First time writing for this fandom... be gentle please.

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There had been others since Jackson.

There had been a lot of 'others' since Jackson.

Some because they reminded her of him. Some because they didn't remind her of him. Some because they were normal, every day guys with no care for money or prestige. Some because they were smart – almost as smart as her. Some because they were dumb – dumber than he had been.

So, yes, there had been others since Jackson.

There had been a lot of 'others' since Jackson.

She stopped counting them when she hit the number 11. Eleven seemed like a nice round number to stop at.

Oh she didn't stop finding others after that, but she did stop counting them. After eleven, the numbers didn't really matter anymore... after eleven, she got tired of counting. It was right around 'eleven' that she realized that she wasn't going to, somehow, at some point, hit a magic number and stop… stop... looking for 'others'. After eleven she realized that she was looking for something specific. Something that she couldn't find in the shade of their skin, or by looking in their eyes, or by listening to the timbre of their voice. So, instead, she crooked her finger, and she flipped her ginger locks, and the man, any man she was looking at, came running.

And then she had him. Sight, sound, scent and taste. And then, when she'd had him...

… nothing.

Minutes after they'd parted ways, she'd feel that ache in her gut again. The ache that whispered, 'more'.

It whispered until it was screaming.

Screaming as loud as she did when death was at the door.

And then she would need to start looking again; trying to find another 'other'.

Trying to find that specific, little/big, known/unknown, 'something' that she needed.

(())

Scott looked at Derek as Lydia joined the rest of the pack, heading to 'her spot' in the corner of the room. He could smell the scent of at least two different men on her – one from within the past 24 hours and one from – he sniffed again – at least three days ago.

The frequency of the times that she arrived at the pack meetings covered with the scent of men - non pack men..., non platonic pack men – had been increasing. And at each meeting, Scott had watched Derek's reaction, seen his nostrils flare, seen his jaw tighten. The reactions disappeared almost as quickly as they appeared; he was pretty certain that Derek wasn't even aware that he was having these visceral responses to Lydia's presence. But the responses were there, and Derek's curmudgeonly, short-tempered attitude was was getting worse every day. Spending time with Derek – the original lone wolf – was always challenging, but during the past few months... really it was becoming ridiculous.

Scott pulled his eyes away from Derek and glanced at Lydia; intelligent, witty..., seemingly unbreakable Lydia.

He straightened his shoulders, it was his job to make certain that his pack was safe. Safe, and healthy and thriving.

And Lydia was not thriving. She was existing; but not thriving.

He looked back at Derek. And Derek, Derek wasn't doing much better.

Scott sighed, he was going to have to do something about this.