A/N: Got a request on tumblr for a part 2 of this, I was like why not. so here ya go! :)

Half an hour later, she was starting to rethink the notion that this was a good idea.

It wasn't that he- Stiles, what a weird name- was turning out to be an asshole, or anything- just the opposite. He was a real gentleman, and he was just as adorable and smile-y as he'd been the entire evening. But that was what concerned her.

After the Mets game, she'd realized that she had no ride home- Jackson had as per usual been a total dick, drove off in his Porsche, and left her stranded. Stiles seemed to pick up on that and offered her a ride.

So here she was, sitting in his crappy little Jeep, and he was driving, and she was glancing at him frequently, internally freaking out. She had made out with and was now going home with a stranger. What if he was a serial killer? Serial killers were often very charismatic, unassuming, charming people, Lydia knew, and Stiles certainly fit that bill for her. Should she actually have him bring her home or should she get him to drop her off somewhere public- at least then she could call Jackson to pick her up, which would certainly be humiliating but Jackson, while he was a dick, was at least not a serial killer so-

"What are you thinking about?" His voice broke into her thoughts.

She glanced at him, pursing her lips. She knew on the outside she looked cool and collected. "Nothing."

He tapped his hands on the steering wheel, not taking his eyes off the road. "So where to?"

Public place. Right. "Let's go for dinner right now," she blurted. A restaurant would be a safe public place to get her shit together.

His eyebrows drew together at her words. "Are you sure? I kinda wanted to take you someplace nice. I'm not really dressed right now for what I had in mind."

She was curious despite her reservations. "What did you have in mind?"

He smiled, finally glancing at her. "It's a secret." He winked.

She smiled back, trying to ignore the stupid butterflies that ignited in her chest at his words.

"But," he continued, reaching one hand up to tug his baseball cap lower over his forehead, "if you're hungry, I- I know a little place that's open late." He sounded nervous.

"Do you."

"Yeah." He bit his lip and took a deep breath before continuing. "It- It's not a real posh place, you know-" he waved his hand around aimlessly, "and I'm sure you're used to going to really nice places, with your, um, ex-boyfriend," the word hovered in the air for a moment but Lydia didn't correct him so he, bolstered, carried on: "So you might really hate it, I don't know, but I love this place and they have the best nachos, I swear." It ended more like a question.

"Are you saying I'm snooty or something?" Lydia asked, highly amused by his flustered speech.

His gaze tore away from the highway again, eyes wide in distress. "No! No, I'm not-"

She was laughing now. "I get it."

"No, you don't," he replied vehemently. "I- I just think you deserve the best."

"Why? Because I'm beautiful and perfect?" she teased, but feeling oddly touched.

He laughed a little, broad shoulders relaxing a little. "Yeah, that's it. So- you wanna go?"

She examined his hopeful expression. Oh, what the hell. If he was a serial killer, he'd had plenty of opportunity to murder her already. "Yes."

His answering beam was brighter than the headlights of his fucking Jeep.

"Bowling and nachos," Lydia said drily. "This is what you had in mind."

They were sitting at a table next to the bowling alley part of the diner, where they'd already picked up shoes and were getting ready to start playing.

Stiles pointed a nacho at her accusingly. "Hey. Don't diss the nachos. Aren't they good?"

She shrugged theatrically, allowing her eyes to travel over his form in the low light that the diner provided. He'd ditched the baseball cap, which she sorely missed, but his dark hair was sticking up every which way after he'd run his hands through it repeatedly, which made up for it. He'd taken off his Mets jersey as well, revealing a maroon sweatshirt on a torso that was much more toned than she'd originally thought. And she privately thanked all the circumstances of the evening that led her to be able to visually peruse his forearms, and long-fingered hands drumming a tattoo on his jean-clad thigh. "Very good," she agreed, but she really wasn't talking about nachos.

He was oblivious to her very noticeably checking him out. "Wanna play?" Oh, she definitely did.

"Just so you know, I don't bowl very often," she said offhandedly, standing to examine the bowling balls on the stand.

He blinking a few times before replying. "Really? Well, I'm not exactly a champion either, so we're even." He smiled at her. "It'll still be fun."

She was pleasantly surprised. Most guys would boast how they would go easy on her or something condescending like that. She was liking this Stiles guy more and more by the minute.

"Why don't you take the first turn," he added, "And I'll go get us some drinks." She nodded and he scrambled off to the bar, where there appeared to be a long line up.

When Lydia was done her turn, she settled back at the table, writing and deleting several drafts of texts to send Jackson. She needed to talk to him at some point, she knew, but she didn't know what to say to him. In the midst of her thoughts, a different ringtone went off and she jumped, looking for the source.

Stiles had left his phone on the table- the screen was lit up.

Lydia never thought of herself as a snoop, but she couldn't help but be a little curious. She hardly knew anything about him yet. So she peeked at his phone's display.

The caller's photo was displayed on the screen, and she was a drop-dead gorgeous girl, Lydia noted; long dark curls, high cheekbones and an adorably dimply smile paired with friendly brown eyes. The caller's name was listed simply "Ally".

Maybe she was related to him, Lydia thought with desperation. But she knew that wasn't quite right. They didn't really look similar at all. She had to face the facts: Stiles knew a beautiful girl that he was apparently on friendly enough terms to call her "Ally" and suddenly she felt a little incompetent, like seriously how could she complete with a supermodel?

Stiles chose this moment to come back to the table. "Who's calling?" he asked brightly, blissfully unaware of her inner dismay.

She held up his phone. "Ally," she said flatly, and she barely restrained the note of bitterness that wanted to enter her tone.

He took the phone from her just as the call ended. "Oh," he frowned. "Oh well. She'll call again if it's important." He threw his phone back on the table and smiled at her.

That was it. She couldn't help it. Aiming for casualness, she said, looking down at the nachos, "Who is she?"

"Who, Ally?" Stiles said absentmindedly, reaching for another chip. "That's Allison. She programmed her name into my phone like that. Thought it was funny or something. 'Ally', as in friend. Get it?" He shook his head fondly.

She merely pursed her lips in response. He continued on, after chewing and swallowing.

"We met through Scott. He's my best friend," he told her, almost proudly. "Allison's his girlfriend."

It felt like all the tension had been released from her body. "Scott's girlfriend?"

"Mmhmm."

Oh. Well then. Problem solved, really. She suddenly felt a lot warmer feelings towards the girl. "You should introduce us."

"Totally," he said automatically. "Anyway, I got you a drink." And he slid a diet Coke to her.

She looked at it for a long moment, and then back at him. His smile was shy now, bashful like he'd been back at the game.

He was cute and funny and now she knew he was thoughtful, too. God help her, she could feel herself falling for him by the minute. In any case, she leaned forward to peck him on the cheek. "Thank you," she said primly, trying not to let her feelings show.

He blushed, one hand reaching up to touch his own cheek briefly where her lips had been seconds earlier. "Oh, um, y-yeah." Flustered now, he looked up at the scoreboard. "So did you start t- holy crap! You got a strike already?"

She held back a smile at his astonishment. No one knew how well she could bowl but she didn't really mind him knowing, for some reason. "Beginner's luck, I suppose," she replied airily, shrugging.

He was regarding her with a new admiration as he went to pick out his own ball. "That's amazing," he muttered.

She soon found that he wasn't half bad himself, after a few rounds. And while she normally might have toned down her own skill, she felt like showing off today so maybe she got a few more strikes than usual.

And maybe she did it because every time she turned around after another strike, cheeks flushed with exhilaration, he was standing there, looking in complete awe as if she were a goddess standing in front of him and well, a girl could get used to that feeling.

At the end of the night, Lydia had learned several things about Stiles- his last name was Stilinski and his first name apparently completely unpronounceable (he'd refused to tell her what it was), he lived with his best friend Scott and their housemates Isaac and Boyd, he was in school for criminal law, and he wasn't a sore loser at all- after all Lydia had beat Stiles at bowling by a fair amount, but they'd both seen it coming and he wasn't a bad sport about it. If anything, he seemed happier than ever after they'd paid and were walking out into the parking lot, where Kira, Lydia's housemate, was coming to pick her up (Stiles lived in the opposite direction and although he'd offered several times, she refused to make him drive across town to drop her off at this time of night.).

As Kira pulled up into the parking lot, headlights flashing, Lydia turned to Stiles and opened her mouth.

He beat her to it, suddenly looking anxious. "Wait," he said. "Did you enjoy tonight?"

She frowned. "Yes, of course."

He licked his lips, nervous. "So do you still want to go on a date with me later?"

She blinked at him in surprise, and he continued.

"The thing is," he rambled, "I know we just met a few hours ago, but I really really like you, like, a lot, but I need to know if you're actually going to call me, or if I should go home and try to forget about you and your pretty hair and your excellent bowling skills because I'm just your rebound guy."

She stared at him as he fidgeted with his hands. Was he really this much of an idiot? "Shut up."

He paled. She rolled her eyes and grabbed the back of his neck, stretched up on her tiptoes, and kissed him on the lips, once, very softly, very sweetly. He responded after a moment, leaning into the kiss but before things got too intense she pulled away reluctantly- she didn't really feel like giving Kira a show.

She rocked back on her heels and examined his wide-eyed appearance. "Listen closely, Stilinski," she said sternly. "You are not my rebound guy. I kissed you on live television because I liked you, and if I'm being perfectly honest, even if Jackson wasn't glued to his phone, I might have chosen to kiss you anyway."

He blinked, looking shocked. "Really?"

She shrugged. She had feelings for Jackson, sure- she always had, that was why they'd been together so long. But tonight, they'd been overshadowed. They'd paled pathetically in comparison to the way she felt when Stiles sent a lopsided grin her way. And she wanted to explore that, because as much as it scared her, it excited her a good amount too.

She wanted a relationship that made her happy, goddammit, and she couldn't even remember the last time she'd smiled so much in one evening as she had tonight.

"Really," she confirmed as she began walking backwards to where Kira was parked. "So you're going to pick me up. Tomorrow night. Italian, you said?"

He nodded mutely.

"Good." She opened the car door, dumped her purse inside, and turned her head to send him one last look. He was still standing there, hands stuffed in pockets, golden eyes illuminated by Kira's headlights. "And Stiles?"

He seemed to find his voice. "Yeah?"

"Wear your Mets cap."

A/N:I hope you liked it. Feedback is appreciated so much, whether as a review here or at my tumblr (arrowcave) Thanks for reading! :D