As fate would have it

Chapter 4

"I'm sorry" is the first thing she says, knowing that Stiles hates when this happens. Not because he doesn't enjoy their... Tender moments in nights like this one, but because he doesn't like what's underneath. Because he loathes the overwhelming despair to make everything right again, because he detests Lydia's fear to lose him over something so meaningless. But most of all, because he abhors that the deep care that Lydia feels for him, someone who's so important to her, is in the end the cause for these nightly events of theirs in the first place.

Stiles shakes his head dismissively, letting Lydia climb onto his lap like she always does when she meets him in nights like this. She likes the comfort it brings, the impossible closeness of their bodies that she so desperately needs and Stiles never stops her. He likes it too.

He cups her cheeks as soon as she's settled, his thumbs caressing the smooth skin with such fondness that Lydia feels like she's burning hot under his innocent touch despite having done nothing yet, his eyes fixed on hers as if they're staring into her soul. Stiles leans in slowly and kisses her, a peck that barely grazes her full lips and yet feels so much like home.

No matter how much Lydia tries to deny it, it always feels like coming home to him.

His movements are deliberately slow; he prefers to give her as much control as he possibly can whenever she's so affected. And so he kisses her gently, languidly as if it's the last thing he'll ever do in his life and for a moment, as he always has in times like this, Stiles can't help but wonder why they don't give this - them - a chance.

As fleetingly as the thought attacks him, however, it's gone because it doesn't matter. For one, these nights never happen (or so they want so fiercely to believe), being seldom brought up and even more rarely acted upon. These moments of such raw vulnerability are practically taboo in their apartment, and if it ever seems like a conversation is headed in that directed they mask it just like they do their feelings, afraid it could tear their world apart. On the other hand, it doesn't matter because Stiles lov-

Because he has rather deep feelings for one of his closest friends, that is; a connection so profound that it's found in books, for god's sake. And because it never mattered whether their true intentions were voiced out loud; actions always spoke louder than any words between them ever could.

Lydia tugs at the hem of his shirt and pulls it up and off him, discarding hers as well as soon as her hands are free. She has never cared about being naked in front of Stiles, not once; the way he always seems more invested in making her feel good, in revering who she is instead of what she looks like will forever tug at her heart, most likely. It really only is about lust in the days after they meet like this, and even then what she experiences with Stiles she has never experienced with someone else and she doesn't think she ever will.

In all truth, she wouldn't even want to.

She always kisses his scar first, before they ever do anything else.

As Lydia moves until she's kneeling on the mattress in front of him, Stiles already knows to lean back against the headboard and let her worship him, for a change. Her touch is always careful even though his flesh isn't as sensitive there anymore, the memory of that god forsaken night always present. Her movements are rehearsed, a dance they've done many times before and that has never left Stiles anything less than stunned. The reverence conveyed when her fingers shakily brush along the scar that mars his body, the warmth of her lips when she kisses it as if she needs the reminder that he's alive, the fierceness in her gaze when he tilts her chin up and pulls Lydia back to him because he can never let her do this for long. Stiles lets her because he knows that she needs it, but the pain in her eyes has him undone every time.