High Infidelity [Midnights #2]

chapter 3

With no other thought in his brain besides getting to Lydia as soon as possible, Stiles rushed through the sliding glass doors of Beacon Hills General Hospital, absolutely no regard to his or anyone else's safety. But as soon as they were inside, Melissa surged forward, grabbing a chart from the circulation desk and flipping open the plastic cover before pointing down one of the main hallways.

Stiles had always felt her ability to pick up the right chart with barely a glance was a superpower, and in this moment, he had never felt more sure of it.

As they passed each bed in the emergency room in the next second, Stiles pulled back the curtains. He knew they would need to get her stable, if that was even possible, before transporting her to another part of the hospital, so the emergency room was the most logical beginning point for his frenzied and desperate search.

But if she already had a chart, that meant they'd been here for a while. One bad sign after another, as far as he was concerned.

Sure, there were patient confidentiality issues to worry about with the way he was whipping open each curtain, revealing either an empty bed or the wrong patient, but his mind couldn't focus on that. And Melissa wasn't stopping him. No, the only thing he seemed to be able to imagine was Lydia laying in one of these beds, slipping away from him.

And just like that, he couldn't fucking breathe again.

First, Isaac. Now this. It was too much. And it was this fucking hospital again. Apparently, this place just wasn't going to stop until it took everything from him.

Melissa's shoulder brushed Stiles' as she rushed ahead of them, beating him to the last bed on the right, its curtain hanging open slightly due to the sheer volume of people coming and going. He heard her demand information from the attending physician on duty, using her mom voice. The very voice Stiles had witnessed many times used on Scott. Even a few times on him. Okay, more than a few times.

But it was a voice that left very little question that Melissa McCall had come for answers and she was going to get them.

The doctor rattled off different stats, but Stiles didn't understand one of them. He might as well have been speaking another language with how difficult it was for Stiles to comprehend a fucking word of it. All he could concentrate on was the fact that for the first time in his life his overactive, slightly hypochondriac, and most definitely worst-case scenario brain hadn't come close to the horrific reality of a situation.

Lydia was laying there covered in her own blood.

Her white shirt was stained crimson. Her light gray shoes flecked with blood. Her face, white as the sheets beneath her, had some of her unruly, slightly curly red hair matted to it.

Stiles bent forward, bracing himself on his knees as he struggled to remain upright. He was hyperventilating. The blackness around the edges of his vision closing in rapidly. This was it. His life was over.

"Jackson!" Scott nearly screeched, causing Stiles' head to snap back up. "Oh my God, what's going on? What happened?"

Stiles searched for the familiar face, finding Jackson in the crowd easily. Thankfully, most streaming toward Lydia weren't paying them any attention, and while he understood how he could have missed their friend with all that was going on around them, he still felt awful.

This was Jackson's actual girlfriend. They were in love. A crush, even decades long, did not trump that. God, Stiles Stilinski could be a selfish fucking prick sometimes.

"I don't know a lot," Jackson admitted, hanging his head.

He hiccuped once, gulping for air, like he'd been crying for the better part of an hour. Stiles knew that kind of crying too. It wracked your whole body. It shook you to your core. It made you think you'd never, ever breathe right again.