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part three: i want you for worse or for better, i would wait forever and ever

.

"Are we really watching this again?" Lydia asks him as she sinks down on the couch with a bowl of popcorn in her lap, folding her socked feet under her. It's been a long day at work, but wondrously, Sammy fell asleep within three minutes.

Before all of this happened, Lydia would have ran away screaming if someone suggested an evening on the couch with Scott's annoying best friend. But, now? It about sounds like the best thing in the world.

"Are you really asking me that?" He's on the floor, making use of their coffee table as a glorified hamper, absentmindedly folding laundry as Stranger Things plays on the TV. It's mostly Sammy's rompers and frilly dresses and playful dungarees, but there's also his Star Wars t-shirts and plaids, her pencil skirts and pyjamas.

Her eyes fall on his hands, shaking his head at something on the TV as he folds one of her thongs. She suddenly leans forward, snatching the red fabric from his hands as her cheeks pink.

He gives her an incredulous look, turning his head to look at her. "Seriously? I do all the laundry in this house. What did you expect?"

"I don't know!" She exclaims, fist still folded around the material tighty. It's just so… domestic. "Just… Don't, please."

He rolls his eyes, "You'd rather do your own laundry?" She doesn't respond immediately, because, of course she doesn't want to. They've divided all the tasks in and around the house, and she's fine with trash duty and doing the dishes.

He seems to be able to read her mind, struggling a little to open her fist—because she's trying to keep up the ruse that she doesn't want this—before grabbing the red material, folding it and putting it in the hamper with her clothes, all the while not even taking his eyes off the screen. He mutters something about the short-haired girl on screen, but all and all, it's not like a big, relationship changing thing that's just happened.

Even though it feels like that, for Lydia. It feels so intimate, even though he's folding her fucking underwear like it means nothing. And it probably doesn't. But every time he picks up one of her thongs or boyshorts with his long fingers, skillfully and delicately unwrinkling them and folding them—her heart skips about three beats, tongue darting out to wet her lips or, hand reaching up to try and loosen the collar of her sweater because it's so hot all of a sudden or, teeth biting down on her bottom lip, or pressing her knees together to relieve some of the fucking pressure she didn't want to have to relief to start with.

It's mostly out of petty reasons that she starts to text Aiden that night, purposely letting Stiles know multiple times by showing him something stupid he said, or showing him the ridiculous snapchats the guy sends her. She knows it's not his fault, not really, and she's not even sure Stiles even likes her, like that, anyway, but she needs to make sure. That, if he does, he'll stop. Especially since he's touching her thongs daily, now. That feels like crossing a line. It'll be too messy.

Aiden is easy, clean. No mess involved. No best friend baby to look after together. No strings, whatsoever.

"He's an idiot, you know that, right?" He says, folding one of Samantha's bibs as he snorts at the snapchat she shows him. He's shirtless, all 38 abs showing, just wearing a bowtie around his neck, caption reading 'i'm a classy guy x'.

"Yeah," Lydia answers, automatically, because he is. She's basically just been making fun of him all night, with Stiles' help. She shrugs, snorting at the screen again as she takes a screenshot. "But he's hot. And really good in bed."

She's only even interested in Aiden, not because of who he is, but because of who he isn't. He's unlike anything that Stiles is. But to admit that, would be to admit something else entirely. And she's not—she's not ready. For that. For all the complications that come with it, and the feelings, God, the feelings. The messiness.

Aiden's stupid hot, and stupid, period. He obviously is really into her. It makes it easier to deny what she wants to deny.

Stiles' shoulders stiffen just a little, as he avoids her gaze. Lydia knows she's a bitch, she knows that. Somewhere deep down she likes that he likes her, she wants him to like her. But that's not fair. As the credits of the episode play on tv, he mutters, finally, "I just think you deserve better, 's all."

She reaches forward, squeezing his shoulder. Her pulse feels dangerously high, that he cares, that much. He finally turns his head to look at her. "Thanks. But it's not that deep, Stiles."

He looks at her for a moment, taking her in, then shakes his head, deciding not to get in it. Eventually, turning back to the TV, he mentions, "I'm thinking of quitting the force."

"What, why?" She snaps, sitting up, eyes wide. "You love being on the force. You've tried for years to get on it and—"

"I know," he sighs, rubbing the back of his neck as he leans back against the couch, trying to search for the right words. "But, I realized it might take years, before I even get promoted to being a detective. So, I've been looking into becoming a private investigator, instead."

"You'll spend the rest of your life taking pictures of cheating husbands and finding missing dogs," she notes, blunt as she licks her lips, feeling like the rug just got pulled from right underneath her feet.

He shrugs, leaning his elbow on his knee as he plays with his fingers nervously. "But it pays well and, I get to chose my own hours which means I get to spend more time at home."

With Samantha, he doesn't mean her. He means Samantha.

Still, it feels like there isn't enough room in her chest for her heart right now. "You'd really do that?" She whispers, fragile voice almost breaking because she's close to tears. He'd give up all his dreams, something he's worked for so hard, just to—just to give her a better life.

"Yeah, it used to feel like the most important thing in the world, you know. Being a detective," he smiles, fond at the memory, absentmindedly, "It felt like the only thing that mattered."

"And now it doesn't," she fills in, nails digging into the palm of her hand to keep from crying. Because she knows, what he means. Nothing else really matters, does it, when she's everything. He turns his head, catching her eye as he nods. "Now it doesn't."

.

Lydia spends a mid-week with a bunch of teenagers on a academic decathlon field trip, which makes her realize she's really glad she's not in high school anymore.

She gets home on Sunday morning to find Liam passed out in front of her downstairs bathroom; Isaac asleep sitting at the breakfast table, pretty sure his face is covered in eggs benedict; Mason asleep on her couch, but at least he'd had the decency to take off his shoes before he laid down.

She puts down her bag and takes off her coat before going upstairs, only to find Theo (the partner from his squad that Stiles keeps talking shit about) passed out on her silk sheets with some unknown tramp. Her SILK sheets. Scratch that, Theo's the tramp. She already trusts the girl more than she does him.

She stalks down the hallway, ready to rip someone a new one. She finds Stiles asleep in his bed. He's laying on his stomach, one leg hanging off the bed, chubby hand laying on top of his forearm. It's Samantha, fast asleep on top of the covers, underneath her own Dora blanket. They look so cute, her anger fades immediately.

"Stiles," she clears her throat, kicking his leg softly. Then, harder, when he refuses to wake up. It seems to work, because he scrambles into a sitting position immediately, clutching his chest. His hair is sticking up in different directions, rubbing his eyes tiredly at the sight of her, voice gruff with sleep as he checks, "Lydia?"

"Yeah, unless you brought a girl home with you, too. You don't think Samantha's a little too young to go clubbing?" She crosses her arms over her chest, defiantly.

"There was a guy's night planned, for a long time, apparently, I forgot. They ambushed me and practically forced me to go," he explains, eyebrows raised as he leans his head back against the headboard. He's already answering all the questions she wanted to ask. "I had to take Samantha because there was literally no one who could watch her, and apparently she works like a charm on the ladies. She loved the attention. I didn't drink anything, promise."

"Still doesn't explain the unknown hussy in my bed, sweetheart," she snaps, sarcastically as she slaps the back of his head. "With your partner, which makes it even worse."

He frowns, rubbing the back of his head as he thinks it over, kicking the covers away from him. "An unknown…" His face lights up all of a sudden. "That's Malia."

"I thought you said it was guy's night?" Lydia sighs, defenses already lowering as she sinks down on the bed sideways.

"You know her, she's one of the guys," he counters, scratching his chin, hand drooping down his chest to rest on his stomach. "Besides, she came all the way from France, like. Does it matter?"

"And you let her get into bed with that weasel? While Isaac was downstairs?" She's just grasping at straws now, trying to find any small sliver of wrongness she gets to be mad about.

"Theo was wasted last night. I don't think they could've done anything even if they wanted to," he notes, yawning as he reaches out to tuck some hair away from Samantha's face.

She takes him in, really takes him in. He looks tired, but in a cute sleepy way, brown eyes laced with laziness, and fondness, for Samantha as he looks at her. He's shirtless, chest bare except for the small trail of dark hair leading down—God, she needs a drink. It's 8am and she needs a fucking drink.

"You know," she voices, soft as she tucks Sammy's foot under the blanket. "I'm glad you had fun. You deserve it."

His head snaps away from Sam to look up at her from under his lashes, he gives it a moment, like he's expecting her to elaborate. "I feel like there's a catch somewhere. You're going to tell me this is the last fun I'll be having for the next eighteen years, or what?"

"I just wanted to tell you," she shoves him, laughing, hand ending up on his shin. "I appreciate everything you do." Her smile fades a little, gets more bittersweet than happy, a little more real than intended. "I notice. That's all."

He raises his eyebrows, stupid smug smirk on his face. "That's all you notice, huh?"

She opens her mouth to ask what the hell he's talking about, when her train of thought gets momentarily lost because he's flexing his abs, because he's laughing, at her. Because she's being too obvious, ogling him like one of the hormonal teenagers she couldn't wait to get rid off.

"Shut up," she snarls, slapping her hand down on his shin for good measure. "I never said—"

Samantha brabbles, tiny fists reaching out, before deciding its taking too long for them to react to her and rolling over until she's able to sit up.

"Oh. Good morning, sunshine," Lydia cooes as she picks her up and puts her on her lap, bobbing her on the nose. "You had fun last night, did you? A real ladies woman, huh?"

"It was different," he admits, absentmindedly as he watches them, and Lydia remembers he's sensitive, likes to talk about his feelings. "Without Scott, I mean."

Hearing his name still makes the hairs on the back of her neck stand up straight.

"Like it feels wrong to have fun without him?" Lydia huffs, almost humoured. "Yeah. I know the feeling." She kisses Sam on the forehead, shaking her head lightly. "It's not bad—it's natural, to move on. To not feel guilty for moving on. It's hard, but—"

"It's what they would've wanted?" He fills in for her, eyebrows raised skeptically as he folds his hands on top of his hip bones.

"Yeah, sounds like a cliché when you say it like that, huh," Lydia smiles, as Sammy settles her head under her chin, fist wrapped around two of her fingers, guiding it to her mouth.

He leans forward, putting one hand on her shoulder, hand feeling heavy and warm. "I notice, too, you know. You're doing great."

"Thanks," she mutters, hoping her face isn't fifty shades of red about now. Finally, she makes a move to get up. "I think someone is hungry and someone else has to kick about twelve people out of our house."

She sends him a pointed look over her shoulder as Stiles pretends to salute her before she steps outside of his room.

"It's too early for a drink, right, Sammy?" She mutters against the side of her head softly as she descends the stairs. "Such a mess."

.

"I have a free day, you too, right?" She vaguely registers a voice as she opens her eyes, blinking a few time to clear her sleepy gaze. Looking out the window, it's still dark. She turns on her back, moving her head to look at the clock.

"It's five a.m.," she mutters, pressing a hand to her forehead, swallowing tightly as she tries to remember why she even woke up. "It's five a.m."

"Lydia," it's the voice again, and this time she can make out it's Stiles.

"What?" She groans, pulling the covers over her face.

"It's Saturday. You're free from work and it's my first complete weekend off in like, two months." His voice, it's still there. But he sounds further away. She sits up, still slightly disoriented as she tries to decipher where he is exactly. "It's a sign from God, or like, whoever you believe in, the universe, or like, science. Math...ematical possibility lining up just right for us to be free on the same weekend."

Finally, he emerges from her closet, Sammy balancing on his hip, throwing some garments her way. "We're going to the zoo. The shower's already running. I'll make breakfast while you get ready."

"You were in my closet?" Is the only thing she can come up with in protest, staring at the items on the bed in front of her. She was really looking forward to a day of doing nothing, just slightly feeling dreadful because she has five different classes that handed in papers that she has yet to grade but knowing she could spend her sunday doing it instead.

His head pops back around the corner of her door, Sammy grabbing at his nose, giggling as he pretends to bite her. "You're wasting water."

With a loud groan, she lays back down, in demonstration, only to get back up five seconds later and stalking over to her bathroom. He's impossible.

Luckily, he offers to drive (her car, because there's no way she's getting in his jeep with Sam) as soon as she comes downstairs, and the hour and a half drive there is quiet except for him talking to the baby now and then. Plus, he brought snacks. It's enough for her mood to dissolve.

They go see the African wildlife first, Stiles telling her weirdly detailed but very random facts (it's his ADD) about each and every animal they come across; they spend at least two hours at the aquarium because nothing has ever been as visually stimulating for Samantha before; they eat their sandwiches on a bench in the cold, surrounded by penguins and polar bears, huddled close together for warmth as Samantha takes a nap in her stroller; they ask a lady to take a photo of the three of them in front of the monkeys and he posts it on instagram with the caption 'they're the top bananas' and her heart is so warm; he basically wants a photo of her and Sam in front of every animal there is, but especially in front of the red pandas because 'they look alike' which isn't a dig at her hair color, but it is; they eat cheddar goldfish while watching a sea lion show because he's a dork who took themed snacks to the zoo;the baby gets fussy when they're in the butterfly garden, fists opening and closing like she wants to grab one of the colorful creatures and just as Stiles crouches down in front of her, she says it.

"Dada."

Lydia can see it happen. He just kind of freezes, blinking at Samantha like she just said a full on sentence as she keeps reaching for him, just a little too far away, babbling more gibberish before spitting it out again. "Dada."

She crouches down next to him, putting a hand in between his shoulder blades. "She's probably just picked it up at daycare," she tries to comfort him, because this is both the best and worst thing that's ever happened to them, and it comes with a set of very complicated emotions.

"Dada," Sammy puffs, head turning red from effort and Lydia offers her free hand to her, trying to release her from her misery. The baby squeezes, pulling it toward her mouth, because that's just something she does now.

"Are you okay?" She asks, softly, rubbing his back gently as she leans closer to him, following his gaze to look at their baby, their Samantha.

He nods, sniffing as he uses his thumb and forefinger to press at his tear ducts, quickly wiping away the liquid that had formed. "Y..Yeah." He picks up her favorite stuffed animal and hands it to Samantha, who gladly grabs it with her free hand, grip still tight on Lydia's fingers.

"I just want you to know that you shouldn't feel too special," Lydia informs him, trying to break the tension as she leans her head on his shoulder, moving her hand up to rest her fingers on the junction of his neck. "Babies always say dada before mama because of the structure of their mouth and their limited motor control the 'd' sound is easier to make."

He turns to look down at her, readjusting the backwards cap on his head, eyes no longer shining with tears, but with amusement. "It's not a contest." He grins, and God, dear God, she loves him. "But I'm glad you were so insecure about losing that you did research on it."

She cocks an eyebrow, shifting so her chin is resting on his shoulder and they're so close, yet, she manages to keep her voice steady. "I'm a certified genius, I don't need to do research."

"Keep telling yourself that," he laughs, arm looping around her to squeeze her side, earning a yelp from her as she retaliates by elbowing him in the ribs. He helps her rise to her feet, "Sam is tired and I'm super hungry. What do you say we get out of here and get something to eat?"

"You're always hungry," she mentions, because she honestly does not now how he's so lean, since he's always either eating or talking, making her think that talking probably burns a lot of calories. She laughs at herself, before smirking mischievously, adding, "Dada."

"Stop," he practically whines, and he looks so stupid in his Mets cap as he hides his face in his hands. Stupidly cute.

"Why, are you going to cry?"

Before they get in the car, she pulls out her phone, typing a quick message to Aiden. She kind of feels like an asshole for doing it over text, but it's not like they were actually dating, friends with benefits at best, but without the actual friends part. Besides, it was long overdue. He was a nice distraction, but now that she just had a goddamn epiphany over Stiles grinning like an idiot, it was time.

TO AIDEN:

Sorry, I can't do this anymore. It's been fun. Wish you the best X Lydia

Her phone beeps, about two hours later, just as she's laughing at something stupid Stiles has said while they sit down in a local cafeteria, even though she knows he's only saying it to get this exact reaction. She pulls it out of her pocket, Stiles focusing on getting Sammy in a baby chair.

FROM AIDEN:

Is this about Stiles?

She stares at the message for a second, because it is and it isn't, but she hadn't thought it'd been so obvious for outsiders.

"You okay?" Stiles asks, gently after they order, trying to feed Sammy her mashed mixed vegetables even though she keeps spitting it out, which she probably got from Scott since he lived purely on meat.

"Yeah, it's just—" she pauses, biting down on her lip as plays with her necklace. She sighs. "Me and Aiden broke-up." And he like practically told me he knew it was because I'm maybe, possibly, definitely in love with you and now I need to know if you know, too, or are trying to ignore it because you don't feel the same way.

His spoon freezes mid-air, before he clears his throat, continuing his prior movements as he avoids her gaze, "and are we sad about this, or are we celebrating?"

She rolls her eyes, tucking the necklace back behind her sweater as she leans closer to him in the booth to be able to reach Sam's bib, using it to clean of the green gunk of her chin. "You're not going to catch me losing a wink of sleep over it, so you shouldn't either."

He purses his lips, impressed, his arm warm against hers. He smells nice. "Wow, okay. Good for you." He presses his lips together like he wants to say more, but doesn't.

She leans her cheek on her fist, watching him do and make the most embarrassing moves and sounds to get Sam to eat. It's good, this feels good. Him and her and Samantha, the three of them, happy and in a good place and not fighting for once in their damn lives. She chews on her bottom lip, smiling a little as Sammy finally opens her mouth, only to spit it all right back out, Stiles pretending to cry, making her giggle.

In the end, she chickens out. Because, even if she's still Lydia Martin and he's still Stiles Stilinski and he probably does feel the same, she doesn't know if it's worth, in the end. If it goes wrong, if it doesn't work out, if feelings fade, they're back to square one, or maybe even worse than that. For Samantha, it's not—she deserves better than that.

.

Lydia has taken one day off from work a week, because Stiles is trying to require a PI license, and it's good, a blessing in disguise. She sees more of Samantha, and she has extra time on her hands to actually help around the house and grade and watch stupid netflix shows she hasn't watched for almost a year.

Samantha recently took her first steps, and everyone knows it, because Stiles extensively documented it on every and each social media platform. The other week she finally said mama, and Lydia about died. It's weird being someone's mother, and sometimes she doesn't feel exactly like it, but it's also thrilling, and heartwarming, and amazing. She's actually sleeping through the night, and she waves bye and claps her hands. She loves music, especially bad pop, which she most certainly gets from Scott.

Her and Stiles are in a weird inbetween stage in their relationship. They're not quite together, but they act like they are, which is, confusing, to say the least. It's also weird being someone's mother and having someone else who you may definitely have romantic feelings for being that someone's father but none of you are actually acting on it. It's just—a strange, uncomfortable situation.

Lydia is just texting Kira back about a complex medinical equation and plans to get drinks, putting away Samantha's bottle in the sink, when the baby bursts out into tears in the other room. She feels like she can't breathe, heart skipping a beat as she throws her phone down on the dinner table, rushing into the living room.

An hour later, she's at the ER, in hysterics as they do a medical examination in one of the patients rooms. There was blood, and, Samantha lying next to the coffee table, and the dread, the absolute dread she felt, the failure as she picked her up and cradled her to her chest, but she wouldn't, she wouldn't stop crying and she doesn't even remember calling Stiles, but there he is.

There he is, holding her, tucking her head under his chin, as she tells him all this, not being able to think clearly when they're in the exact same position as that night of the accident.

"Shhh," he tells her, running his hand over her head as he pulls back just a little, too look at her, to cup her cheek and wipe away her hair from her face. "I'm sure she's fine." He sounds so confident and sure, and she can't help but think back to the time she found him in Samantha's room, freaking out over a cold.

She nods her head, sniffing as she looks at him, she has to believe this now, she has to, or she'll explode. "I just can't, Stiles," she chokes out, tears collecting in her eyes once again, and she knows she sounds desperate, crazy, but she can't. "I can't lose her, too."

"I know," he mutters, pulling her back against his chest as he presses a kiss to her head. "She's fine. I know she is."

The nurse finds them ten minutes later, asks them to come into the examination room because they need to give her some stitches. They follow her, and Stiles holds Samantha as the doctor stitches up the small wound on her forehead. She informs them their baby is fine, besides for the small cut, and to just follow up with their GP if she starts to show any abnormal signs. Stiles writes all of them down in his phone while Lydia tries to shush Samantha, whispering against the side of her head that, "you're such a big girl, you're so strong, yes, you are."

They thank the doctors and Stiles drives them home, Lydia in the backseat next to Samantha, just to be sure. She doesn't think she can ever let her out of her sight again.

"I'm sorry for being so crazy," she tells him, running her finger down Sam's face, smiling sadly when she tries to grab her finger.

"Well at least you look beautiful when you cry," he notes, sarcastically as he looks at her through the rearview mirror, eyes crinkling with laughter as she flips him the bird.

She spends the rest of the night holding her until Stiles offers to take her up to her room, reminding her it's been a long day for the both of them. She decides to take a shower, slipping into her sleep shorts and an old sweater before sitting down against her headboard.

She doesn't know how long she sits there, eyes closed, repeating the days events over and over and coming to the same conclusion each and every time. She can't lose Samantha, but she can't lose Stiles either. She loves them both. She wants them to be a family, a real family. Not because of Samantha, but because she wants him, all of him.

"She's asleep," he knocks on her door, leaning against it with his arms crossed, having changed into a maroon t-shirt and basketball shorts.

"C'mere," she mumbles, coaxing him to sit down on the bed with a wave of her hand, and then a pull on his when he's close enough. She sits up, inching closer, putting her hands on the side of his neck. He freezes, swallowing visibly. She inhales sharply, moving her thumbs over his jawline, regarding him carefully. She leans her forehead against his, nuzzling his nose for a second. Then, "I love you."

His hand moves over her thigh, pulling his face back a little to search her eyes. His other hand lands on her arm, he leans closer, watching her closely like he's still expected her to say 'as a friend' any second now. His lips part slightly, and he reaches over her arm to run his thumb over her bottom lip, making her inhale slowly, trying to slow her heart rate.

"I love you, too," he breathes, and it's finally quiet, in her head, when they kiss.

It's slow, and soft, at first, almost careful, and then it turns hungry, and greedy and like what she's been thinking about for a while now. One hand under her sweater, on her side, the other in her hair, trying to pull her even closer, because nothing feels close enough right now.

They disentangle for a second so he can pull his shirt over his head and she dips her head to kiss his jaw as soon as he does, sliding closer to connect their mouths again. They shift, so he doesn't have to turn his body in such an awkward angle anymore, and she straddles his lap, pushing him back against the headboard. Her sweater is next, and she smirks, as his eyes turn darker, pupils dilating at the sight of her before their mouths touch again, chests pressed together as his hands roam her back.

"This doesn't feel real," he mutters, pressing a kiss to the corner of her mouth, pulling back just a little to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. "I mean, I really love you, but I've imagined this about a million times in my head and it's never felt like this and I just feel like any second now I'm going to wake up, and just in case that happens, I just want you to know that—"

It's so Stiles to find something to ramble about when they're literally about to have sex, and it makes her stomach do all kinds of weird flips and turns because she's so in love. She really is.

"Shut up," she snaps, without any real heat, mouth red from kissing as she sits back to shimmy out of her shorts. Then she leans forward, small hands on the side of his face, pecking him on the mouth, then his cheek, temple, nose. "I love you, okay? Try and remember. It feels like this, because it's real."

He nods, inhaling heavily as their mouths reconnect, Lydia's hand travelling down his chest. "We'll have to be quiet," she whispers, reaching her free hand up to run it through his hair.

He makes a strained sound in the back of his throat at that, and she grins against his mouth, because now that she knows what it's like to kiss him, the desire to do it again keeps surging inside her, warmth uncoiling from her lower belly. Thinking, she could get used to this.

.

"Lyds," it's Allison, beaming bright. Lydia knows she's dreaming, in that blissful state in between sleep and being awake, knowing she won't have long with her. It almost would be cruel, if this wasn't the only way this could still feel real.

"I just don't get it," she hears her own voice and she realizes she's staring at the ceiling of their old dorm room, the smell of Allison's perfume engulfing her. "You're young and hot, and sure I love Scott, and he's great and all, but like—you're seriously going to spend all of your time with him? This is college, Al. He could be just one of your many boyfriends."

There's a dip on the bed, and suddenly Allison is lying beside her, hands resting on her stomach. "He's not just my boyfriend, though. You know that, right?"

Lydia rolls her eyes, turning her to look at her best friend. She's such a sap. "I'm not trying to be bitter here or anything, but what are you on?"

The brunette sighs, turning her head to look at the ceiling, tapping one hand nervously against the other as she smiles at nothing. "Just try and remember, Lyds."

"Remember what?" She sends her a strange look as she sits up a little, leaning back on her elbows.

"What it feels like. All of those times when you're walking down the quad and you seem him talking to his friends and you cannot breathe until you're with him." Allison bites down on her lip, and she sounds so sure, so sure and Lydia swallows, tightly, listening warily. "Or, when you're in class and you keep tapping your foot and checking your phone for the time because you know you have plans with him right after. Don't you remember what that's like?"

"No," she says, but it comes out too soft, so she clears her throat, repeating herself more firmly. "No."

"No?" Allison sits up now, too, searching her face. Her eyebrows rise. "You've had a million boyfriends, you've never—"

Lydia clenches her jaw slightly, turning her head away from her best friend to avoid her gaze. "None like that."

Suddenly, Allison clamps her hand around hers, squeezing softly. "You will, one day, and you'll know what I mean and understand." Her eyes are soft, and uncritical. "Understand why he matters to me more, than the—the lacrosse games, and the sorority parties."

Lydia sighs, biting the inside of her cheek. It all sounds like a fairytale, a story, something out of the movies. It doesn't sound real.

Allison's smile crinkles her eyes, and Lydia remembers thinking about what she did for it to be justifiable to have a friend like her. "You deserve that, too, Lyds."

Unfortunately, that's where the dream ends, but it gets less hard to say goodbye each time, when she knows she has the memories like these forever.

She stretches lightly, peeking through one eye to find Stiles asleep next to her, on his stomach, face resting on his arm. She leans closer, pressing a kiss in between his shoulder blades, before moving her mouth up, kisses neck, right below the ear, and by the time she reaches his cheek, he's awake.

He pushes at her lightly, trying to pull the pillow further over his head. "Today is going to be crazy," he mutters, voice still laced with sleep. "I need my sleep."

Lydia rolls her eyes, but leans down to press another kiss between his shoulder blades anyway, hand running over his forearm. "Okay. You catch those three minutes of useful sleep. Meanwhile I'll be in the shower."

She slides out of bed, slipping into her bathrobe. "In the shower, all alone." This finally seems to catch his attention, so she sighs deeply, leaning against the door opening. "Alone and, wet."

He sits up, sending her a pointed look, eyes devoid of any trace of sleep all of a sudden. She pouts dramatically. "And did I mention naked?"

"I'm up, I'm up," he mutters as he stumbles out of bed and towards her, gathering her in his arms and pulling her back against his chest as he starts kissing her neck.

"I didn't invite you to join, sweetheart," she teases, his hands sliding over her stomach, automatically making her press her thighs together. "Mhm," he says, casually, pressing one more wet kiss just below her ear before he adds, "then you're going to have to beat me to it."

Before she knows it, he's rushed passed her and into the bathroom. She huffs, indignant as she hurries after him, and he's already half-undressed before she gets there.

"Asshole," she laughs against his mouth as she pushes him back against the bathroom tiles, water trailing down their bodies.

After their joint-shower, Lydia gets to setting everything up downstairs while Stiles wakes up Sammy and dresses her up. When they come downstairs, Lydia immediately takes her from him, pressing kisses against her face. "Happy birthday, my sweet little angel."

"Our girl is one," he breathes, putting his arm around her waist, like he can't quite believe it.

"Yeah, she is," she beams, leaning into him as she cranes her neck to look up at him. Our girl.

Later, when they're surrounded by all their friends and family, trying to pretend like a one year old could actually blow out candles, Lydia finally understands.

She finally understands what Allison had meant way back then, when they were just two girls in college. Before Samantha, before Stiles. She gets it now. The feeling she gets in her chest when she looks at him, when she gets to come to him, and Samantha, when she wakes up next to him—warm and grateful and like she can take on anything in the world.

It's not what Lydia had imagined, never thought there'd be a world when she would experience all of this without Allison, but it's the world they live in, and if that's the world they have to live in, if that's reality—she's glad it has Stiles in it, too.

.

fin.