"Stiles!" Scott exclaims, throwing his arms around his best friend. Stiles breathes a sigh of relief, just now realizing the depth of his anxiety about his friends forgetting him. The Horsemen leave, and they are alone in the cell. Stiles looks around, taking in the state of his friends. His father lies unconscious on the floor next to Malia and Lydia. Scott sees his worried glance and is quick to assure him.

"They're fine," Scott says. "Just knocked out." Suddenly, Lydia wakes up, her eyes popping open, her mouth already ready for a scream. But then she sees Stiles. Everything else melts away.

Every dream he's ever had, every moment of his imprisonment feels like it has been teetering on the edge of this moment. Her eyes are wide, and the air around him is suddenly unbreathable. Time stands still as he waits for her face to mold into an expression of confusion. He's sure that she will have forgotten about him, that she will look at him and see only a stranger. Stiles can sense his heart ready to break, can feel the crushing weight of her memory loss hanging above him. He will not be able to bear it.

But then she breaths a name with a smile on her face so wide it might burst. "Stiles." She says it so simply, so lovingly, he wonders if it was he who forgot it all along, because he's never quite understood its significance until this moment. "Stiles."

And just like that they've fallen into each other's arms, and he can feel her heart beating like a steady clock against his chest. Her face is buried in his neck, her tears wetting his skin there, but he doesn't care. His hands are full of her skin, his nose full of her scent, and all he can think is that he needs more of her. As if sensing this, Lydia kisses and quick trail up his neck before locking her lips to his.

This kiss is even better than the last one, all the heat and the fire burning within them from relief this time instead of desperation. She holds onto him as if she wants to make him a part of her, and he has no objections. Her lips are full of promises and history, giving him hope for the future while reminding him of the past. There is wetness on his cheeks, and he can't tell whether it's from her eyes or his, but it doesn't matter because they're tears of joy either way.

Lydia pulls back eventually, gazing meaningfully into his eyes and saying, with forceful certainty, "I love you, Stiles Stilinski." She wipes a tear off of his cheek. "And I will never forget that." Stiles smiles at Lydia, wondering how he could have ever imagined that she would forget him. Her words are calming, as if some part of him has known, all along, that she would say them. She rests her forehead against his contentedly, and the rest of the world shifts slowly back into focus.

"I hate to interrupt, but I think he's waking up," Scott says, nodding his head at Stiles' dad. Stiles slowly disentangles himself from Lydia and goes over to his father. He's not really sure what to expect. Lydia and Scott remember him, but they're both supernatural, and his dad is not. Sheriff Stilinski opens his eyes and takes in Stiles. After a short hesitation, in which Stiles' heart nearly stops, he pulls his son to his chest and locks him in an embrace.

"Stiles," he cries, his voice full of relief and hope. "My boy." Stiles holds on to his father as tightly as possible, crying tears of relief into his uniform.

"Stiles?" he hears a voice ask behind him, and before he has a chance to turn around, Malia has pounced on him. She hugs him, her head resting on his back and he can feel her grin. After a moment, he pulls back and they all stand up. Looking around at all of their faces, he has a thought.

"Wait, so all of you remember me?" he asks, incredulous. "None of you forgot?" Everyone but Lydia begins to look uncomfortable.

"I forgot you for a bit, son," his father says, clasping his shoulder lovingly. He is the first to admit it, but the others follow in suit.

"I forgot, too," Malia tell him, looking ashamed.

"I didn't remember until the dream," Scott says. Stiles swallows, taking a deep breath.

"That's alright. You remember now. That's all that matters." He laces Lydia's finger with his own. "It's okay if you forgot, too. I understand." He gazes at her, not sure of the truth. But she is looking off into the distance, biting her lip the way she does when she's trying to work something out.

"A dream," she whispers. Everyone looks at her, confused.

"Lydia?" Stiles asks. She finally looks at him, and he can tell that she has an important thought. "What is it?"

"Malia, how did you remember Stiles?" she asks. Malia tilts her head.

"Well, I had a dream, about when I met him," she admits. "Then, all of a sudden, my memories came back." Lydia turns to Scott.

"Was that like your dream?" she asks. He nods.

"He came back in a dream to me as well," Sheriff Stilinski adds. Lydia nods, as if this just affirms what she already has concluded.

"I think I understand it now," she says. "Stiles, you're tethered to each of us in one way or another. Somehow, the tether became so strong that it reached into more than our minds. That's why they can't erase you completely: you're part of our souls." She looks around the cell. "It's also probably why we're here, together." Stiles squeezes her hand in his, understanding what she's saying.

"They're not powerful enough, so they're going to find another way."

"Or they're just going to kill us," Malia states in her usual manner. Just as she says this, the cell door opens and a man walks in, his face behind a mask.

"I'm not here to kill all of you," he tells them, his voice deep and precise. "Just one will do." Stiles is sure that he can see a smug grin behind the mask. Scott steps forward.

"And who would that be, exactly?" he asks defiantly. Horsemen appear behind him, their figures lurking in the shadows.

"The one you all fought so hard to rescue. The one you tried valiantly not to forget."

"No," Lydia whispers, her hand holding tight to Stiles' arm. The air around them becomes charged with electricity. The man opens his mouth, and what comes out is just one word, just a name. But the name is just as charged as the air around them.

"Stiles."