Archive of Our Own ^beta

It’s cold. Cold in the way his breath forms clouds, smoking out his life. Cold in the way he’s not felt on his skin a freeze like so in days, in weeks, in moons. Cold in the way that she isn’t touching him, instead hugging her mom a hello , a welcome back , an I missed you even if I remembered you only a little .

And with the cold comes back the sound. He hears his friends chatting amongst themselves in relief, the complaints of tires as a car after another leaves the parking lot of the school, the drums of his own heart because he is alive and he is around and he is here and he isn't going anywhere.

His dad leaves first out of their bunch of friends and allies, however unexpected (what the hell is Theo doing back?). The sheriff mutters something about checking whether his deputies are in position at the station; whether all this madness is finally over and he gets to return to non-supernatural related crimes, not that Beacon Hills has enough of those.

Stiles finds his arms wrapping around the necks of Scott, Malia, Liam, and Mason, and thanking them in muffled huffs, thanking them for saving him, for fighting, for winning yet another miraculous time. One by one, his friends depart from the parking lot, hand in hand or shoulder against shoulder until there are none but two motionless shapes left standing. Lydia, shivering in the breeze, and Stiles, shivering for they seem so far apart, even if in reality only inches away is her hand from his.

Her stare falls on him then, as though she’s suddenly grasped the situation, stare warm and steady. In one breath, she’s swallowing the world around them, its wonders and faults here and beyond the indigos of the night sky. And then she steals another inch between them, tiptoeing forward.

“Hi,” utters Stiles, blinking a creep of affection off his gaze, and only then remembering that there is no use in hiding it anymore. Not in front of Lydia; never again. 

“Hi,” she says back, a shy smile stretching to her eyes. 

“Hi.”

Lydia arches a playful brow, “You said that already.”

“I know. Is that... Am I being weird?”

“I don't know. Am I being weird? I feel like I'm talking to you for the first time.”

“You're okay.”

A quiet binds them then, with neither sure of what's to come next. All Stiles can make out is distant cars and grasshoppers sizzling.

"So we kissed in the locker room," he says then, cautiously. "Again."

"We did."

"And you kind of said..."

"Yeah."

"And now..." He takes a deep breath. "Where do we go from here?” 

But before she can say the simplest thing, he carries on, "I would really really like it if you came home with me. To talk,” he rushes to add so she doesn't get the wrong idea, though — could it really be? “I have about a thousand questions. Is there any chance you'd want to answer some of them? Or we could sleep it all off and see each other tomorrow, whatever works for—"

"I am not going anywhere without you, Stiles,” demands Lydia, steadying herself to look all tall and collected, though hanging only five feet and three inches above the parking lot floor.

"Can I get some privacy in the bathroom?"

"Stiles..."

"I'm sorry. I'm just... So nervous."

"So am I. I can hardly breathe."

Her chest is heaving, going up and down like she's running and not standing still before him.

"Hey," says Stiles and his hand reaches up with the intention to meet her face, but before it makes contact, he lets the arm fall back against his hip. Lydia releases a sigh, glancing down at her heels, a little dirtied from the night's path.

"You're perfectly allowed to touch me, Stiles. In fact, I want you to,” she looks back up, biting her lip.

"Sorry, I just don't want to make you uncomfortable or..." He pauses, trying to collect himself. "I'm not sure what we are. If you want to take things slow. Or if you want to take any things at all."

“I do,” Lydia confirms at once. "It’s just… All so confusing. A few hours ago I hardly remembered anything about you. And now you're here and I remember everything until the last detail. And I just feel... So strongly. I'm learning to get adjusted to that severity right now." Another deep breath later, she carries on, never quite meeting Stiles’ gaze. "Whatever it is, it doesn't feel like just being in love with you. It's that but also more than that. Impossible to explain."

"Hey," he reaches up again and this time actually captures her face between his fingers, stroking her cheeks softly. "I know, Lydia. Why don't we...? Drive to my place and just have some tea and talk?"

Lydia nods, a bright smile spreading across her cheeks. "Sounds perfect."

Stiles fumbles about in his pockets, falling short. "I don't have the keys to my car."

"They're with me. I held onto them after Peter gave them to us."

"Okay. So my car—"

"Let's go."

Without any warning, Lydia grips his hand and begins to lead him the way — the back of the parking lot, where the blues of his Jeep are illuminated slightly by the streetlamps. Most of the car is hiding in shadows, like it were earlier the night, when Stiles had woken in the driver's seat, alone and confused but more determined than ever.

This time, he is perfectly at ease when he sinks against the backrest, or so it seems. Actually, gripping the car keys Lydia passes to him and nearing the engine with them off-puts him. He doesn't start the car yet, lingering about. They both know why.

Too much it reminds them of that night, the hesitation, the lack of movement, the confession.

"I'm sorry I never said it," utters Lydia, like she's reading his mind. 

"You didn't—"

"I did,” she interjects, nodding along feverishly. “I did have to. I've just... I've only said it once before, Stiles. It takes everything from me."

Stiles smiles over at her sadly, "I get that." But that doesn't stop her from carrying on.

"I should've said that after the animal clinic.” Lydia inches closer until she's leaning over the stick shift. She shakes her head. "No, I should've said it way before that. Before Mexico, before Allison, I should've said it but I thought there was never a right time. I wanted to tell you when we were in your room before Barrow and you were explaining those different coloured strings to me. I almost did but you…”

“It's weird speaking to you like this,” she finishes off with, resting against the seat.

All Stiles can do is sit back and watch it develop before his eyes like he'd taken a polaroid of Lydia and is waiting for the image to come through. She's staring back intently, looking out for any change of expression, anything that might indicate that this… This is moving too far, too quickly, or rather moving at no pace at all. This is how it usually goes. One of them watches while the other matches the intensity. This is how they've built the tension day after day, until a breakthrough like tonight can enter their lives.

"It's going to be weird at first,” reckons Stiles, finally putting the key in the ignition. “I mean, we’ve never talked properly about us and always just between the lines. It's okay if it's weird at first."

Lydia prods her chin up and down as Stiles switches the gear into neutral, and, before he can understand what's happening, her fingers tangle around his on the stick shift, like she's reaching for safety.

And safety he is.

The house looks like he'd left it three full moons ago in the morning before school. While Lydia excuses herself to the bathroom, Stiles checks his room, just to see it's still intact, and finds his unmade bed, once again; exactly as messy as he'd left it before rushing off with toast between his teeth that he’d just slightly burnt. The only difference is the location of his lacrosse jersey, instead of on his chair like he neatly lies it out, it's joined the mess of his sheets. He rushes to make the bed, moving the jersey back, and makes his way to the kitchen. Lydia’s already waiting for him there, searching for mugs in the cupboards, while the kettle hums unnervingly loudly. He squeezes past her with a smile, their fingers grazing as they reach for the same mug simultaneously.

“Hi,” utters Stiles, unable to contain his beam. Lydia chuckles, taking the mugs out and smoothly scooting them across the kitchen counter. She speaks when she's fished two teabags out of the glass container and landed them perfectly in the centre of the mugs.

“You're doing it again.”

Stiles quickly realises as he claims a seat opposite Lydia, a little scarlet in the cheeks, “Oh, sorry.”

The kettle gives out its final whistle and they dart up at the same time, but Lydia gets there first and pours the steamy liquid into their mugs. It feels so domestic, he's not even mad that she's taken over.

In comfortable silence, they begin sipping their chamomile tea, the immediate warmth soothing out the flex of Stiles’ muscles. Occasionally, their eyes meet across the counter, but neither dares to speak. It is when Lydia sets her drained mug on the counter especially hard that the quiet breaks, seemingly forever.

"We've never done anything normal before,” announces Lydia, licking her lips. Stiles wonders fleetingly whether they still taste like his. “Had a conversation outside investigations."

"Is that an observation or offer?"

"Both. Can we just do something that makes us think less? Forget all these terrible things that I’m sure are floating in your mind as they are in mine?"

Truth be told, the warmth of the drink and Lydia’s presence had erased them completely. But he's not one to say no to her and she isn't one to accept refusals.

"What can we do at…” He checks the oven clock. “Eleven at night?"

The quiet returns, and Lydia’s nibbling at her lip. Not thinking; it seems she's made up her mind about something but, for some reason, it just won't come out.

"Uh… I was wondering if…"

Stiles watches her curiously, noticing blood rush up to her cheeks. "Yeah?"

"I want to hold—” Lydia pauses, taking a deep breath as she skims her fingers over her floral dress. “Couldwejustcuddle?" She utters so quickly, Stiles barely makes it out. But then he's just as flustered, his mug almost slipping out of his grip. He sets in on the counter, aiming for the liquid circle stain but missing it by an inch.

"Yeah... Yes. Definitely. There's a couch in the living—"

"I mean your bed.”

There's no more hesitancy to Lydia’s voice, and Stiles wonders if the confidence is something she's mastered to fake or if some of the girl she was before all this supernatural business has remained in her. The Lydia he's grown to know isn't confident at all under all the collected façade. She's revealed it to him when it's mattered, when she's needed a little nudge in the right direction. Tying a red string around her fingers or telling him about the voices in her head and how they never seem to make sense, or in hospital beds she falls into often enough to make Stiles lose his mind little by little.

Stiles nods along thoughtfully, pushing his chair back in time with Lydia. They abandon their mugs without a second thought, and Lydia follows him out into the hallway, eerily dark. The quiet of the night scares Stiles, like peace is an obscurity, and maybe it's become their reality.

He creaks the door to his room ajar.

The first thing Lydia notices upon entering Stiles’ room is the jersey and that it isn't where she'd left it. The other day, while Noah excused himself for a moment, she'd dropped down in Stiles’ bed, hugging it to her face and sniffling it until there were no more tears stinging her eyes. It smelled distinctly like Stiles, his lilac laundry detergent, and a little of something that she couldn't recognise but knew she'd caught before in one of those times she'd get to hold him. Like home.

She grazes her fingers against the fabric while Stiles just watches her intently from the doorway, curiosity-stricken. 

"Remember when you got me that flatscreen TV for my birthday?"

Fluster joins his cheeks and he hides it by rushing to switch on his desk lamp. "Oh, no. I blanked that out in a moment of weakness."

"I'm thankful for any memory now,” Lydia admits, letting go of the jersey and swinging around, just a few feet from where Stiles is halting in the centre of the room. She inhales deeply and carries on, "That first time I was here, I was already falling in love with you."

Something in the air changes and Lydia knows this is it. She reaches for him, but he catches her first, tangling his arms around her neck as she wraps hers around his torso. Their hands run everywhere without a certain trail, just grasping whatever they can get a hold of.

“You have no idea,” Lydia sobs out into the crook of his neck. “I missed you like... God, I was just broken without you. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't sleep. Like half of me was stolen. I missed you so much that my heart bled, Stiles. Even before I knew you were real. It's what made me believe you were."

Stiles breathes heavily into her hair, flattening her locks and probably messing them up but she couldn't find it in her to care. 

"You kept me sane there, Lydia. When we talked on the radio, I knew everything was going to be okay."

"What was it like there?"

“Lonely. Like an abandoned train station, it was, but filled with ghosts. No one spoke. I was the only one aware of the simulation, while the rest sat in silence, waiting for the imaginary train.”

Lydia squeezes him firmer, hoping that the hold can make up for some of his troubles. Her hand runs up to meet his cheek, finding it slightly damp. She wipes the tears away with her knuckles, then kisses them softly. Any part of Stiles is a part worth having.

"I can't believe I've never hugged you like this,” Lydia admits, shaking her head violently. “What was wrong with me? Why was I... Why did I keep holding back? What was I so scared of? I knew I loved you the whole time and, until tonight, I assumed we were together. When I remembered, I couldn't believe that we had missed each other, all those times. How did I keep missing you?" Her last question is thick with frustration, and she's suddenly so very angry at herself. All this time, all these years, all these moments shared in secrecy, and not once had she dared to claim him. Make a move. Just suck it up and tell him the truth.

That no matter where or when, it is always, in the end, going to be him. He is her ending, and she's known from the beginning, even if her vision had been clouded by someone else, someone temporary.

They let go of the embrace but still hold onto each other’s elbows. At no pace at all, Stiles begins to lead her to his bed, freezing by the edge. He's afraid. He's afraid because she has never allowed this before, and, at that, so much guilt captures her whole. Why ’s run through her mind in an incoherent buzz, why have I been holding back this long? louder than the rest. 

Lydia lets go of him, only with the knowledge that it won't be for long, and moves under the covers, inviting him after her by holding the blanket up. Hesitantly, Stiles follows the hint, keeping the distance between them as he faces her. But that won't do.

She scoots closer until their chests are pressed together like they were a minute ago, except this is more intimate. This is in the comfort of his bed. This is a first. And, if Lydia gets her way, it is most certainly not going to be a last. So she wraps her arm around him until there's no more of that irritating distance that's been kept between them for far too long. And, finally, Stiles reacts, relaxing in her arms.

"I'm the little spoon, I think. But I'm okay with anything if it's you."

"I just want to look at you for now, Stiles."

So they don't spoon but every bit of them is intertwined anyway. Instead, they're looking, foreheads nearing. She feels as though crying when they make impact, warm skin against warmer. Never has she felt this close to him, emotionally and physically. Touching him like this is brand new but something she'd imagined so many times it feels normal.

"This is the nicest feeling in the world," Lydia whispers onto his face, letting her eyelids flutter shut in absolute serenity. "So safe. I could just hold you forever."

"Please do."

And then they're simply mimicking each other; Lydia brings her hand to his chest and Stiles follows her suit.

"Your heart is racing."

"So is yours."

"You're gulping."

"So are you.”

"When you said I didn't have to say it back earlier," she begins slowly, opening her eyes. "Did that mean you knew that I love you?"

Stiles is quiet momentarily, thinking in heavy breaths that fall onto her face like embraces nevertheless.

“I know you ,” he says, pushing her hair back from her face lightly, never breaking their foreheads apart. “I knew that something had changed between how you were before all this mess and after. I hoped it was that.”

“Why didn’t you say anything? Do anything?”

“Why didn’t you?” he fires back, however softly. Lydia chuckles, blowing air onto his lips. She wants to kiss him, feel every inch of his mouth, but it's simply not the time yet. This is when they speak. The kisses are for later, or so it seems.

“Because I was too afraid of losing you if I were wrong in thinking you still felt the same way about me, even after getting to know me,” Lydia croaks out, and it's an insecurity she's never revealed before. She's so fragile like this, exposing all of her to him. Fragile because the worry remains; what if he doesn't love all of her? What if there are bits he doesn't tolerate? What if the more he gets to know her, the less he likes what he finds? What if…?

"I'm sorry I didn't kiss you all those times," says Stiles genuinely. "I wanted to. More than anything. But I wasn't sure. Not a hundred percent. You're not so easy to figure out," he chuckles nervously, making the air between them almost static.

“Hey.” She grips his flannel, pulling him impossibly closer, then lets go. "That doesn't matter, okay? Because we can have anything now."

"Anything?" His voice is broken beyond recognition. Lydia nods, shaking his head with hers. 

"Do something you haven't yet."

Stiles exhales and separates them slightly, hesitating only for a heartbeat before ghosting his lips over her forehead where it's still warm. The kiss is so simple, yet so endearing. It sets off butterflies in her stomach without much trying.

"Okay. Something else."

He moves onto the tip of her nose, kissing it ever so slowly, and then her chin, all the while cupping her cheek. His thumb brushes over her lips by accident. They part at impact, so hungry for him, and she lifts her chin in pleasure.

"S-something—"

She can't even finish when Stiles’ mouth is on her skin again, taking advantage of the neck she's exposed. Gasping, Lydia grabs the collar of his shirt, hard but slow. He kisses a line down her jaw, never biting into her skin, keeping it soft and sweet. Her neck has never witnessed such tenderness before; it's like she's flying up to the clouds, touching the sky and swallowing all the blues.

Then Stiles leans back and they're just looking, only for a lingering moment before, at last, it's their lips that connect. 

She isn't certain who's leaned in first, too distracted by the explosion of warmth in her chest, sinking her deeper into the mattress. Reverently and unhurriedly they taste each other, inhaling heavily — no — Stiles is definitely sniffing her in through what sounds like sighs of pleasure. Lydia knows because she's doing the same.

She drifts them apart with even more hesitance, but only to reveal the only thought left up in her mind.

"For the first time we aren't in danger." 

"I could get used to it."

Again they kiss, growing accustomed to their lips colliding, and what feels best. Whatever way doesn't matter to her, as long as it's him that she's kissing. The boy she loves beyond recognition, and beyond time and space, as the last couple of months have proved. Endlessly.

"Do you think it's always going to stay that way?” She brings up, breaking their lips again, only because she knows there are thousands of more kisses to come. They're not rushing, not tonight. “Being afraid of the next threat, then facing it and having that one night of relief that it's over until repeating the cycle?"

"I hope not. A little normal wouldn't be so bad."

"Normal,” repeats Lydia, the word feeling wrong on her lips. "I've forgotten what that means. Between parallel universes and immortal creatures, I've lost all sense of normal."

Their hands intertwine, fingers drawing circles over the knuckles.

"Freshman year feels like a lifetime ago. Everything's changed now," says Stiles, glancing down at their interlocking fingers. Lydia squeezes his hand, thinking hard.

"Why did you even like me, before all this? I wasn't a good person."

"Hottest, most popular girl in school," jokes Stiles, playing around with her fingers.

"I'm serious." And curious.

It takes Stiles a while to collect himself, not something he usually does, rather breaking out into an incoherent rant, full of needless sentences. Lydia likes that he's trying for her, though she wouldn't mind either.

"You didn't pity me like everyone else did when my mom died,” he confesses softly, putting her knuckles to his mouth and lingering a kiss at each. “ Everyone suddenly wanted to be my friend and faked all those condolences. You didn't pretend. But you still cared. I remember the notes you slipped onto my desk with all these funky drawings. I remember how you waited outside until I left class to walk home with me, even if from across the street. And sometimes you traded your pudding for mine at lunch because you somehow knew I preferred strawberry over chocolate. You never said anything. But you were always there, looking out for me."

Lydia pinches her lips together, choking down another sob. She'd never understood before how Stiles had figured out all these things about her than she’d thought had remained away from another’s eye. But then it makes sense. He's an investigator, he's prone to notice what others let slip past, he finds the good among the bad and bad among the good. Lydia is both, Lydia is neither. She's a challenge, and Stiles likes those.

"My mom," Stiles realises, his voice suddenly broken. "You said something about... Well, I'm not sure I understood."

Lydia inhales, preparing for the worst with the shake of her breath before answering, "The Hunt brought her back for a while, to confuse your dad. Make him believe you were never real."

"Not because she would've survived if it weren't for my existence?" Stiles tries to say it lightly, like a joke, yet the amusement is void in his voice. She squeezes his hand once more.

"Stiles, what happened to your mom is none of your fault. You know that, right?"

"What if it is? What if I'd stayed in the Hunt and my mom was still here? My dad — still happy?"

Lydia shakes her head, "That was a projection of her. It wasn't her, Stiles. You're real. And I've never seen your dad happier than when he remembered you." It's the truth. She spotted tears of joy in Noah’s eyes as he held the jersey so tenderly, then at Scott’s home, upon revealing Stiles’ name. "And, selfishly, you make me too happy to let you stay behind and not fight for a way to bring you back." 

"You make me so happy,” she carries on, more emotionally. If there are more tears to come, she won't hold them back. “I just forget sometimes. When you're around, I forget about the insanity we put ourselves through every day. At one point, the only times I could smile were around you.”

In the dim of the room, Lydia still spots the change in his eyes, his pupils all blown out from the softness of the situation, his care for her words. He cares so much for everything she has to say. No one has ever cared for her like he does. To the highest rooftop and the deepest canyon, he is there.

“I really love you,” he confesses against her cheek, blowing hot breaths onto the skin. “And I don't mean just romantically. I love this version of you, Lydia, talking late at night in my bed. I love every version of you but this is my new favourite.”

He leans in to kiss her lips again, and it's suddenly different. She can think straight and relish in the reality, and instead of feeling overwhelmed and scared, it is only a sense of safety that captures her. And then, it's no longer just lipped, Stiles reaches for her, deeper and deeper, their tongues colliding making him whimper against her, all wrapped up in her being. Lydia can't help but copy the moan, dragging him forward until their bodies are whole and not a breath separates them, not a millimeter. It gets dangerously hot, something squirming in the depths of her stomach, and she has to let go of him to ask a question just as dangerous, chests heaving from the impatience.

"So... Taking it slow or not?"

If possible, Stiles’ pupils grow wider. But he isn't flustered, not anymore. He wants this. She wants this. He wants her. She wants him. All of her. All of him. Everything. Fuck the boundaries once set it in invisible stone; they've had enough. Stiles’ dad isn't home, and he might not come all night. They're alone and together and teenagers and needy for touch that's been deprived for too long.

“Whatever you want,” Stiles whispers back and it's practically settled. She reaches for his collar, skimming her fingertips over his neck and watching the goosebumps rise at impact.

"As much as I don't want to rush anything, we've lost too much time. "

He hands her a look, full of passion and certainty, and her toes curl. The effect he has on her is questionable at best.

"Then the pace doesn't matter."

Before she can make sense of things, their lips collide again, more desperate than before and her stomach, oh, it's screaming to release the butterflies, but no cure comes. Lydia rushes his flannel off of him and he's left in a grey shirt that perfectly exposes his muscles. She stares for a while; she'd hardly dared to before and this boy, he hides his treasure under those endless flannels like he isn't aware of the impact it’d have on hungry eyes, like hers. Her hands run along his arms, clasping his biceps. His breath hitches when her lips meet the skin, biting down from pure impulse. She can no longer contain herself.

Stiles pushes Lydia back-down on the bed, his knees sinking into the mattress on each side of her hips, and the feel of his legs around him like that alone sends more heat to her lower stomach. And then he's stripping down her dress, inch by inch, until her bra is revealed as well as her belly, rosy and soft. His hands halt below her stomach and he retreats like he's been burned.

"Maybe I want to take it just a little slower," he confesses, the fluster back on as his hands roam safer territory; her face. All the while, his glances sometimes dart down to her exposed chest, and he bites his lip. "I need to learn how to make you feel good with just kisses before we go further."

"Trust me, you're doing a good job with the kisses, Stiles. Really good."

"More practice won't hurt."

And then he's kissing every bare inch of her skin from the top, covering her face, her neck, and then halting at her chest for only a moment before he pushes her bra down just slightly, skimming his lips over her breasts. Lydia shivers at every touch, gasps at every tug of his mouth. It's almost possessive, like he's reclaiming her skin, though she'd never allowed anyone else to do so before. Before anything, she is her own. But she might just let Stiles have her, have boundless access to her.

Most of his kisses are mild and brief, but for some her skin is bitten into, leaving behind marks. Lovebites she might as well never bother to cover, as long as they come from this certain pair of lips. And then he's biting a line at her lower belly, each hickey a pit-stop in his reckless race. His tongue travels back down the trail, and Lydia can't help but tremble whole, grasping Stiles’ impossibly tousled hair and letting a moan escape through her lips. Stiles pushes himself up, meeting her gaze.

"Do you like that?"

"Shut up and do it again."

So he does, over and over again until her body can't resist anymore; she arches her back to get him closer, as close as two humans can be. Her urgency is what finally gets him to strip her dress down entirely, leaving her in her bra and panties alone. He studies the wear carefully, failing to contain his smirk. Yes, she'd worn black lace underwear to another supernatural capture. So what? It's basically an everyday occurrence at this point.

“Get on with it,” Lydia hisses impatiently when Stiles refuses to move. He chuckles.

“Take it all off?”

“Take it all off.”

He's wearing too many clothes, Lydia realises before he manages to pull her up and tackle the bra clasp. So she rids him of the shirt, tossing it over the edge of the bed, to investigate his bare chest that first time. And, hell, her hand on his heart is sending tingles across her body. It's warm and it's right and it's probably a little too much for her to handle, but she's containing her excitement best as she can under the circumstances.

Her hand roams down to the belt of his jeans and she unbuckles them. It isn't until the jeans lay on the floor and Lydia pulls back the elastic of his briefs that he stops her, forcing her hand away. Lydia raises an eyebrow at him.

"I thought I’d take care of you,” Stiles clarifies, more flustered than frustrated. “ Just you. And you'd tell me what you like."

For the first time in her life, Lydia’s at a loss for words.

"Uh..."

Stiles pushes himself up in concern, "Something wrong? We can stop any time—"

It's her time to be flustered, as she loses their eye contact and interrupts him quietly, so quietly he might not make it out, "No one's really taken care of just me before."

She says it with such shame, she's sure Stiles is going to jump away from her and break the tension that's built up so recklessly. Yet he doesn't, and there's only disbelief in his eyes as he meets hers.

"You're kidding."

Lydia shakes her head, "They usually tended to be preoccupied getting themselves off."

“Unbelievable,” utters Stiles, his eyes rolling like crazy. He puts a tender hand on her chest, as though asking for a permission he doesn't need. "Can I show you? And you tell me what feels good."

He's being so sincere that even though she's terrified, she can't help but answer with a nod. Stiles proceeds to unhook her bra, very masterfully at that. All the boys before him had found it too much work or fumbled about, making Lydia do it in their place. She finds him increasingly hotter for taking charge.

And then he's holding her, paying just the right attention to her naked breasts, but never enough to call it obsessive. His lips scout her skin some more, biting at the nipples just slightly and sending her into an ecstasy she's sure to note down in her diary later. She'd never have taken him for a master in the sex department, but tonight’s coming with many surprises. And then — then he's holding her, bare chest against another, and breathing her in.

Lydia feels fragile from how cautious those touches are and, at the back of her mind, needs him to be firm and precise. After all, they haven't seen each other in three months and this… This they might have never done before, but it’s lived in their dreams for long. Then again, that's just Stiles. He's tender now that he’s exploring her, for this first time will live in their minds forever, even if a thousand more are to come.

An eye contact later, Stiles frees her of her underwear infuriatingly slowly, skimming his lips over her thighs as he pulls the lace down. Each kiss builds up the heat until her eyes are rolling back and she simply cannot wait anymore. Him inside her has become a need she cannot breathe without.

Stiles has other plans, however. Still in his briefs, she has no control over him like she's used to with other boys. It's just her, naked before him, naked and vulnerable. Yet she has a hunch that Stiles won't ruin her, won't leave her in pieces to be put together. No, he's who finishes the puzzle.

After a look, a slight smirk, something so very Stiles, he rushes down to her entrance, putting his lips firmly over her. The moan Lydia cries out is slightly supernatural, but he carries on sucking on her like he hasn't noticed.

His tongue wanders around, licking and absorbing her, making up for half the noises in his room, the other being her heavy moans. She shivers in a way she never has before as Stiles deepens his touch, and finds no words to speak, no guidance. He's doing perfectly fine on his own hunch.

Another drag of his tongue tickles her, erupting uncontrolled giggles from her mouth. Embarrassed, Lydia covers her mouth with the hand that isn't balding Stiles’ head with her intense grip of his locks, but in return, Stiles meets her eyes, repositioning his mouth as he mumbles cute against her.

The high comes to her so suddenly, although Stiles has been masterfully building it up lick by lick, that Lydia cries out through the intense waves washing over her, hooking her legs around his neck in protest for he dares to move an inch away. But then his fingers are ghosting her thighs while he sucks her off one final time and she's hot wherever he's touching her, tingling from head to toes. She's addicted from the first taste of what they are, what they could be.

It isn't until her hips stop quivering that Stiles scoots back to her, nuzzling up to her side between the messy sheets and he breathes into her ear like it was him who'd just gotten off. Lydia relishes in the moment; two almost bare bodies against each other, heaving in sync, two hearts pumping the same boiling blood, two hands entwining over Lydia’s stomach in time with their souls. The kind of ecstasy previously living only behind her shut eyelids in lightless rooms.

"If you can do that with your mouth, what can you do with—"

"That you can find out another time," Stiles interrupts her, scattering sloppy kisses across her jaw. She squirms in anticipation, tilting her neck to give him more access, which he gladly takes.

Her when? comes out in a whine. Stiles chuckles against her, halting the kisses to expose his widest smug. 

"Someone's desperate."

"Someone's a fucking tease."

Stiles’ hands roam down her back until cupping her behind, that way tugging her closer like she's an anchor and he's the bottom of the ocean. And they are exactly that, metaphorically or literally. If she weren't his anchor, she would’ve never have him back, all to herself in the dead of night; she would’ve never have been able to pull him back to this world of hurt a plenty but just as much care to soothe it with. 

"Time will show," decides Stiles, caressing her lower back, one finger trailing goosebumps over her spine. "Tonight’s all about you, Miss."

Lydia is not one to give control over in bed, not typically. But it's hard to resist Stiles like this, his eyes conveying more adoration than lust, his words carrying gentleness rather than orders. He's different. So all Lydia does is nod, thrill churning her stomach as Stiles beams back at her, snuggling even closer up to her side. His hard-on sticks into her belly as he repositions her, her legs wrapped around his torso, and Lydia cries out from pure want.

Stiles places his thumb at her entrance, demanding and precise. He toys around, teasing the area with softer brushes until his index finger sinks into her through her wetness, opening her up effortlessly. With that, Lydia understands his game plan and… 

“Stiles, I’ve tried it before, on my own. I can't get off like that.”

He stirs a little, reaching for her at a different angle, all the while breathing into her ear, so close.

“Would trying hurt?”

“No, but I don't want you to feel like you can't get me to— Ohmygod, ” Lydia breathes out shakily as Stiles begins to move his finger inside her, quickly after squeezing in another, and he's changing her mind already. Nosing her chin, he pants in time with her, working his way to get her to the edge. Lydia’s first moan he catches with his mouth on hers, tasting the waves of pleasure, and she is an ocean. 

Overcome with her senses, Lydia has to stop the kiss and just shiver with her eyes shut — seeing stars lighting up the dark — as Stiles plays with her long enough for her to clench around his fingers and dirty them with the product of her ecstasy. Her eyes open moments later as she feels him inch away from her and then she's gazing into his eyes and the same does he, sucking off his fingers thoroughly before he dries them against the sheets, which, oh, they'll definitely have to toss in the washing machine so that his dad doesn't catch the undeniable smell of sex all over the bed. 

“You are full of surprises, Stiles Stilinski,” says Lydia, raising her brow at him. Their eye contact is steady. “Who thought that under all those flannels and the innocent façade was hiding a sex god.”

And normally, she wouldn't admit this to a boy — boys are arrogant enough as it is, especially when it comes to compliments in bed — but Stiles is… Well, he's a boy that deserves the confidence boost, especially after working his way through making her come the hardest she has in her life twice within several minutes.

Stiles doesn't even look that smug. Fine, a little, but a little is more than she'd anticipated.

“I’ve researched the female orgasm plenty, preparing for this, Lydia. Don't take google and porn for granted.” He winks at her. Winks! 

“ This as in…”

“Getting you off,” he clarifies, licking his lips. “You specifically.”

There is something about attaining the knowledge that a guy has wanted to ensure the girl gets the best she can. It is so Stiles that she can't understand why it didn't occur to her; after all, he's only had one fleeting relationship, one partner before her.

“Well, Stiles,” she begins, pouting out her lips. “Good job on the research. I'd say you're passing with flying colours.”

A smirk develops on his face, one he's tried to contain for several moments. “That good, huh?”

“Here I thought you wouldn't get smug.”

“I am a human man who's desperate for approval!”

“You have been approved.”

“Thank you.”

In Stiles leans, scattering kisses across her jaw, soft and… Longing? Like he still doesn't believe he gets to have her now. She thought the permission was clear from the start, from the locker room, from the tears stinging her eyes as they first fell on him after those three months of yearning and sobbing throughout the night, desperate for the touch of a boy who doesn't know better than to leave her undone from just one meeting of skin. And maybe that's just that. Like those nights, those fleeting images of him with no face she could picture then… Maybe it all still feels just a little bit like a dream.

And Lydia finds that, two orgasms later, the mood hasn't gone away, not completely, when her hand roams over Stiles’ briefs and she feels him, still ready for her.

“So…” She begins, puckering her lips as she drags out the o. 

“So?” He eyes her, a little confused. She takes a deep breath.

"I'm on the pill, Stiles."

"Okay."

"Just for your information."

"Okay."

"You don't have to do anything about it now."

"Okay."

"Unless you want to. I know I do."

"I want to."

"Yeah?"

" So much,” Stiles declares, tracing her chest back and forth with his fingertips. “But not now. Just having you in my bed, excluding all we're doing, is a little too overwhelming. You have no idea how many times I've imagined this." A little scarlet joins his cheeks at the confession, but she brushes it off him as she answers. 

"So have I. I knew it was going to be good. But I didn't expect perfect." Lydia says so earnestly, so full of warmth, that it travels down to her chest where Stiles’ fingers are hovering over her heart. And in that moment, it settles in her. This is real. This is the future, however long. She thinks fleetingly about college approaching but pushes the wonder away. They'd discuss that when the time comes. "We can stop and just cuddle. You must be exhausted, anyway."

"Yeah,” Stiles agrees, breathlessly. “I could use some sleep.”

This time they spoon, Lydia rolling Stiles over so that his hair is all in her face, scentless of his regular shampoo, and her legs are tangled around his. As close as they can get to each other. Naked apart from his briefs, Lydia appreciates the warmth their bodies share, proving that they're alive and they've made it this far, together.

Lydia makes sure to kiss every inch of his neck she gets access to, softly and sweetly, for they can engrave each other's skin with their names and hearts later. They have all the time in the world in the quiet of Stiles’ room, it seems. All the time in the world to breathe for one another, like Stiles is now so gently against his beloved pillow. 

"You're right,” utters Stiles minutes later, as Lydia hums him a lullaby to protect him from his usual share of nightmares. “This is perfect."

It's like the birds have gone out of their hibernation, supernatural related or otherwise, and come out to announce the morning with their relentless chirping, Lydia finds as her eyelids flutter. The sunshine is beaming right onto her face, blinding her whole. The sun never does so in her bedroom. So that means—

Someone grunts as she sits up, panting like she'd run a mile. She blinks once, twice, trying to make sense of things. And then the memories come flooding her mind, memories of last night and its turn of events. They'd defeated the Wild Hunt, who’d killed the Nazi werewolf that she'd called her Chemistry teacher for a good while. They brought everyone back. They brought back—

“As much as I appreciate you covering the sun, I really miss you down here,” Stiles mutters under his breath, blindly reaching for her through a slit in the covers. Lydia breathes in deeper, one last time.

Right. Stiles is back. Stiles is safe. They saved him. She saved him. And, oh , he turned out to be a goddamn dream in bed.

Lydia drops back down, nestling back into Stiles, grinning like a child who's retrieved all the toys in the world as she hooks her arms around his neck and pulls him impossibly close to her. Stiles hums in approval, kissing the tip of her nose. Her forehead. Twice on the cheeks. Her chin. All the way across her jawline. But never, ever her lips. It's patronizing, really.

So Lydia halts those kisses, leaning into his mouth. Except, just millimeters away, Stiles faces the other way.

“No, no, I need to brush my teeth first,” he complains, trying to get away from her as far as possible. Lydia raises a brow; something doesn't seem right.

“Stiles, I don't care .”

“I do!”

“Oh my god, come here.” 

Lydia pulls at the blanket with every intention to roll him towards her, except it reveals his topless body instead. Her eyes linger on his chest for she could hardly enjoy the view properly in the dim of the night, but then travel down. There she spots the cause of his reluctance — the tent in his briefs.

“Oh,” she exhales.

Fumbling about and with enough red in his cheeks to paint the room’s walls, Stiles pushes himself up from the bed, pulling the blanket with him.

“Right, I’m taking a shower.”

Hastily, Stiles grabs a towel from the top of his dresser and dumps it on the bed before rummaging through the drawers for a change of clothes. Lydia watches amusedly as he practically sprints through the door leading to his bathroom, slamming it shut. In seconds, melodic tunes start flowing muffled through the walls. 

She sinks into the covers for just a few moments, appreciating their softness and the distinguishable scent of the boy she loves, before rising from the bed the same. Realising her nakedness, she finds her bra and underwear on the floor and slips them on before stepping towards his dresser and grabbing the first oversized and very much Stiles-esque flannel she finds, orange and blue. Orange and blue . She can't help but snicker at the memory of their much younger selves on what could classify as their second awkward date that Lydia then wouldn't dare to address as such. But now, it's painfully obvious.

The shower starts running in the other room as Lydia buttons the flannel up to her chest. She hears no other movement in the house; the Sheriff still must be away. And Stiles, well, he wouldn't mind sneaking glances at her bra again. She'll give him the access.

It isn't until Lydia aims to make Stiles’ bed that she realises the towel is resting on the sheets. He'd left it behind. Lydia grabs the thing, fabric soft against her skin, and approaches the bathroom door, knocking on the white. 

"Stiles?"

She receives no answer, just listens to his muffled humming along to a song on the other side of the door.

"I'm coming in!”

Lydia creaks the door open slowly, entering the steamy room, her bare feet touching the widespread shower mat. Clutching onto the towel, she observes Stiles’ blurred silhouette, his hands running through his hairlocks as he stirs around in the shower. She doesn't speak a word, and, over the music, she isn't sure he'd hear her. Beside the sink, she finds his phone and pauses the song.

Stiles stops humming at once, sliding the door of the shower open slightly and revealing his chest. His hair is pulled back neatly and dripping, skin a lively rose colour instead of the pale from last night. He looks so good like this that Lydia feels her limbs numb. Finally, Stiles' gaze falls on her, cross-armed with the towel resting in her palms. She regains the ability to speak, though it comes with a challenge. 

"You forgot your towel."

A long silence encircles the room, during which Lydia gulps, her stare trailing up and down Stiles’ naked body. Then, like she's forgotten her mission, she drops the towel to the ground. 

"And me."

The flannel she’d borrowed from Stiles falls on the condensated tiles next. 

Stiles freezes, watching her with caution, her standing in the matching lace underwear only. Water drops down from the strands of his hair, each fall like a heartbeat. 

Lydia swallows hard as she puts her hands up and behind to unhook her bra.

"No, I can take care of that," says Stiles, interrupting the process. "If you come here."

Lydia doesn't move, not a muscle. Stiles tilts his head.

"I don't think it's fair that I'm soaking but you're not even a little wet."

Lydia chuckles, but keeps up her posture. "Who says I'm not?"

His breath hitches in his throat as he leans against the tiled wall, revealing all of him. Again Lydia gulps; he's surely exceeded her expectations.

"Lydia, come here this instant,” comes out in a groan as his eyes inspect her body like she's one of his investigation boards, swallowing up all of his attention. 

"I'm not going anywhere unless you take me."

At once, the shower stops running. Stiles pulls his arm out expectantly and Lydia doesn't realise why until his eyes travel down to the towel. She crouches down and throws the fabric at him, watching him disappear into the blur again to wrap it around his waist.

He marches out of the shower then like he's on a mission, standing in front of Lydia. 

"You should know," says Stiles. "That you look like a goddess in the light."

"Just don't pass out when you see me naked this time."

"No promises."

His lips catch hers, slowly tugging at her at first but he can't seem to resist the more he tastes her, his pulls getting rougher. His wet locks dampen her cheeks as he leans in deeper, tongues meeting in desperation. Lydia scratches the back of his neck, then runs her hands down to the edge of the towel. That makes Stiles lean away, pulling the straps of her bra down before working his way to the hook.

"I've been wanting to do this for years, Lydia,” he confesses huskily. “Dreamed about it countless nights. Imagined it in class while you sat beside me, tapping your pen. You really had me wanting to rip your clothes off at school."

"So did I. Since you showed up in Junior year, looking all that . God, it was so frustrating. I wanted you so badly but I didn't know if you still wanted me ."

"I have always wanted you." His eyes are glowing like that of a werewolf’s, except she's who makes him lose control, not the moon. “Every single part. All of you." 

Stiles’ lips trail the sharp scars on her neck as his hands rid her of the bra and it falls beside the flannel. He appreciates her check for just the right amount of time, then crouches down to kiss the teeth-shaped scar carved into her hip while holding her firmly. "I'm sorry you've been hurt so many times."

Lydia cradles his head, tousling his locks more, "I'm okay now. I'm with you."

And it's true. This, being with Stiles, is the safest she can get. Beyond saving her life a handful of times, he settles a sense of calm in her bones, claiming her body as his most prized possession. Something to keep at bay, something to brag about, something to protect from all the harm in the world. Stiles saves her in more than one way. Stiles gets to hold her like this and chooses to treasure every inch of her body, broken or healed. Stiles deserves to pick her up and situate her against the bathroom mirror like he is now, spreading her legs as his teeth pull down her underwear. Only he.

“I can do this, right?”

He still asks. Her real concern is whether she deserves him .

“You better get on with it right now or I’m seriously going to die.”

"Well, thank fuck I’m not reading this wrong.” Stiles breathes onto her face, an inch away, an inch too far. “I need you badly . I’ve never needed anything more.”

Stiles teases the tip of his length over her entrance ever so lightly and Lydia shivers so hard in anticipation, she knocks various products off the sink. But then he's gone, instead entering her with a finger. A second. A third. Opening her up like a champagne bottle and this surely is a celebration. 

"Okay, stop, or I’m going to come before you're even inside me,” Lydia warns him, keeping herself away from reaching the edge as best as she can. Stiles pushes his fingers in deeper. 

“Is that so bad?”

Lydia shakes her head, her body trembling with her against the cool of the mirror and the damp of the sink. "All I’m saying is... I'm feeling up for a shower."

It's code and one Stiles understands immediately, because this is them. They communicate in very few words, or yearning glances, or the lightest of touches. I need you had always been silent, until now that Stiles carries her back into the shower and runs the steamy water, only letting her drop down when she reaches for him despairingly. 

She pins Stiles to the wall as she starts sucking him off, tight around her wide-opened mouth. Her strawberry blonde locks turn darker as the water soaks them, and onto them Stiles holds firmly, trying his best to avoid pushing more into Lydia’s mouth.

When she feels him begin to tremble between her lips, Lydia swiftly lets his member run free and stands back up to face him. “Now we're even,” she says evilly.

"You are so bad," says Stiles, trying to get his hand down to finish himself off but Lydia stops it midway.

"That's for not kissing me all those times alone in your room,” Lydia carries on, dragging out the tease to watch his eyes fire up more beyond his dilated pupils. “I was really asking for it but all you ever cared about were your investigations."

"I noticed every time."

"Then why didn't you?"

"There wasn't a right time."

"There's never a right time."

"Now I know that."

"You'll need to do a lot of kissing to pay me back,” Lydia demands, keeping Stiles’ hand pressed against his chest. "Like, a lot."

"Oh no, how will I get through it?"

Lydia narrows her eyes at his smirk, "Hey!”

"Kidding, obviously. I'd kiss you forever if that were possible."

"Forever," Lydia agrees, freeing him of the grip at last.

Stiles catches her face between his hands then, pulling her into him until all air is knocked out of their lungs, and instead they share what's left in frantic kisses that shortly turn into fully making out, hands gripping anything and everything. More than her breasts like she's used to with horny boys, Stiles devours her bruised skin. And this is where she realises that comparisons are enough. She's never going to let anyone other than the boy before her touch her again. And Stiles, he simply doesn't compare.

Stiles positions Lydia against the tiles of the bathroom, and, like a reflex, like this has happened a thousand times before, she tangles her legs around him. Only then does their kiss break up.

"Ready?" Stiles husks under his breath, his eyes boring into hers. And Lydia spares no lingering moment, looking at him sternly.

"After everything, yes."

As tenderly as possible, looking out for any unpleasant reaction, he enters Lydia, who gives in so effortlessly that he didn't ever have to try.

Then it's all skin and feeling, and being absolutely unaware of their surroundings. The only thing that exists is Stiles pulling in and out Lydia, and the water dripping down on them like rain, cooling the skin that's hot beyond any sense. They meet in a kiss, as slow as his movements into her, but Lydia can't take it, can't take the hesitancy, and makes it so rough that he copies the pace, moving in and out of her like he's lost his mind. 

"Such a bad girl you are, Lydia," Stiles moans against her mouth in a whisper that sends something down her spine that she has never quite felt before. "And just as perfect."

He fucks her until he's losing his grip and she's prone to slip out, and the shower turns cold, only stopping when Lydia clenches around his length and moans out his name like it's the only word in her vocabulary, and so does Stiles.

He sets her down unhurriedly, their chests pressed together and moving at a dangerous pace, their faces aligned and savouring each other's expressions like it's their first glance. And maybe it is, for it's brand new. Lydia has never seen him like this, out of control, without filter, without a single bit of restraint. She photographs it and puts it on a sacred shelf in her mind.

"I need to see you in my bed, now that I can really see you," demands Stiles, his hand cupping her face like that grip his life depends on. And maybe it does.

And Lydia, she has been aware of how attractive Stiles is the whole time, oh, for years , but right now her brain is malfunctioning because he has quite never been this attractive. Just one look at him, rosy-cheeked and alive, oh, so alive, and she feels like drooling.

They step out of the shower and use Stiles’ forsaken towel to dry each other off while kissing what's no longer dripping, gazes interlocked when they aren't. It's that reluctance to be out of each other's eyes that makes her think it, louder than any thought. Makes her say it.

"I love you," confesses Lydia, for the first time on its own, without other words to distract the meaning from. "I love you more than any stupid words, any feeling can express. But maybe I can show you."

So when they get to his bed, Lydia kisses all of him first. Every single inch her mouth roams, while with her fingers she pats another. 

Again they sink into each other, Lydia on top to have that full control she's been deprived of since last night. And it's indescribable. She doesn't feel dirty or contaminated like usually when doing something of the sorts, she feels safe and appreciated and understood and listened to. Like her body is new and treated like it's never been before, but strangely feels like her own. At the same time, they come to their climaxes, but her movements never cease. She carries on hickeying his skin and then so does he, flipping her over and forgetting about the tenderness, carving her neck, her chest, her shoulders, her skin turning sore but in the best way possible. Not yet does she complain about the pain.

Unable they are to restrain from each other over and over now that the veil that kept them apart has been removed, giggling whenever moans don't disrupt them and coying these little phrases. I love you. I need you. You're beautiful. You're mine now. You're everything I ever dreamed of. And it's happy. Lydia is trembling not only from pleasure, but excitement that this… This is their new reality.

This is a girl and a boy who kept missing each other and for the world to halt it took them to realise that all they really lacked was that first move.

"I love your eyes. I've always loved your eyes. Like a forest, they are. And your hair. Like Little Mermaid's. Your lips are like a princess' too. You are so beautiful."

Fully dressed and dry, across fresh sheets, Lydia and Stiles lie facing each other. From downstairs come clinks of dishes as the Sheriff prepares dinner for them, but they mind the noise barely.

"You still make me nervous, even after all this time," confesses Lydia softly, brushing Stiles’ cheek with her fingertips. But Stiles carries on like she hasn't said anything, pupils blown wide.

"That's not the reason I love you though. You could look like Scott and I'd still love you the same."

"Scott's hot, though."

"Not to me. You ever seen him eat a tortilla?"

"No one is attractive when eating a tortilla."

"I bet you are."

"I'm not."

Stiles stirs around, arching a brow, "Lydia, you haven't been unattractive for a second of your life."

"You should see my childhood pictures, I look—"

"You were a cutie,” Stiles interjects, poking the tip of her nose. “I remember your red hairbands and floral dresses and those plastic rings you always wore. Your grandma drove you to kindergarten. I remember."

Lydia shakes her head, "Those plastic rings were terrible."

"Shut up. Admit you're cute."

"So are you."

"Yeah? Not hot?"

"You're both. The perfect mix. Stupidly perfect."

"You're stupidly perfect too," declares Stiles, like it should be totally obvious. And then, his eyes darken, a sad smile tugging at his lips. "I'm not excited to see you go home," comes out in a whisper, like if he were any louder, only then it'd make it true. Lydia copies his expression, her hand weakly dropping onto his chest.

"I wish I could stay here forever. But..." She doesn't have to say it. They both know. Lydia’s mom is expecting her and so is Stiles’ dad — him, and forever they can't stay in this bliss.

"I don't know how to get enough of you,” confesses Stiles, almost despairingly as he grasps whatever he can of her, leaving her skin hot at the touch. “It's terrifying, really, whenever I'm not holding onto you. The world's cold." Freezing , Stiles corrects in his head.

"I might leave but also I might rush straight back here once I'm on the driveway. Is that bad?"

"Just make sure my dad isn't home. You're very vocal,” comes out with a smirk decorating his face. Lydia turns bright red.

"If he's home, I'll drag you out on a date."

Stiles’ lips part in surprise at her casual tone, so very untypical of Lydia.

"A date?"

She wrinkles her nose, "Well, obviously? I expect to go on dates with my boyfriend?"

Boyfriend. Boyfriend. Boyfriend. The word runs through his mind over and over but he can't make sense of it. What does it mean, really, to be Lydia Martin’s boyfriend? Surely, it can't get any more perfect than it is now.

"Oh,” exhales Stiles, pausing the path of his fingertips across her face. Lydia’s mouth opens wide, as do her eyes, and then she's pulling away inch by inch.

"Oh, I mean—" 

"Yes,” Stiles rushes to cut her off, dragging her back towards him. “I'm your boyfriend. Definitely. "

Relief flushes over her face and she eases against him, hand back on his chest.

"Good. You scared me there for a second."

Stiles hands her one of his most genuine smiles, “Just that being Lydia Martin’s boyfriend is too good to be true. Gonna take a while to get used to.”

Lydia nods along, all smug in the cheeks, “You're going to be annoying about it, aren't you?”

“Oh, totally. I’ll put this on my CV under achievements. Sign everyone's yearbooks as Lydia’s boyfriend. Introduce myself as one to everyone who looks my way even a little bit suggestively.”

“You're such a wuss,” says Lydia, her eyes rolling into her head, however affectionately. And then they're boring back into his genuinely. “But I love you. I am so in love with you, Stiles. If I’d known how easy it'd be to fall together with you, I would've done something a long time ago.”

Her expression is woeful, oh so very wrecked that it takes no time for Stiles to lean in and kiss her on the mouth hard, hoping every bit of his love is conveyed in those tugs and pulls. And then he drifts them apart, watching Lydia’s eyelids flutter shut as she blinks away the sting. 

“Hey,” he whispers softly. “Fuck this, okay? Let's just focus on the now and the future. Reserve lingering on the past for sentimental value only, how about that?”

Her eyes open back up, and the sadness is halfway gone.

“Sentimentally, I can't believe it took us being two universes apart for me to finally be ready for you. Maybe I’m the wuss,” she says more to herself than him.

“Whatever's the case, I am so happy. The last twenty-four hours have been the best of my life. You are seriously a dream come true, you know that, right?”

Lydia shakes her head, fully smiling now, “You really need to shut up.”

“Make me.”

Her eyes roll again, “If that's your excuse to make out with me, you don't need that anymore. I will gladly kiss you any time, any place.”

“I can't wait to tell Scott you're actually clingy,” Stiles smiles out. “Not that I’m gonna be any different.”

“Scott’s busy anyway,” tells Lydia, scooting away from him to give their conversation more room. “You know, Malia’s been giving him the eye lately. I really think there's something building up there.”

Stiles’ jaw drops and he rustles up into a seating position, staring down at Lydia, who simply laughs at his shock.

“How have I missed that ? Seriously, you need to give me a detailed rundown of the past three months. What the hell is Theo doing back, for one?”

It takes Lydia a while to control her chuckles, but then she's getting up as well and crossing her legs before him.

“Alright. Sit tight and I’ll tell you everything.”

“Shall I get popcorn?”

“Totally.”

“I won't, otherwise my dad will be mad I’m full before dinner, so let's just pretend I’m munching on imaginary popcorn.” Stiles mimics the movement of a hand reaching into a bowl and moving up to his mouth, and Lydia fails to stifle her laugh, so affectionate, so loving.

And so Lydia tells him the story of the past three months until the Sheriff calls them downstairs to dinner, Stiles’ favourite, while Stiles listens carefully, imagining his presence among his friends. And so often does Lydia mention him that it's almost true.

Even with him gone, he’d remained in one way or another. Even with him gone, Lydia had loved him. Even with him gone, he’d loved her.