"I don't care anymore," Lydia confessed and she looked it. She was too drained, too tired, too sore, too sick; too fucking pregnant to waste her time worrying about whether Scott McCall liked her or not, anymore.
She had seen, but Lydia wasn't really sure it was her place to say anything. It was clear that he hadn't wanted to spill all of that but Scott had pressed his buttons and the proverbial dam broke. She knew the feeling. Every time she saw Scott on the network nagging at someone — usually Derek now that he couldn't rail on her — Lydia fought that battle to keep her thoughts to herself. So far, she'd been winning it. Isaac, on the other hand, had not. So, rather than say anything, she just gave a nod of acknowledgement. Yes, she'd seen.
A soft huff escaped her, a sound caught somewhere between incredulity and amusement, and she looked over at him with arched eyebrows and a drawn expression. "Shut up, I know I look a hot mess," she replied, but the smallest of smiles tugged at the corners of her mouth anyway. She appreciated the compliment, even though she knew there was no damn way it was genuine. "I'm a little sore, it's fine," she said. So far, nothing she couldn't handle, just an obnoxious and persistent dull sort of throb that couldn't decide whether it wanted to settle in her breasts, her back, or right behind her eyes. Sometimes it compensated for the confusion by settling in all three.