lydia c. martin. 17 years young. banshee.
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Stiles was sitting on the ratty excuse for a couch in the living room of his one bedroom apartment. Legs crossed underneath him, his breathing hitches slightly as his phone rings — “You’re welcome to still come and find me if you like. Although, murdering me would be a little unwelcome.” Then, “Nieces and nephews?” he asked, voice growing a little softer.
Her breathing stops at the sound of Stiles’ voice. It’s been five y e a r s. Five impossible years. The pack had never stopped searching for him either– Scott had come back home with shaking hands and darker eyes a year before the twins were born. Since then, however, Lydia had been in charge of the search effort .“Where the fuck have you been?” she didn’t like the amount of emotion crushing her voice into pieces. “Scott and Kira’s daughter and son. They were born two years ago.”
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