Archive of Our Own

Really, Stiles can’t help thinking, it’s calculus’s own fault for being so damn boring.

Maybe if his homework wasn’t so horrendously not-attention-holding, he wouldn’t have been distracted by the goings-on in the house next door. Granted, he isn’t exactly sorry that he got distracted so easily, because he can see into the bedroom across the teeny strip of lawn that separates his house from his neighbors, and he can clearly see the girl in that room on the phone, looking ready to tear her hair out.

His heart pangs, because this is becoming a sight more common than not as of late. He pushes his abandoned calculus to the side, rolling over his bed to reach his bedside table, yanking open the drawer and pulling out his trusty spiral bound, 8-by-11-inch notepad.

By the time he tracks down the sharpie in the drawer and sits back up, Lydia is hanging up the phone, tossing it angrily onto her bed. He pulls the sharpie cap off with his teeth, flipping to a clean page in the notepad, ready to write “is your boyfriend being a total and complete asshat again?” on the paper. (Well, probably something a little more eloquent than that. He might completely hate Lydia’s boyfriend, who is definitely an asshat, but he’s still her best friend, so he has to be somewhat supportive, he figures.)

But then he sees Lydia run her thumb under her eyes, wiping away tears, and he freezes.

Regardless of how many times he’s seen his best friend fight with her boyfriend over the past few months via late night phone calls, he’s never seen her cry after their conversations. It makes him want to throw the notepad back down on his bed, storm out of his house, hunt down Jackson and make him pay for whatever he said to upset Lydia, regardless of the fact that Jackson is in noticeably better physical shape than Stiles could even dream of being. One of the (not) perks of being a constant benchwarmer in lacrosse as opposed to the captain of the team.

Instead, he settles for a much calmer “you okay?” scrawled across his notepad, and a gentle tap at his window to get her attention.

She startles at the noise, wide green eyes flying to her window, and her expression softens a little bit when she sees him and his notepad. Stiles offers what he hopes looks like a sympathetic smile, but is probably more of a grimace, because he still hates seeing Lydia cry.

Lydia smiles back, albeit a little less brightly than usual, but leans over her bed as well, grabbing a similar notepad.

“I’m alright,” she writes, flashing it at him quickly through her window, before turning to a new page. “It was nothing. Just a misunderstanding.”

Stiles knows that misunderstanding is code for Jackson being a complete jackass to her through no fault of her own, but Lydia, while literally a genius, seems to have a blindspot when it comes to her boyfriend’s heinous behavior. He lets it slide, because he isn’t going to be the person who argues with her over how she deserves better, even though she does. As much as it pains him to see her like this, she needs his support, not another emotional beatdown.

“Okay,” Stiles writes back, holding his notepad up to the chilly window pane. With a few days left in November, it’s finally starting to cool off for the wintertime in Beacon Hills. He flips to a new page, his eyes flicking up briefly to see her sitting cross-legged on her window bench, waiting for his next message.

If Stiles had a dollar for every time that someone (read: Scott) told them they should stop wasting paper and just text each other like normal human beings, he would probably be able to afford a Jeep that wasn’t literal days from falling apart. But he and Lydia have been communicating this way for years and years— since the start of their friendship, practically— and now it’s so ingrained in them that they couldn’t change it if they wanted to. Back when Lydia had moved into the house next to Stiles’s, right before they started third grade, they hadn’t had cell phones. Their bedroom windows were maybe ten feet apart, their rooms directly across from each other on their respective first floors, and so one day Lydia has thrust a spiral-bound notepad into his hands and told him this was how they could keep talking after playtime had ended for the night and they were supposed to be in bed.

Granted, that day had come about a year after she first moved next door. It took a while for Lydia to warm up to people, and Stiles, with his sarcastic jokes and witty comebacks was the sort of person who required quite the warming up to. But he’d eventually won her over, clearly. From the first day he saw the redheaded (no, sorry, strawberry blonde) girl moving into the house right next door, he had been determined to befriend her, despite her cool indifference at the beginning. Still, Stiles had held out, and eventually she’d come around to the idea of hanging out with him. Third-grade-Lydia tolerated Stiles, fourth-grade-Lydia seemed to have been swayed by the idea of hanging out with her neighbor, and by fifth grade, the two of them were the best of friends.

Middle school really should have torn them apart, because Lydia was gorgeous and brilliant and popular and Stiles was an awkward mess of flailing limbs and Star Wars clothing, but somehow their friendship had grown even stronger during that time. Lydia had her popular school friends, and Stiles ate lunch with Scott and some other guys, but more often than not they would spend their free time together, finishing homework or watching movies or just being together. Lydia had never been ashamed of her friendship with Stiles, had never brushed off his existence in public or pretended she didn’t know him— it was a part of who she was, and she had told him, when he’d meekly asked her about it back in seventh grade, that anyone who had an issue with her best friend could just deal with it.

She’d rolled her eyes when he’d tackled her in a hug at those words, but her arms had been just as tight around him.

And now, as juniors in high school— people had long ago accepted that he and Lydia were best friends, regardless of how little sense it made. They’d grown used to the sight of them bantering next to Lydia’s locker, or walking down the halls side by side, or sitting together at lunch. It had been so long that their friendship was just a part of who they were— like Lydia had been written into his very DNA.

Stiles finishes off his question, clamping the sharpie in his teeth as he turns his notepad towards her again. “Do you want me to come over?” it reads, because even though it’s dark and he has so much homework due tomorrow, Stiles would go a lot farther than just across the ten feet of grass separating their windows to make sure Lydia felt okay.

“No, it’s fine,” she writes back, shaking her head a little bit. “I’m okay. And I know you have homework.” He pulls a face at that, and then Lydia smiles— it’s just a tiny one, but immediately Stiles feels so much better, seeing some of that sorrow seep out of her expression.

“I think I’m going to go to bed early,” Lydia writes back. “I’ll see you in the morning?”

“Yeah,” he writes back immediately. “Sleep well. Hope you feel better.” She smiles sweetly at his words before she gives him one last little wave, tugging her bedroom curtain closed.

Stiles sighs, wishing he could do more to help, more to make her realize her boyfriend is the literal definition of a douche canoe, more to make her feel better. But as much as he’d like to, he can’t murder Jackson, and he can’t tell Lydia to break up with him, and he can only do so much to make her happy when she wants to shut everything else out.

So instead, he rolls across his bed again, determined to actually do calculus this time, flipping his notepad closed as he lays down across all his homework. He tugs the drawer open to put the notepad back, papers ruffling from the sudden motion, and there, resting on top of the mess that is his bedside table drawer, is an old, discarded piece of notepad paper, with the messy words I love you scrawled across it.

And, well. Then there’s that.

***

Stiles can pinpoint the exact minute he fell in love with Lydia Martin, because it’s coincidentally the same exact moment that she walked into his life. All it had taken was one glance at that little girl with the strawberry blonde pigtails moving into the house next door and eight-year-old him was smitten. Had his embarrassingly obvious crush on her been the main reason she had been so hesitant to befriend him? Most likely, but they’ve never really brought it up before, because their friendship is probably a lot better off if they don’t relive every embarrassing moment of Stiles’s life. It would take years to make it through everything.

At some point, Stiles learned to self-contain when it came to his feelings for her, and then they’d actually become friends, and he’d put those feelings aside because Lydia was brilliant and funny and wonderful and being her friend was amazing. He remembers how she would dream up secret missions for them to go on, or mysteries for them to solve, the two of them running around their neighborhood until the sun began to set and their parents called them home for dinner. Stiles likes to think that his feelings for Lydia mostly went away by the time he really got to know her, that his childhood infatuation had shifted into love for his best friend.

It wasn’t until the beginning of high school that he realized how he had been completely lying to himself for the past half-decade of his life. Because he has always loved Lydia Martin, and he’s an idiot for ever thinking his feelings towards her were anywhere near platonic. Sometimes he thinks of how middle-school-Stiles used to tell people he thought of her like a sister, and he wants to laugh hysterically at his younger self.

Regardless of how ridiculously, embarrassingly in love he is with his best friend, he’s not going to act on it. She’s one of the best parts of his life, and he knows she doesn’t think of him the same way (romantically, that is— god, he hopes he’s one of the best parts of her life too) and he’s not going to risk their friendship or make things weird just because he’s incapable of tamping down a childhood-slash-lifelong crush. He’s seventeen years old. He’ll get over it eventually, he’s positive.

Still, even though he knows he’s got pretty much a zero percent chance of ever ending up with Lydia, he still feels justified in hating her douchey boyfriend, because she is an incredible person who deserves way better than Jackson Whittemore. And he thinks that as her friend.

(Can he help it if every time she tells him some new awful thing Jackson did, he thinks god, I would treat you a million times better— the way you deserve— if you would just give m e a chance? No, not really. Jesus, he swears this crush has just gotten worse since she got herself a boyfriend.)

Thinking of the piece of paper still laying in his bedside table drawer reading I love you, and thinking of how many times he’s almost showed it to her, he knows that crush is probably an understatement. But whatever. Minor details.

Lydia looks happier the next time he sees her, despite the fact that it is ungodly early and now they have to go spend eight hours suffering through school. He knows that Lydia likes school, though, the weirdo— she’s taking multivariable calculus for fun this year, just because she had space in her schedule. She’s got her customary travel mug of coffee in her hand, and she’s all bundled up in that green wool coat that makes her eyes even more vibrant, her loose strawberry blonde waves cascading over her shoulders.

God, she’s so pretty.

“Good morning,” he greets her anyways, smiling at her even though he still feels a little groggy and tired. He couldn’t really sleep last night, and it’s obvious.

“Hi,” she returns, crossing the strip of grass between their driveways and coming to lean against his Jeep next to him. “Sleep well?”

He scoffs at that. “Do I ever?” She pulls a face, reaching up to ruffle his hair in a most brotherly way. Still, he yelps at her indignantly, trying not to read into the concern behind her eyes too much.

“You need to get more rest,” she tells him, hand coming down to rest on his cheek, thumb stroking along the shadows under his eyes. He shrugs at that; he’s had trouble sleeping since his mom died— night terrors and sleep paralysis and just general insomnia. He doesn’t think it’s necessarily going away any time soon.

Her hand is still cupping his cheek, the soft strokes of her thumb sending shivers through his body. He really hopes his skin isn’t turning red underneath her fingertips.

“Do you want a ride to school?” Stiles asks, and her hand drops from his face. His skin grows colder, and it’s only partially because of the chilly breeze.

“No, but thanks,” she says, smiling. “Jackson’s going to pick me up.” Stiles doesn’t trust himself not to say something mean, so he stays silent.

He knows, objectively, that Jackson has picked her up for school every day for the past month or so, but it doesn’t stop him from asking her every morning.

“Anyways,” she says, smiling brightly at him. “Are we still on for our movie night tonight?”

Stiles’s mouth falls open, like he’s offended she even has to ask. “Of course we are,” he tells her. “It’s Wednesday. On Wednesdays, we watch movies.”

She rolls her eyes at him affectionately, like she’s not quite sure why she puts up with his constant ridiculousness. Stiles isn’t sure either— he just hopes that she miraculously never gets sick of him.

“We’re not watching Mean Girls,” Lydia tells him, brow raised. “We watch that way too often.”

“Yeah, because it’s a classic!” Stiles says, making a face at her. “And you refuse to watch Star Wars with me, so that already cuts my go-to movie selection in half.”

“No Star Wars either,” Lydia adds, to which Stiles just nods his head begrudgingly. He gave up on that battle long ago.

“If you’re vetoing Mean Girls, I’m vetoing The Notebook,” Stiles says, and Lydia’s jaw falls open; the expression on her face can only be described as absolute betrayal.

Stiles tries not to laugh at her murderous expression, but he just can’t help it, his laughter spilling out without even thinking of it. She just looks so cute, with that indignant gleam to her eyes and her brows scrunched together. It makes him want to do something completely stupid, like take her face in his hands and smooth away the angry crease between her brows and kiss her on the tip of her frostbitten nose. Or take her in his arms and twirl her around and tell her how beautiful she looks when she’s aggravated with him.

Jesus christ, he needs to get a grip.

“Lydia, we watch The Notebook at least once a month,” he responds when he finally gets his laughter (and lovelorn heart) in check. “No Ryan Gosling tonight, okay?”

“No Ryan Gosling,” she hisses, like she’s never heard something so offensive in her life. “Fine.”

“You know,” he says, reaching out to run a hand down her arm quickly, her anger dissipating at his touch. “It’s almost December. We could watch a Christmas movie.”

Her eyebrows raise at that, all traces of anger in her expression completely gone. “Ooh, I like that idea,” she says, nodding her head. “Very festive. What should we watch?”

He’s about to open his mouth to rattle off some of their favorites when a silver Porsche comes speeding down their quiet street, coming to a sudden stop at the foot of Lydia’s driveway. The passenger side window rolls down, revealing Stiles’s least favorite person in the world— Jackson Whittemore, with his perfect jawline and charming smile and douchebag hair. God, Stiles hates him so much.

“Lydia,” Jackson calls, his tone already sharp and annoyed. “You coming?”

“Yes!” she calls back, pushing off the Jeep and turning to walk towards her waiting boyfriend. She turns to Stiles once she’s back in her own driveway, her expression something he might almost think is apologetic. “Think of Christmas movies today during class. The Star Wars holiday special does not count. I’ll come over around seven thirty?”

“I’m offended you think I would introduce you to Star Wars with the holiday special ,” Stiles responds, and she stops on her way to her boyfriend’s car, turning to grin at him. “God. That movie is an atrocity.”

“Bye, Stiles,” she says, grin wide as she walks to the car, before grabbing the handle of the Porsche and pulling open the door, climbing into the sports car gracefully.

The window is still rolled down, so he can see the way Jackson’s hand comes to tangle in her hair possessively, can see the way that his lips brush over the skin at her neck before returning to her lips, kissing her in greeting.

It’s all Stiles can do not to throw up at the display.

“See you in practice, Stilinski!” Jackson sneers out of the window as he turns the car around, speeding back towards the main roads. Stiles remains silent, because if there’s anything he’s learned in the past few years, it’s better to just give into Jackson than to get into a pointless argument. He’s long since figured out that goading him just makes Jackson act like more of a pretentious asshat.

He waits until the car is at the end of the street, and then he flips it off. Like a normal civilized person.

Stiles digs his car keys out of his pocket, kicking at the loose gravel in the driveway as he yanks the Jeep’s door open. It starts on the first try, miraculously— the Jeep is more sensitive to the cold than an actual person, he swears. He pulls his phone out of his backpack, ready to text Scott that he’s on his way, but a text message notification lights up his screen before he can: Lydia.

Hey, I’m so sorry about that, her text reads. I try to tell him to be civil with you, but he never listens.

No worries, seriously, he types back. He hates the idea that Lydia’s fighting with Jackson over him— that he has even the smallest role in the emotionally crippling arguments he sees her in every night. And Jackson hating him is nothing new; the other guy has had something against him since they started playing lacrosse together, and it’s gotten considerably worse now that Scott is the team co-captain. Regardless, Stiles doesn’t care. He’ll gladly endure Jackson’s tormenting if it means Lydia spends less time upset.

I’ll see you at school, he sends her, followed by a smiley emoji, and he watches the little dot dot dots as she types out a response.

Her response is just a repeat of his message, but the little smiley following, with the closed eyes and the pink cheeks— he can imagine her making that exact expression, the enchanted smile she gets when she solves a math problem during their study sessions or falls in love with the end of a new movie they’re watching or looks at him when he does something so ridiculous that she can’t help but laugh. That’s his favorite thing in the world— seeing Lydia’s face when she’s trying not to laugh at him, her gorgeous green eyes overflowing with affection.

That look is something that Jackson will never have, Stiles can’t help but think. Something that will always be just his.

***

Stiles pulls up in front of Scott’s house exactly four minutes later, his other best friend hopping into the passenger seat with an easy smile. “Morning,” Scott says, throwing his backpack and lacrosse bag into the backseat.

“Good morning,” Stiles says, trying to return Scott’s chipper grin. It’s not easy— his best friend is much more of a morning person than he is. Well, best friend is probably not the best word. Lydia is his best friend; Scott is more like his brother. Stiles has known Lydia for what feels like forever, has been following her around since they were both little nine year olds, but Stiles literally can’t remember a time in his life without Scott in it. They’ve been like brothers since they were born, since their moms plopped them in the same sandbox at the park when they were practically infants and they had become instant best friends, in the way only little little kids can. Nothing had ever come even remotely close to separating them— not even the arrival of a certain redheaded neighbor of Stiles’s in the third grade. When Stiles had decided he wanted to be friends with the girl next door, Scott had wholeheartedly agreed, coming to join them in their games and escapades as often as possible. Still, as much as Scott and Lydia got along and were good friends, it wasn’t like Stiles and Lydia. That was something different, something special— like their little inside jokes, or their movie nights, or their notepad conversations from behind different windows.

“No Lydia today?” Scott asks, even though it’s pretty clear she is not riding with them to school. It’s been weeks, but Scott still asks every morning— just like how Stiles offers her a ride, even though he knows what her answer will be.

“Nope,” Stiles responds, just like he does every morning. “She got a ride with Jackson.” Scott’s face falls into an expression of grim acceptance, like he knew those words were coming, but can’t help but be disappointed at them anyways.

“You know, it’s getting harder and harder for me to restrain myself from punching Jackson in his infuriatingly perfect teeth,” he tells Scott as he backs out of the driveway. “Is that why Lydia likes him so much?” he muses, his voice dropping in volume. “Because he has the teeth of a movie star?”

Scott rolls his eyes at that, shaking his head. “Come on, Stiles.”

“I just don’t get it, Scott,” Stiles insists, regardless of the many times he’s made Scott listen to this rant before. It just doesn’t make any sense to him. “Why the hell is she with him? What does he offer her, besides his frustratingly undeniable good looks?”

“I don’t know,” Scott says truthfully.

“He made her cry again last night,” Stiles says, and he can tell he’s failing at keeping the anger out of his tone. “I swear to god, every time I look over there lately, she’s on the phone with him arguing.” He pauses, both of them silent. “I just hate seeing her so upset all the time.”

“I know,” Scott says. “I know I don’t see her as much as you do, but I hate it too.”

“I don’t get it,” Stiles repeats, because it’s so infuriating, this puzzle he cannot seem to figure out. Lydia is literally the smartest person he’s ever known. How does she not see this? “Jackson’s awful to her, and makes her upset and yells at her and treats her like shit. And I don’t know how she doesn’t get that she deserves so much better.”

Scott doesn’t hesitate before he responds, shooting his friend a look. “She deserves you?”

Stiles sighs, shaking his head. Really, yeah, Scott is right, because if he ever got wildly lucky enough for Lydia to give him a chance— god, he would give her the world. Anything she wanted, he would hand it over to her without question. He’d spend every minute that she let him trying to show her how much she meant to him. And yet—

“This isn’t about me,” he insists, because it’s not. It’s about his best friend, and the sort of person she should have in her life. “She just… she deserves to be treated right. She’s incredible, and he treats her like she’s nothing.”

“She deserves to be happy,” Scott agrees, nodding. Thy fall silent as they pull into the school parking lot— already alive with the hubbub of morning arrivals, cars and students everywhere.

“She’d be happy with you,” Scott says, and Stiles’s heart pangs at how sincere Scott sounds, because as much as he’d like to believe those words— he knows that he’s not what Lydia wants.

“It’s not like that,” Stiles says, shaking his head resolutely. “She doesn’t think of me like that.”

“You never know,” Scott says, and it is so typical of him to be so relentlessly optimistic. But Stiles can’t let himself think like that. He might be in love with Lydia, but he can’t expect anything from her in return just because of that. They’re best friends, and having her in his life in even that capacity is enough for him. If he starts expecting more from her just because he’s a lovesick idiot, regardless of how she feels, how does that make him any better than her current asshole boyfriend?

It doesn’t. So he’ll stay her best friend, and that’s enough for him.

“Alright,” Stiles says, putting the car in park and reaching over the console to grab his backpack from the back seat. “Come on. Let’s go to class.”

***

Stiles wishes he could stop dwelling on his anger with Jackson from this morning as the day goes on, but really, he’s not that good a person.

By the time lunch rolls around, he’s had an appropriate amount of time to stew over it, though, and he’s about seventy five percent there with forgetting their run-in and his car-ride rant to Scott this morning. And then Lydia sits down next to him at their customary lunch table, smoothing her skirt down while Scott studies his sandwich methodically, and all his anger dissipates like smoke in her presence. She has that effect on him— every time Lydia walks into a room, it seems like the rest of the world starts moving in slow motion.

“Hi,” Lydia says, smiling at him as she unpacks her lunch, flicking her hair over her shoulder. Stiles smiles back at her easily, glad to see that all traces of sadness from last night have completely disappeared from her eyes.

“Hey,” he responds, and he knows his grin is way too wide for a lunchtime greeting, but she hasn't eaten with them in a while, and he’s just happy she’s back in her normal seat at his side again. Stiles isn’t going to ask why she isn’t sitting with Jackson— in all honesty, he doesn’t really care, just cares that his wonderful, beautiful, brilliantly talented best friend is back at his side, where she belongs.

Jesus christ, he needs to get a grip. Apparently the mere presence of Lydia is now enough to get him to spiral into lunchtime soliloquies. Before he knows it he’ll be waxing poetic about the unique shade of green her eyes are, or the faint little smattering of freckles across her cheeks, or something.

Yeah, too late, a little voice in his head that sounds suspiciously like Scott says. Stiles grimaces, because now that he thinks about it, he’s pretty sure he did go on a ten minute tangent about Lydia’s eyes last time he and Scott were drunk.

“Hey,” Lydia says, and Stiles’s attention snaps back to the girl next to him. Her eyebrows are arched at him, amused grin tugging at her lips, and he can't help but smile at how happy she looks. “You okay?”

“Hmm?” he says. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just thinking.”

“Thinking about what Christmas movie we’re watching tonight?” she asks, and Stiles groans, his face falling. Shit. He totally forgot about that.

“Aaaand, you forgot,” Lydia says, but there’s no mirth in her voice, no anger. Her brows just arch at him again, like she finds his lack of planning skills endearing.

“I’m sorry,” he apologizes, wincing. “It totally slipped my mind.”

She shakes her head, assuring him it’s no big deal. “Don’t worry about it. I made a mental list during trig.” Lydia pauses, taking a bite of her salad. “I was thinking one of the old classics. White Christmas, Miracle on 43rd Street, It’s A Wonderful Life?”

“Mm,” Stiles hums, considering. “What about Elf?”

Lydia rolls her eyes at him, glancing up briefly to smile hello at Allison and Kira, who have just arrived at their lunch table. “Elf is not a Christmas classic.”

Stiles gasps in outrage. “Um, yes it is. It is a staple of the Christmas season.”

“It’s from 2003,” Lydia argues back. “When I said classic, I meant not from this century.”

“Well, you were sort of ambiguous in your definition of classic,” Stiles says back. Not that he really cares, but Lydia’s eyes are so bright, her lips pursed in that way she gets when she’s so close to solving a puzzle, and he just wants to keep looking at her for the rest of his life.

“Fine,” she says, and Stiles’s eyebrows raise in surprise at her admission of defeat. But then she smirks, and he realizes she’s going in for the kill. “If classic was ambiguous enough to include Elf, then I want to watch Love, Actually.”

Stiles actually groans at that. Lydia and her rom coms, he swears.

“It’s not a rom com,” she insists, like she can read his thoughts. He gulps— if she actually can, he is so completely screwed, because he has been thinking non-platonic things about her at an increasing volume over the past couple months.

“Fine,” he says, because he is physically incapable of saying no to Lydia. “We can watch Love, Actually.”

She takes a victorious bite of her salad, that little triumphant smirk still on her lips, as Isaac sits down next to Scott across the table. “Don’t pout,” Lydia tells Stiles, giving him a teasing look. “It’s an excellent movie.”

“What’s an excellent movie?” Isaac asks, twisting open the cap of his water bottle.

“Love, Actually,” Kira supplies, taking another bite of her pizza.

“Stiles and I are watching it for our movie night tonight,” Lydia says, daintily stabbing another piece of lettuce.

“I still don’t understand how you guys have time to have movie nights midweek,” Allison says, looking up from her textbook to meet her friend’s eyes.

Lydia shrugs. “Most of the classes I’m taking right now I taught to myself when I was fourteen?”

“I just never sleep,” Stiles says, popping a fry in his mouth. Lydia reaches over to grab one from his tray, and he pretends to slap her hand away, letting her dodge him so she can grab one anyways.  “And I make her check all my homework.”

“Plus, this one ditches me to go play video games with Scott on the weekends,” Lydia teases, looking over at Stiles. He makes a face at her, because he knows she does not actually care about that in the slightest. “We have to watch movies sometime.”

“That’s good for this weekend, though, because we need to go shopping,” Allison says, pointing at Lydia. “We need dresses for the winter ball.”

“Yes,” Lydia agrees emphatically. “Kira, Malia, you’re coming too, right?”

“Dress shopping?” Malia clarifies, pulling a face. “Do I have to?”

“When is the dance anyways?” Stiles asks casually, just to see the way Scott stiffens at the mention of the looming date. He tries not to snicker as he watches his best friend’s ear redden, his heart clearly thudding in his chest. Scott’s been trying to work up the nerve to ask Kira to the dance for the better part of a month, and he still hasn’t been able to do it yet.

“Like you’re one to talk,” Scott always says defensively when Stiles brings it up. “You won’t even tell Lydia you’re in love with her.”

“Totally different situation, Scotty, ” Stiles always responds. “Now would you just grow a pair and ask her? She’s gonna say yes.”

“It’s right before Christmas break,” Lydia supplies, giving him a look that lets him know she’s definitely told him before. “So a couple weeks.”

“Perfect,” Stiles says, nodding. “Plenty of time to get a suit.”

“You don’t have a suit yet?” Isaac asks, raising a brow at Stiles.

“Why the hell would I have a suit yet?” he asks. “Aren’t you supposed to like, rent them the day before?”

“That’s tuxedos, dude,” Scott says, expression apologetic. Next to him, he can tell Lydia is trying not to laugh.

“Do we need to take you shopping with us, Stiles?” Kira asks, and from her sympathetic gaze, Stiles thinks she’s actually serious.

“Nope, it’s a girls weekend,” Lydia insists. She turns to fix him with a pointed look. “If you seriously need help finding a suit, we can go next week after school.”

“Deal,” Stiles says, grinning. The bell rings, everyone sighing at the signal that lunch is over. He turns to Lydia, putting her lunchbox back in her bag, and gives her a hopeful little grin. “See you tonight?” He pauses, trying not to grumble. “For Love, Actually?”

“Yes,” she says, and her smile is so wide that it makes his heart stutter. “I’ll bring the DVD.”

***

His suit is still hanging up on the back of his closet door, the black fabric an inky smudge in the darkness of his room. He can still feel the tie like a noose around his neck, even now in his pajamas, and the blankets covering him feel too heavy, the room too still.

Stiles can hear his dad downstairs, can hear the clink of glass as he puts the bottle of whiskey back down on the kitchen table. He thinks that Stiles hasn’t noticed his drinking, but even though he’s only ten, he’s still observant.

It doesn’t matter that his mom hasn’t been in the house in months— it still feels empty now that she’s really gone. It’s early December, but everything is bleaker and colder than it usually is at this time of year. Stiles shifts in bed, pulling the blankets up higher around him. He knows it doesn’t matter— he’s been lying here for two hours, and he’s never going to fall asleep tonight. He doesn’t really want to, anyways. He’s sick of all the nightmares, and the one person he really wants not being there when he wakes up from them.

His eyes flick to the suit hanging on his closet door again, that Mrs. McCall had hung up before she hugged him tight and drove Scott home, and he feels like he’s standing in that freezing cold graveyard again.

Still, he can’t seem to cry. Stiles has been uncharacteristically stoic all day, and he’s hardly said a word since this afternoon, when they lowered his mother’s coffin into the cold, hard ground.

There’s a tap at his window then, so small and hesitant that he almost doesn’t hear it. He turns in his bed so he can see what’s there, and silhouetted against the light from the house next door, expression unreadable, is Lydia.

Stiles sits up in bed, but Lydia doesn’t wait for him to move; she slides the windowpane up deftly— they have plenty of practice doing this— and clambers through his window with the help of the stepstool he knows is hidden in the bush below his window. She doesn’t speak as she climbs into his room, sliding his window closed behind her and walking over to perch on the end of his bed.

“Hi,” she finally whispers, and Stiles just looks at her for a second. Her black dress from this afternoon has been replaced with pink pajamas, her strawberry blonde hair down her back in the waves from her braids earlier, and her green eyes are so hesitant.

He can tell she wants to ask him if he’s okay, but he can also tell she already knows the answer.

“I’m sorry,” Lydia whispers, her voice so soft. “Stiles, I’m so sorry.”

He doesn’t really remember it happening, but Lydia’s arms are around him just as he falls forward and it all hits him, the tears finally breaking loose. He just cries, her arms around him and his head buried in her shoulder. Her hair tickles his cheek, and it smells like strawberries.

He cries for what seems like forever, letting Lydia smooth her hand over his back. He’s sure he’s getting the shoulder of her pajama top all wet, but she doesn’t seem to care. She just squeezes him  tighter, holding him closer to her. He should probably be embarrassed, he thinks, but that never seems to be an issue with Lydia. Stiles knows she won’t ever make fun of him for crying, especially because of this.

Eventually he runs out of tears, sniffling as they pull away. It’s late— there aren’t any lights left on at Lydia’s house, the whole world still and quiet. Is she going to leave now? he thinks to himself, a little panicky, because while this isn’t their normal sleepover circumstances, the thought of being alone right now really scares him.

“Do you want me to stay?” Lydia asks, her voice barely a whisper in the darkness, and Stiles nods without hesitation.

“Can you?” he says, and normally he would turn red from how tiny his voice sounds, but not tonight.

“Of course,” Lydia responds, moving to pull back his quilt. Stiles gulps— they have sleepovers all the time, but generally it’s the two of them sprawled across the couches in his living room, Scott on the air mattress between them. They’ve never actually shared a bed before.

Lydia seems unbothered, though, climbing under his Star Wars blankets like this is a normal thing. He lays back down, following her lead, and she leaves about a foot of space between them as she settles into his bed.

They lay there in the silence for a few minutes, but Stiles thinks it doesn’t feel as stifling with Lydia next to him.

“Thank you,” Stiles whispers to her a minute later. He doesn’t know if she’s still awake, but he thinks he needs to say it anyways. “Thanks for staying.”

“I’ll always stay,” Lydia responds immediately, her voice just as hushed. “Whenever you want me to. That’s what best friends are for, right?”

“Right,” Stiles answers, voice thick. He doesn’t look over at Lydia, keeping his eyes fixed on the ceiling, but then he feels Lydia’s hand brush against his, soft and hesitant, like she doesn’t know if she’s allowed to touch him. Stiles takes her hand immediately, tangling their fingers together, sighing at the wave of calm that washes over him at the simple touch.

They just lay there in his bed, hands entwined, and when Stiles falls asleep a little later, he doesn’t have any nightmares.

***

“You are late,” Stiles tells Lydia when she finally appears in his doorway, her hair pulled back in a ponytail and Love, Actually clutched in her hand. She just gives him a look as she walks into his room, toeing off her shoes and climbing onto his bed. It’s been years since they used the windows to get into each others’ rooms— though Stiles is pretty sure that Lydia’s old step stool is still hidden in the bushes below his window even now.

“Last chance to watch something else,” Stiles offers innocently, plucking the DVD from the case and opening the disc drive on his laptop. “You sure you don’t want to watch Elf?”

“Positive,” Lydia assures him. “Put in the movie.”

In all honesty, Stiles doesn’t mind this movie. While yes, he would most certainly rather watch Star Wars over it, he enjoys most of the plot lines that weave throughout the film, though the one with the guy who’s in love with Keira Knightley even though he knows she’ll never love him back maybe hits a bit too close to home. Still, Lydia’s leaning up against his side, the ends of her ponytail tickling his arm, and when she smiles at whatever’s happening on screen, her eyes getting a little misty occasionally— god. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen anything as beautiful as her in his entire life.

He knows that the part with the cue cards is one of her favorite scenes, and he can’t stop looking at her as Keira Knightley smiles softly on screen— the way her eyes soften, the gentle little tug of her smile, the way she sighs ever so quietly at the card that reads “to me, you are perfect.” Her head drops to his shoulder briefly at that part, and Stiles tries to keep his heart rate in check at the sheer intimacy of the moment. Realistically, yeah, he knows they’re best friends, but the feel of her cheek on his shoulder, the sweet scent of her strawberry shampoo filling his nose— it’s sort of overwhelming.

Maybe he should write “to me, you’re perfect” in his notepad next time he and Lydia have a conversation via window— though that would probably just make her uncomfortable, and then they would lose the little moments like this between them.

The movie ends, amd Stiles has to switch his gaze back to the screen so she can’t tell he’s been staring at her for a good twenty minutes like a total creep. She turns to meet his eyes, though, and he can’t help but grin at how bright hers are.

“Do you feel appropriately in the Christmas spirit now?” Stiles asks, and Lydia laughs, nodding her head. Her body is still pressed into his side, and it’s making his head a little fuzzy, like he’s drunk on Lydia. It’s not a feeling he dislikes at all. If he had the choice, he would gladly spend the rest of his days intoxicated by the presence of Lydia.

“Definitely,” Lydia responds, smiling. “Thank you for agreeing to watch it.”

Stiles shrugs, because it’s really nothing. “Next week we’re watching Elf,” he teases, and Lydia grins, shaking her head at him as she reaches for her phone. Her screen lights up with missed messages and calls, and her brow furrows as she takes them in, the happy, carefree smile from a second before sliding off her face instantaneously.

“What is it?” Stiles murmurs, wincing a little as Lydia sits up, pulling away from where she’s been nestled into his side. He misses the weight of her body immediately, the warmth of her presence against his side disappearing.

“Nothing,” she says in that tone of voice that Stiles can tell absolutely does not mean it’s nothing. She tugs at the end of her ponytail absentmindedly, chewing on her lip as she reads her missed text messages, before she groans and throws her phone onto the bed, flopping backwards onto the pillows next to Stiles. Her shoulder brushes up against his, and he has to fight off the irrationally strong desire to reach over and grab her hand.

“Jackson,” she finally says, and Stiles needs no further explanation. “He’s mad I didn’t answer my phone, even though he knew I had plans tonight.”

Hell yeah she had plans tonight, Stiles can’t help but think pettily. Plans with me. Suck it, Jackson.

“I know this is supposed to be our movie night,” Lydia says, looking at him, and there’s something almost apologetic in her eyes. “But can I just vent for a minute?”

Stiles nods immediately, his hands flailing in what he hopes is interpreted as a “go ahead” gesture. “Hey, the movie’s over,” Stiles jokes. “Rant for as long as you need to.”

“Thank you,” she says, before sighing, twisting her ponytail around the end of her fingers again. Stiles wants nothing more than to gently tug the elastics out of her hair, let her strawberry blonde waves fall down her back, tangle his fingers in her long locks and never let go. Just inhale that sweet scent of strawberry shampoo and Lydia for the rest of his life. But when Lydia starts talking, he forces all his far-fetched fantasies far from his mind, because he is first and foremost a good friend, and he wants to really listen to her. Give her the undivided attention she deserves.

“I swear to god, he’s trying to make things difficult on purpose,” Lydia says, throwing an accusatory glare at her cell phone. “It’s like every single time we talk, we fight. It’s exhausting.”

Stiles doesn’t say anything— mostly because he’s not exactly sure what there is to say, other than your boyfriend’s an asshole and you should probably leave him forever because you deserve so much better than him, and he knows that is not what Lydia wants to hear— so he just stays quiet, nodding along to show he’s listening. Lydia knows him well enough to know that his silence doesn’t mean he’s not paying attention to her.

(As if. He’s pretty sure every single second he spends in her company his attention is only focused on her, like she’s the singular bright spot in the universe.)

“Like right now,” she says, nodding towards her phone. “I told him I was watching a movie tonight with you, and that I couldn’t talk after seven. And yet he’s still mad that I didn’t pick up my phone when he called, and now he’s screaming at me for ignoring him via text message.” She shakes her head, rolling her eyes. “I swear, he doesn’t even listen to half the things that I say.”

That does nothing but make Stiles irrationally angry, because one of his favorite pastimes— right after watching Star Wars movie marathons and playing video games all weekend with Scott— is listening to Lydia just talk. He loves to watch the way her eyes light up when she talks about math, loves to see the subtle little shifts in her expression as she goes on and on about something she’s passionate about. Loves to see that proud little smirk on her face when she wins an argument. And the fact that Jackson has all this time to listen to her, and just chooses not to…

Again. If he weren’t a hundred and forty seven pounds of pale skin and fragile bones, he would go kick Jackson’s ass into a different universe.

Still, he hates that he’s the reason she’s upset, even if it’s indirectly. “You could have checked your phone during the movie,” Stiles tells her gently. “I don’t mind if we need to pause it so you can talk to him.” Not that she should have to, but. If it makes her look happier every night when they tell each other good night via notepads, then he’ll put up with indulging her asshat of a boyfriend.

“No,” Lydia says vehemently, and the assurity behind her voice surprises Stiles a little bit. “Movie nights are our time. I’m not rearranging my whole life just because my boyfriend is insecure about my friendship with you.”

He thinks his jaw hits the floor at that.

“What?” Stiles says, trying to keep his tone of voice more inquisitive than strangled. He’s pretty sure he fails spectacularly.

Lydia laughs a little, like she doesn’t know that she just completely turned his world upside down. “I think Jackson is jealous of you,” she says matter-of-factly, and Stiles’s heart just races even faster. God, if that isn’t the most horrendous twist of irony, because while Stiles hates Jackson for the way he treats his girlfriend, he’ll forever be jealous of the other guy just because he gets to address Lydia with that title.

“There’s no way,” Stiles says, trying to keep his heart rate at a somewhat manageable pace. “He’s hated me since the dawn of time. He can’t be jealous of me.”

Lydia just shrugs, her expression dead-set. “Well, he gets even more angry every time I mention you, so. Make of that what you will.”

The hammering of Stiles’s heart morphs into guilt at her words. “Jesus, Lydia, I’m sorry,” he says automatically, and her lips purse in confusion. “I don’t want you fighting about me. I don’t want to be the reason you get in screaming matches every night.”

Her expression clears, eyes shining as they lock on his, and god does he wish that there was something more to that look, something other than platonic affection in her gorgeous green eyes. “Stiles,” she says, and one of her hands trails to his bicep, resting there gently. Her touch is warm and grounding, and it somehow makes his heart speed up and slow down at the same time, adrenaline and familiar comfort coursing through his veins.

“You are my best friend,” she tells him, and he can’t help but smile a little bit at that. “And if Jackson has an issue with our relationship, that’s his problem, not yours.”

“Yeah, but,” Stiles says, shrugging. He feels sort of dumb, but he also can’t stop the words from tumbling out. “I hate seeing you upset all the time, Lyds.”

She shakes her head, biting at her lip. The screen of his laptop has gone black, the credits finally done rolling. “Believe me,” she says, and her voice is barely a whisper. “If you weren’t in my life, I’d be much worse off.”

She leaves about an hour later, and when Stiles wishes her good night, notepad pressed up against the windowpane, he notices her smile is still as soft as it had been when she’d told him that.

He pulls his curtains closed a minute later, tugging open the drawer to put his notepad back in. His old notes are still on top of the mess inside, and he can read those three words written there clear as day.

I love you.

God, he does.

***

The next week passes in mostly mundane normalcy. Lydia goes shopping with the girls, showing off the short dress she got for the dance in a few weeks when they get together to work through their calculus homework on Sunday. “You’re gonna look beautiful,” Stiles assures her, and she laughs, twirling around her bedroom with the dress held up to her body one last time, before she hangs it up and flops down next to him on her bed, returning to the world of math. They watch Elf for their movie night, as promised, and eat lunch together with their friends, and Lydia only wishes Stiles a good night with shaky handwriting and tears in her eyes once during the whole week.

Before he knows it, Friday is here, and he and Scott are getting ready for their first lacrosse game of the season. Stiles isn’t particularly nervous— he’s much more of a benchwarmer, as opposed to co-captain Scott, who is the newest star of the team, but Lydia’s still going to be there. He knows it’s mostly to see Jackson, who has actual skill at the sport, but there’s some primitive part of him that wants to play well during the game so he can impress her. He knows it’s a dumb notion— Lydia cares about so many more things than how he does at sports— but that doesn’t make his desire to impress her any less.

If he were thirteen, he would want to do well at lacrosse because Jackson does well at lacrosse and maybe if he does too, he’ll have a chance with Lydia. However, he is not thirteen, so he knows that is stupid logic and should not even be allowed to take up residence in his brain. Even if Scott insists that is the exact reason he suddenly wishes he was more than just a benchwarmer.

“Hey,” Lydia says, and Stiles snaps out of his daydream of scoring the winning goal, the very girl in front of him now running onto the field, letting him sweep her into his arms, before she kisses him senseless. “You okay?”

That is definitely not what is happening now. Instead, Stiles is sitting on a freezing bench, his ass slowly but surely turning into a block of ice as he waits for the game to start. Lydia’s standing in front of him, bundled up in her green coat again, and the tip of her nose is rosy from the cold. She looks so adorable that it makes his heart squeeze.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he says, nodding his head. Getcha head in the game, Stilinski. Not that he’ll actually be playing, but still. Team spirit and all that.

“I’m going to go sit with Allison,” she says, still looking at him like she can tell something is off. Sometimes, the fact that Lydia knows him so well is a goddamn curse. “Good luck out there.”

“You mean good luck right here,” he says, grinning at her and gesturing to the bench. She just rolls her eyes, squeezing his shoulder quickly before she walks away, towards the other huddle of players— the ones that will actually see the field during this game.

Watching her wish Jackson good luck is like watching a train wreck— he knows he shouldn’t watch, that it’ll just make him jealous and bitter, but he can’t tear his eyes away. Jackson’s arm twists around her waist, resting way too close to her ass for the public eye, as he smirks at her confidently. Stiles is pretty sure he can smell the stench of conceited douchebag from all the way over here.

Lydia gives him one last kiss for luck before she climbs into the bleachers, locating Allison and Malia in the stands and sitting down with them. She gives Scott and Kira and Isaac waves before she finds Stiles again, and when their eyes meet, even at this distance, he can see every fleck of gold in her irises, can feel the warmth of her encouraging smile like warm afternoon sunshine.

The first half of the game goes okay— they’re up by two at halftime, and Stiles has yet to move off the bench, as per usual. Scott’s scored a couple goals, and so has Jackson, begrudgingly. Stiles almost wishes he was good at lacrosse just so that he could see that proud smile on Lydia’s face aimed at him during these games.

They lose their lead in the third period, despite Kira’s goal, and they go into the fourth down by two. Stiles sits, gnawing on the finger of his glove that he has yet to put on, anxiously hoping that they can come back and pull out a win for the first game of the season. But then one of the defensemen on the other team, who is built like a tank and definitely taking some sort of supplements, knocks Isaac down, and Stiles is pretty sure he can hear the crunch of bones echo across the field.

Scott immediately helps Isaac off the field, the medic rushing over to him to tend to his ankle. Isaac seems far too nonchalant about this whole development— his face is just scrunched up in pain a little bit, whereas if Stiles had been the one whose ankle was crumpled, he probably would have already passed out at this point. But the issue remains that they’re down a player and down two points, and Isaac is one of their best forwards.

Sure, he’s also worried about his friend’s health and safety. Isaac may be obnoxious at times and have an aggravatingly large collection of scarves, but he’s a good guy, mostly, and Stiles does care about him. For the most part.

Stiles watches as Coach grumbles something to the players on the field, before telling one of their defensemen, Boyd, to take Isaac’s place as forward and calling Greenberg up from the bench to fill Boyd’s spot. The team troops back out on the field with grim determination, and the game starts up again. Jackson scores a goal with an assist from Scott, and then one of the freshman gets another goal, and suddenly the game is tied with only six minutes left.

All they need to do is keep up the defense while their forwards try to score one more, but the other team almost slips by Greenberg and gets a shot on goal. Luckily Danny catches it, but Coach is blowing his whistle immediately, calling their time out.

“Stilinski!” he barks, and Stiles sits straight up, confused as to why Coach Finstock seems angry at him.

“Yeah, Coach?” he says, voice still perplexed. He doesn’t think he did anything wrong. Oh god, did Coach catch him staring at Lydia for the entire second quarter? Is he about to get screamed at for making heart eyes at his captain’s girlfriend?

“Where’s your helmet?” Coach demands, and Stiles just gets more confused. “Come on, get your stick and get out there!”

At that, Stiles freezes. “Out there?” he checks. “On the field? With the team?”

“Yes, Stilinski,” Finstock says, voice growing more aggravated. “Go play lacrosse.”

“But I suck at lacrosse,” Stiles insists, because there must be a mistake.

“No, Greenberg sucks,” Coach responds, and Stiles can see the veins in his forehead begin to bulge. “You suck slightly less. Now get your ass out there, and keep up defense while the good players try to score a goal!”

Stiles scrambles to his feet, grabbing blindly for his stick as he tries to tug his gloves on. His eyes snap to Scott, who is deep in conversation with Jackson and Danny about something clearly strategy related— the other boy does not notice his friend’s recent promotion from benchwarmer. But then he looks out at the crowd, still a little bewildered at this turn of events, and finds Lydia. Her green eyes settle him immediately, that overwhelming, lost feeling disappearing as she smiles at him, like she’s the only thing keeping him centered in the universe.

Are you playing? she mouths, and he nods, eyes still wide.

I guess so, he mouths back, shrugging. Her smile grows even wider, eyes shining.

Good luck! she wishes him, before Coach snaps his name again and he scrambles onto the field, wrestling his helmet on as he goes.

“Just play defense, and don’t let the ball get close to the goal,” Coach instructs. Normally Stiles would make some snarky comment along the lines of “really, I didn’t know that’s how lacrosse works,” but his head is still spinning a little at this shocking turn of events, so he keeps quiet, just nodding dazedly.

The game starts back up again, the clock ticking down, and Stiles takes his position on their end of the field, holding his stick like he knows what he’s doing. Which he doesn’t in the slightest. Whatever. Fake it till you make it, he figures. Scott has the ball anyways, he and Jackson trying to slip past the defense of the other team, trying to get that one last point they need to win the game.

The minutes slip by in slow motion, until there’s barely one left in the game, the score still tied. Stiles luckily hasn’t really had to do anything so far, but then the other team gets the ball, racing past Scott and Boyd, heading straight for Stiles.

I might be in the wrong sport, Stiles thinks briefly as his body goes into fight-or-flight (read: flight) mode, his heart racing as he tries to play defense against the oncoming team. Scott dashes by him, Jackson in pursuit, and suddenly both teams are piled in front of the goal, squabbling over the ball. Stiles looks around, panicked— is he supposed to follow them? He’ll probably only get in the way. It’s most likely best for everyone if he just stays over here.

And then he looks down, and his panic turns to confusion, because the ball is right at his feet. No one else seems to have noticed this.

It’s like something else comes over his body, like he’s become possessed by a person with actual lacrosse skills, because he scoops up the ball easily with his stick, just standing there for a second. The other players somehow still haven’t noticed that he has the ball, so he just stands there like a deer in the headlights, unsure what to do next.

For whatever reason, he glances over at the stands. Everyone seems to be caught up in the battle in front of the net, but one singular person has their eyes trained on him.

Run! Lydia mouths, her eyes bright and grin excited, hands gesturing for him to move like she can personally will him into action.

It wouldn’t really surprise him if she could, so. He starts running.

As soon as he starts moving the other team catches on, but he’s got a head start on them, and he might not be good at lacrosse, but he’s decently speedy. It’s probably the absolute lack of muscle on him that makes him so aerodynamic. He runs like his life depends on it, making sure the ball stays in his stick, racing down the field before it occurs to him that he’s going to have to get past the other team’s defense.

In a heartbeat Scott is in front of him, and Boyd on his other side, charging right for the defensemen on the other team. “Shoot it!” Scott barks, and Stiles skids to a stop right past the defense, eyes trained on the goalie in front of him, guarding the net. With a deep breath and a prayer to whatever lacrosse gods may or may not be listening, he shoots the ball.

The world seems to stop as it soars towards the net, the goalie diving to catch it and missing, the ball sailing into the goal.

The buzzer rings out as the clock runs out, and then the volume around him returns full force.

“Holy shit!” he hears, and then there’s a pair of arms around him, squeezing the breath out of him. Stiles turns to see Scott has practically tackled him, his grin ridiculously wide. “Stiles, you did it! We won!”

It’s then that it begins to feel real, and Stiles can feel the smile stretching across his own face as the rest of the team tackles him. The other team huddles together, disgruntled, and Jackson does not join their pig pile, but Stiles can’t help it. They won. And he scored. This seems like some sort of fever dream, something way too good to be true.

And then he looks out in the stands, and he’s almost positive this has to be a dream, because the look Lydia is giving him is one out of movies. Her lips are pressed together, curled into the sweetest smile, and her eyes are overflowing with pride, shining brighter than diamonds. Time stands still as she brings her hands together, and the rest of the team around him fades away as he locks eyes with her.

He lets the other players usher him off the field, everyone moving in a big, excited clump back to the benches. Stiles doesn’t remember pulling off his helmet and dropping his stick, but he must, because they’re not in his hands anymore. All he can focus on is the redhead working her way through the crowd of people in the stands, striding onto the field with a huge grin on her face, walking straight towards him.

“Oh my god, Stiles!” Lydia says as she wraps her arms around him, and maybe it’s the leftover adrenaline from the game or maybe it’s Lydia, he’s not really sure— but his heart speeds up, racing in his chest like it’s trying its hardest to break free from his chest. “You scored! You won the game!”  

“I just ran,” he says, burying his face in the crook of her neck, inhaling the sweet scent of her. Her arms link behind his neck, one of them drifting up to brush the hair at the nape of his neck, and he thinks he visibly shivers. Jesus, he really hopes she can’t tell; he so does not want to try to explain that to her. “I was barely on the field for five minutes,” he says, using his words as an excuse to keep holding her. It’s loud on this lacrosse field, okay? If he doesn’t say the words directly into her ear, will she even hear him? And she’s not exactly pulling away either, so Stiles is happy to just bask in her embrace while he can.

“Please,” Lydia says, pulling away a little so that she can fix him with a look. “You scored the winning goal, Stiles. You deserve a little more credit than that.” He’s about to respond with some other snarky, self-deprecating comments when she rises onto her tiptoes, kissing him on the cheek. It’s not the first time she’s ever done that, but it’s the first time she’s done it since she started dating Jackson, and god, it just makes him want to pull her back into his arms and never let go.

That would probably be very much classified as non-platonic and crossing a line, so he doesn’t, but he really wishes he could. Still, Lydia’s eyes are about a foot away from his, and he can see every speck of gold in her green irises, still shining with warmth and pride. When she looks at him that way, the outside world doesn’t really have any effect on him. It’s just Lydia, the singular thing tethering him to reality.

“Lydia!” a voice snaps, and the shiny bubble around them is broken.

Lydia twists out of Stiles’s arms, her hands dropping back to her sides as Jackson stalks over to them, his helmet still in his hand, brow shiny with sweat from actually playing lacrosse.

“What the hell are you doing?” Jackson demands, and Lydia bristles at that, her brow furrowing in that way that Stiles recognizes all too well from her late-night fights over the phone.

“What do you mean, what am I doing?” Lydia asks. “I’m congratulating my best friend on scoring the winning goal in the game.”

Jackson’s eyes narrow, his jaw clenched in a way that somehow makes him look like more of an asshole. “It looks like a lot more than that.”

Stiles hates the thrill that runs through him at the tone of Jackson’s voice, because he thinks Lydia might have actually been right— Jackson sounds jealous. He opens his mouth to say something more, but is blissfully interrupted by Scott, who appears at Jackson’s side. Stiles isn’t sure if Scott is psychic or just has ridiculously good timing, but he breathes a sigh of relief at the appearance of his other best friend regardless.

“Hey, everything okay?” Scott asks, expression genuinely concerned. Seriously, Stiles doesn't know how he has the capacity to actually care about how everyone feels all the time. But Scott is just that good of a person— it’s infuriating at times, but Stiles thinks that Scott is really the best person he knows.

“Yeah, everything’s fine,” Jackson says, jaw still tight. Lydia has her arms crossed, like she’s putting on armor to defend herself from her boyfriend. Stiles’s heart clenches at that, because— jesus, she shouldn’t have to look so defensive around him all the time.

“The team’s all waiting for us,” Scott says to his co-captain, nodding over his shoulder at the gaggle of other players waiting around so they can enter the locker room. Isaac seems to have recovered— he’s still favoring his other leg, but he’s standing up, so that’s probably a good sign. “We’re still going to get food, right?”

“Why wouldn’t we be?” Jackson says, voice clipped. Stiles can’t help but roll his eyes at his tone— mostly because Jackson is looking at Scott, and not at him. He’d like to avoid getting his ass kicked tonight, if possible, even if he’s so fed up with the other guy. Jackson turns back towards Lydia, and Stiles hastily rearranges his facial features into what he hopes is a much more neutral expression. “You’re coming, right?” he asks his girlfriend.

“Of course I’m coming,” Lydia says, her tone giving away that she’s still very much annoyed with him.

“I’ll drive you,” Jackson says, and Stiles can tell it’s not a question. He also knows Lydia drove herself here and that her car is in the school parking lot right now, but her shoulders sag a little as she gives up.

“Okay,” she agrees, taking Jackson’s hand when he reaches out for it. Jealousy spikes in Stiles’s gut again, even though he tries to tell it to be quiet, who she goes to dinner with is none of your business, and you have no say in it. She is her own person and can make her own decisions. And even though he knows those words are true, he wishes more than anything it was his hand she was holding.

“I’ll see you there,” Lydia tells Stiles and Scott, eyes darting between the two of them, and Stiles just nods, giving her a little grin. Jackson tugs on her hand again, his jaw still angrily set, and she follows after him, disappearing into the crowd of other lacrosse players with her boyfriend.

Stiles shrugs off the sympathetic look Scott is giving him, forcing any thoughts of jealousy out of his mind. “Come on,” Stiles says, picking up his discarded helmet and following the team into the locker rooms. “I’m starving.”

When the team finally gets to the restaurant, a little family-owned diner where they always take up the back tables after games, Stiles is surprised when Lydia slides into the booth next to him. Jackson is on her other side, still looking supremely pissed off, and he can tell by the hard look in her eyes they spent most of the drive over here yelling. His heart squeezes, wishing that he could do something, make her feel better. Make that look in her eyes disappear completely.

The other players place their orders with the waitress who has appeared, laughing and recounting the best moments of the game, but Lydia just orders her meal with a tight lipped smile, steadfastly not making eye contact with both her boyfriend and her best friend.

Under the table, Stiles feels Lydia’s hand just barely brush his knee, soft and hesitant, and without hesitation, he reaches out and grabs it, intertwining their fingers and squeezing her hand comfortingly. She still doesn’t look at him, but her shoulders relax a little bit, and her eyes aren’t as dull as they were before.

Lydia doesn’t talk to him for the entire meal— she barely even looks at him— but she holds his hand until they all get up to leave. And when they write goodnight later, before Lydia pulls her curtains closed, he can see the light in her eyes has finally returned.

***

The start of the lacrosse season also means the inevitable start of Danny’s legendary party season— something the majority of the school would probably be excited about, but which Stiles could definitely live without. Parties have never exactly been his favorite pastime, but Scott and Lydia had convinced him that sitting alone in his room on a Friday night and watching Star Wars when he had an invitation to Danny’s house was not socially acceptable. Stiles grumbles and rolls his eyes at them, but he agrees to go, because between Lydia’s no-nonsense gaze and Scott’s puppy eyes, he thinks the only way he’s getting out of this party is probably by faking his own death.

You’re not really wearing that, are you? Stiles reads, and he rolls his eyes at Lydia’s words, her notepad pressed up against her windowpane. He surveys his khakis and flannel, paired with his trusty Adidas sneakers— his outfit looks perfectly fine to him.

What’s wrong with this? he writes back, and Lydia rolls her eyes at him.

Do you own anything that’s not plaid? she responds, and Stiles just shakes his head emphatically instead of writing out a response to the question she already has the answer to.

Lydia looks down at her phone quickly, before glancing back up to meet his eyes. She’s in a cute little romper, hair impeccably curled and makeup flawless; she looks like a person actually willingly going to a party.

Jackson’s here, she writes, before flipping to a new page. I’ll see you there, okay?

Okay, he responds, regardless of how much he still really doesn’t want to go. But he tosses his notepad back onto his bed, grabs his jacket, and goes and picks up Scott, just like he promised he would, because he is a good best friend, goddammit.

Danny’s house is already overcrowded with drunk people, the walls of the house practically vibrating with the thumping bass from the music. Scott immediately locates Kira and Malia and Allison, pulling Stiles over with him to say hi to the rest of their friends.

“No, he’s not really supposed to put too much weight on it for a couple weeks, so he stayed home,” Allison is telling Malia, who nods. Well, that explains Isaac’s absence. Lucky bastard, Stiles can’t help but think. Maybe next game, he’ll conveniently sprain his ankle so he doesn’t have to come to another one of these things.

“Hi guys!” Kira says, grinning widely at them as she sets down her empty solo cup, hugging Scott and Stiles briefly. Kira’s always a ball of sunshine, but she’s somehow even bubblier when she’s drunk, Stiles has noticed. They say their hellos to everyone else in the group, but there’s one person other than Isaac noticeably missing, and Stiles can’t help the way his eyes dart around the room, searching for her like it’s a second instinct.

“We just saw Lydia,” Allison says, like she can read Stiles’s mind. “She was with Jackson and Danny.” Stiles tries to keep his expression neutral at that, but he has a feeling his friends can see right through his poorly constructed facade.

“Come on,” Scott says, grabbing Stiles by the arm and dragging him into the kitchen. “You need a drink.”

“Remember I’m driving,” Stiles mutters. Being the only one in their friend group with a car sometimes really does not have its perks. He takes the cup that Scott is offering him, full of some unidentified clear liquid that smells vaguely fruity.

“I’m not letting you leave for at least three hours anyways,” Scott says. “You can have one drink.”

“Yeah, because I’m not a frickin’ lightweight like you,” Stiles mumbles, but Scott doesn’t hear him over the booming music. He follows his friend back out into the main room, and that’s when he spots her— Lydia, her hand wrapped around a red solo cup, Jackson’s arm securely anchored around her waist. His fingers slip a little lower down the slope of her back, and Stiles bristles at the possessive look on Jackson’s face. Lydia seems completely unamused, taking a long swig of her drink as she surveys the room, her face turned away from her boyfriend.

She spots him, and Stiles waves instinctually— luckily Jackson isn’t looking, because he so does not want a repeat of the post lacrosse game incident the other night. She smiles back at him, smaller than she normally does, but her eyes light up nonetheless.

“C’mon,” Scott says, pulling Stiles with him to where Allison and Kira are beckoning them, on the side of the dance floor.

Stiles tries to have fun, he really does. But he’s also worried about Lydia— that hard look in her eyes from earlier, the possessive curl of Jackson’s arm around her waist, it worries him. He wants to make sure she’s okay, because that’s always what he’s done. Running towards Lydia is like second nature to him; looking out for her is something ingrained in his DNA. He couldn’t turn it off even if he tried.

“Stiles,” Malia pouts, dragging him out onto the dance floor with them. “Stop worrying. She’s fine.”

Well, apparently he’s that predictable to all his friends too.

What feels like hours and hours later they’re all gathered around a game of beer pong, divided up into teams— Scott and Stiles versus Allison, Malia, and Kira. It’s already been decided that Stiles and Allison don’t have to drink the beer Scott poured in the solo cups on their table, since they volunteered to drive, but that’s not the only reason he’d rather not be playing beer pong right now. He’s terrible at this game, and Allison has impeccable aim even when she’s drunk, so playing her sober is going to be a disaster.

“Stiles,” Scott sighs, shaking his head at him like he’s disappointed. His best friend, noticeably, is already a little drunk. “Come on. This’ll be fun. Stop worrying and enjoy yourself.”

“Sorry,” he mutters, shaking his head, trying to clear thoughts of Lydia and Jackson out on the dance floor together from his mind. “Come on, guys, this isn’t even fair,” he says, looking at the girls. “You’re up a player.”

“But Kira is really drunk,” Malia defends.

“She’s still got better aim than me sober,” Stiles argues back.

“That sounds more like a you problem, Stiles,” a voice says behind them, and Stiles whips around, jaw slack.

Lydia standing there with a cup in hand, the other hand on her hip, eyebrows raised cockily.

“Lydia!” Allison says, eyes lighting up. “Are you joining us?”

“You need an extra player?” she says, looking between Scott and Stiles, her smile mischievous.

“Uh, hell yeah,” Stiles says, nodding emphatically. “Anything to keep Allison from completely kicking our asses.”

“I’m in,” Lydia says, tugging the shorts of her little romper down where they’ve ridden up, placing her drink on the end table next to them. “Who’s up first?”

“We are,” Allison says, lining up to take her shot.

Stiles hates to ask it, but he has to know. “Where’s Jackson?” he whispers to Lydia, because generally they’re attached at the hip during things like this.

“I don’t really care,” Lydia says, and her smile is wide and sincere. “Probably flirting with that same freshman from earlier. I yelled at him about it, and he yelled back, and I decided that I don’t need to deal with his bullshit tonight, so I was going to come hang out with my friends and actually have a good time.”

Stiles’s heart clenches a little at her explanation, but he can’t stop smiling back widely at her. “Well, I’m glad you did,” Stiles says, and when she leans into his side briefly, resting her head on his arm for a second, he swears his heart leaps out of his chest.

Regardless of Lydia’s addition to their team and Scott’s pretty good aim, Allison and Kira and Malia still kick their asses— mostly due to Allison and her inhumanly good aim. Still, the game is a lot closer than it would have been without Lydia; she gets a bunch of really good shots, causing all three of them to whoop and jump around in celebration. Scott and Lydia are good sports, taking all of Stiles’s drinks for him, even though Scott is a lightweight and Lydia is tiny. By the time the game is over, they’re both substantially drunk, but Lydia somehow has another drink in her hand instantly, this one pink and fruity looking.

“Stiles, come dance with me!” she says, beckoning to him with one hand, eyes wide and pouty, and he can’t deny her anything, so he says yes, following her onto the dance floor.

She’s drunk enough that she doesn’t even make fun of his flailing attempts at dancing, just jumping along with him in time to the music, her shoulder bumping his occasionally. Her drink is gone before he knows it, but she’s laughing, eyes shining brighter than he’s seen in weeks, her smile wide and genuinely happy, not that fake thing she’s been flashing at him whenever she lies and says everything with her is fine. He takes her hand, twirling her under his arm, and she laughs again, lacing her fingers through his even once she’s done turning.

They dance for a few more songs, laughing and jumping and swaying together, like they’re ten years old again and pretending to be rock stars while they jam out on the Martins’ front porch, Lydia’s old radio blasting whatever CD she was currently listening to on repeat.

But then the music shifts to a slow song, and even as Lydia rests her head against his chest, he can feel her stiffen. He’s scared to ask what happened, why she suddenly lost that easy, comfortable grace between them, but then he sees the same thing she does— Jackson and some girl on the edge of the dance floor, her hand on his chest and his hand on her hip.

“Hey,” Stiles says, pulling Lydia’s chin gently towards him so that she doesn’t see her boyfriend anymore. “It’s getting really late. You wanna go home?”

“Mmm,” she sighs, nodding. “My feet hurt. And my head… my head’s fuzzy.”

Stiles smiles at her softly. “Yeah, I bet. You totally covered for me during beer pong.” He puts an arm around her, helping her through the crowd of bodies on the impromptu dance floor. “Did you have a coat?”

“Yeah,” she says, yawning widely. “In Danny’s room. So’s my purse.”

“Okay,” Stiles says, arm still around her waist. “C’mon, let’s go get your stuff.”

A few minutes later Lydia is bundled up in her coat, purse slung over Stiles’s shoulder. Allison already agreed to take Scott home, because he doesn’t want to leave yet, so Stiles helps Lydia into the front seat of his Jeep, buckling her in before climbing into the driver’s seat and starting the car. She hums contentedly, fiddling with the radio like it’s her own car, until she settles on a song she seems to like. Not that it matters, because by the time they reach the stop sign at the end of the street and Stiles glances over to check on her, she’s fast asleep, curled up in his passenger seat, head pressed against the window.

“Lydia,” he says quietly when they finally get back to their houses, shaking her awake gently. “Hey, we’re home.”

Mrs. Martin is probably asleep, and Lydia is still half unconscious, but Stiles has had a key to their house since he was about thirteen, so he unlocks their door with his own keys and gently leads Lydia inside, down the hall, and to her bedroom. Her clothes from earlier are folded on her bed, but Stiles knows where she keeps her pajamas, so he grabs them from the basket in her closet, tossing them onto her bed as she gradually wakes up more.

“Hi,” she whispers, green eyes a little blurry, but there’s also a sparkle in them that’s been absent for way too long.

“Hey, kiddo,” Stiles responds, one hand lingering on her shoulder. “C’mon, you gotta take your makeup off, and then you can go to bed.”

He follows her into the bathroom, heating up the water while she scrubs her makeup off slowly, fetching the washcloth and her fancy foamy facewash too. She smiles gratefully, washing her face the best she can; there’s still a little mascara smudged under her eyes, but Stiles decides it’s fine for tonight. He hands her her pajamas and closes the bathroom door behind him, letting her get dressed while he roots around on her dresser for her hairbrush. She emerges a minute later in her pastel leggings and matching shirt with a scalloped neckline and three quarter length sleeves. Somehow, even when she’s drunk and in pajamas, Lydia looks more put together than most normal humans.

“Here, let me brush your hair,” he offers, and Lydia smiles, sitting down next to him and hugging him tightly. He chuckles into her snagged curls, wrapping his arms around her briefly in return. She smells like vodka and strawberries, and it’s an intoxicating combination. He never wants to let go of her, but he knows she needs to go to sleep.

“I can’t brush your hair if your head’s buried in my neck, Lyds,” he tells her, smoothing her curls down. She grumbles into his skin, but pulls away, letting him turn her around and work the brush through her hair. He braids it when he’s done, because he knows it drives her insane to sleep with her hair completely down, before dropping her brush onto the bedside table and pulling the covers back.

“Okay, there’s water and Advil on your bedside table for when you wake up,” Stiles says, helping her into bed, before pulling the blankets over her. She smiles contently as she snuggles into her covers, eyes already sliding shut. “Get some rest, okay?”

Lydia nods slowly, and Stiles runs his fingers over her cheek reverently— she smiles, resting her cheek in his hand, and her eyes flutter open, big and bright and so green.

“Thanks for taking care of me,” she whispers, shifting so she’s laying on her side, facing him. “At the party, and… and here.” She pauses, her voice so quiet he almost can’t here it. “You always… you’re always there for me.”

“Hey,” he says, thumb running across her cheekbone. “You don’t have to thank me. I’ll always be there for you. That’s what best friends are for, right?”

There’s something that flashes in her eyes right then, some shift, like she’s been trying to think of the name of a thing for weeks and it’s just finally come to her. He’s not exactly sure what to make of it, but then her eyes are back to normal, that flash of understanding fading back into the shade of green he knows so well.

“Good night, Lydia,” he tells her, pulling his hand away, and before he can stop himself, he leans down and kisses her forehead briefly. She smiles, eyes drifting closed again, curling deeper into her blankets.

“Good night, Stiles,” she says back, and then she’s asleep, the peaceful silence of her room heavy around the two of them.

Stiles closes her bedroom door behind him, relocks the door to her house, before he enters his own home, padding to his room quietly, hoping his dad doesn’t wake up at the sound of his footsteps. He pulls on his own pajamas and climbs into his own bed, checking his phone to see that Allison texted him, letting him know she got the rest of their friends home safely, before he plugs it in to charge and flips it over. He lays there in bed, trying to drift off, but all he can think of is the smell of Lydia’s hair, the feel of her head against his chest as they danced, that smile on her face when she joined them for their game at the party.

He falls asleep a little while later, her words from before trapped in his head and that look in her eyes, that flash of recognition, burned into his retinas.

You’re always there for me.

If there’s one thing he always wants to do, it’s that. Be there for Lydia, no matter what that means for himself.

***

Stiles is beginning to wonder if it’s still too late for him to fake an illness and go home.

He knows he really shouldn’t, because this is Lydia’s thirteenth birthday party, and he promised he would be there, but he can’t think of anything he wants to do less than go to this party tonight. Birthday parties used to be the best, but now that they’re in the seventh grade and all becoming teenagers the dynamic of birthday parties has completely shifted. Yard games and birthday cakes have been replaced with dark basements and games of spin the bottle, and Stiles hates it. It does absolutely nothing to help his social anxiety, and it’s the reason he’s seriously considering bailing on his best friend’s birthday party, because Lydia is smart and popular, so she’ll definitely have the best party out of everyone in their whole grade. And by best, Stiles means best for everyone else.

He’s already used to people snickering at him in the hallways when he walks with Lydia, wondering what he’s doing hanging around their queen bee, with his buzzcut and too-long limbs. He really doesn't want to deal with that in a contained space for hours on end.

“Stiles,” Lydia says, walking back into her room from the bathroom, her hair stylishly braided across the crown of her head, the rest of her curls cascading down her back. She has a cute little dress on, and what he thinks is a smidge of makeup, and… god. She looks so pretty. So sure of herself. So confident and radiant and ready to take on the world. Everything that he’s not, and everything people like to make sure he knows he’s not whenever he spends time with Lydia.

Lydia is a good friend— the best friend— but he already knows what’s going to happen tonight. All the other cool kids from their grade are going to flock to her, and she’s going to forget about him— not out of malice or spite or anything, just because she has other friends and he doesn’t— and he’s going to be left out, the laughingstock on the sidelines. Scott’s not coming tonight, either, because he and his mom had to go see his dad this weekend for something, so he’s really going to be alone.

Lydia opens her mouth like she’s about to say something, but then she catches his expression, and her whole face shifts. “What’s wrong?” Lydia says, her brow furrowing. She’s too smart and knows him too well to miss the fear in his eyes. “Stiles, are you okay?”

“Yeah,” he says, because even if he really doesn’t want to go to this party, it’s still her birthday, and he knows how excited she is. He’s not going to ruin this for her. “It’s nothing, sorry. Thinking of something else. I’m fine.” He tries to arrange his face into an expression that suggests he’s telling the truth, but Lydia’s eyes just narrow as she sits next to him on her bed, arms crossed.

“You’re lying,” she tells him, and she says it like it’s a fact, not a question. “What’s wrong, Stiles? Tell me.”

“It’s fine, Lydia,” he insists again. She shoves his shoulder lightly, that no-nonsense look on her face.

“No, it’s not,” she insists. “I can tell something’s wrong. What is it?”

“I just…” he trails off, not exactly sure how to explain it to Lydia. Lydia’s always been beautiful and wonderful and captivating, and she’s never had any shortage of friends, for good reason.

“I don’t fit in with the other kids coming tonight,” he finally settles on, because that’s probably the most neutral way to say what he’s really thinking. “I just don’t want to sit there all night by myself while they laugh and make fun of me like they do at school. I don’t want that to ruin your party.”

“Oh, please,” Lydia says, rolling her eyes as if that’s the stupidest suggestion she’s ever heard. “You’re not going to ruin my party, Stiles. And you’re not going to be alone. I’m going to be there, remember?”

“I know,” he says, hating how small his voice sounds. He can’t meet Lydia’s eyes, so he looks down at his lap, fiddling with his hands. “But you have other friends here too. I don’t want to just follow you around all night. I’ll get in the way.”

“Okay,” Lydia says, her tone very no-nonsense. “Stiles. Yeah, I have other friends coming. But I only have one best friend, and that’s you.” She pauses, taking his hand and squeezing it so he’ll stop fiddling with his fingers. “You’re the most important to me, okay? You’re my best friend in the whole world. And if anyone else has a problem with that, or thinks we shouldn’t be friends, then I don’t want to be friends with them. I’m staying with you all night tonight. And if anyone laughs at you or says anything mean, I’ll kick them out.”

“Really?” Stiles says, raising an eyebrow in a way that he hopes looks incredulous, but probably actually comes off as desperate.

“Pinky swear,” Lydia says solemnly, offering her pinky out. Stiles grins as he hooks her with his pinky, the two of them shaking perfectly in sync.

“Thanks,” Stiles says, his voice a little meek. “You’re the best, Lydia.”

Lydia shakes her head. “No, you don’t have to thank me. That’s what best friends do. I’ll always be there for you, Stiles. I always want you with me. I don’t care what anyone else thinks.”

He grins at that, big and bright, because he knows she really means it. Lydia stands up from her bed, smoothing down her skirt. “Okay,” she says, fluffing her hair one last time. “You ready for this party?”

“Please tell me you at least have cake,” Stiles begs, standing up too. Lydia scoffs, rolling her eyes.

“Of course there’s cake. What kind of party do you think I’m throwing here?” she demands. Stiles shrugs, but he can’t keep the smile off his face.

“I just wanted to make sure.”

Lydia shakes her head again, grinning at him. “Come on,” she says, offering him a hand, and he doesn’t hesitate to take it, letting her drag him towards the party that he’s dreading a lot less now.

Lydia is true to her word, and she doesn’t leave his side all night, always including him in games, in conversations, in the dance party they have in her basement. At the end of the night everyone leaves, and the two of them eat the leftover chocolate cake in her living room while they watch movies, and Stiles thinks that he can’t remember the last time he had so much fun.

***

Stiles doesn’t see Lydia for the rest of the weekend, after he brings her home from Danny’s party, but she texts him Saturday morning to tell him her head is killing her and thank him for making sure she got home safely. He responds immediately, assuring her that it was nothing. Next time, Scott’s DD, though, so he might have to tuck both of us into bed, he tells her, and she responds with a few laughing crying emojis before the conversation ends.

He doesn’t hear from her for the rest of the day, or all day Sunday. Her curtains remain pulled closed, and they don’t exchange notes via their notepads at all. Stiles hopes it’s because she’s catching up on rest and sleeping off her hangover, not because Jackson did something awful again and she’s crying on her bed, alone in the dark.

Monday morning dawns bright and cold, and Stiles shivers as he walks out into his driveway, ready for school. Lydia leaves her house at the same time, just like always, picking her way across the frostbitten grass separating their driveways, shivering a little bit in her short skirt, even with her green coat on.

“Hey,” Stiles greets her, smile wide. The warmth in her eyes as she returns the sentiment almost makes Stiles forget about how cold it is outside.

“You feeling better?” he asks, and she nods emphatically.

“Definitely. Thank you again for taking care of me Friday night.”

“Seriously, Lydia, no worries,” he assures her. “Like I said. I’ll always be there for you.”

“I know,” Lydia says, looking at him fondly. There’s that flash in her eyes again, just like on Friday night— like she’s suddenly understanding something she’d been in the dark about for so long. “I don’t think I could ever ask for a better best friend.”

Stiles doesn’t know how to respond to that, so he just shrugs. His phone vibrates in his pocket— probably Scott asking if he’s on his way yet. “You want a ride?” Stiles offers, fully expecting Lydia to turn him down, just like she always does. But instead she hesitates, biting her lip, the look in her eyes completely unreadable to Stiles.

“Do you mind?” she asks, and it’s been so long that it takes Stiles a minute to realize she’s actually saying yes.

“No, not at all,” he says, shaking his head emphatically. “That’s why I offered.”

“Okay,” she responds, voice a little quiet. “I’d love a ride, then.”

He grins at her, big and wide and warm, before he gets the passenger door for her, helping her climb up into his car. He sprints back around to the other side and scrambles into the driver’s side, like if he doesn’t move quickly enough Lydia will just disappear in a flash of smoke.

He backs out of his driveway in silence, and neither of them speak as he cruises down the road to Scott’s house. But Lydia reaches over at a stop sign, resting her hand over Stiles’s on the gearshift, her fingers warm as they interlace with his briefly. She’s looking straight ahead, not making eye contact in the slightest, but Stiles still feels warmth from her touch flooding his body, and he can’t fight the smile that creeps its way onto his face.

She drops his hand as soon as they’re moving again, but Stiles doesn't need to hear her speak to understand what it means.

***

Even though Christmas break is almost upon them, their teachers have not been treating them kindly with homework.

Stiles swears they’re purposely trying to bury them alive in schoolwork, regardless of the fact that vacation starts in a week. Luckily for him, he’s got a great study buddy, so he and Lydia go to one of the little cafes downtown after school on Thursday, determined to crank out all their papers and projects due next week so they can somewhat enjoy the week leading up to Christmas without crushing amounts of schoolwork to do.

“Math is stupid,” Stiles grumbles, scrubbing out the answer he’d just written to one of his calc problems again. Lydia looks up at that, and the expression on her face is so offended that he almost laughs.

“You take that back,” she snaps. “Math is essential.”

“Essentially aggravating,” he returns. “Seriously, Lydia. When in my life am I ever going to need to take an integral by parts?”

“If you go into literally any field based in math or physics,” she says, eyes still narrowed.

“Okay, so you need to know how to do integration by parts,” he says. “I don’t.”

She just shakes her head at him, but her eyes are softer, the outrage gone. She knows he was just kidding, anyways. He might hate math, but because of her, he knows its importance to the world.

“I already know how to do integration by parts,” she tells him, before gesturing to her own math homework. “But if you need to know how to solve second-order nonhomogeneous differential equations, I can also help you there.”

Stiles makes a face. “God, what even is that? Is that a certified way of torturing people? Because that’s what it sounds like.” He tries to keep his disgusted expression, but Lydia laughs, clear and beautiful and genuine, and he can’t help but smile at that. Her laugh is one of his favorite sounds in the world. Half the dumb shit he does is just in hopes of making her laugh constantly.

“I’ll make you a deal,” she says, smirking at him. “You go get us more coffee, and I’ll show you how to do integration by parts.”

“Sold,” Stiles says, standing up and grabbing his wallet. “Be right back.”

The line at the counter isn’t long, and when Stiles gets to the front he orders their usual festive holiday drinks— gingerbread latte for him, peppermint mocha for Lydia. His eye catches on the pastries in the dessert case next to the register, though. They have those chocolate croissants that Lydia loves. “Can I get one of those too, please?” he asks the barista, pointing at the flaky pastry. “And a piece of the coffee cake.”

A minute later he walks back to the table, balancing the tray with their drinks and pastries like his life depends on it. His balance is notably not good, and he really needs Lydia’s help with his math homework. “Your peppermint mocha,” he tells Lydia, handing her the paper cup. “And a snack too.”

She takes the plate he’s offering her, eyes a little wide as he deposits his own purchases on the table.

“You got me a chocolate croissant?” she asks as he takes his seat again, pushing his textbook to the side so he can eat his coffee cake.

“Yeah,” he tells her, cutting off a bite of the cake with his fork, popping it in his mouth. Delicious. “I know how much you like them. I figured you could use a pick me up.”

She just remains silent for a second, studying him with that indescribable look in her eyes. It’s the same expression she’d had when he tucked her into bed after the party they went to last week, and he still can’t quite put his finger on what it means. Generally he’s so good at reading Lydia, but he has no clue what that subtle shine in her eyes means here.

“What?” he says, second bite of cake halfway to his mouth, because she’s still looking at him like that.

“Nothing,” she says, shaking her head, her expression returning to normal. She does smile at him though, sweet and affectionate. “Thank you.”

“Hey, it’s the least I can do,” Stiles says, shrugging. “Pretty sure you’re the only reason I’m getting through math this year, so.”

“Speaking of,” she says, raising her eyebrows. “Come sit next to me; I’ll show you how to integrate by parts.”

She pushes her textbooks out of the way, making a spot for him on the other side of the booth, and when Stiles slips into the seat next to her, their shoulders bumping, he marvels at how nothing else has ever really felt so right.

***

It’s almost 9:30 on Saturday night when Stiles sees Lydia get home.

He’s been enjoying a quiet night in, finishing up homework while Star Wars plays in the background, but the second he sees the light turn on in Lydia’s room next door, his attention immediately shifts. He watches her slam her door closed, throw her phone violently down on her bed, and he immediately dives for his notebook.

When he looks up, what’s wrong? written on his notepad already, he can see Lydia is crying.

Urgently, he knocks on the windowpane, catching her attention and pressing the notepad up against the pane. She looks down, grabbing her own notepad from the windowsill, writing briefly before holding it up for him to see.

Jackson and I broke up.

Stiles’s heart drops at that.

I’ll be right there, he writes, and she nods, biting at her lip.

Stiles is wearing plaid pajama pants and a t shirt, and his hair is probably a mess from running his fingers through it all day, but he doesn’t really care. This is Lydia. She’s not going to judge him. She’s seen him at his best and his worst. So he just pulls on a hoodie, shoves his keys and phone in his pocket, grabs the DVD copy of The Notebook he keeps for emergencies, and is out the door.

Lydia’s mom stays out late on Saturday nights with her book-slash-mostly-wine club, so he just lets himself in the house, practically running down the hallway to Lydia’s room. He knocks briefly on her door, waiting for her quiet “Yeah?” before he walks in.

“Lydia,” he says, and the second he sits down next to her on her bed, she crumples into his arms.

“What happened?” he asks, stroking her hair. “Or, we don’t have to talk about it, if you don’t want to. It’s up to you. I brought The Notebook. And the ice cream from my freezer. I know cookie dough isn’t your favorite, but I figured it was better than nothing.”

“Thank you,” she mumbles into his shoulder. “You’re the best.”

“You alright?” he says, and she pulls away a little bit.

“I don’t know,” she says, and Stiles brings a thumb up to her cheek, brushing away the tears there. “I… we got in a fight, again, and we were both screaming… and before I knew what was happening he was… he was…”

Stiles’s heart immediately stops, his face turning white as a ghost. “Oh my god, Lydia,” he says, hands flying to her shoulders, fingers shaking against the fabric of her shirt. “He didn’t… did he hurt you?”

“No, no,” she reassures him, shaking her head. “I mean, not physically. Emotionally, though…” she laughs humorlessly, but Stiles doesn’t feel like smiling in the slightest.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Stiles says gently, hand sliding down her arms comfortingly.

Lydia sort of shakes her head, squeezing her eyes closed. “I said he’s always getting mad at me for spending time with you, and it’s not my fault that he’s insecure about out friendship. And we argued more, but,” she bites at her lip again, eyes still shut. “He said that… he’s realized he needs to cut some of the dead weight out of his life. And I’m about the deadest.”

Stiles feels his stomach drop at that, at the idea that Lydia could somehow be dead weight in someone’s life. That her presence could be anything other than endlessly positive, something to be cherished. That’s what Lydia’s always been for him— they’ve had their ups and downs, sure, fallouts and fights, but he cannot think of a time where he would ever consider Lydia to be something dragging him down. She’s forever been the exact opposite— someone to lift him up, encourage him, inspire him, support him through anything.

“Lydia,” Stiles says, and he can’t keep the anger out of his tone, regardless of how hard he tries. “Don’t… please don’t believe that. You are… you’re absolutely incredible, and if he can’t see that, it’s his own goddamned fault. Jesus, you’re the best person I know. Anyone would be lucky to have you in their life.” He pauses, swallowing. “I know I am.”

She looks up at him with tear tracks still on her cheeks, her lips curving into the barest hint of a smile, but he doesn’t need to look anywhere but her eyes to know what she’s thinking.

“Thank you,” she says anyways, and he just nods, hugging her tight again. She buries her head in his shoulder, and he inhales, breathing in the sweet scent of strawberries and wishing he never had to let go.

“He is a complete and utter asshat,” Stiles says, because he’s been holding it in for months, and he thinks he’s finally justified in saying it to her now. “And you deserve someone so much better than him.”

He can feel Lydia laugh into his t-shirt, her tears soaking into the worn material as well. “How long have you been wanting to say that?” she asks, tone almost teasing, and he rolls his eyes, because of course Lydia knew what he was thinking, even when he tried not to badmouth her boyfriend around her.

“Do you want a specific time?” he jokes back. “Since about four minutes after you told me you were dating him, probably.”

She pulls her head away at that, her expression fond and slightly bemused. He just grins back at her, shrugging apologetically.

“Seriously, Lydia,” he says, arms still wrapped around her. “You deserve the world, okay?” She smiles sweetly back at him, her grin a little bigger this time, like his words are maybe starting to take hold. She leans over and kisses his cheek briefly, and Stiles can feel color flooding the spot where her lips just were. He hopes she doesn’t notice— he doesn't want this to be about how he feels for her. He just wants to make sure she’s okay.

“Alright,” he says, pulling back to pick up the things he dropped on her side table as soon as he walked into the room. “The Notebook? And ice cream?”

“Yes please,” she says, nodding, and Stiles grabs them spoons while she sets up the DVD. They watch the entire movie eating ice cream straight from the carton, Stiles’s arm slung across her shoulder, her body tucked into his side. Lydia cries at the end, like she always does, and Stiles tries to wipe away his own tears without bumping her head on his shoulder.

It’s so late by the time the movie is over, the empty ice cream container long discarded on the floor next to the DVD case. They just sort of sit there once the credits finish rolling, Lydia’s room semi dark and completely silent. Stiles can feel her drifting off against his shoulder, her breathing slowing, growing more rhythmic.

“Thank you for coming over,” Lydia murmurs, her voice full of sleep. Stiles just nods, leaning down to press a kiss to the crown of her head.

“Anytime, Lyds,” he tells her. “You know that.”

“I know I was… upset earlier,” she says, and her voice is still so sleepy, her words a little slurred. “But this made me feel better. And I realized…” Stiles remains silent, letting her talk. “I realized how this whole time, I’ve been with Jackson, it’s just been this… weight, pulling me down. There were good times, but all the time we spent fighting, and screaming, and arguing…” She yawns hugely, and Stiles can’t help but smile. She’s so adorable when she’s sleepy. “I’m sort of relieved it’s over,” she admits. “I didn’t really want it to end this way, but… we were crashing and burning. And now I feel… almost free.”

Stiles leans his head down against hers, hugging her tighter. “I’m glad, Lydia,” he whispers to her, hoping that maybe— maybe she’s starting to realize just how much better she deserves.

***

Stiles grumbles, fiddling with his tie for probably the fourteen millionth time in the past ten minutes. There is a reason he avoids formal wear, and that reason is he has no idea how to put it on.

Regardless, he can’t exactly show up to the winter ball in a flannel and khakis— as much as he would really like to— so he does the best with his tie, deciding he’ll just beg Lydia to fix it before they all walk inside. He glances in his mirror again, surveying his reflection. At least his hair looks fine. It really is a good thing that he listened when Lydia had made some offhand comment about how he would look good with longer hair back in the middle of sophomore year. Lovesick Stiles had been much more obvious and desperate back then, and current lovesick-but-better-at-hiding-it Stiles is seriously impressed that Lydia never seemed to catch on.

Speaking of Lydia— she’s had her curtain pulled closed for the past hour, presumably getting ready for the dance tonight. Stiles has had his closed too, so he could get dressed, but now that he’s mostly ready, he tugs his curtains back. It’s already dark out, but he likes having them open so that Lydia can reach him whenever she needs to. Because, you know, he’s ridiculously whipped, even though he isn’t even dating his best friend.

He’s surprised to see her curtains are open, though, and even more surprised to see she’s not dressed for the dance. Her hair is down her back like it always is, and she’s wearing leggings as she lounges across her bed on her stomach, book open in front of where her chin is propped on her hand.

Stiles reaches for his nightstand drawer without even thinking, tugging it open to grab his trusty notepad.

Why aren’t you dressed? he writes, before knocking on the windowpane, holding up his notepad. Lydia startles, looking up from her book and catching sight of him, then moving over towards her window seat.

I’m not going, she writes back, and Stiles’s jaw drops. Lydia, miss an opportunity to get dressed up? He doesn’t think he’s ever seen her do that.

What do you mean you’re not going? he writes.

I mean, I’m staying home, she answers. Jackson and I broke up, remember?

Yeah, he definitely remembers that. Hold on, he writes, before flipping to a new page. I’m coming over.

The front door is so far away, though, and then he’ll have to explain to his dad why he’s leaving early to go over Lydia’s house when he’s already dressed, and— it just seems so complicated. So instead he tugs his window open, reverting to his and Lydia’s old failsafe, their secret way to visit each other without complication.

Stiles, do not climb through that window, she writes, flashing him a deadly look along with her words. You are wearing a suit, she writes on a new page. But his window is already open, screen pushed up as well, and he clambers out of the window ungracefully, stumbling onto the little step stool that is indeed still hidden in the bushes— a relic from when Lydia was much shorter, and they did this much more frequently.

“Too late,” he says out loud as he pries her window open, and she just rolls her eyes as she pops the screen out. Stiles hoists himself up through the empty frame of her window, careful not to knock his head on the sill, because he got a lot of almost-concussions when he was younger from that. He likes to think his grace and coordination has improved with age, but in reality, it’s probably gotten worse.

“Please tell me you didn’t rip your suit,” Lydia says, examining his clothes, hands flying to immediately fix his tie, just like he knew she would.

“I am perfectly fine, ye of little faith,” he assures her. “You could sign me up for the men’s gymnastics team with that performance. Rio 2016, here I come.”

“Keep dreaming, Mr. Olympics,” she says, hands smoothing his tie. “You look nice, by the way.”

“Thanks,” he responds, quirking a smile at her. “But don’t think you can distract me. Why aren’t you dressed?”

“I told you,” she says, crossing her arms defensively. “I’m not going.”

“And why the hell not?” he demands, giving her a look. “You have a dress, I know. I saw it. It looks beautiful on you. And you love getting dressed up.”

“Yeah, I don’t exactly have a date anymore,” Lydia tells him, and he wants to hug her because of how vulnerable her green eyes are.

“I don’t have a date either, and I’m still going,” Stiles tells her. “I think the only people with dates are Scott and Kira, and it’s because they’re going with each other.”

“I know, but…” she says, trailing off. But Stiles isn’t having it. Her jackass of an ex boyfriend (god, it feels so good to add that prefix) already made her miserable enough. He’s not letting her miss the dance because of him.

“Just come with all of us,” he says. “Me and Scott and Allison and Kira and Isaac and Malia. We want you there, okay? And we don’t care whether or not you have a date.”

She smiles at him, half grateful, but he can still see the hesitation in her expression. “Lydia,” he says, resting his hands on her shoulders. She blinks up at him, eyes wide and a little dazed, like he’s caught her off guard. Although he’s not really sure how that’s possible. In their friendship, she’s the one that always keeps him on his toes.

“You shouldn’t miss the dance tonight just because you broke up with Jackson,” he tells her, trying to convey how important she is to him just with the tone of his voice. “He… he took enough from you, okay? Don’t let him take away a fun night with your friends.”

“Are you sure?” she asks, voice small. He nods so quickly, his eyes so sure, and she seems to relax a little bit.

“Definitely,” he assures her. “We want you there. I want you there.”

That seems to cause something to shift in her, and she blinks up at him slowly, green eyes wide. “Okay,” she finally relents, and Stiles grins, doing an awkward little fist pump in celebration. An affectionate grin stretches across her face at that, and he mentally cheers at how he made her laugh.

“Awesome,” he says, still smiling like an idiot. He must look certifiably insane right now. “Okay, well. I’m gonna go back to my room. You get dressed. We’re leaving for Allison’s house in like thirty minutes, although if you need more time, I don’t think anyone will care if we’re late.”

“I’ll make it work,” she assurese him, nodding succinctly. He just smiles back at her, heart all light and floaty, before scrambling back through her window and then his, sliding the screen closed after him.

Twenty nine minutes later, Lydia pulls her curtains open, and he feels his heart stop momentarily. She looks beautiful in her short silvery dress, hair loosely curled and pulled to the side. All ready, she has written on her notepad, and Stiles smiles at her widely.

Be over in a minute, he writes. And then he adds you look beautiful, because he can’t resist. Lydia’s smile when he flashes the words at her is worth it, though.

He closes his notebook, ready to shove it back in his drawer before he grabs his suit jacket and keys and goes over to meet Lydia. But then his eyes drift to the discarded notes still inside the drawer, and one on top makes his heart clench.

I love you.

He wonders if he’ll ever be able to show that piece of paper to her.

***

Stiles can’t help but be a little impressed when they finally arrive at their school— the gym has been decorated floor to ceiling with streamers and paper snowflakes and fairy lights, making the space nearly unrecognizable.

Still, nothing holds a candle to the girl next to him.

Stiles has barely been able to take his eyes off Lydia since they arrived at Allison’s house— after he had finally convinced her to come with them, and they walked into Allison’s house hand in hand and met the rest of their friends, Lydia’s had this smile on her face that just makes her seem to glow. Stiles hasn’t seen her look so happy and carefree in forever, and it makes his heart ache, he’s so happy that she’s happy. He thinks back to what she said last week, after her breakup: now I feel almost free. He can tell, just from looking at her, and seeing her smile, seeing that shine of light in her eyes— it makes him so goddamn happy.

They all find an empty table, and Isaac and Malia come back with plates full of appetizers for them all the snack on. This is the type of party that Stiles actually enjoys— one where he can hang out with his friends, just talking and eating and laughing. Lydia keeps smiling at him, too, laughing at his jokes and shaking her head in fake disapproval, rolling her eyes as they shine with affection, and it makes his heart speed up every single time.

Hours pass like they’re minutes, but eventually Scott asks Kira to dance, and then Malia and Allison go to the dance floor as well, dragging Isaac with them. Lydia grins at him once they’re both alone, continuing on her story of the Christmas shopping trip she and the other girls had embarked on last week. Stiles nods, laughing as she talks, but she freezes up suddenly, her words trailing off.

“You okay?” Stiles asks, looking around to see what could have affected her like that, but then he spots him— Jackson, across the room, tucked away in one corner with a girl curled around him.

“Sorry,” Lydia whispers, shaking her head. “I… we’re broken up now. He can do whatever he wants.”

Stiles makes a face, because of course Jackson would find a way to make Lydia miserable even after their relationship has ended. She’s technically right, but. A person with reasonable human decency would probably wait more than six days before flirting shamelessly with some other girl at a school party.

“Yeah, that doesn’t make it feel any less shitty,” Stiles tells her. He stands up, offering her a hand. “Come on, let’s go dance with our friends.”

She smiles at him again, a little tight lipped, but she takes his hand, following him over to Malia and Allison and Isaac. Allison immediately grabs her friend when they reach the dance floor, twirling the shorter girl under her arm, and Stiles feels himself exhale when Lydia smiles for real again.

They dance and dance and dance, until Stiles’s feet begin to hurt and Allison and Malia have given up and retreated back to the table for a rest. Isaac disappeared to somewhere a while ago, but Stiles and Lydia remain, bopping along to the music the DJ is playing, smiling and laughing and not caring what anyone thinks of their ridiculous dancing. Well, Stiles’s ridiculous dancing. Lydia looks poised and graceful and purposeful no matter what she’s doing, but he’s his regular mess of flailing limbs. She doesn’t seem to mind, though, letting him twirl her around and laughing at his antics, and the sound of her laugh is like an adrenaline shot, filling him with energy and keeping him going.

The music shifts into a slow song, and unlike at the party they’d gone to, Lydia hesitates this time, not wrapping her arms around him immediately. He can tell from the little wrinkle in her brow she’s thinking about Jackson again, so he offers her a hand, smiling lopsidedly.

“You wanna dance?” he asks, and she makes a face, but her lips curl upwards. Victory.

“We’re already dancing,” she tells him, and now it’s Stiles’s turn to roll his eyes.

“C’mon. You know what I mean.”

It doesn’t take any further convincing for her, because she wraps her arms around his neck, tucking her body into his and letting him rest her chin on top of her head, content to just sway to the music. Stiles holds her tight, burying his nose in her hair, inhaling the sweet scent of her shampoo. God, he wishes he could tell her how much he loves her.

“Thank you, Stiles,” Lydia says, and he can feel the words reverberating against his chest, her cheek still pressed into the fabric of his dress shirt. “Thank you for always being there for me.” She pauses, but he can tell she isn’t finished, so he waits, letting her gather her thoughts. “My whole relationship with Jackson just showed me how lucky I am to have someone who really does understand me, and always looks out for me, and wants the best for me. And I…” she hesitates again, and with her head still tucked against his chest, Stiles can’t see her face, but he can picture the look on it perfectly. Vulnerable isn’t a word that very often describes Lydia, but that’s how she sounds right now. He knows how grateful Lydia is to have him in his life— he feels exactly the same— but to hear her say it, put it to words— he knows how important that is for her too.

“Without you, I don’t think I would have made it through these past few months,” she tells him, and then she looks up, meeting his eyes. His heart squeezes at the contact, staring into those green eyes that he always just wants to get lost in. “All the fights, and the tears, and… everything. So, thank you, I guess. For being there for me through it all.”

“I’ll always be there for you,” he tells her, shaking his head. “No matter what the circumstances are, or what’s happening— I’ll be there. There isn’t anything that could keep me from you,” Stiles says. He realizes afterwards that that’s probably borderline creepy, but she seems to understand what he’s talking about, because her eyes get softer, a smile tugging at her lips.

“But Lydia,” he says, a little more urgently, because something she said isn’t right, and she has to know. “You would have made it through these past few months. You’re the strongest person I know, and you can do anything. Seriously. How many other certified geniuses are there in Beacon Hills?” She rolls her eyes, because they both know she’s the only one. “Don’t doubt yourself, or your strength. You could get through anything, I know. You’re just that incredible.”

Coming from someone else, it might have sounded condescending and sarcastic, but Lydia can tell his words are sincere, because that’s how well she knows him. “I’m trying to give you a compliment,” she tells him, her expression a mix of fondness and exasperation, and Stiles just grins, hugging her tighter.

“I know,” he says, smiling into her hair. “But I feel like sometimes— especially lately— you forget how frickin’ incredible you are. I just want to make sure you remember.”

She pulls away at that, looking up at him with that indescribable expression he keeps seeing in her eyes as of late. He doesn’t know what it means, and it’s driving him insane— he can always tell what Lydia’s thinking, when she’s happy or upset or aggravated just by looking at her eyes, but this expression… this one has him stumped. But then her eyes flit down to his lips, and she’s seemingly growing closer, and… Stiles’s heart practically beats out of his chest as he believes, for a second, that Lydia might actually kiss him.

The moment is over as soon as it started, and then she’s dropping her hands from his shoulders, blinking those big green eyes at him in utter confusion. Stiles’s brow scrunches, and he opens his mouth to ask her what’s wrong, when suddenly, without any preface or warning, she turns around and bolts off the dance floor.

Stiles stands stock still in the spot where Lydia just left him, his mind reeling, heart still hammering so fast in his chest he thinks it might actually leap out, landing on the cold linoleum floor. What just happened? He might be hallucinating the moment where he thought Lydia was about to kiss him, but obviously he didn’t dream up the part where she ran away. Did he do something? Jesus, did he lean in too far or do something to scare her off? That’s the exact opposite of what he wants— god, if Lydia thought he was trying to come on to her instead of seriously telling her how amazing she is, he’ll never live with himself.

He unfreezes and follows after her through the throng of dancing people as fast as he can; the only thing he can think is that he needs to make this right. He can’t risk losing his best friend in the world this way. Shoving through a group of maybe-drunk freshmen, he finally sees Lydia back at their table, and he practically sprints across the rest of the gym to reach her.

“Lydia,” he says, embarrassingly out of breath by the time he reaches her. Jeez, maybe he does need to start taking Scott up on his offers to go to the gym. She just looks at him, expression a strange mix of confusion and nerves, and all Stiles wants to do is take her face in his hands and smooth away those lines of worry. (That would probably not alleviate the current situation, though, so he most definitely does not do that.)

“I’m so sorry,” he says, even though he’s still not entirely sure what he’s apologizing for. “I didn’t—”

She cuts him off, which is good, because he’s not really sure what he was going to say next anyways. “Why are you apologizing?” she asks, genuinely confused, and he exhales. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Oh,” he says lamely, and Lydia smiles a little, although he can still see the fear in her eyes. And he still has no idea what the hell is going on.

“I have something for you,” she tells him, looking down to fumble with her purse, and Stiles grins.

“Isn’t it kind of early for Christmas presents?” he asks, quirking an eyebrow at her, but she won’t meet his gaze— instead, she pulls a piece of paper out of her purse with trembling fingers, and Stiles recognizes that paper, recognizes the jagged tabs where it was ripped from the spiral bound notepad that is identical to the one he keeps in his nightstand drawer at home.

It’s then that she looks up at him, green eyes blazing, and he can count the little flecks of gold in her irises, see the slight tremble of her lip, can practically hear the pounding of her heart. His starts to speed up, because he doesn’t know what’s going on, but somehow it feels really important.

She unfolds the piece of paper, holding it up so he can read it, just like she does when they talk every night, and he sees there, in her perfect handwriting, three words:

I love you.

Stiles thinks his heart might seriously stop.

“I just… I wanted you to know,” Lydia is saying, but Stiles still can’t really process what’s happening, everything around him fading out to a fuzzy blur, Lydia with that piece of paper in hand the only thing in perfect clarity. “Because I do.”

He looks up to meet her eyes, and suddenly, everything behind that look in her eyes makes sense, like puzzle pieces clicking into place. She’s looking at him the same way he looks at her, with admiration, adoration, familiarity, and love. There’s so much love in her eyes right now, it kind of astounds him.

But he can see the nervousness in her face, hidden so well that anyone else would pass it off, but he knows her. Stiles knows her so well. So he doesn’t hold back the wide smile that spreads over his face, his heart thumping as he pulls an identical piece of paper out of the inside of his suit jacket, unfolding it so she can see his handwriting on the page.

I love you, it says, and he holds it out towards her like an offering. Like it’s his heart itself, and he’s handing it over to her. Stiles knows he already did that long ago.

Now Lydia’s grinning, soft and secretive, that glimmer of hope returned to her eyes. “Really?” she asks, still in need of reassurance. Stiles steps closer to her, nodding, his free hand coming up to caress her cheek.

“God, yes, Lydia,” he tells her, ducking his head so that their foreheads are brushing. “Always.”

He’s sure his breath is ragged as she smiles, eyes sliding closed. Her hand traces up his chest, resting right over his heart, and Stiles can feel her pulse, quicker than lightning, beating out the same rhythm as his heartbeat.

When she leans forward, bringing her lips to his, he thinks his heart probably skips a few beats altogether.

Kissing Lydia is everything he ever dreamed it would be and more, somehow. That sounds so cheesy, he thinks, but it’s like everything in the world sort of shifts into focus, clicking into place softly. Stiles couldn’t tell you anything happening in the rest of the universe, because he’s completely caught up in the girl in front of him— hand tangled in her hair, lips soft against his— but it feels like that’s the way the world is meant to be. Like nothing really matters except for Lydia, his best friend, the girl that he loves, who somehow, miraculously, loves him back.

They pull away a second later, their foreheads still pressed together and noses still brushing, and Stiles just breathes her in, cherishing the way her hair feels tangled around his fingers, the sweet smell of her perfume, the way her hand has found its way to his cheek, thumb brushing his cheekbone like she’s looking at something precious. It’s a little much, and somehow completely enough, all at the same time.

Their eyes meet, and Stiles can’t help the smile stretching across his face as he looks at Lydia, eyes locked with those green ones that he knows so well, and god, well. He can’t help it; he has to kiss her again. She doesn’t seem to mind.

“That was the best Christmas present ever,” Stiles murmurs against her lips, and the sound of Lydia laughing as she responds yes in return is the most beautiful sound in the world.

***

There’s a moving truck at the house next door again.

Stiles had seen one there last week, when he and Scott were playing superheros in the front lawn, because the big truck had blocked almost the whole driveway next door, and Stiles had used the space underneath it as his secret lair when his neighbors weren’t putting things into it. But this is different, because this time the truck is parked on the street, not in the driveway, and things are getting taken inside the house, not out of it.

It’s a lot of men in green shirts that are doing the actual moving, although Stiles had seen a woman with dark red hair earlier. But then his mom had called him and Scott inside for lunch and then Scott’s mom had come to pick him up, and he had gone to his room to play video games and had forgotten about the new people moving next door.

It’s not until he hears something outside his window that he remembers.

It’s the middle of the summer and it’s hot, so Stiles’s window is open, and a cool breeze sometimes blows inside his room, ruffling his hair. The sounds of thunks and cluds outside makes him stand up, though, and go to his window to see what’s happening.

He can still see the truck in the street, the men in their green shirts moving furniture. But in the window directly across from his, he can see into the room there, and that’s where the noise is coming from, clearly.

There’s the woman that he saw earlier, stacking boxes next to a bed frame with no mattress yet. The window in the house next door is open too, so he can hear the thud of the woman dropping another box on the floor. But then the woman moves, and Stiles can see that behind her, there’s a girl his age.

The girl is the prettiest girl he’s ever seen, Stiles thinks. Her hair is the color of strawberries and is done up in braids, and she’s wearing a white dress covered in little flowers. She puts her hands on her hips and makes a face at the box in front of her, and Stiles thinks she can probably move mountains if she wants to.

The woman, who must be the girl’s mom, leaves the room, leaving her alone in her new bedroom. Stiles isn’t sure why, but he has to talk to her, he suddenly thinks. The sunshine is warm on his face as he pushes his curtains completely to the side, clearing his throat as he shifts closer to the window.

“Hi,” Stiles says, his voice carrying over the ten feet in between the windows. The girl looks up, startled, and even from far away Stiles can see how green her eyes are.

“I’m Stiles,” he says, smiling. “I’m your neighbor.” She just looks at him for a second, walking closer to the window, until she’s right at it as well.

The girl grins at him, and Stiles thinks that her smile is maybe the prettiest thing he’s ever seen.

“Hi,” she says. “I’m Lydia.”