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“One normal date. That’s all I ask.”
Lydia laughs sharply, stumbling under the weight of her boyfriend’s arm slung around her shoulders. “You’re asking too much.”
“Well, fuck me, then.”
He obviously means it as an expression of frustration, but Lydia still seizes upon the opportunity to joke. “Mm-mmm. Not while you’re bleeding.”
They burst into their motel room, which is trashier than usual. No lobby, no elevator, no breakfast, and despite the No Smoking sign on the door there’s still an ashtray on the round little table.
At least they got a first floor room, so Lydia doesn’t have to drag Stiles up a flight of stairs.
It’s been a rough year. Monroe has a seemingly endless army of hunters to send after supernaturals, making it impossible for them to stay in one place for more than a few weeks. College has been put on hold until further notice—although MIT made it clear that she was welcome back at any time. In fact, they begged her to return at any time when she announced she was taking a year off.
They can’t even go see a movie without some self-righteous asshole crusader firing a crossbow at them.
Well, at Lydia. Stiles, wonderful idiot that he is, jumped in front of her and took a swiping blow to his side.
Lydia peels up his rusted-bloody shirt and applies antiseptic. “It’s not deep. You don’t need stitches.”
“Thank god,” he breathes. His fists are clenched in the bedspread. “I love you, but you’re a butcher with that needle.”
“Thank you. I learned needlepoint when I was in primary.”
“Oh, cool. So can you stitch ‘fuck you’ into my side? The next time someone captures me and pulls my shirt off to torture me, I’d like them to read that first.”
“I’ll get right on that.” Lydia pulls a size-XL bandage from their first-aid kit. “Although a tattoo would be easier.”
Stiles winces as she lays the bandage in place, applying pressure so the adhesive sticks.
“Be good,” she murmurs, running her fingers over the edges. “Shh.” Her touch strays up over his ribs.
He relaxes, a little. As much as one can when a crossbow bolt has grazed one’s side.
His legs part, inviting her to step between them so her torso presses against his. Her arms wind around his shoulders, and his around her waist in a fervent embrace.
Even with him seated and her standing, her head is barely high enough to rest on top of his.
“Mm.” Stiles breathes into her shirt, warm and satisfied. “Oh, hey. We match now.”
“What?”
His fingers dance up her shirt, pulling the hem away to reveal the angry slash on the left side of her stomach. “I’m gonna have a scar, too.”
A shocked sound escapes her lips that’s part laugh and part sob, and she lifts her eyes to the ceiling. How has this become their life? Comparing scars and patching wounds in a dinky motel room?
Of course she remembers the day a reptilian tail sliced through her side, the blood that spilled through her fingers. Creating the wound that still scars her skin to this day.
Her only consolation was that the venom paralyzing her also numbed the worst of her pain. That, and Stiles.
Seeing Stiles there was also a relief. Numbed the pain in a different way. She had to be strong for him, after all. Smile at him, let him know that she was all right. Nothing hurt worse than his horrified expression.
Her fingers wind tightly into his hair. Clinging to him.
“Hey.” His lips are hot against her skin. “Looks good.” And then he’s mouthing at the pearly white ridge, trailing kisses over the scar tissue that will probably mark her for the rest of her life.
“Thanks,” she says breathlessly. Honestly, it’s such a simple gesture that she shouldn’t be aroused by it. Plenty of partners have done the same to her.
But the reverence with which he lays kisses on her, over the part of her that could be perceived as ugly or flawed, the utter sincerity of his compliment…that is what makes her weak at the knees, more than any sensual touch could on its own.
His hands stray around her waist again, but this time under her shirt, tracing the curve of her hips, the hollow of her spine. “We survived. Tonight.”
“Yes, we did.”
“Didn’t finish the movie, but we made it back alive.”
“Very true.”
“Call it a win?”
Lydia purses her lips, futilely resisting the inevitable smile. Stiles’s ability to make her smile is uncanny. “Yes. Call it a win.”