Love took me by the hand
Love took me by surprise
Love led me to you
And love opened up my eyes
And I was drifting away
Like a drop in the ocean
And now I realize that
Nothing has been as beautiful
As when I saw heaven's skies
In your eyes
-Drop in the Ocean by Michelle Branch


On her way across the parking lot to meet Stiles, Lydia walks past the line of school buses. A harsh blast of heat from the exhaust mixes with the smell of gasoline, invading her senses and sparking her memory.

She remembers the night at the Glen Capri…


It was hours after midnight, and Lydia was seated on a grimy bus, parked in some poor excuse for a town called Fairvale – a desolate place, in the middle of the desert, with nothing to call its own but the likes of a sleazy motel, located directly off the highway. The establishment, ironically tagged with the name Glen Capri, was an atrocity of accommodations by any standard, not just Lydia's. It would have failed any customer service evaluation with flying colors, and what it lacked in comfort was only surpassed by the disturbingly dark humor assumed by its proprietors. Apparently, they took pride in the knowledge that their no-star motel ranked highest in California…in terms of one very specific, very troubling detail…

Since its opening, the Glen Capri has held the record for most guest suicides.

198 to date…and counting…

On the terrifying night that Lydia and her friends were unfortunate enough to stay at the Glen Capri, that number had nearly increased to 201…or more…

Lydia remembers not being able to sleep. Her heart was still pounding in her chest, head still swimming with gruesome images of the Darach, throat still painfully raw from the scream it unleashed shortly before, body still trembling with aftershocks from the ordeal she had just experienced.

A persistent draft blew through the cavern of the bus, making her grateful for the weight of her denim jacket and the presence of her friends.

Allison was to her left, long legs sporadically shifting through restless sleep. One of her hands was clasped with Lydia's, the other shaped into a tight fist that was shoved into the pocket of her jacket. Lydia remembers the striking image of her beautiful best friend: glossy dark brown hair peeking out from underneath a black hoodie that was patterned with silver-grey arrows, square-shaped jawline locked in a resolved clench, pale pink lips and porcelain skin glowing in the eerie lunar light. She thought of Artemis, the huntress, goddess of the moon, and it seemed unsettlingly poignant. She remembers listening to Allison's steady and even breaths, and unsuccessfully trying to match her own to them.

Boyd and Isaac were slumped on opposite sides at the rear of the bus. Lydia couldn't see them, but she could hear them both snoring softly, passed out from exhaustion.

Scott was one row in front of her. His head-full of dampened waves was propped against the window, aggravated puffs of his exhales fogging the pane. Despite a long shower and a change of clothes, the faint scent of gasoline continued to waft from his direction.

As Lydia sat in the dim, replaying the events of the last few hours in her mind, it was impossible for her to ignore a series of what ifs. They assaulted her consciousness, determined to torment her, forbidding her any chance of respite. She remembers being carried adrift by a stream of unpleasant thoughts. Thoughts of what might have happened to Boyd, or Isaac, or Scott…of what could have happened to Stiles.

Stiles, who was set behind Scott, just across the aisle on Lydia's right. She remembers fighting the urge to look at him for at least twenty minutes, then finally giving in. Somehow, she knew he would be awake too. He was staring back at her, shadowed face, eyebrows raised in question as he ticked his head towards the door in silent communication. Lydia remembers nodding in agreement before gently releasing Allison's hand and gingerly placing it in her lap, being mindful not to wake her.

She stood up and smoothed the wrinkles out of her clothes, palms roughly brushing over the fabric of her navy-blue floral dress, sending tiny particles of dust into the air. She watched them disperse for a second. Haphazardly they floated, illuminated by a beam of moonlight that streamed through the window of the bus, each of them swirling as wildly as the butterflies in her stomach.

Lydia remembers the sudden pressing need to connect with Stiles, to touch him, to make sure he was still with her – alive and unharmed. She distinctly recalls his hand, extended towards her as if he were aware of that need, and how she accepted it without a second thought. The long sleeves of her jacket briefly hindered them both. Stiles swept the thick fabric away with a swift flick of his fingers, his hand quickly finding hers and completely enveloping it, surrounding her cool skin with his warmth. She remembers drawing her first full breath since she saw Scott bleeding on the floor of the rest stop bathroom the day before; relief spreading outwards from the hand that was linked to Stiles.

As they walked quietly towards the front of the bus, Stiles glanced back at Scott. Lydia was sure he shut his eyes for an extended moment before tightening his grip on her hand and approaching the open door. She followed him down but misjudged the height of the last step from the ground. Unsteady from the night's trauma, her petite legs buckled underneath her.

She remembers starting to fall…and then abruptly coming to a stop. Two arms quickly slid under hers with a strength, a confidence, and an ease she hadn't expected.

"Whoa…I've got you," Stiles said…and he did.

She remembers the breath getting lodged in her throat and the feeling of his soft red sweatshirt grazing against her cheek as she whispered a thanks and straightened her stance.

Outside, he reclaimed her hand as they circled the bus in the darkness. Three complete turns made without exchanging a word. The only sounds – the occasional car speeding by, her heels clicking against the pavement, and the echoing call of a hawk in the distance.

Eventually, they veered back to the motel to get coffee from a rickety, decades-old vending machine. In silence, they held paper cups, filled with pitch-black liquid, purchased for the sole purpose of warming their hands. Lydia remembers the murky substance – bitter-smelling and thick enough to stick to the back of her sore throat, had she dared to consume any. She imagined it carving out another gash into her larynx, next to the one from the scream that broke free, only two hours before.

She remembers the brisk early morning air as they stood underneath a gradually lessening, slate-colored sky that was scattered with charcoal-grey clouds. Together, Lydia and Stiles sat on the gritty steps of the bus; coarse grooved steel digging into Lydia's bare thighs, Stiles playing some familiar rhythm with the rap of his thumb on his knee, both watching the mangled spheres of tumbleweed that were carried across the parking lot with the wind.

When Stiles turned towards Lydia, the weight of his regard slowly settled over her. It made her feel safe, as though his very awareness of her shielded her from harm. She remembers him hesitantly reaching out to tuck her hair behind her ear…for the very first time, and how her heart skipped beats as his hand skimmed the rim of her ear.

"Lydia, I…" he began.

She looked over her shoulder, ready to speak, anxious to stop him from continuing. He put his index finger to her mouth, letting it linger at the center of her bottom lip, pad of his long digit still hot from the coffee that heated his hands.

"Please, let me try to get this out. You saved my life. You…you saved Scott's life…and I can never thank you enough." He paused, letting his finger fall away from her lips, then put both of their cups aside. She remembers how he took her hand, and with it…another piece of her heart. "All I can say is that…I will never forget..."

She remembers how intensely Stiles observed her – like he could see into her soul. Much to her surprise, she wanted to let him, even though it scared her to allow someone so close.

He lowered his voice to a whisper when he spoke the next time. The sincerity in his tone like the ocean on a clear day – so pure, and deep, and expansive that she had no doubt Stiles meant it when he said, "Lydia Martin, you are something... You're…incredible."

She remembers his lips, silky and slightly parted. She remembers his minty breath ghosting across her face, his lashes casting long shadows over angled cheekbones, his skin dotted with a pattern of moles that put the constellations to shame. Her heart was made vulnerable by his eyes, sparking gold in the moonlight. She remembers thinking she had just caught a glimpse of what heaven must be like…followed by the unrelenting need to look away…before she allowed herself to think he could be hers.

"I'm not," she answered, pursing her lips. "I just reacted. What you did for Scott…that was incredible. Stiles, you chose to risk your life for him, you were able to get through to him…and it was one of the bravest things I've ever seen anyone do."

The words had slipped past her lips before she even considered withholding them. If she hadn't actually heard the small sound of her voice, she would scarcely believe she had said them at all.

Immediately averting her eyes, she noticed his arm – battered and bruised, scraped from wrist to elbow, marking where he fell to the ground beneath her. Her mind went blank at the realization that he was not unharmed. She hurt him. She wanted to protect him, and she hurt him.

Lydia can barely remember the apology that escaped her lips, only that it lacked the depth of emotion that she had been working so fervently to express.

"Does it hurt?" she managed to ask, fighting tears while she tentatively grazed her fingertips against his angry wounds.

She risked eye contact once more. She remembers the bewildered expression that crossed Stiles's face as he slung his arm over her shoulder and pulled her into him. "Yeah, a bit. But…I'll live," he reassured her with a quiet and forgiving laugh.

He kept his arm around her, and they stayed to watch the sunrise. The sky progressively lightening from slate, to shades of lavender, pink, and azure with the bright golden sun peeking out from the horizon. The desert air was still chilly, but Lydia felt warm and safe tucked into Stiles. When she dropped her head to his shoulder, he released a contented sigh and rested his cheek atop her temple. She thinks she felt the corner of his mouth turn up against her skin. She pictured Stiles flashing his perfect crooked smile…and it made her smile too.

They remained in their embrace for a while longer, then quietly returned to their places on the bus. As they reluctantly released each other's hands, Lydia had the sensation that something had shifted between them. There was a comfort and ease between them before, but somehow those quiet hours in the early morning had allowed those feeling to spread their wings.

She watched as Stiles folded his sweatshirt into a make-shift pillow, offering it to her first. When she declined with a hint of a smile, he placed it under his head and within minutes was sound asleep; head thrown back, lips parted, arms folded across his chest. Lydia remembers staring at his shoes and listening to his breaths until sleep finally claimed her too...her mind wandering towards thoughts of Stiles and the ever-intensifying tugging at her heart.


Present Day

Stiles is standing before her. Lydia glides one hand around his neck and grabs hold of his shirt with the other, pulling him into a deep kiss. Without the slightest hint of surprise, he dives right in with her; tongue tickling the roof of her mouth, lips playfully reshaping around hers, strong arms looping around her body. He holds her tightly to his chest…tighter and tighter…until there is no space between them.

When they part, they are left entranced by each other; breathless, eyes glassy, hearts rushing.

He nudges her nose with his. "Not complaining here – at all – but what was that for?" he asks, tone soft as an early summer breeze.

"It's a thank you."

"For…"

"Showing me what heaven looks like," she answers.

Stiles blinks at her a bit awestruck, question hanging at the tip of his tongue.

"I had another memory," she explains.

"What kind of memory?"

She rests her head on his chest. "One that started out pretty frightening, but ended up being really beautiful," she sighs.

He doesn't press further because he knows sometimes, it's all just too much for her…and he understands.

Lydia lifts her head and kisses him once more, light and deliberate, then lingering at the corner of his mouth as she speaks. "I'll tell you about it later. I promise."

"Okay," he nods, gently rubbing her back.

"Want to drive somewhere and make out for a while?"

Stiles raises his eyebrows, gorgeous lopsided grin forming on his lips. "Yes, definitely…SO much," he says eagerly. He opens the door of the Jeep for Lydia, waits for her to climb in, and touches her cheek while she buckles her seat belt. "There's something different about you today…" he notes, peering thoughtfully into her eyes.

Of course he would notice. Stiles notices everything.

"Good different?" she inquires.

"Definitely good. You seem more…yourself. I can feel it...right here," he continues, picking up her hand and placing it over his heart. "Can you?"

"Yeah. Ever since you came home, I feel different…and today…I don't know… I mean…it's the last day of high school but…it doesn't feel like an end. It's more like…"

He completes her thought. "The start of something?"

"Exactly."

"Lydia..."

She gazes at Stiles, blush rising in her cheeks as she waits for him to continue.

"I love you," he tells her. Like it's the easiest, most natural thing in the world for him to say.

She smiles brightly, eyes misting ever so slightly, and her heart so full that she can't wait to say it back. "I love you too." And it feels like the easiest, most natural thing in the world to admit. Because she does. She loves him – so much.