This is sort of piggy-backing off of the last chapter of my three-shot, Hero...it isn't necessary to understand this one, in case you don't feel like reading that one.. I just have an urge to write more than a one shot... hope this one is better than my last attempt :)

"Is this a joke?" Scott McCall stated blandly, emphasis on his cell phone wagging in his left hand while opening the passenger door to his best friends signature jeep with the other. Stiles Stilinski rolled his eyes. "Just get in, Scott." Scott chuckled while throwing his book bag into the back seat and sighing loudly into the air around them. "Rough day?" Stiles quipped, a knowing smile on his face. Scott glared while clicking his seat belt. "I don't know if I can take this for a whole summer. I mean, I think I'm the only one here that has to stay for the whole day." The werewolf whined. "Then you shouldn't have failed three classes." Stiles ticked, shoving his jeep into drive and getting the hell off school property. He was so thankful he wasn't joining his best friend. Summer school was a distant memory for Stiles, he stopped going the summer of sixth grade, once he figured out that it was more of a babysitting tactic to his parents than actually an educational experience for him."-and I mean, you're lucky Scott, they were really thinking of holding you back a grade. Imagine having to be in those classes again next year!" Stiles rambled. "Imagine having Harris again next year." Stiles shuddered. "Stiles?" Scott mumbled. "Yeah?" "Are we going to keep talking about school or that text you sent me earlier?" Stiles frowned, a blush creeping up his neck. "I was hoping maybe more talk about school, Coach was really pulling for you there, isn't that great? Or- oh! How about Derek? How are those cult meetings going?" The sixteen year old teased and Scott found himself shaking his head. "Stiles, come on, did you mean that? 'Cause dude, you always say that and you never do it." The werewolf pointed out. "Yeah dude, I meant it." Stiles glared mildly. "-and for the record, I don't always say it. Just... just sometimes." "What brought this on?" Scott asked quietly.

Stiles licked his lips but didn't say anything. He had one hand securely on the wheel, the other tapping against his thigh. He really didn't want to fall into an abnormally lengthy rant about everything that had lead up to this moment, he didn't want to go all the way back to sixth grade when she made fun of him for the first time, and work his way into the present, to right now, when only a night before Stiles had finally taken his dad's offer to try out the new Italian restaurant in town. He knew that it wasn't healthy for the sheriff and that it would have just been better to order take out and watch the Mets. But no, he went out, probably for the first time with his dad since his mom died to a stupid restaurant and only spotted the one person he had been so successfully avoiding, until now.

Stiles' grip on the wheel tightened remembering how happy she looked. No more tears dripping like a leaking faucet down her face, smearing makeup and leaving her skin raw and puffy. It was like she didn't even know what the word agony meant let alone lived if for the better half of the school year. She was beautiful too, as usual, but last night she was looking extra special, and Stiles was quick to realize why. Jackson was with her. He joined Lydia and her father for dinner and they had looked so perfect, too perfect on the opposite side of Mr. Martin in the large booth. They talked and laughed and looked genuinely happy, like Jackson hadn't been a lizard monster on a killing spree for months, like Lydia hadn't went out of her mind, not like they had ever broke up. Stiles wanted to leave immediately, but the sheriff had one night off and he wanted to be there, with Stiles, enjoying himself. And of course Stiles would oblige, he would do anything for his father. So they were seated and ordered. Mr. Stilinski commented on how it was a sheer miracle that Mrs. McCall caught the signs and revived Jackson Whittemore from the dead; the sheriff had never heard of a real near death experience before, but he was so happy for the boy. Stiles faked a smile and glared at the lacrosse captain over his water glass. It was a miracle after all.

It was around then that Stiles felt sick inside, he couldn't even finish his chicken Parmesan, he was fighting for someone who had turned the other way. It was like everything, all the pain and fear and rejection that he had bottled up inside, that he pretended was something else entirely broke through, rose to the surface and caused the young man's head to spin. Jackson kissed her, right there in the middle of a crowded restaurant, with her father sitting across from them, with Stiles watching. It was like a movie, Stiles couldn't look away if he tried, he gravitated towards the strawberry blonde, it had always been that way. They broke apart and Jackson smirked at Stiles, only tables away. That's why he did it, most likely, hearing the dinner conversation the Stilinski's discussed. Lydia was looking at Stiles and Stiles was looking back. Jackson was just trying to show Stiles that she wasn't his, that she wouldn't be. Sure she smiled at him across the restaurant, sure she even came up to the table to greet the father and son, but it meant nothing to Stiles, it was detached, void of any emotion that he cared to think of. She was never going to be his, and he was sick of trying so hard.

"So wanna get Italian for lunch? I'm starving." Scott broke through Stiles' haze. He sensed the boy wasn't going to talk about it, he just wished he opened up about this, about Lydia. A few weeks ago he had acted like nothing happened, that Lydia's love didn't wake the dead, literally. He acted like it wasn't even a set back and he was going to continue to pine after the girl. Sure, Scott loved his best friend's determination, and how big his heart was, but Scott didn't like the way Stiles was acting about it. If he liked her, he should have done something, and now she was with Jackson and things didn't seem to be slowing down for them. Honestly, talking about it or not, Scott was relieved that Stiles was starting to see it all for what it was. "No!" Stiles snapped, making Scott jump, something his best friend hadn't been able to do in so long. "No Italian, ever again. Not even pizza." Stiles commanded with a blanched look to his skin. "Okay?" Scott chuckled to himself at the random outburst, "What about some McDonald's?" He volunteered with a small smile. Stiles eyed his best friend sitting next to him and smiled appreciatively. "Perfect." Stiles made a right at the next street corner, comfortable silence followed.

Stiles came home to an empty house. He sighed while dropping his keys at the door. He was used to being alone, but it wasn't like the isolation didn't bother him. He made his way into the kitchen with a yawn. Scott had got Stiles' mind off of his stupid laps of judgment of texting him earlier by quickly starting up the much needed conversation about what Derek and his little pack prepared to do about all these new werewolves in town. Stiles felt relieved that first week of summer school when he was picking Scott up, seeing Erica leaving for the day too. He offered her a ride, the least he could do for abandoning her after getting his ass handed to him by an old man, but she refused with an appreciative blush and ran towards the woods. Scott wanted to talk to Allison, see what her father knew, but Stiles said it wasn't a good idea, agreeing for the first time in ages with Derek Hale. It was a pack of werewolves, it was officially a werewolf problem, and it wasn't like they had done anything yet. Stiles knew they were ominous, but no one but Boyd and Erica had seen them, and they hadn't remembered much from their time in the woods with the lot of them. Stiles went right for the fridge, his chicken nuggets from McDonald's not filling him earlier, and ignoring the nagging craving for some everything pizza. Stupid Italian food, he thought numbly while staring right through his carton of milk. He could even smell the chick parm from last night.. he was losing his mind. Shutting the fridge door with some force he decided on just going to bed, it was already eleven, and he was exhausted with the knowledge that nothing was being done to insure that these new werewolves in town weren't going to become a threat. It had been almost a month since he first heard of them and seriously, nothing. Scott had told Stiles that Derek was working pretty hard on keeping Jackson out of trouble since he became even more of an entitled dumb ass. Stiles couldn't say he was surprised. Seeing him the other night, smiling through Stiles like he had the god damn world, it sent a rush of anger through the sixteen year old. His stomach growled, he was now very much craving chicken parm. He wished he wasn't so stubborn and agreed to let the waitress wrap it up last night. Stiles frowned again, remembering the way Lydia looked at him while he was leaving, like she wanted to say something but chose against it. Maybe because Jackson had his arm draped over her, maybe because Stiles wanted space. It didn't matter, he was going to forget about her, if it was the last thing he did. He made his way through the arch that connected the dining room to the living room and found, sitting on the unused table a take out container from the Italian restaurant. Stiles furrowed his brows and walks towards it, a note sat right on top of the Styrofoam.

'I am not a stalker, your father let me in on his way out. I saw that look on your face last night, I had no idea you would be there... Anyway, I don't know why you didn't eat this last night, it was so good!

I stole a bite.

P.S. I'm going to make it really hard to not want to be my friend. Enjoy, Stiles. '

-Lydia.

Stiles bit the inside of his cheek, suppressing a smile that was dying to be shed. She was good, the girl was smart. It was like the conversation they had a few weeks ago, about how Stiles didn't want to feel like this anymore, that he wanted to get over her, never happened. It was almost like Lydia wanted Stiles to stay crazy about her. But that was probably Stiles thinking too much of this, just like he thought too much into Lydia sitting with his father watching him win that dumb lacrosse game. He left the dinning room and came back with a fork. He was officially craving Italian. He debated on texting her, to say thank you, to be polite, but somehow, Stiles knew that Lydia wouldn't mind not being contacted, she knew he needed space. After he ate this chicken parm and stayed up too late thinking about the meaning of her going through all the trouble of getting it for him, he would get over her. Stiles had all summer after all.