we’re still writing pages
sterek, marrish, divorced besties stiles & lydia
for @averysterekfall
Autumn is Stiles’ favorite time of the year—leaves are falling, the air is getting crisp, the whole of Market Street smells like cinnamon, and he gets to spend Saturday mornings watching his daughter tear around a football field like there’s nowhere else she’d rather be.
Okay, he’d be a little happier if someone stopped scheduling pee-wee football games at nine in the morning, but it’s not so bad. At least their first game is at home, which means he can stumble out of bed half an hour before it starts, shower, and walk down to the high school football field where their games are played and still be on time. And his ex-wife clearly still loves him because she’d texted him that she picked up coffee for both of them, so the only detour he has to make is into the bakery where he can pick up two apple cider donuts and a pumpkin muffin, and he’s done.
Audrey’s already on the field when he gets there—both donuts devoured, sugar wiped from the corners of his mouth—and she waves excitedly when she sees him, helmet dangling from her fingertips. He waves back, points over to where her coaches are gathering the rest of the players, and waits until she’s trotted off to look up at the bleachers and make his way to Lydia.
“Hey,” he says, handing over the white paper bag with the muffin and smacking a kiss on her cheek.
She hands him a cup, which he takes a grateful sip of, and leans into him briefly. “Where’s your dad?”
“Finishing up a shift,” Stiles answers. The coffee’s good, just what he needs, which doesn’t surprise him. They may be coming up on being divorced for longer than they were married, but Lydia still knows him better than almost anyone. “He said he’d get here if he could, but he’ll be there for lunch either way.”
“Please tell me we aren’t planning on going to the diner again.” Lydia’s face, when he sneaks a look, is pale.
“Smell of fried food still bothering you?” he asks, and she nods. He wrinkles his nose and slides an arm around her shoulders, pulling her into a side-hug. “How does pizza at home sound?”
“Better,” she says. She pats his knee before she straightens up, smoothing the wrinkled hem of her dress down over her leggings, hand running over her baby bump before resting it there. “Jordan said you had a date last night.”
“Jordan needs to keep his mouth shut,” he says, without much bite. “It was just drinks. Awkward as hell. Zero chance of a second date.” The kids break out of their huddle then and jog towards the fifty yard line; Stiles seizes the opportunity to change the subject. “Hey, what’s the plan for Audrey’s birthday?”
Audrey’s birthday isn’t for another two months, but it works; Lydia’s got her phone out in an instant, reading through a list of ideas, and Stiles sits back and enjoys the football game.
