12:58 a.m.

Lydia Martin couldn't sleep – but that was not unusual. She was sitting cross-legged in bed, dressed in black shorts and a pink cotton top that draped off one shoulder. Her expression was careworn, and her left hand rested lightly on the opposite side of her abdomen. Below it, a sterile white bandage, covering a three-inch-long, sutured wound – the one she got when Tracy sliced her open and spilled her blood on the floor of Sheriff Stilinski's office.

She had been released from the hospital five days ago, and for the fifth night in a row, Lydia picked up her sketchbook and propped it in her lap. Drawing had always been cathartic for her, but with everything that had happened in the past few months, she found herself wanting…even needing to draw, more and more.

Now, the sketchbook was nearly full. Lydia had been carrying it everywhere, and its battered binding told the story. As she sat there, wide awake, with a pencil in her left hand, she couldn't shake a gnawing sensation of dread.

Slowly, she began to mark the blank page before her. The curves and lines gradually came alive as she patiently added detail after detail to the image. Eyes. Not just any eyes. The same she had been drawing for months. Every single night. For some reason, each time she drew them, she felt reassured. She didn't know whom they belonged to, but their warmth seemed familiar. A wealth of emotion emanated from within those eyes. It was as if they were trying to speak to her.

The petite, strawberry-blonde became more engrossed in her work with each passing second. Her bedroom was noiseless save for the grinding of a worn-down pencil marking the page of her book. With one eyebrow arched and her head tilted to the side, she determinedly focused on a distant echo. While Lydia continued to glide her pencil against the paper, the noise grew louder and more distinct. It was the clamor of metal crashing down; a sharp, repetitive, disharmonious clanking. Just as she filled in the details of the irises, a glint of something silver flashed in her mind…but in an instant, it was gone. She repeatedly traced the lines with her pencil hoping that the sound of graphite against the fibers of the paper would reveal additional information. Minutes passed. She did not hear the sound again.

1:24 a.m.

Suddenly, a knock at the window broke the silence – first making Lydia jump, then catalyzing a familiar fluttering in her stomach. There was only one person who would be outside her bedroom at this hour. Stiles.

As she rose from the bed, a wave of nervousness rushed over her. Although she was excited by the prospect of seeing him, she was also painfully aware that it had been several months since Stiles last visited her. Something as unique as the rhythm of his knuckles tapping on her windowpane, something that previously offered nothing but comfort and reassurance, now gave Lydia the impression that the unrelenting dread which plagued her all night had been warranted.

She crossed the room to draw the curtains and open the window. While typically her friend would have greeted her with a crooked grin…followed by a witty remark or a transparent excuse for why he was at her window in the middle of the night, this time Stiles said nothing.

He stood motionless, face masked by shadow, voice barely a whisper when he asked, "Did I wake you?"

"No, I couldn't sleep. Come in," she answered. When he remained static, his form practically consumed by the dark cover of night, Lydia blindly reached for his arm and spoke again. "Stiles, come on… Come inside."

Stiles reluctantly climbed over the windowsill and stepped past her, dragging the cool night air in behind him.

Pausing briefly, then shutting out the unsettling stillness beyond her window, she turned towards him, looking up to meet his eyes. As soon as they connected, her stomach plummeted, and her apprehension expanded. The boy before her looked dazed and unbalanced. It smashed the hope that Stiles had come by simply to spend time with her and chilled her to the core. Something was seriously wrong, and it was written all over his face.

"Stiles, what happ—" Lydia started to say.

Before she could finish the question, he crumpled into her arms. His body crushed against hers, then his arms came up to surround her as he buried his face in the crook of her neck, and all she could do was hold onto him.

Lydia could feel Stiles shaking through ragged breaths, distributing shockwaves of fear and worry through her ribs – straight to her heart. The sensation activated an urgent and powerful need to protect him. It gave her the strength to transform her anxiety into action, so she tightened her embrace in the hopes that she could calm him.

After an extended moment, they parted. Stiles's body language was tense, jaw clenched tightly, eyes fixed on the floor. Even in the dimly lit room, Lydia could see that he was terrified.

She tried again. "Hey, look at me. I'm right here. Whatever it is...I'll help you. Can you just...tell me what happened?"

He took a breath, and his lips parted but no sound came out.

Lydia stepped back, only to find another reason to be concerned.

His hands and shirt were covered in blood.

"Oh my god, Stiles..." she exhaled, eyes widening with shock. Her heart was pounding as she pushed layers of cotton aside, hastily searching for the source of the blood.

"It's not mine," he replied, tenor of his voice horse and uneven.

A burst of images – faces of all the people they cared about, flashed through her mind. What if it was his dad or Scott?

She forced herself to swallow, so she could speak. "Is it...any one of our friends or family?"

He shook his head.

Lydia sighed and put her hands on his arms. "Okay. It's going to be okay. First, we need to get you out of these clothes. Take those off, and I'll get you something else to wear." She tried to look into his eyes, but they were shaded by his lashes and remained focused on the floor. "I won't be long."

Though it troubled her to move away from Stiles, Lydia's instinct to care for him took control. She hurried down the hallway to the guest room. Without hesitation, she retrieved a grey tee and a pair of black sweatpants from the dresser. The intense desire to get back to Stiles, propelled her forward with such speed, she wasn't entirely sure she was in control over her own body.

She returned to the bedroom, but he hadn't budged an inch. His hands were trembling so violently that he couldn't even manage the buttons on his shirt. The scene made Lydia painfully aware of his anguish, and a sharp tightness clutched at her chest. It physically hurt her to see this boy, whom she grew up with, and who had come to mean so much, struggling so severely.

Cautiously, so as not to startle him, she closed the space between them. "It's alright. I can do that," she said, tenderly covering his battered hands with her own to quiet them.

While she unfastened the buttons of his flannel shirt, she noticed the shallow intake of his breaths. Stopping her work, she looked up at him. His deep brown eyes, which were normally full of gold flecks, were now dark, dilated, and saturated with tears. It triggered a fleeting impression of déjà vu but she let it pass, observing that Stiles was biting his lip. He had a habit of doing so when he was upset or trying to solve a problem, and now he was putting so much pressure on his poor bottom lip that it was starting to bleed.

She moved her hand to his chin, tugging at the corner of his mouth with her thumb. "Stiles, stop. You're hurting yourself."

He obediently released his lip and opened his mouth to speak.

Hearing the breath catch in his throat, Lydia interrupted him. "Shh…you don't have to talk right now. Let's get you cleaned up, and then we'll figure everything out – together." She pressed her cool palms to his flushed face and wiped the tears that were dampening his cheeks. Letting her hands linger, she repeated, "I'm here. I'm going to help you," while hoping that enough comfort would radiate from her words and touch to help him exhale.

When he did, she resumed with the buttons until they were undone and began to push the shirt over his shoulders. Stiles shifted his arms to accommodate her, and for a split second, she thought she saw him wince. The expression faded so swiftly that she wasn't sure she had really seen it, so she went on. She draped his flannel over her desk chair, then grasped for his tee shirt. Her heart rate increased as she lifted the hem, causing her to hesitate; timidness uncharacteristically shadowing her usually confident personality.

The reaction frustrated and surprised her. I am being ridiculous, she thought. This isn't the time to be shy. I've seen him without a shirt on before. Of course…that was at the beach…in broad daylight…surrounded by friends. Not in my bedroom…in the middle of the night…just the two of us.

In this setting, there was an undeniable level of intimacy; the air was thick with emotion – emotion that Lydia was not currently prepared to face. An increasing rush of heat in her cheeks told her she was blushing, which she hardly ever did, and the realization made her feel unsteady.

Working diligently, to steel herself, she slowly pulled the tee upwards, revealing Stiles's torso. She sucked in a breath, along with her bottom lip, feeling him shudder as her fingertips lightly connected with his skin. Her eyes swiftly flicked to his face to check for a change in his expression. He remained stoic at first, but when he lifted his arms above his shoulder, so she could remove his shirt, Lydia saw it – Stiles had definitely winced in pain.

She abruptly stopped but he nodded, silently mouthing, "It's alright," and urging her to keep going.

As carefully as possible, she lifted the blood-stained garment over his head and placed it aside. "You're hurt. Let me see," she directed.

When Stiles turned around, Lydia couldn't help but gasp at what she saw.