Maryann Hollander slept in the morning glow of the sun, a blanket having been draped around her like the willows around a lake. Her soft blonde hair was strewn about in a wavy mess across her pillow and dull in the morning light stretching through a crack in the curtains. Freckles splattered her cheeks and her lips were parted, displaying teeth that had taken a handful of years to straighten and a lax pink tongue touching the bottom row. Her breaths came and went slowly, quietly, as if she were in deep sleep, never to awaken again… A round bulge under the blanket rose and fell with her breaths, giving way to a far-along pregnancy and reminders of a nearing due date.

There was something oddly beautiful about this, Stiles Stilinski thought, his brown eyes traveling the shape of her sleeping form from the chair beside her bed. The in-time breathing she had with the tiny baby in her belly mesmerized him, like it was some feat of two human bodies at two different stages of development, an unbreakable bond forming in those breaths. It made him smile, the idea of a powerful connection between two people who love each other immensely and unconditionally exploding into existence over an entire lifetime of hardship and betrayal and loyalty and kindness, a contradiction that comes with it attachments of ideas and concerns and dreams. It made him smile because, no matter what, they would hold onto each other for the rest of their lives as parent and child, mother and son, best friend and even better friend.

It was beautiful. Oddly so, but beautiful nonetheless.

Stiles leaned forward in the chair and, for a moment, he wanted to reach out and rub her swollen belly, he wanted to feel those two hearts beating together and to feel the baby kick and get excited and happy all just because someone besides his mother dared to touch his wild cocoon. His smile widened, but he didn't touch her. He felt that, in some way, it was more or less a violation of her personal space and, considering the baby was not his, that it would be inappropriate for him to touch her swell. So, he didn't, but still did he revel in her connection to her unborn baby.

"Stiles," Maryann said, her British accent slight and hardly noticeable now that she'd been living in the States for nearly two years. It surprised him and he almost leapt from his skin, but he saw her sleepy smile and relaxed in his seat.

"Morning, Mare," he greeted, crossing his arms over his knees and leaning on them. He smiled at her.

She only smiled back. "What are you doing here?"

That he did not know the answer to, because there were many reasons that could point to his being there. He was curious about the baby, but he thought that maybe he was there to see if she was okay, to see if the last contraction didn't kill her or something. He shook his head inwardly and decided against it. He came to see her and the baby for the sake of seeing her and the baby, that was all. Over the week, Maryann hadn't been at school because of her awful contractions. The doctor and even the school nurse told her to stay home or to stay at the hospital until after the baby was born, which was only a week away, but still. Stiles was worried about her absence and came to Beacon Hills Hospital to make sure she was okay.

He briefly looked around the room. It was plain and had less charm than a rotten shoe, the walls faded white and the floor tiles a mismatching of dark blue and off-white. The curtain was light blue and on the other end of the bed was a TV suspended from the wall. Medical machinery hung from the walls and stood on special poles, an IV drip tacked onto a metal post and a plate of cotton balls and the like. Other than that and the chair Stiles sat in, there was nothing much to the hospital room. Just a boring old room. Then he remembered Maryann had spoken to him.

"Ah, I'm here because I wanted to make sure you were okay," he explained, honest and nervous. He looked at her and she returned his gaze, her blue-gray eyes calculating him.

"Well, it's always nice to see you," Maryann said, her smile pulling at her lips.

"R-really?" Stiles swallowed and cracked a nervous grin. What in the world was she saying?

"Of course! You are my friend and all, and you're goofy and you somehow always know what to say," she explained to him, and not an once of it made any sense.

It didn't sound like him at all. Maybe his sarcasm and goofyness did it for her, but it surely did not for anyone else. Still, he let himself chuckle. "Well, that doesn't sound right."

"Well, I like you, so maybe it's different. Maybe it helps."

She was so… forward and unafraid. It wasn't like she had anything to lose at this point in her relationship with him, but her complete and utter show of confidence when it came to these things was insane. Bottom line, he couldn't believe it.

"Uh, do you mean that you like me as a friend or as something else…?" He couldn't keep himself from asking the question, let alone keep himself from slipping off of his chair. In a flailing mess, he hit the cold floor with small thud and blinked multiple times, scrambling to get back into his chair. He pouted and frowned at himself, crossing his arms over his chest like a small child. He couldn't believe he embarrassed himself.

She giggled at him. "I like you in both ways." Her smile widened.
"W-what?"

It took her a moment to respond, her eyes drifting away and then snapping back. "Why do I need to repeat myself?"

"I just… It's just… I dunno. Are you messing with me?" He wouldn't be surprised if she was. She did it more often than not and she wasn't nice about it.

"No, Stiles." Frustration leaked into her voice. "I genuinely like you. Don't you get that? I LIKE YOU."

He blinked and a stupid grin slipped across his face.