also buy all of your drinks."

"Now you have my attention."

"But only your drinks. Your friend is on her own."

Malia groans and falls backwards onto the cushions of the couch, her legs draped over the back of the couch.

"Can my roommate get in on the magical list, too?" Lydia asks.

Malia kicks her legs in protest, but doesn't make a sound.

"I should be able to swing that, sure," Stiles responds. "But I'm not buying her drinks either. Only yours."

"Perfect. I'll text Kira tonight and let you know what she says."

"Awesome," Stiles says. There's the sound of a door opening and shutting.

"Are you home now?" Lydia asks. She walks back to the armchair she was in when he called, slumping down into it.

"Just walked into the lobby," He replies. "I have to let you go now. I'll definitely lose you in this shitty elevator."

"Alright. Bye, stranger."

"So, hey, if Kira ends up joining our band will you concede that fate exists?"

"No. Bye, Stiles."

Stiles laughs.

"Bye, Lydia."

Lydia hangs up the phone and sets it on the end table next to her. Malia sits up and haughtily crosses her arms over her chest.

"I'm not going," She says.

"Yes, you are," Lydia replies, suppressing her own yawn behind her hand. "You will go and you will have fun and you are going to be an adult about this. Do you remember when I went with you to Danny Mahealani's party at great personal embarrassment to myself?"

Malia lets out an obnoxious sigh.

"Fine," She says. "I'll go with you to watch your soulmate play in his dumb band. But I'm not gonna have fun."

She stands and stomps to her bedroom, slamming the door a little louder than necessary.

"You still have to be an adult about this!" Lydia calls to her. On the end table, her phone buzzes.

Stiles Stilinski

DID YOU KNOW that hippos sweat pink?