Barely a breath later, she felt a hand gently covering hers, its fingers slipping between hers to press against the locker.
Lydia didn’t have to look to see who it was. She knew it was Stiles. His hand fit with hers, in a way that no one else’s ever could. She didn’t have to look, but she wanted to.
Her eyes fluttered opened. She remembers the beautiful sight of their woven digits, and how her lungs swelled with a complete inhale for the first time since she had left the library. She remembers the way her irregular heartbeats found equilibrium when his fingers curled around her palm, how the firmness of his grip conveyed a message of its own.
Stiles kept his hand in place; energy between his and hers, longed for, comforting, and grounding.
“I thought you might be here,” he eventually said in a hushed tone.
“I thought you left.”
“No, I didn’t leave. I was just waiting...”
He trailed off as he set his other hand on her right shoulder, and Lydia understood the words he didn’t say. He was waiting for her. Because he knew she needed him, and maybe because he needed her too.
