scientific terms instill themselves into the core of his brain, books scattered all over the floor â each displaying a different chapter, a distinct topic. numerous study nights ( turned game nights ) with stiles have habituated scott to be at ease in a disorganized mess. not a mess per se, but thereâs a system behind it â something he slightly picked up from stiles, and improved on.Â
     he wants to say how fucked up it is that despite the battle theyâre in, he still has to study. except he wonât. because a) itâs his responsibility to be a good student, b) just because theyâre supernatural creatures doesnât mean they can just stop being normal teenagers, and c) saying that out loud meant having to use the word fuck and he really doesnât want to be grounded by his mom or listen to a sermon.Â
    all thoughts aside, scott turns his head to the strawberry blonde beside him â and heâs awkward for a moment, his grip on his highlighter tight.Â
   you have so many things you want to tell her, things you couldnât say before but have the courage to do so now. you think itâs the right moment, because itâs just the two of you, a pile of books, nothing else.
   â  hey ââ sorry for the mess, but thank you, again, for helping me catch up with AP bio. it means a lot to me. â
   imagine, if you will, a sixteen year old Lydia Martin. this is before Allison Argent, before the Kanima and Peter Hale. sixteen year old Lydia is unaware of the world she will soon be forced into, and is dancing through a mine field -- one wrong step and she will never see the day a fresh-faced Allison Argent enchant all of Beacon Hills under her spell. one wrong step, and she will never befriend Stiles Stilinski. one wrong step, and Lydia will never see that Scott McCall is so much more than asthma attacks in the middle of class and oh, so much wasted potential.
      perhaps selfishly, Lydia is glad that she is here, now-- glad that she managed to unknowingly navigate the battlefield of her home. of course, there have been regrets; only a fool would have none. but here she is, seventeen years old and at peace with the world, at last.Â
   and it is moments like these, spent in Scottâs room amidst a strangely organized mess that remind Lydia why the past year has all been worth it. despite everything, they are still teenagers -- still supposedly innocent. it is moments like these that Lydia has come to yearn for, to remind her that she is so much more than the woman who screams.Â
  theyâre still children. how easily the world seem to forget.Â
               â how many times do I have to tell you, Scott? â despite her exasperated tone, there is a smile there, somewhere -- awfully faint, but Lydia is sure her amusement is obvious. â stop thanking me. itâs the least I can do, after all youâve done for me. â
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