SHERIFF STILINSKI IS A SAINT. she must look war-torn, mission-bound, a live wire ready to burst for how she seethes and rages on his doorstep. he takes ONE LOOK AT HER and moves aside because he has to know, he JUST HAS TO KNOW. he must see it in the sharp lines of her face, rough with her hurt, distorted with her anger, how she has one thing to do and she had to do it right now. she is grateful that he doesn’t waste time with small talk. doesn’t think about how he probably just WANTS HIS SON BACK even if he’s in the same house, the same room, the same body.
it’s been THREE WEEKS. nineteen days. there is a hole in her chest, carved out the minute she’d opened her mouth to howl her best friend’s name over a sick boy’s body. a few days less since she almost lost HIM, too. scott doesn’t allow her space for her grief as much as he demands his own. she won’t imagine his pain when she has her own to balance in shaking hands. IT SLIPS THROUGH HER FINGERS LIKE SAND, collects on the ground and piles piles piles until it is high enough to suffocate, high enough to fill her mouth and her throat and her lungs and it all tastes like ALLISON ALLISON ALLISON on her tongue.
the worst of it all is the piece of her that’s gone missing. and she knows EXACTLY where it’s gone, holed away with a sick boy who refuses basic human needs like compassion or care or love ( it isn’t that, it isn’t love, she can’t she can’t she can’t ). she’s ignored him, too, without a doubt, she’s been too scared, TOO SAD, too everything. but now that she’s come to terms with the very real idea that stiles stilinski is ignoring lydia martin too, it’s just too much.
when lydia stomps up the stairs of the stilinski residence, she does so with EVERY INTENTION to get his attention. even more deliberately does she say, ❛ I’M COMING IN, ❜ the only warning he gets before she’s throwing open his door.
